ikwere militant: ibos never hatd youba rather yoruba hated ibos simply becos of jelousy.a gud exanation is a savage yoruba proverb dat ws statd by a yoruba lady in ds forum dat of odas own no spoil your own no go gud. And dats exactly d praya of every yoruba to odas but unfortunatly ibos dy jump am pass dat explans d hatrd

bros. Abeg no vex o! But i'm very sorry to say dat 'u ar a big fool'
firstly, must u quote a whole story to prove ya point.
Secondly, don't remind Nigerians of their cultural differences.
Thirdly, i still love u as a brother.

@cindie.....why nt let me take kelvin's place.....atleast i'm real.


I love d manner of narration. Kudoz!

i (omotayo suleman) hereby dedicate this short narration of mine to my mum (Modupe Suleman)

Babatunde's eyes glowed with excitement as he blew the flames off the candles on his birthday cake, and the joy I felt was the only kind a mother would feel for a son she had gone through thick and thin to raise. My mind flashed back ten years in time when I conceived him and the circumstances surrounding his delivery and tears of gratitude flowed down my eyes unrestrained.
*******************************
The weather that faithful day had been scorching hot and an accident which occurred an hour before had ceased all automobile movement. The worse were the sounds of different automobile horns blaring impatiently and the smell of burning rubber as clutches and brakes were being stamped on with reckless abandon. I was seated on the side walk because the tarmac was emitting so much heat that easily infiltrated the little protection offered by my over worn rubber soled slippers and because all these conditions made life uncomfortable for both of us. God knows that so many times over the last few months I had almost given up hope but the thought of my husband was the only thing that kept me going.

My sweet smiling husband whose bushy mustache and horn rimmed glasses made him look funny and aristocratic at the same time. He who never let the worries of the world dampen his spirit, he who always had a word of encouragement for me whenever I was down, he who…………

My reverie was suddenly disrupted by the incessant demand for "pure water" by the occupants of one of the Luxury buses stuck in the traffic and when I tried to get up from the side walk to compete with the other hawkers I suddenly felt a sharp contraction in my stomach.

Hunched and squinting in pain, I began to count to twenty in the hopes that the pain would abate. But by the count of twenty, when the pain hadn’t abated I began to get worried. Furthermore I was already attracting unnecessary attention from the paranoid Nigerians, who were casting furtive glances my way in preparation to take flight at the first sign of presumed trouble.

I tried to show them that everything was fine by getting up but a stronger contraction hit me in ripples and my lower back began to slowly seize up. It was like the muscles inside were slowly twisting harder and harder and when I couldn't take it any longer, I crumbled to the floor screaming for help. But as expected my cries were ignored as my fellow hawkers took flight and the cars caught in the traffic began honking in panic and desperation.

As contractions after contractions riddled my body with excrutiating pain, I began to wonder if this was how it was going to end. I began to wonder that life wouldn't be fair if after all I had gone through to keep this pregnancy, I ended up losing it by the sidewalk for the whole world to see. And just when I began to succumb to the unavoidable feeling of hopelessness and despair, I felt hands probe me as a female voice shouted that my water had broken.

And so began the horrid task of searching for an hospital that would agree to admit me without asking for any financial form of commitment on my part. The doctor at the first hospital took one look at my contorted body and rejected me and so did the next two hospitals till I was finally admitted into the general hospital. By this time I was in so much pain that I was desperately wishing for deaths embrace.

Adekunle who had already been contacted, came as I was being wheeled in for delivery. He assured me that everything was going to be fine and that he would be here with me throughout.

God knows that those words were part of what gave me the energy I needed to survive the hell I went through.

The first sign that something was amiss came when the doctor said that the baby had its arm up over its head and they had to manually move it, before he then later realized that it was the umbilical cord that was wrapped around its neck. So after seven excruciating hours of painful pushing and having me in every position imaginable, it was soon discovered that my baby was now stuck in the birth canal and they therefore had to perform an emergency cesarean section.

Half an hour later, I was losing so much blood like a gutted pig, delirious and slowly slipping away that the doctor began to worry for my well being. I remembered howling at my husband in accusation, I remembered blaming him for my present predicament, I remember telling him that I was so sorry because I couldn't do it and I remembered the smile he gave me before he patiently reminded me of how we had lost two through miscarriages and how we had so wanted this child badly. I remembered him holding my hands and appealing to me to be strong. I remember the soothing words he offered me. I also remember that despite the pain, he almost made me laugh at the jokes he cracked and just before I slipped away, he kissed me on the forehead and promised me he would never let anything happen to me or our baby.

I woke up fourteen hours later to find Adekunle by my side and the first thing I asked for was my baby. He held my hand and told me that it was a boy and he was in an incubator. He also said that the baby was a miracle because upon delivery he was blue and hadn't been breathing till oxygen was given to him.

Adekunle told me that I gave them quite a scare when I lost consciousness and the doctor couldn't get a pulse from me for almost half an hour. He said that upon my revival he had to donate blood for me quickly because of the large amount I had lost.

I stayed in the hospital for two weeks because of mine and the baby's critical condition. I don't know how Adekunle managed to pay the fees because I knew things were very hard for him but he did and I'll forever remain grateful to him.
*******************************
Still trapped with the ghost of my past, Babatunde suddenly squeaked incoherently in joy, and I looked up to see that the reason for his joy was the entrance of Adekunle who had a package under his arm. Babatunde didn’t give him a chance as he was already all over him in excitement, gesturing if the package was his and my joy grew in threefolds because the two people I loved the most were here with me.

More tears streamed down my eyes as I watched Babatunde blunder around showing off to his peers the gift my twin brother Adekunle bought for him. It hurts so bad that he reminds me so much of his father who had died seven months prior to his birth and at the same time I am so happy that I at least have a part of him in our son. It was also the reason I named him "Babatunde" which in Yoruba means "Father returns".

Now that God has smiled on us and things have gotten better because from hawking sachet water in traffic, I now own shops, I made a promise to myself again that I would do everything within my power to raise him like every other normal child despite his limitations.

We first noticed something was wrong when at age three he could only manage to say a few words and couldn't make complete statements. Then he started school and couldn't keep up with his peers academically. After several visits to the doctor he was diagnosed of having Cerebral Hypoxic injuries as a result of the cut off of oxygen to his brain during delivery.

I was devastated, heartbroken and shattered by the news but I loved him all the more because he is special in his own way too. I see the beauty in him even if his brain has probably been damaged beyond repair and he reminds me so much of his late father who has so far kept his promise to watch over us. Above all he is my flesh, my sweat, my heart, my blood and my beloved child.



If you really enjoyed my write-up, you should go give ya mama a light kiss

A FICTION, WRITTEN BY 'YOURS TRULY' Omotayo Suleman a.k.a Fankasibe

"“When the lights went on and all I could see were the glaring faces of monsters and their embellished teeth, I knew that the devil had taken form in my lover’s body. I had too much to loose by screaming, so I was waiting, watching, trying to remember what was and what wasn’t.”"

It was the 12th of February 1974, it had rained heavily in the morning, leaving termites to fly all around the compound,when Ikemefuna came home, smelling like a stranger. He didn't go out with his Celica ,it had a little problem with the gear box. I had stayed awake after watching my favorite TV Show with my neighbor waiting for him so I wanted to be certain that if he was sleeping around he would have the decency to do it with a girl who could afford a Vera Wang wedding dress. Not like i bought mine with my money, but my elder sister's friend niece, used it during her wedding, 5 years ago. He smelled of a new soap; it was cheap. It wasn’t the Aloe Vera we used at home. So I let him enter the house as I made my way to the kitchen. That night I didn’t meet him, the devil smelled all over him so instead, I added too much salt to his meal, and he ate, while I faced the other side of the bed.

The next morning was a Saturday. As I made akara in the kitchen, ‘Funa scrubbed the living room and cleaned up his car. i didn't see the need of cleaning a car that he hasnt used for 4months, because before the end of the day, mama Ikenna's last son will inscribe 'IN NEED OF SERIOUS WATER; PLEASE WASH ME' .We hadn’t spoken since he came home last night. When all was done, I couldn’t bottle up my emotions. I was mad and it had to be now.

“You good for nothing pig” you come home at midnight, smelling like a LovePeddler you picked at the market bus-stop and you have not a word to utter from the same mouth you used to kiss her. Tell me. How was her makeup? Did she wear a red lipstick? Was it pink? Or nude? Or she couldn’t afford any. Tell me now Ikemefuna Okafor before the neighbors come out to separate us.”

“What in the name of the devil are you talking about?” He replied with a raised eyebrow. I already had my hand on his collar as he tried to calm me down. He went further to explain how he walked all day and on his way back, he stopped at the chemist at Okigwe Road to get me a valentine gift. He said he had been out picking a fragrance for me and that was why he smelled the way he did. He wanted to surprise me. He bought it for 4Naira. I was wowed. I knew better not to believe a man who came home late at night with a different smell, but ‘Funa had saved his money to get me this fragrance. He had to walk back home on foot. It was perfect. It was the most romantic thing he has ever done since he un-hooked my bra on our wedding night.

It was the morning. The sweetest aroma embraced the air; the birds chiming, syncing, and rhyming. The radio stations couldn’t stop saying it. The young boys on our streets already washed their clothes a day before, the bachelors cleaned up their cars and married woman smiled as they went to the market. The bucket I left outside caught lots of termite. I paid little attention to it for I thought about the day ahead. ‘Funa did nothing; he played slow sweet music of the legendary Michael Bolton. He kissed me as I woke up, his eyes piercing, discovering the loneliness in my eyes. It was the first time he has kissed me before I had brushed my teeth. I kissed him also, but it was quick, as I had to line up to fetch water from the public bore-hole. It was Valentine’s day. The 14th of February 1974. The last morning I saw ‘Funa. The last morning I kissed him. And it was a goodbye kiss on Valentine’s day. The morning before life goes on.



“He said : "Remember tonight, for it is the beginning of always. A promise, like a reward for persisting through life so long alone. Belief in each other and the possibility of eternal love. A decision to ignore simply rise above the pain in the past. A covenant, which at once binds two souls and yet severs prior ties. The celebration of the chance taken and the challenge that lies ahead. For two will always be stronger than one. Like a team braced against the tempest of the world. And love will always be the guiding forces in our lives. For tonight is mere formality. Only an announcement to the world of feelings long held. Promises made long ago in the sacred spaces in our hearts”



The road leading to town was busy. Buses parking in the middle of the road to pick customers, traders selling heart shaped teddy bears on the sidewalks.One could hear the sound of flies buzzing from the meat market as people bargained to get fare prices. It was the day I wore the red dress. It was his favorite dress; I had worn it the day we met. I wore it for him one more time to spark the magic. I knew I looked fantastic, no lipstick, just as he liked it, and his mother’s ring. Pretending we were Romeo and Juliet. But the one thing I wouldn’t be able to pretend about is our final fight. His fears of letting me go; the people can barely see the marks his fingers left on my neck; holding me, loving me.


"I feel like.......I'm moving in slow motion. Like I'm moving in slow motion and everything around me is moving so fast and I just want to go back....to when things were normal. When I wasn't the poor widow who murdered her husband. But I am; so I can't. And I'm Just stuck. And there's all this pressure cause everyone is hovering around me, waiting for me to do something or say something or flip out or yell or cry some more.....but i don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be this person. I don't know who this person is."
..........the story continues........ stay glue

I did some world building for this story, I put a lot of effort into it so I want anyone to let me know if it doesn't go down properly. Also with the names, if they feel familiar and you can identify them with a particular ethnic group, they are most likely from there.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Sorry, there are going to be lots of notes on this one! This is the chapter in which I introduce some of my characters and my villain. As I am yet to type out all my edits but do not wish to disappoint those who have been waiting for the story, here is a teaser.

*I changed the heroine's name
Nubak, date unknown, year unknown, harvest season.

Chamzo's mind was plagued with thoughts but she was convinced she had made the right decision as she crossed over the threshold and into the medicine shop. The sharp pungent smell of the various herbs, roots and barks that were held on strings dangling from the ceiling completely engulfed the small space. It was an odour Chamzo was used to, a small smile spread across her face as she neared the wooden counter at the far corner opposite the entrance. The woman behind the stretch of wood was wrinkled and bent with age but her hands moved quickly as she packed a couple dried leaves and herbs in bundles for tea. Olkani's eyes glistened as she saw Chamzo.

'Good day Ma Olkani.' Chamzo greeted her respectfully, the woman was old enough to be her grandmother

The woman smiled and reached out to clasp Chamzo's hands. 'My dear child, it has been a while.'

Olkani's quick eyes moved across Chamzo's face searching, they easily caught the darkened bruise the grew on the side of her face covering a large portion of Chamzo's left cheek. Under the heat of Olkani's stare Chamzo brought a hand to her face.

'I'm fine Ma.' Chamzo tried to explain too quickly. It was good that Olkani had noticed regardless, that was in part the reason Chamzo had decided to pay her a visit that day.

Olkani pursed her lips obviously displeased. 'Adayoh, that bastard.' she said referring to Chamzo's paternal uncle, the distant relative who was now Chamzo's adopted father. 'I'll have to pay a visit to him. No? Fine, I won't but I don't understand why you're still in his house.'

'About that...' Chamzo said wishing her determination showed in her voice. The truth was that she had tried to leave the house, to run away once before, that didn't end well but Chamzo couldn't say it out loud for fear of jinxing her current attempt. Perhaps Olkani knew that already.

'I came here to collect some medicine. I'm sure you'll have something for this.' Chamzo said referring to her bruise.

'You need more than just medicine Chamzo.' Olkani smiled benevolently. 'Some tea would do you well. I'll close the shop so we can talk.'

Olkani had disappeared before Chamzo had the chance to react however that did not disturb her. As thing were, everything was going along perfectly. Olkani reappeared seemingly from the stone wall and moved swiftly barring the wooden door to her shop and closing the windows that opened to the crowd in the marketplace outside. Chamzo sighed and followed Olkani through to the back of the shop where a staircase led to the second floor. The upper level served as a housing quarters for Olkani and her family with a room for entertaining guests. This was not the first time Olkani had offered Chamzo tea when she noticed her bruises, it was partly due to Olkani's kindness that Chamzo referred to the older woman as her mother. Chamzo hoped that Olkani's kindness would not disappoint her or turn her away this time.

'Wait here.' Olkani instructed when they reached the top of the flight. She walked ahead to a room on the far end of the cool darkened hallway and knocked on a door twice in sharp succession. Olkani then pressed her ear to the door and listened for a minute before nodding in satisfaction.

Chamzo found her actions strange but Olkani's actions barely registered in her consciousness for she carried a heavy weight within her. Olkani lived with her grandson and his family, perhaps she was trying to communicate with him. Chamzo busied herself, removing her dusty sandals and washing her feet in a washbasin that laid nearby, kept for that purpose. She used water from a clay pot that rested beside a shut door.

'Come along now.' Olkani said breaking Chamzo's thoughts. Chamzo followed her till they stood before a room sparsely decorated with the floor entirely covered with one large imported carpet and several feather stuffed cushions littered over it.

Chamzo comfortably stepped into the lounge, her feet sunk into the soft carpet and she moved to the farthest corner of the room to sit beside an open window that let in a delicate breeze and the cacophony of the market outside.

'That's it,' Olkani's encouraging voice came from the open door. 'Just sit down and relax while I make the tea.'

Chamzo didn't need Olkani's instructions. She let her piece of cloth she had used to cover her face slide off her head and cast her dark gaze to the stone houses and expansive mansions in a distance. Olkani had always been more of a mother to her than her adoptive one, Olkani was more that a stranger who showered Chamzo with kindness from time to time. If she wished Olkani would hear and help her now hard enough perhaps she would not be disappointed, Chamzo thought. Chamzo found herself aching for the woman who had birthed her. The woman who had defied her parents and her clan to marry the man she loved. Then again when Chamzo looked at her genealogy which she knew in her heart and constantly sang, women like her mother were numerous. The blood of those women coursed through Chamzo and yet she had never possessed any of their courage or boldness. At least she had thought she didn't until the preceding night. A shudder ran through her frame as she lifted the cloth that covered her raw hands. Olkani had not noticed them. Chamzo had previously wondered where the women in her maternal lineage had drawn their strength from and if the source had dried up. Now that she had felt a bit of the power, she was frightened not only for her life but for those around her. Chamzo was convinced that someone older and wiser, like Olkani, would be able to provide a guiding hand since her birth mother had died years ago.

Shaking her head, Chamzo tried to think of more happy subjects but they failed her. Had her birth mother known the kind of difficulties her children would face for her and her husband's headstrong actions? Then again, no one every predicted death. Chamzo moved to lean against the stone wall, she would never blame her misfortunes on her parents. It was impossible when all she remembered about them was love and happiness, the only period of joy in her life. Chamzo's hair had been set in two large cornrows, she had neither the time or the resources to afford a more intricate style most of the women wore. It was for the best as she constantly played with her hair when deep in thought.

Chamzo was taken aback when from the corner of her eyes she saw a lone shadow move along the corridor. Chamzo tensed as she knew instantly that the shadow did not belong to Olkani. It was a strange one that much she knew without question. Had she imagined it? Or was the imagined possibility that people were out for her head finally becoming a reality? Part of Chamzo felt foolish and unsure that she could tell so much from a passing shadow but it never hurt to be too careful especially considering her current circumstances. But she was sure, Olkani's grandson was board and thick as a tree. The shadow she had glimpsed was lean and sleek, like an assassin.
(......... chai!!!.....My laptop battery is down..... i will upload very soon)

the story has just began......

I could hear strains of the song “Viva La Vida” by Coldplay coming from somewhere. My phone was ringing. I had just gotten out of the office and was about to start heading towards the little restaurant Dipo and I had formed a ritual of having lunch at while interning this summer. I looked at the screen. It was him. I took a deep breath and answered.
“Daddy?”
“Kesena? Hello darling, how are you?”
Silence.
“I’m guessing you’ve heard something”
“You could say that.” I replied icily, while searching in my new handbag for my car keys.
“Well, listen, I can’t talk much right now, I just called to tell you not to talk to any journalists okay? In fact, don’t discuss the issue with anyone at all. Have you heard me? Thank God it’s almost the weekend, you can come home to Abuja and stay here for a bit till things calm down. I’ll call Jide and let him know you’ll be taking sometime off.”
Jide was Chief Adeyemi to the rest of us who weren’t golf buddies with him. He was a senior partner at the law firm I had been working at for most of the summer holidays.
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s gonna happen” I snapped.
“Pardon?”
“Are you with mum?”
“Yes, I-”
“Tell her I’ll call her later” I interrupted, and then hung up. On any ordinary day, that would not have happened. He would have had my head for daring to be so rude to him. But today was no ordinary day. I stared at my blackberry for about 10 seconds half-expecting him to ring back ready to give me a bollocking. But he didn’t. I hissed and shoved the phone into my blazer pocket and stormed towards my 3-series in the middle of the company parking lot.

There was not much traffic surprisingly for Lagos, and I arrived at the restaurant about ten minutes later. Upon walking in I spotted Dipo sitting in the corner by a window, but not by the window we usually sat at. I turned to look at our regular table and saw some semi-important looking businessmen, two in suits and one in an agbada. I rolled my eyes and began strolling over to Dipo who I noticed was not alone. When we were about six, Dipo was the noisy boy who’s mum was friends with mine. I didn’t think too much of him as I was very prissy and proper as a child and he was as obnoxious as little boys could get really. One day he forced me to race him round our compound. When I ended up beating him in the race he begged me not to tell anyone. I agreed and we’ve been best friends ever since. He was a lot taller than me now though even though I was 5”9. He was quite built too, while I was just skinny. Plus, while I had a “deep caramel” complexion according to some tactful makeup sales assistants Selfridges, Dipo was more like Lance Gross. These days, girls couldn’t get enough of him, as he was as good-looking and as charming twenty-two year old guys could get these days. Which, if you think about it, isn’t saying much.
I peered at Dipo’s table as I got closer and recognized the girl sitting next to him as Jadesola, Dipo’s breezy number umpteen who we’d known since secondary school. I wondered why he’d chosen today of all days to bring her along. Back in SS1, she came to school and announced that from then on everyone should call her “Jade” like the colour. I insisted on calling her what we’d always had, which was Desola, so it was safe to say she wasn’t particularly fond of me. It didn’t help that I was Dipo’s best friend either.

“K-pop!” Dipo stood up and gave me a kiss on the cheek. He never tired of calling me that ridiculous nickname.
“Hey hun” I replied and turned to the dainty, pretty girl beside him. “Desola love, how now?”
“I’m good, Kesena o. Haven’t seen you in a bit”
“I know!” I said and sat down, plonking my Alexander Wang bag down beside me. “It’s work, really”
Turning back to Dipo, I complained about not being in our usual spot. He shrugged and beckoned a waiter over to take our orders. Desola and I chit-chatted while we waited for our meals, Dipo was unusually quiet and spent most of the time fiddling with his iPad with a little frown on his face.
“Kesena” He suddenly blurted, just as I was about to dig in to my caesar salad.
“Yeah?”
“Um…. Abeg what do you know about this whole Delta State Redevelopment Fund thingie?” He tried to say casually, pointing at his iPad screen.
I froze.
(......... Battery Low...... stay glue)

........more to come, stay glue....

I am a prisoner of circumstance, a prisoner to life and I kept hoping that any moment he would open up the door to allow me my freedom. Escape isn’t an option and even if by some freaky stroke of fate I see a way out, I still wouldn’t be able to save myself for I am too weak to fight. I feel so cheated, deprived and unloved, I feel like a thief, a robber of happiness that has stolen from my parents again and again or so I have been accused. I can hear the rustling of the leaves outside as the cool evening breeze caressed it and the echoes of the other kids call as they fell into the rhythm of our nightly games and disturbing memories threatened my sanity. With nothing to do other than to stare hopelessly at the thatched roof of a room I soon began to associate with as my prison, memories of the good times flashed by in quick succession like it was but a blur in the distance only to be replaced by memories of the mental and psychological abuse suffered, tortures and cruelty meted on me and the very fibre of my existence shook as I wailed in torment, like a broken soul.

Tonight I must lead the village of Nsukwu to where I have hidden it, for my crimes and the suffering of my parents must end. Desperately I listen to hear of my missionary teacher’s return, the “Onye ocha”, the only person that stood by me even when my family and village forsook me. But he was a tardy too late because I can now hear the sound of approaching feet and whispers as the time for my reckoning arrived. And my broken soul yearned for solace as I saw the inevitability and hopelessness of my situation.

I still remember the day it all started with so much clarity and intensity that it brought tears to my inner eyes. It was in the rainy season of the year after the missionary had come into our village, Nna had come home angry after he had consulted with the oracles about my constant illness. It was revealed to him that I was an “Ogbanje”, an evil spirit who has been bringing pain to them by tormenting and dragging them through the rigorous rituals of childbirth, only to leave them shattered and heart broken by dying. The oracle claimed that my mission was to rob them of all their happiness by dying, watching them mourn and then coming back when the scars have almost healed to give them hope only to shatter it again.

Is it my fault that three others of the same gender and likeness have died before me? Is it my fault that we all were afflicted by the same mysterious illness that eventually took their life and would eventually claim mine? Was it my fault that I was never as strong as my peers and even now lay sick and weak on my bed? All these I asked myself as I was being carried away to the dibia’s shrine where I would hence forth remain till I revealed the whereabouts of my “Iyi-Uwa”, or the rites of “Ibe-Ugwu” would be performed on me because it was sometimes thought to get rid of the “Ogbanje” too.

All this accusations I could have lived with if my sweet and loving Nne hadn’t shied away from my touch when I cried out and tried to reach for her as they carried me away. That singular action from her brought down all the bitter tears I had struggled to hold back because I could accept Nna deserting me to the verdicts of the gods but not Nne. That sweet loving woman who stayed up and sang to me in my worst nights, Nne that cried with me when the pains of my illness had become nearly unbearable for me, the same Nne who carried and bathed me when the rigors of my illness had ravaged my body had looked the other way like I was an “Osu” and that singular act of betrayal burnt so deep in my innocent soul that it left it forever scarred.

I could understand my Nna and Nne trying to find answers to their problems, but why blame me an innocent child for a misfortune that was not just theirs but also mine? Aren’t they emphatic to my plight? Don’t they know that I go through the most heinous of pains and suffering during my bouts with this mysterious illness? Or do they think I would want to put myself through that kind of pain and suffering just to make them suffer? Where is the sense in that? The gods should answer me please. Are the gods really watching over us? Are they seeing my predicaments? Is their no justice in this cold world? Are the gods responsible for this? Or are the gods laughing at me now as they break “Oji” over my sufferings? All these I bitterly asked myself as they battered me with incantations and forcefully made me drink different herbal concoctions just to reveal where my “Iyi-Uwa” was buried.

I was told an “Iyi-Uwa” was an object that bound my spirit to this world and caused me to return to my Nne after I have died. The dibia also revealed that the oracle has shown him that my “Iyi-Uwa” was a piece of coloured stone and I must show them where I have hidden it, so that they can destroy it and thereby put my evil spirit to rest. So I was faced with either showing them my “Iyu-Uwa” or face the excruciating pains of the “Ibe-Ugwu” rites [circumcision].

I am merely a blossoming fourteen year old girl who had dreams of becoming a teacher in the missionary school someday, but I have already experienced eight years worth of pain and suffering. At one fell swoop I had lost the affection of both my parents and my friends to the verdict of the gods and nobody in the village cared less. Even my childhood friend Iheoma abandoned me to my fate, but still the memories of Iheoma and times we spent which now felt like a figment of my imagination almost brought a smile to my face. Iheoma and her penchant for mischief, Iheoma and that twinkle in her eyes when she was up to no good, The fun we had together on the days my illness loosened its grip on me, the times we spent in the forest day dreaming when we were supposed to be at the stream, the days we helped Nne fry garri, our quarrels and our love. All those cherishable memories marred by the injustice meted on me.

Flow no vex me oo...... Na wen u wan complete d towi na?