I'll be posting short stories on this thread for your reading pleasure. Kindly drop a comment after reading to inform me how theee stories have affected you. Cheers!






I HEAR YOU GIVE GOOD ADVICE

It’s quite easy to forget the days of humble beginnings when one finally gets that big break always dreamt of. At least I know that’s what happened to me. It was as though every time my fans cheered “Mariah Ike!” a part of my painful past got chipped off and I felt lighter.

The new found fame suited me… I, Mariah, the small girl from an unknown village in the east, a movie star!? I’d almost completely forgotten the days before my big break in 'Dangerous Girl From The South', the days when smoking garri was still my watchword. Those were the days before I ever met Mr. Howard, before our fateful meeting at the local theater production where I’d been offered a small, but pivotal role. That was three years prior.

These days, however, Howard prefers to remind me of how I started in the industry, how I’d still be nothing if he hadn’t strolled into that theater hall along Agidingbi road. And, that, because I hadn’t returned to say ‘thank you’ properly, I was ungrateful, and he wouldn’t waste another Kobo on me or any other amateur hoping for a big break until I made amends. What did he want? you might ask. Of course he wanted sex!

I can never forget Howard. How can I? He stood by me when the rest of the world wouldn’t. He discovered and believed so much in my talent, and kept pushing me through until 'Dangerous Girl From The South' happened six months ago. Before the issue of his demeaning request came up, I still had it in mind to pay him a proper visit at his home – to meet the pretty, loving, extremely intelligent wife he always spoke about, and thank her for taking such a wonderful man off the market; but, now, I’m not so sure he’s the man I thought he was. I mean, demanding sex from me just to feel good about himself. Talk about the misogynistic view of a Nollywood patriach. Who does that? Does he understand how scandalous it’ll be if word ever got out. ‘Nollywood superstar Mariah Ike caught under-the-sheets with married producer Howard Obi’ the headlines will joyously read. That’ll be the end of my career that just started. God forbid!

Now, the reason I’m ranting is this…

NOLIP, the prestigious board in charge of awarding young, exceptional talents in the Nigerian movie industry are considering putting me as a contender for the well coveted ‘BEST ACTRESS IN A FEATURE FILM’ category. Me. A new comer in the industry. My God! If I clinch that award, forget it, I’ve blown completely, nothing can stop my shine anymore in the industry.

The big problem is, Howard is a senior member of the board and also a part of the sitting committee I’d have to face before anything else… their vote has to be unanimous for my consideration to become tangible, and he’s still pressing his demand, now more than ever. I face the board in two days and I don’t know what to do. Howard is highly placed to easily sway the rest members of the board to whatever side he stands on. He has the power to undo everything God made him do in my life, and I don’t know why he’s letting the devil use him.

You reading this, I hear you give really good advice. Please, I need to know what next to do.


Your new fictional celebrity crush,
Mariah Ike.

My people, food is ready.

Soteriahascome, princeOFprince, kongru, qhdr, Fidelismaria, missmossy, cutechicluv, Nmaglit, rmfunky, maximanuel, ped007, lordseb, vlip42, maggdon, humbleamanda, laikas, smartec, donhils, superman10, Fijumokesayo, kikayboss, lacasera14, loisemm, Lolaabokoku, ucheclub, silensa, davespog2, jubizy, faksy, nigelcoop, baxxx, ghostwriter, cutediva87, Venusbetty, maggielovely, slimzy2k16, bibijay123, heskeyw, Shakyroh320, Essyprity, yorhmienerd, BB4u, Maximanuel, Kerr9, callmeomotee33, Queenoma, Remyseyi, Mubarak001, Lexzytee, Holluwaphlexy, Rupeelicious, Wenzi, Mattyboy007, Mindfrick, Katchycouture,

open the damn pussy biatch. it only gonna take a few hours

HARD GUY


It used to feel good being the odd guy at school. From the first till his final year, everyone knew Collins was the go-to guy to have a free insight into the latest happenings in the minds of the females on campus. From the way he talked, acted and walked, many suspected he was gay, but no one really cared. To the many who knew him, he was a jolly good fellow, and that made up for whomever ruffled his sheets behind closed doors.

All that changed when he went on the National Youth Service and had to share a room, after camp, with five macho men. Suddenly, all that used to feel normal and regular felt out of place. His life was no longer his. Every little thing he did was looked on with disdain, as though he stained everything he touched with a physical manifestation of sin.

On very good days, the farthest they’d go was to call him a ****. But on bad days, they’d attach more demeaning tags to their name-callings. Amongst which one stood out… ‘Homo’.

While, on very bad days he’d get beaten-up by the youths of the community who’d made it their personal project to rehabilitate the guy who swung his hips more than the females whenever he passed by.

This was the story of a young man serving a community that refused to understand him for who he is. It was the kind of treatment he got because he didn’t fit into their stereotype of ‘how a man should act’.

Why you no dey watch ball?
Why you dey always like waka with women?
Why you dey always whyne nyash pass woman?

These and many more streamlined questions was he faced with on a regular, all of which contributed to his increasing state of depression.

One could only pretend to have a thick skin for so long. Everyone had a breaking point. For Collins, that meant falling, slowly, into depression. And the worse part was, those girls he called friends didn’t even realize.

The painful realization that he was all alone in this world started to creep in. It wasn’t his parents who understood, definitely not his two older, macho brothers… Nor was it the men from this locale who’d forcefully held him down, one night, for two prostitutes to rape him. The judgement was too much…

Yes, he wasn’t interested in girls, but neither was he interested in boys. If the latter case had been different, at 23 he’d have found a lover who he could depend on for emotional support.

So, one day, while most people were away at work, with nothing, but the echoes of an almost empty compound to grant him clarity, he decided to end it… He took his own life drinking a last supper of very milky custard laced with rat poison.

Whoever the smelling corpse of a rottening, suspected-gay man disturbed the most, let him knock on the door.

YOUR UMUNNA AND HIS UBER DRIVER


I bet you’re thinking ‘What’s this guy talking about?’ or saying to yourself ‘My Umunna doesn’t know much about cars, talk more of boarding an Uber.’ But I say to you, be calm, fret not. Your Umunna boarding an Uber isn’t far-fetched if you look at it from the point of immersion with the tale. Think of yourself as one of the participants of this story.

. . .

You wake up today and realize your life still hasn’t changed. It’s still as boring as the lengthy 9-hour church service you attended yesterday, and you get more frustrated thinking about it. Your colleague, Stella, assured you it’d be lit. Somehow, she’d convinced you to follow her by saying the solution to breaking the ancestral powers from your father’s house holding you back rested on the palms of her ‘Daddy G.O.’

Of everyone in the church hall, you shouted the most ‘hallelujah!’ you were enthusiastic, ecstatic, even Daddy G.O. noticed you and had you brought to the alter to testify about the Lord’s goodness to you this outgoing year. You spoke with faith of what could still happen to you before the new year comes in; after all, it was Christmas – the perfect time to be thankful and hopeful. You narrated, perfectly, the remarkable reverie you always used to escape reality, and everyone marveled, but you were the most affected by the anointing from your fantastic tale; and when Daddy G.O. laid his HANDS OF ANOINTING on you –those mighty HANDS– you became extra-charged with the spirit and dragged the microphone from his hands. You shocked everyone, especially Stella, when you made a donation of Two Hundred Thousand Naira by faith.

The drums rolled boisterously and people danced on your behalf. Daddy G.O. laid MORE HANDS on you, his ushers followed you bumper to bumper collecting all your details, even your mother’s maiden name and where she lived. You suddenly became the star of their small church.
The fanfare and merriment ended with Stella sleeping over at your place, gracing your bed and creating memories of what would be revered as your most memorable night together, yet. Your all-night romp is the reason you have a terrible headache this morning.

Soon, your hazy head begins to clear and reality starts to set in.

You remember you challenged God yesterday, but it’s already 9 a.m., one hour past the hour Daddy G.O. assured you God was going to answer in all His glory.

Your phone beeped, twice in the same space, and you were thrilled. “Maybe God was held inside traffic” “At all, at all, na in bad pass” you mutter I self-consolation. Unfortunately, the first beep was from MTN reminding you to subscribe as you have less than 50MB left, and the second’s a reminder from Sister Margaret, the lead usher. She’d just texted you the account details of the Church – ‘JESUS SITS ON TOP OF YOUR MATTER INTERNATIONAL MINISTRY’ you read aloud the account name and realize, for the first time, just how stupid it sounds. As you struggle to locate your trouser tossed away in the height of last night’s passion, you take note of how large a maze your one room apartment actually. Your phone beeps again. You fish for it like a professional, but hiss louder this time. It’s a follow up text from Johnny. You are late for your scheduled meeting of 8 a.m., and as your longtime friend, who sincerely wants to help you, he sent a follow up text.

You read the text aloud for no reason in particular. DON’T YOU WANT THE TAXI AGAIN? It says. You’re angry you read it in the first place. If you had a gun and Johnny stood before you, you’d shoot him. Couldn’t he understand what you were passing through at the moment? You could already picture yourself wriggle the life out of him, when you finally called yourself to order and remember Johnny’s only trying to help.

‘Maybe I should just take the car. Do the business. It could turn out good.’

You wrestle with your demons. Finally, you decide to reply positively, and quickly leave to meet-up. Twenty minutes later, you’re with him.

“Johnny, my guy!” you hail him. You stretch out your hand for a handshake, but he’s too annoyed to indulge you, as you’ve kept him waiting for more than an hour. So, you stylishly withdraw it, and hope no one saw what just happened.

You frown your face, blaming the condition that made you, the great crayfish bend.

You ask God to punish poverty on your behalf and also beg him to make you Dangote’s offspring next time, if there’s truly such a thing as reincarnation. These and many more you ask through Christ, our Lord, under the whisper of your voice.

As Johnny speaks, you nod. In your head, you’re already swinging the car-key he’s still holding. Your reverie of being the latest car owner comes true as soon as he hands over the keys. You couldn’t wait to share your testimony at Stella’s church, next Sunday.

It’s 1 p.m. – You’re on the highway to pick your first customer. Happy you, no one can spoil the joy God has just given you. You intend surprising everyone who ever thought you wouldn’t make something off yourself, including Johnny. You’d finally make enough money to put even the devil in a permanent state of shame.

The first person you see as you drive through Lagos, along Maryland, is your mother’s brother, Uncle Innocent. You battle with your inner demons whether to give him a lift or splash Lagos’ muddy water on him. Why the latter, one may ask? The last time your house rent was due, you went to him for help and he sent you away. You finally decide against the latter. You want to be the bigger man, to prove him wrong that you weren’t a “FOOL AT FORTY’.

“Uncle Inno,” you greet as you pull over beside him. You stylishly roll the glass of your almost new 2013 Toyota Camry down. In your head, you quickly check the difference between 2017 and 2017, you see it isn’t much, you smile even harder. At this point, Johnny’s demand of N50,000 monthly suddenly becomes worth it. The shock on Uncle Innocent’s face is satisfying enough to make all the uncertainties you felt earlier today VANISH!
He feigns being happy seeing you, and you could tell. At first, he says “Thank you, nna. I’ll wait for my driver” but, when he sees you aren’t ready to take NO for an answer, he says, “Let’s go, since my driver is taking too long.”

In silence, you drive him through the city of Lagos. You keep bringing up conversations and he never responds to any, yet you keep talking, refusing to shut up. You even told him the car he assumed was yours was just given to you by a friend, and that you intended to turn it into an Uber. You keep on yapping until you arrive his gate.

He asks you, “how much for the fare?” and you tell him not to worry. “Uncle, uncle. Don’t worry. For you, this one is free.” You keep shining your browned set of teeth with reckless abandon.
He looks at you and can only shake his head. “So, you still don’t have SENSE?” is all he can mutter before he leaves you to your confusion. You see him walk to his mansion. You squeeze your face, feeling terribly insulted:

How can a wealthy man you just DASHED about THREE THOUSAND NAIRA in transport fare just accuse you of not having sense?

Still watching him from behind the steering wheels, you hiss loudly in disdain and that’s when you first notice your uncle has a walking stick in one hand and a bag with a pipe connected into his body. You wonder how you didn’t see it until now. You wonder if he’s really sick or just playing pretend because he knew he’d see you on the highway today. You’ve always suspected him of being diabolical. Your phone beeps again. It’s a follow up reminder from Sister Margaret just in case you didn’t get her first text with an additional line, “DADDY G.O. NEEDS TO SEE YOU NOW!’

‘It’s time to go home. Today was a fruitful day.’ You say to yourself and start driving to church. It’s 4 p.m. Tomorrow will be a better day.


PS: Today's my birthday. Do something nice for me, will you?
CC ObinnaU, DivePen1, Mynd44, LalasticLala,

Oh my GOD! So sad.

I REST MY CASE


Growing up with three older brothers in the cold city of Jos, it wasn’t uncharacteristic to return from school to find either a locked door or greetings from used condoms at the entrance to our two-bedroom apartment. The triplets were finding it increasingly difficult to gain admission into their preferred university – The University of Jos. It was their third time applying, and to cope with the constant rejections they sought solace in the warm hands of fornication. Our father recognized this mania when it first started, yet did nothing to tame it. In the real sense of things no one could blame him; it’d be hypocritical of him since they’d learnt from the very best.

Peter, Paul, and Pius were rumored to have rescued many marriages and fathered countless children in the area. Their enthusiasm matched our father’s in his heydays, possibly even greater. Not a day went by without a woman passing through the front door. Sometimes, they were new faces, but mostly, it was a spin among the regulars: Nneka, Bose, Oti, Yetunde, Amina, and Aunty Adah.

I was in JS1 when Aunty Adah came into the picture. It was Pius who first got the chance to meet the pretty, young class teacher of their frigid baby brother. He’d gone to school with me on behalf of our father to appeal my suspension for punching a classmate in the eyes, but lost track of his mission almost as soon as he set eyes on her. Peter and Paul liked her because she was the only one to let all three of them have their way with her in unison. A triplet fetish, they called it. And I was forced to live through the many nights of their debaucheries. Sometimes they made me watch, other times I enjoyed watching myself, but most times I just wanted to go to bed in a quiet room like every other nine-year-old.

Dad worked with the Federal Government at a power station in Potiskum, Yobe State. The far distance meant he spent the weekdays there, and most times his weekends too. We almost never got to see him. He’d breeze in and out once in a while, but that was it. The triplets were in charge of the day-to-day running of the house, and were already used to not having him around. But I was ten years late to the party, and still hadn’t yet learnt the ropes of mastering his absence.

Our mom had died giving birth to our only sister, Ada, five years earlier, and Dad never saw it necessary to remarry. After six months of fooling himself trying to raise Ada by himself he finally let mom’s eldest sister, Aunty Chi, take her away to Lagos, but resisted her attempt to take me too on the grounds that I was a man.

“No son of mine would be raised outside my roof as long as I live, and that includes Patrick.” I recall him saying about me.

Aunty Chi stopped fighting when she saw I echoed my father’s sentiment. What she didn’t understand was that what I truly cared for was not to be separated from my big brothers. At that stage in my life all I wanted was to earn their approvals.

By the time I was in SS3 I’d began to find common footing with them. I wasn’t yet half the scamps they were, but I was far from the cagey boy I used to be. For starters, I’d finally lost my virginity and shagged a few of the girls at school and around our home. I’d even shagged a willing Aunty Adah too.

It was a hot Saturday afternoon, and she’d come without prior notice to bid us farewell as she was finally leaving the area for her husband’s in Abuja. She seemed disappointed to be greeted by the triplets’ absence, but we soon got chatty, more comfortable in each other’s presence than ever before. One thing led to another, and before I knew it I had my pants down and erect member buried deep inside her. Not long into the business, Pius walked in on us. He couldn’t be prouder. And that marked the beginning of a new kind of friendship between us.

Heartbreakingly, I woke up to the news of his death few weeks later. He’d been killed in a clash with boys from a rival cult gang, from a neighboring street.

I ran to the bus stop as fast as my legs could carry me. There, I met a thousand and one eyes clustered on Pius’ corpse as though hoping he’d come back to recount the incident. I noticed the two gaping holes on his lower torso, and instantly knew there was no coming back from that. Tears begged to escape my eyes, but I couldn’t let them. I had to be strong, and preserve the invincible persona my brothers were well-known for. Peter and Paul were already on ground asking questions, trying hard to establish a timeline and make sense of the shooting, so it wasn’t as though I had much of a choice. There were various accounts of what transpired, but all fingers pointed in the direction of the Agwillo boys.

A rumor had circulated earlier that week that Pius had raped the girlfriend of their leader, and we’d all jeered at the news. Pius never actually denied the report, so his silence was all the evidence the world needed to convict, his murder the sect’s response. At the end, he’d never get another chance to address the issue. And, even though it was in the past I knew it’d be uncharacteristic of Peter and Paul or their goons to let it slide. It was only a matter of time before they delivered a response of their own,

There was only one way that would end, and that was with splattered blood and slit throats lolling in every direction of town. I didn’t want any part in that. I just wanted to mourn my brother in peace. So, two days later I made the shocking decision of joining Ada and Aunty Chi in Lagos. Neither Peter or Paul liked the idea, but they respected it as far as I did their resolve to honor our fallen brother with carnage.

“No one touches an Obi and goes scot-free.” They both echoed.

That was the last I ever heard from them.

Two weeks later report of their deaths in a shootout involving both the Agwillo boys and the police flooded the 9PM news. And so, I went from mourning one brother to three at a stretch. I was devastated, depressed, broken; but Dad had it worse.

Though he tried his best to handle his swift loss, nothing was ever the same with him again. He fell into depression, and started withdrawing from the world. He was a year shy of his retirement when the incident happened, so they mostly tolerated him at work until the very end. Since then, he’d spent a large chunk of his time and gratuity pursuing transitory pleasures. And, now, five years later he still spends the better part of his time playing chess with other elderly men at the park close to where I now live in the heart of Lagos. He hopes his boys return someday; Ada and I sometimes do too. But we know better, and I hope he finally comes around to enjoy the best things life still has to offer before he dies.

I still miss my brothers, always will, especially Pius, but I can’t help but think I’d have joined him sooner if I hadn’t rested my case exactly when I did.

Cc @ObinnaU @DivePen1 @LalasticLala

Short story indeed pls who can summarize

is Talius part of the MOD on nairaland.

Just when I thought I made ftc 3 people don land untop me �

Shun cultism and group sex. Otherwise badluck will just be following you around like Hausa perfume

OK

Cool

What an EPISODE??
Short true true

Okay we are here to read.... BTW better be true life stories Kos na that go make am interesting

This one be like poem

Nice stories for a night rest.

Interesting stories! "Your Umunna and His Uber Driver", continuation please!

Interesting keep it coming

Talius:
YOUR UMUNNA AND HIS UBER DRIVER


I bet you’re thinking ‘What’s this guy talking about?’ or saying to yourself ‘My Umunna doesn’t know much about cars, talk more of boarding an Uber.’ But I say to you, be calm, fret not. Your Umunna boarding an Uber isn’t far-fetched if you look at it from the point of immersion with the tale. Think of yourself as one of the participants of this story.

. . .

You wake up today and realize your life still hasn’t changed. It’s still as boring as the lengthy 9-hour church service you attended yesterday, and you get more frustrated thinking about it. Your colleague, Stella, assured you it’d be lit. Somehow, she’d convinced you to follow her by saying the solution to breaking the ancestral powers from your father’s house holding you back rested on the palms of her ‘Daddy G.O.’

Of everyone in the church hall, you shouted the most ‘hallelujah!’ you were enthusiastic, ecstatic, even Daddy G.O. noticed you and had you brought to the alter to testify about the Lord’s goodness to you this outgoing year. You spoke with faith of what could still happen to you before the new year comes in; after all, it was Christmas – the perfect time to be thankful and hopeful. You narrated, perfectly, the remarkable reverie you always used to escape reality, and everyone marveled, but you were the most affected by the anointing from your fantastic tale; and when Daddy G.O. laid his HANDS OF ANOINTING on you –those mighty HANDS– you became extra-charged with the spirit and dragged the microphone from his hands. You shocked everyone, especially Stella, when you made a donation of Two Hundred Thousand Naira by faith.

The drums rolled boisterously and people danced on your behalf. Daddy G.O. laid MORE HANDS on you, his ushers followed you bumper to bumper collecting all your details, even your mother’s maiden name and where she lived. You suddenly became the star of their small church.
The fanfare and merriment ended with Stella sleeping over at your place, gracing your bed and creating memories of what would be revered as your most memorable night together, yet. Your all-night romp is the reason you have a terrible headache this morning.

Soon, your hazy head begins to clear and reality starts to set in.

You remember you challenged God yesterday, but it’s already 9 a.m., one hour past the hour Daddy G.O. assured you God was going to answer in all His glory.

Your phone beeped, twice in the same space, and you were thrilled. “Maybe God was held inside traffic” “At all, at all, na in bad pass” you mutter I self-consolation. Unfortunately, the first beep was from MTN reminding you to subscribe as you have less than 50MB left, and the second’s a reminder from Sister Margaret, the lead usher. She’d just texted you the account details of the Church – ‘JESUS SITS ON TOP OF YOUR MATTER INTERNATIONAL MINISTRY’ you read aloud the account name and realize, for the first time, just how stupid it sounds. As you struggle to locate your trouser tossed away in the height of last night’s passion, you take note of how large a maze your one room apartment actually. Your phone beeps again. You fish for it like a professional, but hiss louder this time. It’s a follow up text from Johnny. You are late for your scheduled meeting of 8 a.m., and as your longtime friend, who sincerely wants to help you, he sent a follow up text.

You read the text aloud for no reason in particular. DON’T YOU WANT THE TAXI AGAIN? It says. You’re angry you read it in the first place. If you had a gun and Johnny stood before you, you’d shoot him. Couldn’t he understand what you were passing through at the moment? You could already picture yourself wriggle the life out of him, when you finally called yourself to order and remember Johnny’s only trying to help.

‘Maybe I should just take the car. Do the business. It could turn out good.’

You wrestle with your demons. Finally, you decide to reply positively, and quickly leave to meet-up. Twenty minutes later, you’re with him.

“Johnny, my guy!” you hail him. You stretch out your hand for a handshake, but he’s too annoyed to indulge you, as you’ve kept him waiting for more than an hour. So, you stylishly withdraw it, and hope no one saw what just happened.

You frown your face, blaming the condition that made you, the great crayfish bend.

You ask God to punish poverty on your behalf and also beg him to make you Dangote’s offspring next time, if there’s truly such a thing as reincarnation. These and many more you ask through Christ, our Lord, under the whisper of your voice.

As Johnny speaks, you nod. In your head, you’re already swinging the car-key he’s still holding. Your reverie of being the latest car owner comes true as soon as he hands over the keys. You couldn’t wait to share your testimony at Stella’s church, next Sunday.

It’s 1 p.m. – You’re on the highway to pick your first customer. Happy you, no one can spoil the joy God has just given you. You intend surprising everyone who ever thought you wouldn’t make something off yourself, including Johnny. You’d finally make enough money to put even the devil in a permanent state of shame.

The first person you see as you drive through Lagos, along Maryland, is your mother’s brother, Uncle Innocent. You battle with your inner demons whether to give him a lift or splash Lagos’ muddy water on him. Why the latter, one may ask? The last time your house rent was due, you went to him for help and he sent you away. You finally decide against the latter. You want to be the bigger man, to prove him wrong that you weren’t a “FOOL AT FORTY’.

“Uncle Inno,” you greet as you pull over beside him. You stylishly roll the glass of your almost new 2013 Toyota Camry down. In your head, you quickly check the difference between 2017 and 2017, you see it isn’t much, you smile even harder. At this point, Johnny’s demand of N50,000 monthly suddenly becomes worth it. The shock on Uncle Innocent’s face is satisfying enough to make all the uncertainties you felt earlier today VANISH!
He feigns being happy seeing you, and you could tell. At first, he says “Thank you, nna. I’ll wait for my driver” but, when he sees you aren’t ready to take NO for an answer, he says, “Let’s go, since my driver is taking too long.”

In silence, you drive him through the city of Lagos. You keep bringing up conversations and he never responds to any, yet you keep talking, refusing to shut up. You even told him the car he assumed was yours was just given to you by a friend, and that you intended to turn it into an Uber. You keep on yapping until you arrive his gate.

He asks you, “how much for the fare?” and you tell him not to worry. “Uncle, uncle. Don’t worry. For you, this one is free.” You keep shining your browned set of teeth with reckless abandon.
He looks at you and can only shake his head. “So, you still don’t have SENSE?” is all he can mutter before he leaves you to your confusion. You see him walk to his mansion. You squeeze your face, feeling terribly insulted:

How can a wealthy man you just DASHED about THREE THOUSAND NAIRA in transport fare just accuse you of not having sense?

Still watching him from behind the steering wheels, you hiss loudly in disdain and that’s when you first notice your uncle has a walking stick in one hand and a bag with a pipe connected into his body. You wonder how you didn’t see it until now. You wonder if he’s really sick or just playing pretend because he knew he’d see you on the highway today. You’ve always suspected him of being diabolical. Your phone beeps again. It’s a follow up reminder from Sister Margaret just in case you didn’t get her first text with an additional line, “DADDY G.O. NEEDS TO SEE YOU NOW!’

‘It’s time to go home. Today was a fruitful day.’ You say to yourself and start driving to church. It’s 4 p.m. Tomorrow will be a better day.


PS: Today's my birthday. Do something nice for me, will you?
CC ObinnaU, DivePen1, Mynd44, LalasticLala,

Rib cracking story. Happy birthday bro. More ink to your pen

Interesting

More bro

Nice response in return of this issue with firm arguments and explaining everything on the topic of that. play plants vs zombies

How One Angel Helped Me Meet Another - A Short Story by Talius Dike

I was in a mini-bus going to Cele from Yaba and was seated at the front row. Because of my special positioning, I became the unofficial conductor transferring monies and change between the other passengers and the driver.

One lady, obviously a college student from the way she looked, addressed me from the back seat: “please, tell the driver to give me my change.”

I remember wondering who the Bleep she thought she was to send me on a wild goose chase with a Lagos driver, was she new to this town? I simply told her, with a cold face, not to bother me. And that was it.

About a year later, we’d meet again at an event in faraway Port-Harcourt. I’d forgotten the incident, but she hadn’t. I’d later find out she’d marked my face, swearing to confront me if she ever saw me again at the bus-stop. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the bus-stop, it was my guy’s wedding-eve party and we were on different sides of the couple train.

I felt bad when she re-introduced herself (as Anita) and of me of how much of an asshole I was that day. I couldn’t wait for the long weekend to be over so we could stop bumping into each other at weird spots, but the universe had other plans. The one lady I got attracted to enough to hook up with at the party turned out to be her best friend – Titi.

Titi and I continued to see each other even after moving back to Lagos. I’d regularly inquire from Titi about Anita’s wellbeing and she, too, continued to push for us to reconcile. Well, we both finally agreed to a reconciliation dinner for just the two of us, as arranged by Titi. That night ended with us sweating and wrapped in each other’s arms.

two weeks later, we’d meet up again at the same place, this time, without Titi’s knowledge. It quickly became a weekly thing, then almost daily… until Titi found out. She wasn’t pissed. She was calm when she called things off saying, she just didn’t want to have to choose between me and her best friend.

A few months later, Anita and I would walk down the aisle, with Titi by her side. And soon after that, our life together became greeted with her absence.

Five years later, neither of us has spoken to Titi, not once.

This is the story of how I met my wife.


PS: If you liked this, checkout my latest story on OkadaBooks using the link in my signature, below. Thanks.