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I am a new writer. Please feel free to read and criticize.

Prologue

We live in a free world. Or so we think.

Born white or black, who made the choice? Who even authorized that I should be born? Somebody needs to be sued for this.

I am Ugonna and I wished not to be born, but I was anyway. Without my consent. Born into this miserable phenomenon called LIFE where I can’t even make a choice as little as deciding not to eat and survive. Yet, I was born free they say. To make my own choices and live by the consequences. Nay! It’s all lies. Did I choose to be born African? Who said I wanted to be male anyway? A Nigerian? No No No!

CHAPTER ONE:
Caged Freedom


I am Ugonna. I am an African. I am a Nigerian and I am Igbo. Born in Umuike to Baba Ejiofor, an unapologetic polygamist. I was born 37th of 48 children by the 5th of 7 wives. You must be eager to know my story. Sorry to disappoint you, my story is no fairytales. It’s that which is forged on constant woes and tears.

Baba Ejiofor, my father was a big farmer revered by many. As it was the norm at the time, the more children you have the bigger your produce will be; as there will be many hands to help with the farm works. Based on this philosophy, many men of his time take luxury in marrying as many wives as possible and birth as much as nature permits them. Such was the selfish philosophy of the time. I call it “corruption against persons”, for these babies will all grow and will in turn need as much land as they could get to survive too. But nay, they know not. They only see right in front of their noses. Only thinking about themselves and gave no hoot about the future of the children.

Such was my story. This is Africa. And that’s parenting.

I was born like everyone else for one sole purpose. Help expand the farm they say. Farming to eat and to enrich Baba Ejiofor so he can in turn marry more wives and keep more concubines.

Now I am age thirty and ought to have family of my own. It’s now time for me to own my own house and my own farm. Such was the expectation. But should I? I need not; for the most elderly children have taken over all lands after dad passed away two years earlier, leaving absolutely nothing for we the younger ones to inherit.

Weeks in weeks out. Months in months out. One after the other. The younger wives were pushed out of the family along with their children. My mum happened to be the wife number 5 and the last to be pushed out. Their tactics, frustration. The three most elderly sons persecutes everyone into frustration until you reach point of taking it no more. Then you move. They declare victory.

I Ugonna is destined for greatness and will one day become prominent. Such was the prophecy when I was born. As to whether it will come to pass, I know not. For now, a warm soup with sizeable garri (local dish made of stirred cassava flake) will do man so much goodness.

As little as my present dream is, the food is no where forthcoming.

We live in a free world. Or so we think.

Born white or black, who made the choice? Who even authorized that I should be born? Somebody needs to be sued for this.
I am Ugonna and I wished not to be born, but I was anyway. Without my consent. Born into this miserable phenomenon called LIFE where I can’t even make a choice as little as deciding not to eat and survive. Yet, I was born free they say. To make my own choices and live by the consequences. Nay! It’s all lies. Did I choose to be born African? Who said I wanted to be male anyway? A Nigerian? No No No!

Something needs to be done. A stop must be put to this misery. Something very decisive and drastic. Yes, very drastic measures.

…to be continued!

Ugonna come I wantu read your story.....nice 1 op

OlufemiWhit:
Ugonna come I wantu read your story.....nice 1 op

Thanks. More loading...

Nice one. more please

Interesting... Following.

Please no explicit romance scenes. I've read enough of Harlequin in junior to high school.


It's so difficult to find a story on here that isn't one love story or the other


Please someone! Anyone! Write a story about a business person and his struggles, about someone's struggles in the career world or about someone who's doing both and/or is indecisive..... Please tag me

…Continuation…

In the end, the ultimate of living lays in dying. We are all born to die someday; in between, all we can do is to survive. And survive we must at all cost.

It was a fateful Saturday while sitting under a mango tree after nearly eighteen hours of unplanned fasting that I started receiving inspirations. I have not taken anything since 3pm the day before and no end in sight for my unwanted fasting.

A hungry man is an angry man they said. But in my case, I was quick to realize anger will do me no good. It was in the heat of an excruciating pain and bowel movements that I realized I wasn’t Jesus Christ and cannot fast for forty days. Gaining inspiration became more of a necessity. There and then I made up my mind to travel in search of greener pasture beyond my shores. I do have a friend, Emeka, who was taken to Zaria while we were growing up to serve Uncle Kenneth. It’s been nearly 15years I last saw him. Nonetheless, I do know his location. For he served Uncle Kenneth for 8 years and gained freedom to establish his own business. He chooses to stay there in Zaria the last I heard. I must make out to go search for him I said to myself.

On Monday morning, I left for Aba, from where I boarded a bus going to Zaria. It was a long journey that saw us traversing many states. It was my first time outside Umuike. We made a stop in Lokoja, the capital of Kogi State. I have always thought big of other states while in my little Umuike. But to my biggest dismay, it was a sought of less of my expectations. So many mud houses such as those in Umuike were also there. Extremely lean and dark people were paddling canoes, in search of fishes I believe. So many women looking unfed like myself were all over the place hawking different items such as groundnut, fried yam, bread and the rest. I asked myself, if they have so much food to sell, why then are they all looking unfed? What do I know? I asked myself. Let me just face my front. I concluded.

We made it to Abuja at last. Finally, I can see my president’s house I said to myself. Again, my hope was dashed. All I saw was a tiny village they call ‘Abaji’ that my Umuike look more spacious than. Then there was another overcrowded dirty community they say the name is ‘Gwagwalada’. We went further to another place they called the name as ‘Zuba’. Even though I have seen few cars in my life, they were too many rickety cars all over the place. Is this Abuja? I asked myself.

In spite my disappointments, I finally saw something I have been seeing only in picture for a long time. Zuma Rock. It has always been on the hundred naira note. I marveled at its magnificence. It stands tall high above the ground with eyes popping out of it. I consoled myself with the believe that Zaria will be a fine place like Enugu since Ahmadu Bello was from there. So the journey continued till we reached Kaduna.

Kaduna was a clean city. Finer than all I have seen on my way there. Taller buildings with many fine roundabouts were all over the place. I even saw a whole airplane parked in front of one house they said belongs to air force. They are soldiers that fight in the air I was told. There was a bridge on top of another road that cars could pass on top too. I learnt it's called 'flyover'.

The city appeared to have been built with Hausa magic no doubt. Well, I didn’t like the way many children were all over the place begging though. They weren’t handicapped and there were so much unused vast lands. Why they couldn’t farm baffles me. If I have had such land available for me in Umuike I will be a big man like my father.

Finally, we entered Zaria. The driver informed me that we were already in Zaria and that I should drop for he will proceed to Kano with other passengers. I alighted and hung my bag on the right shoulder and asked the first man that approached me with a wheel barrow where I could locate Emeka’s shop. He was speaking in strange language I couldn’t understand. I guess it should be Hausa. I will talk to someone else I said to myself. Perhaps, others should be able to understand English. I went on to ask five more persons the same question; all of them were speaking strange tongues. Some even looked as if they were insulting me.

I was hungry again for it’s been over 6 hours I last took plantain chips and Lacasera during our stop-over in Kogi. With nowhere to go and no one to talk to, I was all alone in this strange land. I am finished, I said to myself. Perhaps, I may as well be in my last days. I sluggishly took out my last 200 naira to buy rice from a roadside restaurant where I was informed I needed an extra 5 naira to get sachet water.

The woman later took pity on me and gave me one sachet after I narrated my financial history to her as well as my ordeals. It was such a lengthy talk with numerous ‘eyyas’ as response.

…to be continued!

Thoniameek:
Interesting... Following.

Please no explicit romance scenes. I've read enough of Harlequin in junior to high school.


It's so difficult to find a story on here that isn't one love story or the other


Please someone! Anyone! Write a story about a business person and his struggles, about someone's struggles in the career world or about someone who's doing both and/or is indecisive..... Please tag me

Look no further.

kudos to u, u possess good writing skills, keep it flowing

following

Cool flow

…Continuation…

Zaria is quite a city of its own kind. It amazes me seeing how slums and highbrows could co-habit harmoniously. It is neither dirty, nor clean. Not crowded and not spaced. One thing is peculiar to this city though, they seemed to take so much pride in their native tongues. Nearly all transactions are carried out in their native language including alphanumeric symbols. This is highly unlike my Umuike. As closely knit as we were, our cultural system kept eroding on steady bases. Anyways, that should be a story for another time for I am yet to see Emeka and I am yet to have a dwelling. Lost in strange land.

Ndi Umuike cannot get lost in the city I told myself. I felt a new vigor to try again. Harder this time. And smarter too. Whether it was the food that I ate, I couldn’t place it exactly what it was. But one thing was certain, I felt renewed. Somehow, I felt and believed almost immediately that this is my city. It should be where I for long supposed to have been. Such a strong energy. Zaria, I am here, please be nice I said to myself.

With that aura I made another attempt to ask of the whereabout of my beloved Emeka. I stopped a fine-looking young man whom I later found out was a student of Ahmadu Bello University in Zaria. Though, he couldn’t tell me precisely where exactly I can find Emeka, but he left me with a vital clue. Go to Sabon-Gari he said. That’s where most Igbo people in this town resides, he added.

It was a moment of joy. An unquantifiable ecstasy. I felt a big relieve. Somehow, it felt like I have won a jackpot by that singular information. More like a scientific breakthrough; to have found someone who cannot only speak English in this strange land but can also give direction. And so, I stopped a bike man who again hears nothing about English. This time, I was able to utter Sabon-Gari to him. He made me a sign for me to sit and that I did.

It is one thing to be taken to where you are going. It’s totally a different thing when you don’t have single idea as to how much your fare will cost and even worst, when you have no money to pay and have no exact location as to where to go and get the money. I sat with faith anyway. With my heart pumping like fireman running to put fire out in Aso Rock. Everything had shades of wrong. Looming evil. Whatever happens, such is price of survival I said to myself.

Few minutes into the journey, the biker matched his break pedal suddenly because of an oncoming heavy-duty vehicle. The force pushed me forward that I had to grab the biker’s waist. Lo and behold, to my utmost shock I felt a knife well hidden towards the right side of his tummy. He was able to steady his bike almost immediately and I had to readjust and sit properly. It was a ride of terror. The weather seemed cold at the time, but I was sweating profusely. I tried saying our lord’s prayer, but words failed me. What am I going to do was all that kept ringing in my head.

My cup is filled I muttered to myself before I started hearing him gibbering too many words in the same language again while attempting to turn towards me. I was able to gather one single word out of all. And that was ‘Sabon-Gari’. There I knew my trouble had just started.

…to be continued!

Devilpen:
Cool flow

Thanks