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Jerry sat in the darkness behind the lit-up stage and surveyed the audience. It was mostly made up of young boys and girls. Just the right age, he thought, letting his thoughts drift. The coordinator of the programme was standing in the stage’s limelight, microphone in hand, trying to get the evening’s show afoot; the audience suddenly laughed, and Jerry guessed the man had made a joke. He looked away. He had once known a young boy like these ones here, looking at the coordinator with such happy and expectant faces. A young boy full of life and promise, newly discovering the joy and beauty of maturity. But the beautiful symphony of the young boy’s life had broken up abruptly, fragmenting into disengaged, jagged pieces…

The audience laughed again.

Jerry shook his head and sighed. There was a paper-flyer on the ground next to his feet – one of those distributed to advertise the evening’s programme – bold, screaming words that said something or the other about HIV/AIDS being real and having no cure. Jerry thought of the first time he’d heard of the deadly disease; that was some sixteen years ago. Thinking of this made him think again of the young boy he’d once known – the boy whose life symphony had broken up.

It was one dreary April afternoon many years ago when the young boy walked into a clinic, looking nervous, and asked to see the doctor. The receptionist – a poker-faced elderly female – took a long look at him and asked what he wanted the doctor for.
“I want to do a blood test,” the boy replied.
Ignoring his initial request, the receptionist directed him to a room where a nurse took down his name, sex, age, and all other whatnots. Obediently, the boy complied, supplying all the requested information. Then the nurse took a sample of his blood and told him to come back after two days – oh, and don’t forget to deposit two hundred naira with the receptionist.
The boy did as told and went away, his nervousness barely dispelled. Two days later, he came back. There, in a harshly lit room with peeling yellow paint and scary pictures of emaciated people – more like skeletons than like living human beings – the young boy received the bomb-shell that shattered his life. He was HIV positive.

Abruptly, the stage went dark. The coordinator swore softly, and screamed at the technicians to do their jobs. Jerry scratched his head, and slowly slid back into his reverie…
The test result had been printed on an A4 paper. Hands shaking, the young boy read it again and again and again. Finally, he looked up with a strained look on his face. “Nurse, what is this?”
The nurse was visibly uncomfortable. “I’m – I’m sorry…”
“Sorry? I said, what is this?”
The nurse sighed. “I’m afraid you are HIV positive; you tested positive to the AIDS-causing virus. I’m sorry about that.” And she got up somewhat stiffly and left the room.
And that was it. He was HIV positive, and there was nothing she could about it – so, goodbye and have a good death! What about his life? His ambitions? His future? For God’s sake, he was only eighteen! I’m afraid you are HIV positive…

What was he going to tell his parents? His friends? His relatives? His teachers? What would he say when they find out? And for that matter, how did he manage to contract the virus? Ah, but he already knew the answer to that one. A wrenching sensation seized his entire body as he remembered nights of burning passion. Biting back a painful cry, the young boy bowed his head, and felt his world – his entire world – go down in ashes.

An hour later, the young boy shuffled out of the clinic, ashen-faced. On his way out, he thought he overheard the poker-faced receptionist muttering about “irresponsible” boys – and the boy felt his heart constrict. That remark was a killing blow that marked the last note on his broken symphony.


*


As abruptly as it’d gone dark, the stage lit-up again; the audience cheered, and the coordinator threw in his two cent’s worth. Sitting in the darkness, Jerry ignored them – just thinking, thinking…
Shattered and devastated, the young boy went home. After three harrowing, horrible days and nights, he made a critical decision: He decided to tell his parents.
The young boy was lucky.
His parents were also devastated by the news. But being educated and enlightened, they eventually got over the shock, and diligently went to the task of helping their traumatized son. With the aid of caring friends, relatives, and a teacher who had a talent for seeing the silver lining behind every dark cloud, the young boy began to find joy in life again.
But it wasn’t easy; it wasn’t easy at all.

Time may not heal, but it mends.

Years passed, things changed, and the young boy became a young man who was now sitting in the darkness behind a lit-up stage. Jerry sighed and shook his head again, trying to push the thoughts away, but they wouldn’t go.
The audience of young boys and girls began to clap; it seemed the coordinator had made a pronouncement, because he was now looking earnestly at Jerry, making hand signs at him to come up the stage, that it was time. Taking a deep breath, Jerry got up and walked into the stage’s limelight. The clapping intensified a little, and then faded out as the audience readied itself for the evening’s programme. Such young faces – such young, young faces!

Jerry smiled, tapped the microphone slightly, and spoke into it: “I have a story to tell you.” He paused. “My name is Jerry Uzoma Obiezina, I am thirty-four years old, and I have AIDS.”
The audience went deathly still.

The Evening Programme had begun.

Specially to all the people who make the literature section of nairaland breathe , I say: THANK YOU.

- To you, Orinkila:you are the "don" of nairaland-literature. God knows without you, it wouldn't have worked. Unfortunately, you have decided to take French leave. Hope to have you back soon!

- To Biife, Beneli and Ndipe: you guys really stuck with Literature-nairaland during the "dry" times when folks rarely came here. It amazes me then to observe that you have been missing in action now that the population is growing. I'm sure others enjoyed your posts as much as I did. please, come back!

- To Dexymine and Snazzyblue: Alright, you folks are hard at work making this Section tick, and you sure write well too. But don't do the disappearing act on me next week. Two thumbs up, Dexy!

And you others, I'm sorry I can't mention everyone. But i know y'all know yourselves - both the writing, the reading, and the commenting folks, THANKS FOR BEING THERE!!

U can try Farafina books (www.kachifo.com). There is also Book Worm, but i dnt know their address. Good luck.

I think u should work on your story line, you know, give it more life, more substance. Don't elaborate too much on the conversations and chit-chat, it makes people get bored. Oh, and try to edit your work more; there were some unnecessary typo mistakes there. Well done all the same.

@Nwadinma: Alright, i'm not Orinkila, but i can give you some tips:

You can start by creating a blogsite where you post your write-ups, then you get people to visit it. They are free and easy to create. You can try .com; they allow you to run a site free there.

You can also enter your works for some these literary prize awards. Check these: http://www.caineprize.com/rules.htm; http://www.commonwealthfoundation.com/culturediversity/shortstory/
If orinkila were here, i'm sure he could've told you more about them.

Then of course you can also post some of your work at nairaland here; at least you gain publicity

I'm directing this question @ Orinkila but if anyone else knows better, please don't hesitate to reply and help me out.

Now, Orinkila, u were talking about the Caine Prize in a post i saw some days ago. I'm interested. I have lots of short stories which some people have to told me are pretty good, but i don't know to enter for this Caine prize thing; can you tell me how?

I posted some the short stories at a blogsite site i run: www.khayskorner..com. You can read them and tell me what u think.

@ oldie: Farafina is at www.kachifo.com

@orinkila: How does one enter for the Caine Prize, cos i have lots of short stories over here.

Not bad. You could do better though.

Ibime. i would tell you want I think when i've read the book.

Couple of weeks ago, Nonosexie started a thread where people can post their blog sites, and get noticed. Thing is, nobody else posted a thing! Does it mean Nairalanders don't blog? C'mon! Anyway, I decided to revive it and see what'll happen, And this time, folks PLEASE reply.

Here's mine: k..com.
And here's Nonosexie's: atheora..com
So, who's next?

kezenwaka..com

@ beneli: Thanks!

@nonosexie: No problemo, i'll lechta'll know 'soon as I start.

@Orinkila: Where's my reply

@beneli: No, its just a short story i wrote. But there's a series i'm curently running here in Nairaland called "OBODODIKE Series" (its under literature); i'm sure u've seen it. It s the first part of a novel i wrote.

@nonosexie: Who am I? I'm just a Nigerian. Send me an SMS if you want. And thanks for the interest.

Good 'un. I used to have the same experience too with yam and vegetable - in fact every thing with green vegetable. Darn things used to get stuck in throat, no kidding. in end, my mum started preparing separate meals for me whenever we had those things.

Hi all! Just arranged a little short story; thought you folks might like it. Tell me what you think.

Hanging Out

“The accused should approach the witness-box!”
Deedee stood up and walked morosely to the witness-box, the orderly keeping step behind him like a shadow. Briskly, the court-clerk walked up to him.
“Are you a Christian, Moslem, or pagan?”
“Christian.” The reply was slurred.
“Then place your right hand this bible and repeat after me.”
Deedee did as instructed, the handcuff links dragging his left hand along. Not that he cared though; nothing mattered to him anymore.
“I do swear that the evidence I shall give in this court shall be the truth, and nothing but the truth.”
Deedee repeated as told, and the clerk walked briskly away again.
“The prosecuting counsel may proceed!” a solemn voice pronounced, and someone along the rows of desks in front of the courtroom stood up. It was a man – a giant of a man – big, fat, ugly – everything about him shrieked, “Don’t mess with me!”
It was the Prosecutor.
“Thank you, my lord,” he growled, and lumbered out of his seat. Then he moved towards the witness box like a bear attacking its prey. He got to it, clamped a meaty palm on the wooden surface, and fixed Deedee with a laser-eyed glare.
“Young man, please tell this honorable court your name.”
A hush fell on the courtroom.
Slowly, Deedee replied, “My name is David Damilola Briggs.”
“Thank you,” said the Prosecutor. Then he flicked his hands into his jacket pocket and brought out a photograph. “Tell me, Mr. David Briggs,” he continued, sliding up the picture to rest right in front of Deedee. “Do you recognize this person?”
The picture was of a fair-skinned male who looked about Deedee’s age – seventeen plus.
Deedee glanced at the picture and quickly looked away, quelling his riotous emotions – emotions he’d kept bottled up for over six weeks.
The Prosecutor passed another copy of the photograph up to the judge, then he fairly turned and screamed at Deedee: “Mr. Briggs, do you recognize that person?”[/i]The defense counsel jumped to his feet.[i] “Objection, my lord!”
“Objection overruled,” said the judge in a voice hewn out Iroko – calm, passive, serene. “Answer the question, Mr. Briggs.”
A muscle twitched in Deedee’s forehead. Slowly, he nodded. Once.
“Please, reply ‘yes’ or ‘no’,” the Prosecutor advised.
Deedee remained silent, his face a mask of stone.
“Mr. David Briggs, what is the name of the person in that picture?”
The muscle twitched again, and Deedee replied, “Taye.”
The Prosecutor took away his picture and turned to face the judge. “The accused recognizes the deceased, Mr. Taye Adeniji.”
A wave of murmurs rippled through the courtroom while the defense counsel fidgeted on his seat. But the murmurs died abruptly when the Prosecutor suddenly rounded on Deedee again, bearing down like the Spanish Armada until his face was mere inches away – nose to nose, eyeball to eyeball.
“Mr. David Briggs, tell this honorable court what happened on the night of 7th August, 2005.”
Deedee began to breathe hard, the muscle in his forehead twitched uncontrollably, and his heart felt like it was bursting. Yet, he said nothing.
The Prosecutor straightened up and sighed. “Mr. Briggs, please tell this court what happened on…”
But Deedee wasn’t hearing him anymore. His mind was somewhere else, reeling back to a night so far away – a rain-soaked night filled with passion, pain and regret. The night Taye was shot.
Oh blessed Hindsight, it wasn’t supposed to end like that – it wasn’t supposed to end like that at all…

* * * *

It was 7.30pm.
The heaven had emptied itself, washing away the heat of the day and leaving the night air cool and refreshed – the muddy streets not withstanding.
“Deedee!” a feminine voice echoed from the sitting room, and Deedee sighed inwardly. Mothers! “Yes, mum,” he replied nonchalantly and tossed a black beret at Taye – who was smiling mischievously at his discomfiture. Mothers could be a drag, Deedee thought, and smiled back.
Taye was his best friend.
The two of them were dressed in black – black trainers, black RocaWear trousers, black Levi’s T-shirts – the beret simply completed the dress code.
“Let’s go,” Deedee said when he was satisfied with his friend’s outfit. They paused long enough at the kitchen for Deedee to collect two long kitchen-knives. “Just in case something happens,” he said, tucking one of the knives into his pocket, and urging his friend to do the same.
His mum waylaid them on their way out.
“Where are you two going, Deedee?” Mrs. Briggs asked from the sitting room, looking up briefly from a huge book opened in front of her.
“Oh, nowhere,” Deedee replied. “Just hanging out.” He knew his mother was just asking out of habit. His father was dead, and his mum was often very busy.
“Alright,” she said, her eyes going back to the book. “But it’s getting dark, so don’t stay out too long.”
“Sure, mum,” Deedee threw over his shoulder, dragging Taye away.
“And be careful!” Mrs. Briggs called after them.
It had begun to drizzle when Taye and Deedee stepped out into the night.
They were going to Taye’s initiation into the cult.

They met Bode at a prearranged rendezvous, and the three of them set off for the cult’s meeting place. Bode was about two years older than the two of them. It was he that introduced Deedee to the ; now he was bringing in Taye.
Deedee glanced at his friend, and the fair-skinned boy smiled bravely. Deedee nodded back and looked away; he was beginning to have second thoughts. In the , your rank rose depending on how many years you’ve been a member, how many “assignments” you’d undertaken, and how many people you bring in. The first person on Deedee’s mind when he’d learnt of this was his best friend, Taye.
Deedee had met Taye in primary school. They’d both been the smallest in their class then. An incident with a bully had brought the two of them together, and they’d become inseparable ever since.
Now, he wasn’t so sure. If anything should happen to Taye – anything at all – he’d never forgive himself.
Eventually, they got to the initiation ground; it was the city cemetery. The “new” boys – Taye and two others – were called out and knelt down. Then the cult’s “Chief-O”, a huge fellow who’d fit the post of Macho Man, came out and yelled at them for the better part of twenty minutes. Then, the ceremony really began.
By this time, the drizzle had dwindled to a stop.
The new boys were harried, hustled around, and driven to the edge of exhaustion. A whip was produced, and the eldest members of the gang took turns thrashing the life out of the initiates. But through it all, Taye never balked. Even when he was asked to do fifteen extra push-ups than his fellows did, he just prostrated and pumped it out.
Deedee was proud of his friend.
And so, everything went the way it was supposed to. That is, until a rival gang showed up; then things took an ugly turn.
Deedee would never be exactly sure how it happened. At first, it seemed the leader of the rival gang and the Chief-O were having a little chat; then their voices began to rise. The next thing he knew, a free-for-all fight had broken out. Deedee was shoved to ground. Someone with a chest the size of a wall was about to fall upon him. In a flash, Deedee pulled out the kitchen knife and plunged it into the thigh of the big guy, struggling out before the big body could fall on him.
The initiation ceremony had turned into a mêlée.
Then, faintly, Deedee heard someone scream his name. He whirled around, eyes searching, but all the faces had blurred into one.
“Deedee, look-out! Deedee!!”
Someone crashed in him – it was Taye! – knocking him savagely to the ground. Simultaneously, a gunshot rang out. Deedee blacked out.


It’d begun to drizzle again when Deedee regained consciousness. Taye and Bode were some distance away from him – the former lying prone on the ground, and Bode bent over him, saying over and over, “Taye say something. Taye say something…”
The initiation ground was empty.
His brain sounded an alarm, and Deedee scrambled up, looking closely at his friend. Taye’s clothes were blood-soaked, a big gunshot wound gaped in his chest, and a pool of blood had accumulated around him.
Taye had pushed him down and taken the bullet.
Bode continued to croon: “Taye say something…”
Deedee felt his skin crawling. Slowly, the horror caught up with him, and he sat down heavily. Then, his mind closed up, shutting out the anger, shutting out the pain – especially the pain. Even when the police sirens began to blare – and Bode recovered enough of his wits to run away – and the cops came around and dragged him up and cuffed-up his hands – Deedee just followed like a zombie. His mind had shut out all external stimuli.


* * *

“Mr. David Briggs, are you hearing me at all?” the Prosecutor bellowed.
“Objection, my lord!”
At that moment, something cracked inside Deedee’s mind. Bowing his head, he began to cry – heart-wrenching sobs of anguish and intense grief. Sorrowfully, Deedee cried his heart out.
At last, the judge coughed perfunctorily and looked at Deedee. “Mr. David Briggs, you are delaying this court’s proceedings. Could you please answer the question?”
Deedee sniffed and tried to answer the Prosecutor’s question, but the tears started welling out again. Bravely, he wiped them away, sniffed and tried again. “We – we were hanging out…”


The End

@ Orinkila:
Hi. You seem to know much about e-writing and stuff. Could you tell some sites where i can post my short stories and poems (blogs, i mean). Please i don't have money-o, so just send me the free ones. I want people to start reading my works, too!
(By the way, i've taken your advice to post some parts of my novel "OBODODIKE: land of the Brave" on Nairaland. Its on a thread i calling "Obododike Series".)