MercyPromise7:
Something like that.

Lol, it is a story na.

BiafranBushBoy:
Op, is this a story?

Lol, doesn't it seem like a story, sir?

MY MOTHER'S GODS

My mother has two Gods. The one whom she shouts at, praying to in incomprehensible words, pouring spittle on my face in the mornings when i kneel before her to receive the blessings of the day. That same God lives in the small bottle of olive oil which she smears on my forehead for protection. She would shout loud enough for my step mother to hear, “Every evil eyes in this house that look at you will be blind, they and their children”, and more spittle will mix with oil on my forehead.
This God is the one who makes people blind, consumes with fire whatever my mother does not like and bends the skinny legs of those girls who sit with my father at night in beer parlours.

My mother’s second God is kinder. More lenient. He is the one who permits pot-bellied men in my mother’s food canteen to smack my buttocks because he uses them to bless us. The one who understands that body no be firewood on the nights my mother sneaks out of the house to Baba Ade’s house when it is my stepmother's turn to sleep in my father’s bed.
This God turned his face the other way that early morning when my mother and stepmother woke my half sister and I up to go with them to Abeokuta. On the bush path to the shrine when I asked my mother where we were going, it was my stepmother who answered.
“Wo, we want to teach you girls how to make your man have eyes for only you.”
That evening when we returned, my mother prayed to her second God in hushed tones, begging him to make the charm work. And it worked.
My father’s friend, the one whom he called for help the day it happened, told his wife, the woman whose mouth never closes. And she told everyone who cared to listen that my father’s penis refused to come out of Cecilia, and that it was only when my mother and stepmother made him promise not to look at another woman, that the spell broke.

My mother went to church the next Sunday. She raised her hand when it was testimony time. She made the congregation shout hallelujah seven times. She told them about how God delivered her husband from a strange woman. Then she shook her buttocks side to side as she danced to the receptacle to put in a brown envelope.
What the congregation did not know was that my mother would go to Abeokuta the next day, shake her buttocks side to side while dancing, give the babalawo a thicker envelope and thank God for a safe journey when we got home.

HOLE IN MY SKIN

I did not know that men called breasts oranges until the day Chizoba tried to touch my chest. He had done the same with Nkiru and Angela before. I slapped his hand as one would swat a mosquito, the blade in my hand grazing him. He laughed and threw his head back while rubbing the spot with his other palm.
“Ogadimma, it is the oranges on your chest which I want, not the ones in your tray.”
I hissed, put the half-peeled orange back into my tray and walked away.

It was not the way his hand stretched to touch my breasts or the way his laughter sounded like a vulcanizing machine. It was that he called my breasts oranges at all. Some thing to be consumed. I imagined him sucking them the way the children on my street sucked oranges; their cheeks sinking in, drawing the juice as if their lives depended on it, turning the oranges inside-out to tear the pulp into their mouths and sometimes leaving a hole in the skin.

The second time my breasts bore that name was the night my Aunty’s husband came home smelling of alcohol. My aunty had gone to the big church on the next street for their monthly prayer vigil.
“Ogadimma, you have very beautiful oranges.” He said, the smell of alcohol on his breath. I tried to wriggle out of his grip but his hands were too firm.
That night, I felt like an orange. Sucked dry. With a hole left in my skin. The next day, my aunty came back. I did not tell her. I did not look at her husband’s face when he walked past me on his way to work.

That afternoon, as I sat with Nkiru and Angela by the big church on the next street, two men walked up to us. They said they wanted to take photos of us with our wares on our heads. The one with the camera hanging around his neck was tall. He had too much hair on his face. The other one called him Jidenna. He looked at us, from one person to the other the way some customers looked at my oranges to decide which ones to buy. I heard him tell the other one that he wanted to take a portrait of one of us. His eyes rested on my face too long. I looked away. He came towards me. He smelled of grass and something else.
“Your eyes tell a story”, he said. He looked into my face searchingly. I looked down at my feet, afraid he would see everything.

But when he asked me to look into the camera, I looked. Hoping he would see the pain in my heart and the scars under my clothes through the lens.
“Don’t smile”, he said. And I wanted to tell him that even if I wanted to, I could not. That I did not know how to spread lips and open teeth anymore.

[quote author=puresaint12 post=51086620]Yeah, I will be glad to. Send me your link[/

https:///uc3ft49W2D Hello people, My name is Ngozi John Isong. My flash fiction, SOMETHING NEW is up for votes in the etisalat flash fiction award! Please open the link and click on the like icon to vote for me! Thank you! You may have to click repeatedly. Please observe the change in the number of votes

nicerichard05:
Oga and you didnt add mine abi?


kindly vote for this story titled 'The Burden of Proof ' for the ETISALAT Prize for Flash Fiction( 2016)

Click the link below and like the story. thanks

https://prize.etisalat.com.ng/flash-fiction/voteall.php?id=2663

The Burden of Proof by IMOKHAI


The gavel of the Judge hit the table with a bang and almost immediately Law Enforcement agents surrounded Kunle forming a protective ring around him. His mother like some others in the court room was crying. The case of the Drug Pusher who volunteered to expose the Drug Barons had been very tasking for the Drug Law Agency to crack. The Judge had sentenced the three drug barons to life imprisonment. The prosecution relied so much on Kunle’s testimony to build their case. Relief was an understatement for them.

The voice of Mrs. Belema Gregson, the Attorney-General of the Federation still echoed in Kunle’s head. “Kunle, I will make you an offer. You are a bright young man and the fact that the Malaysian Government agreed to release you to us as a test case is a divine call for you to help us end this problem once and for all.” Kunle nodded. “Help me prove that you are innocent”. Who could have thought that Malaysia would agree to release Kunle to the Nigerian Government? He could still picture the face of the Immigration official at Kuala Lumpur Airport when the colour of the body scanner turned red. “Step aside Sir” That was the beginning of the torture.

The Newspaper headlines were practically screaming ‘Nigerian First Class Graduate caught with drugs at Malaysia Airport’. Mrs. Belema Gregson knew that this was one Nigerian Citizen that should not be allowed to be executed in Malaysia. What would make a First Class graduate carry drugs to Malaysia? Her motherly instincts propelled her more that her being a lawyer and with her power as the Attorney –General of the Federation, she was going to save this young Man, Kunle Ola from the hangman in Malaysia. And she did.

Would you like to exchange votes?

Lakesite22:


You should check mine also, maybe after reading you could modify this Post. https://prize.etisalat.com.ng/flash-fiction/voteall.php?id=478


DISTANCE IS A BETRAYAL

We had spent two years together.

Two years full of beautiful moments, beautiful feelings of love and sometimes moment of contrary opinions which would pave way for a slight brawl: All these I could call TRUE LOVE.

True love that didn’t appear as one initially, at least it wasn’t intended. It just happened with her.

With her, the word “Infidelity” was lost in my Vocabulary. I could not even find a synonym for that.

That, I could call EFFECTIVE LOVE. Sometimes I’d ask her if she feel the same and she would respond by saying that’s her line and that she should be the one asking that. We were much in love with each other that we would call every morning to ask about the dream we had overnight, silently hoping it’s one about our growing love.

Emotionally, physically and materially, she would stand by me at all times. As a check on being on the same page with her, I’d ask myself if I feel the exact way and the only imaginary response I’d get is catching a grenade for her. By this, I could qualify her as a “RIDE OR DIE PARTNER”.

Time after time, distance sets in. I started getting less of her and she equally had less of me. Those beautiful feelings of love and beautiful moments we had became a thing of memory, one I could not reproduce.
My memory tends to be my best friend as what I had left of her was “Memory”.

Lying on bed in solitude, the night became darker and colder while my depression became deepen and hopeless.

Indeed, DISTANCE IS A BETRAYAL.


Not perfect but needs your support to grow.

Visit https://prize.etisalat.com.ng/flash-fiction/voteall.php?id=478

After Opening the page for voting, Vote by clicking on the "BLUE BACKGROUND LINK WITH FIGURE OF VOTES RECEIVED AND THUMB ICON" beside or below the text "Nigeria". You would need to be signed in on Facebook for the vote to count.
You can confirm your vote by seeing the increase in the number of likes/votes on the page for voting.
if not increased, please kindly click again.

Many Thanks.

Would you like to exchange votes?

puresaint12:
I didnt just want to tell a story, I wanted to address an issue in the country,an issue that anytime it Is on the news,I get vexacious. and I came up with this.

HUNTED

If only he knew, he would have stayed back in Lagos
"wake up,it's time" he shook her gently. Imaobong turned,rubbing her eyes.she clenched her teeth in pain as he helped her to her feet.flies buzzed around her, a deep cut on her fore-arm.The room was dimly lit by a kerosene lamp which caste long moving shadows on the walls as Ekong and Imaobong tip-toed to the back-door carefully avoiding contact with the four other sleeping bodies on the cold cemented floor.
The door slowly creaked open as Ekong picked the lock. He gave her a short stare, a dry smile on his face, his blood-shot eyes full of hope.He just turned fourteen. His eyes were badly swollen, prophet Eket incessant tortures took their toll on his body.He has been in captivity with other children for practicing witchcraft,including his love,thirteen-year-old Imaobong. They were to be executed at dawn. The cry of nine-year-old Uduak as he was beheaded still tormented him.
"what are you people doing?" came a faint voice from behind.They turned sharply to see who it was. Edidong managed to stand to his feet
"where are you two going" he asked with a confused look. Ekong and Imaobong exchanged furtive glances.
The moon shone brightly in the cloudless sky as the trio made their way stealthily to the low three-row bamboo fence,the only separation from the huge forest staring malevolently at them. Ekong helped Imaobong climb over,Edidong following suit. In no time, they were over the fence. With Ekong urging them to stay together always,they broke into a run- a run for their lives,a hunted life. But they were never going to die like the others.

If you feel for this Kids that are killed almost everyday, pls vote 4 me. Click on d link below,wen it opens, click on blue like button, under d country icon.u'l b required to proceed wif ur Facebook details befor ur vote is authenticated.God bless you
http://prize.etisalat.com.ng/flash-fiction/voteall.php?id=2569

Would you like to exchange votes?

reyaknight:
I see people posting the story itself, so let me do so:
Do read through and vote if you liked it
http://prize.etisalat.com.ng//flash-fiction/voteall.php?id=1446


HER

I hate her.
I hate her so much. The kind of hate that leeches all semblance of contentment in life. Just from looking at her.
My hand tightens on the mug I am holding. I’d come downstairs for a cup of tea, and returning the empty mug had me passing by an open door.
She’s standing there. Watching me. Glaring at me.
How dare she.
I loathe everything about her. Her eyes see too much yet not enough. Her mouth spouts lies and hurt and nonsense. Her hands break all they touch and her feet crush all they step upon. She is stupid but acts all-knowing. She is incompetent in all things, but demands she does everything. Nothing about her is endearing. She spins lies around herself like a dress of cobwebs, pulling others into believing the too-perfect picture she paints.
I know otherwise. I see beyond her mask to her true colours.
And she is still glaring at me. I shift my position, wanting to do something but not knowing what. From beyond the door, she echoes my movements, readying for a battle that may or may not come. Her face sets in an angry scowl.
She hates me too.
Something in me breaks. She’s not allowed to hate me.
With a scream, I throw my mug at her.
The last thing I see is my reflection flinging the mug my way.
The mirror shatters.

Would you like to exchange votes?

cutebebe:
https://prize.etisalat.com.ng/flash-fiction/voteall.php?id=2141

check this out and kindly vote for me. Thank you.


I looked up and saw Fola peering through his apartment window. His face was frigid like the weather that heralded imminent showers. That look meant one thing…
“Honey!” I said as I entered. He moved back snappily, like the touch-me-not, ‘Mimosa pudica’ plant.
“I thought I’d made it clear that you stop messing around,” he fumed.
“Fola...” I started. He moved closer and in one clean sweep, I found myself in a nosedive. Like a rehearsed choreography, he gracefully grabbed my hair and ungracefully came at me with fist and feet. I felt excruciating pain, like the woman in labor. But unlike her, I had no bundle of joy to look forward to.
I should have turned down Bayo’s friendly gesture of a lift. There’s always friction in love without trust… trust me, this saying isn’t fiction.
Earth-soiled feet, drenched clothes and clattering teeth were far warmer solace than this form of welcome. Was this even a welcome?
For the next few minutes, silence saturated the atmosphere, but was short-lived; sounds of rainfall slowly washed away the stillness, paving way for Fola to speak.
“Any plausible excuses?” Fola sneered.
I curled up on the ground like a millipede, defenseless verbally and otherwise. I tried to get on my feet, only to realize I had sustained a fractured limb. Fola saw this, he realized he had gone overboard. Face-pale, he approached with all subtlety. With every cell in his body vibrating, he knelt before me and plead my forgiveness. In his eyes was unmistakable repentance. I touched his face, he rested it in my palms.
I had but one option however…..
He had beaten all the affections out of me, save for one thing – common sense.
I struggled to my feet and limped away… never to come back!

https://prize.etisalat.com.ng/flash-fiction/voteall.php?id=2141

Would you like to exchange votes?

Ashtonmcqueen:
Competition is really tough... Please check mine out and i promise you its worthwhile reading if not voting...
"Project sparkles "


https://prize.etisalat.com.ng/flash-fiction/voteall.php?id=2797

Would you like to exchange votes?

HelenaG:
Iv voted for you #27. Pls vote mine by going to https://prize.etisalat.com.ng/flash-fiction/voteall.php?id=2454

Then clicking the ‘like’ button there under my name and country. You will be redirected to facebook You may need to attempt it more than once. Patiently wait for the no of likes to increase to be sure your vote counted.

I've voted for you #88 Thanks

I've voted for you #88 Thank you

Yes, HelenaG.

[https:///uc3ft49W2D] Hello people, My name is Ngozi John Isong. My flash fiction, SOMETHING NEW is up for votes in the etisalat flash fiction award! Please open the link and click on the like icon to vote for me! Thank you!


SOMETHING NEW

After Lanre died, Tola started laughing again. She was not used to hearing herself laugh. Jide made her happy, too happy. She knew how to be sad, not happy. So she let out her laugh in trickles when he said something funny. She sucked in her breath when he took her hand in his; the only hand-holding she knew was when Lanre held her wrist too tightly.
She did not like how her legs spread widely when Jide put his hand between her thighs or the soft moans which escaped her throat when he thrust into her. He would whisper, "ashawo" into her ears and smile. Jide smiled too much. Ade would say, "You smile as if this world is a joke to you."
Tola w

engeejeanie:
[https:///uc3ft49W2D] Hello people, My name is Ngozi John Isong. My flash fiction, SOMETHING NEW is up for votes in the etisalat flash fiction award! Please open the link and click on the like icon to vote for me! Thank you!
SOMETHING NEW
After Lanre died, Tola started laughing again. She was not used to hearing herself laugh. Jide made her happy, too happy. She knew how to be sad, not happy. So she let out her laugh in trickles when he said something funny. She sucked in her breath when he took her hand in his; the only hand-holding she knew was when Lanre held her wrist too tightly.
She did not like how her legs spread widely when Jide put his hand between her thighs or the soft moans which escaped her throat when he thrust into her. He would whisper, "ashawo" into her ears and smile. Jide smiled too much. Ade would say, "You smile as if this world is a joke to you."
Tola was not used to the careless way Jide walked-his heels brushing the floor as his legs flew far apart-or the way he mumbled something when she asked if he wanted garri or semo. Lanre never mumbled. He had a food roster.
So a year after Lanre died when Jide asked her to marry him, she shook her head, "it is too simple."

as not used to the careless way Jide walked-his heels brushing the floor as his legs flew far apart-or the way he mumbled something when she asked if he wanted garri or semo. Lanre never mumbled. He had a food roster.
So a year after Lanre died when Jide asked her to marry him, she shook her head, "it is too simple."

[https:///uc3ft49W2D] Hello people, My name is Ngozi John Isong. My flash fiction, SOMETHING NEW is up for votes in the etisalat flash fiction award! Please open the link and click on the like icon to vote for me! Thank you!



SOMETHING NEW

After Lanre died, Tola started laughing again. She was not used to hearing herself laugh. Jide made her happy, too happy. She knew how to be sad, not happy. So she let out her laugh in trickles when he said something funny. She sucked in her breath when he took her hand in his; the only hand-holding she knew was when Lanre held her wrist too tightly.
She did not like how her legs spread widely when Jide put his hand between her thighs or the soft moans which escaped her throat when he thrust into her. He would whisper, "ashawo" into her ears and smile. Jide smiled too much. Ade would say, "You smile as if this world is a joke to you."
Tola was not used to the careless way Jide walked-his heels brushing the floor as his legs flew far apart-or the way he mumbled something when she asked if he wanted garri or semo. Lanre never mumbled. He had a food roster.
So a year after Lanre died when Jide asked her to marry him, she shook her head, "it is too simple."

[https:///uc3ft49W2D] Hello people, My name is Ngozi John Isong. My flash fiction, SOMETHING NEW is up for votes in the etisalat flash fiction award! Please open the link and click on the like icon to vote for me! Thank you!


SOMETHING NEW

After Lanre died, Tola started laughing again. She was not used to hearing herself laugh. Jide made her happy, too happy. She knew how to be sad, not happy. So she let out her laugh in trickles when he said something funny. She sucked in her breath when he took her hand in his; the only hand-holding she knew was when Lanre held her wrist too tightly.
She did not like how her legs spread widely when Jide put his hand between her thighs or the soft moans which escaped her throat when he thrust into her. He would whisper, "ashawo" into her ears and smile. Jide smiled too much. Ade would say, "You smile as if this world is a joke to you."
Tola was not used to the careless way Jide walked-his heels brushing the floor as his legs flew far apart-or the way he mumbled something when she asked if he wanted garri or semo. Lanre never mumbled. He had a food roster.
So a year after Lanre died when Jide asked her to marry him, she shook her head, "it is too simple."