Emeka imported 3000ml of drug and invited Mafai and I to celebrate his birthday in his new home at Apollo Crescent. He owned a beautiful woman named Saradina, who was a Ghanaian. She had prepared chicken and zobo drink and arranged three syringes, a bag of cotton and 100ml of methylated spirit on the centre table.

'Heroin must be better', Mafai said, looked at Saradina and nodded, his left leg upon the table.

'What will you say, then, about cocaine?' Emeka asked, smiled and lit fifteen red candles in an iron saucer to show we might be cultists.

'Cocaine?' I said to impress him. 'You want me to earn Oscar.'

Mafai stretched his right hand, carried a phial of methylated spirit and a morsel of cotton, the cross hanging upon his necklace swinging, and carried a cigarettes pack and a lighter. Without cigarettes, the drug is like a poison or useless.

Emeka staggered and almost crashed over the refrigerator. And Saradina, up to support him, said he had been taking whiskey since morning, now almost creeping 50cl, now in a dire state.

As Mafai smiled, the dark glasses shifted towards his nose point, his moustache wetted with Don Simon. Looking at Emeka, who would have sex with Saradina after a few minutes or hours from now, he knew Emeka had a lot of money from Libya since he wasn't there a slave.

'What's up guys, eat your power', Emeka's voice filled in the room, a lot of scar dots on his left arm.

Mafai knew Saradina wasn't happy with those scar dots he owned even though he had more than a million Libyan Dinar. But He too, Mafai, had scar dots in his left arm, one of them like a map of Australia.

Always the first, finally, Mafai washed a little part of his left arm with methylated spirit, pressed the needle into the phial, introduced a needed amount of drug substance in the syringe and neatly transfer it to his vein.

Emeka clapped hands for him, did as he did and looked at Saradina who made sure she watched me as I did with difficulty.

Mafai and I, feeling a slight pain in our left arms, shivered when Emeka, his right hand deep into Saradina's white miniskirt, dragged her pant down, blood dripping on a cushion from his arm.

Feeling ashamed, we walked out into the public parlor, ate fried chicken and heard the sound of Saradina's sexual pleasure.

'F*ck her. F*ck her. F*ck her down', Mafai said, pointing a finger at a door to where Emeka was f*cking.

Maren John Mafuyai @Write__Man https://mobile.twitter.com/account

Note: This fiction is still under an editor. If you are to paste it on your website, please retain the writer's name and twitter link. Thanks!

MABEL SEGUN reads from My Father's Daughter

A few months after I was eight, Father came back ill from attending the yearly Synod meeting in Lagos. Three days later he had to be taken to a hospital in Ibadan. When I saw my powerful Father being supported by two men, unable to walk by himself, I cried because I remembered how he used to put even the big Standard Six boys over his arm. He wore a thick dressing gown over his night-shirt and that was how he went to Ibadan. Mother and one of the servants accompanied him in the kitcar which had been hired for the purpose. They did not come back till the evening of the next day.

My first brother and I were in the nursery when Sam rushed in in great agitation and said, 'Papa is dead.' For one moment there was silence in the room, then Okhen gave a great shout and leapt out of the window. Sam rushed outside and I rushed after him. We found Okhen rolling on the ground and weeping as if her heart would burst. Sam tried to lift her up but she resisted him.

By this time a large crowd had gathered in front of our house and loud wailing was coming from the women. Ruth was leaning against a tree with her one year-old son in her arms and lamenting in her sing-song voice. 'My saviour is dead. My refuge is gone, gone, gone.'

MAREN JOHN reads from We Pretended We had Nothing to Do

I guessed all my pictures burned by now. My matric pictures glowed red, blue and white. All my school cert burned. All my manuscripts. My father's acquired land documents.

We finally reached the hospital. Policemen barricaded the door. We couldn't edge to see Felicia. Only the wounded were let in. We the rest walked on.

My bro touched his forhead. Fide jumped to see beyond the fence. He knew this is wrong. An ambigous motion but he was upset.

He wanted to know.

'Peeping up the fence draws security attention,' he said.

This wasn't the first time he was messing. He looked at the road ahead.

'Fide.'

'I'm listening. I want to see dad.'

I put my right hand on his right shoulder.

'I've to see they're alive first.'

The road rose and fell and rose and fell. Siren filled in the air. Security facility reach the scene.

KIMBERLY ANTON read from What Are You Afraid Of

I want to cry but unfortunately I am the grown up. That bitch. How could she have done this? Be angry at me for whatever reason, but really? The boys?

“Did his Mommy say not to play with you.”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Eli nods hard.

“Are you mad at him, honey?”

“No.”

“Is he mad at you?” I told myself I wouldn’t do this but I can’t seem to do anything else. I want him to release the pain, so I prod.

“Yes.”

“Do you know why he’s mad?”

“Yes.”

At least Eli knows why his best friend is gone. I stop and face my son. He looks at a snail on the sidewalk, without interest. Translucent brown eyes lift up to me. He pulls his hand from mine and presses a fist to his eye. His chest puffs and falls.

“Why?” I ask.

“He’s mad that I won’t sleep in the tent,” he sighs.

“From camping? Still?”

“I don’t know, he’s just mad.” Eli grabs my hand again and stomps forward. I have to run a little to keep his pace. I squeeze his fingers so he doesn’t feel me shaking. My mouth waters as I recall Tanner throwing up in the car. I swallow the saliva, but the memory won’t go down.

Writing Difficulty: Should we Forget about it?

By Maren John Mafuyai

If writing is easier, it is a mystery. Should we forget about it or continue to write something that doesn't pay?

I suggest we shamelessly go back to learn more about the art to be reminded that making a list shouldn't be a problem.

Making a list will improve our writing if we are faithful to it.

I improved one aspect of my writing skills through the following rule:

If you ask yourself, What do I want to buy in the market, your answer could be:

I want to buy biscuits, sugar, shoes and books.

The answer makes sense, doesn't it?

If a journalist asks you, How many times did you go to the market?

The answer could be: 'I went to the market 7 times last month.

It makes sense, doesn't it?

Here's what I bought last month:

I BOUGHT BISCUITS, SUGAR, SHOES AND BOOKS. I BOUGHT RICE, BEANS, PEPPER AND PALM OIL. I BOUGHT TELEVISION, FAN, CARPET AND CURTAIN.

Doesn't it make sense?

I can imagine how you feel about the above example. I want you to observe the example again. I varied the sentence beginning, didn't I. I didn't want a choppy-sounding paragraph, did I?

Stay back a little and think about it. Think of what you want to write to effectively serve your readers. Know what happened and let each paragraph answer it.

A question reveals every kind of logic used:

*.A prose in a past tense answers a question, What happened?
*.A prose in a present tense answers a question, What happens?
*.Any descriptive or expository essay answers a question, How?
*.Any argumentative essay answers a question, Why?

Can I Talk to You?

By Maren John Mafuyai

fiction|x x x|2018

I loved Bucky Coffee Shop. I revise my screen writing, take coffee and freewrite.

A woman who came from Italy to teach Greek and Hebrew in St. Johns University brought more than 10 foreigners there.

On St. Valentine Day she brought over 20 white foreigners, 15 men and five women. She took them to St. James Art Gallery. They appreciated fine works of art. They enjoyed St. James Hotel & Suits. They took red wines, danced and had a helicopter tour. They whatched the man who owned most of the St. James properties speak in Rolex. They explored St. James Tunnel with Ferari sport cars, they drove as though they were in the fantasy world.

In the night they watched Opera Show in St. James Square. People took beer, watched European football match and danced.

I followed her to St. Johns University. At the door of a corridor, I asked:

'Can I talk to you?'

She stopped.

'I would like to have a coffee talk with you.'

She smile.

'You're beautiful.'

'I am not intrested.'

2

The next day, I entered Bucky Coffee Shop. They entered and had party-like breackfast.

In the afternoon they watched people pour out of St. Gabriel Parish. They stopped at a busy point in the metropolis.

In a virtual reality shop, they watched all the human races of this world. They watched many things seen and unseen.

People didn't look at them: tourists weren't new in St. James.

I saw incredible connections of foreign successful business persons. I met one of them: the woman said she managed forests as amusement parks in Australia.

'Can I talk to you?'

She stopped.

'I would like to have a coffee talk with you.'

She smiled.

'You're beautiful.'

'You're too dark.'

I felt nervous as race stood in my way.
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Maren John Mafuyai is the author of a short story, Makintosh. His fiction has appeared in Nairaland.com and . His poems have appeared on Facebook and Tweeter in form of images. Find out more on Twitter @Write__Man

Becareful.
_____________________
Maren John Mafuyai is the author of a short story, Makintosh. His fiction has appeared in Nairaland.com and . His poems have appeared on Facebook and Tweeter in form of images. Find out more on Twitter @Write__Man