₦airaland Forum

https://penastory.com/2016/12/12/the-chain-series-obsessions/

My obsession comes from within, as chains holding me down to her. We made a promise to each other that as long as we never attached our feelings to it, we would be okay.

“But, I have come to love you,” he told her that night. She looked at him with pity in her eyes and he knew he had made a mistake.


They touched, rubbed hands; sweaty and dry hands that went slick on each other. They slept so close to each other that they could feel each other’s body parts. He loved it; to touch and feel between her thighs, to disturb the other and hear her beg or see her run away but come back later. She loved it. She’d go through his phone like she was looking for his malpractices and tease him about other girls. He still wondered how if she did all that, she’d not want him to love her. Wave to him and ask him, “How are you?” even when she saw him and knew how he was. He usually replies, “I am how you are.”

She was beautiful and he saw through her. Tickling his underarm but he never laughed. It was she that made him smile and her futile attempt at it, gentle in body but resilient in spirit. To zip down her dress, as they undressed each other, fight for their reflection in the mirror when they wear their clothes back. He’ll deflate her ego and show her that he yet needed her. To feel sensations her hands wrecked on him. To feel pain from firm hands on flesh and become lost as she sensually bit his lip. As they fought to retrieve his pervert nail and she climbed on him.
To stroll out in drizzling rains and steal beauty from it and the come back to sleep on their sides, their faces facing each other with their lips joined. Slowly nibbling on her lip like it’ll take the whole of time to have his fill of the feeling it gave him. Sleeping on their hearts with their hands intertwined. To wake up alone, and desperately search for her.

He was dreaming. I am obsessed. Is it love or an obsession? These chains of love and obsession bind me to her no matter how. He was dreaming. I am obsessed. Is it love or an obsession? These chains of love and obsession bind him to her no matter how he tries to run away.

He ran after her, turning her face sharply to his and he asked one last time, “Do you want to tell me that you did all that for me and did not harbour any feeling for me?”

He saw that she was crying, and it hurt him that he was the reason for that but he had to pour out his frustrations, it seemed like she had no heart. She just kept crying and mumbling something he could not hear, but he was not listening. All he wanted was to hear that she loved him back. It was then she screamed at him. Shouting at him that she was pregnant, telling him not that she didn’t love him but that she didn’t know how to tell him.

“Is it mine?” he asked her. This time he heard her the first time she said it and it felt like his heart stopped working.

“It is not yours,” she said.

He turned his back and began the long trek back home, his head bent low as she stood on the road looking at him with tears running down her face.

It was a whisper, from her crying heart. “I love you, I’m sorry.”

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/12/12/diary-of-a-playboy/

“Shalewa? Check. Ngozi? Check. Sharon? Check, check. Bidemi? Tolu D…”

“Chuks!!! You get time oooo, so na all these girls you want go dey ‘check’ for hostel ni?” (Chuks begins to laugh uncontrollably)

“Segun! When you wan sharp like dis? Who has time to be checking on babes? This list here contains the names of all the girls I have ‘chopped’ and the ones I’m about to.”

I stood there staring blankly at him, short of words and filled with so much contempt. How could he find breaking someone else’s heart right? I thought that was like the hardest thing in this world to do, but he does it so casually. For a second, I began to wonder how he had so much gut to look into the eyes of someone he once lied to that she meant so much and simply rip her heart out despite her surrendering it, her body and even sometimes money. That day I concluded that doing such is something only a special breed of humans can do.

I really don’t know why but as soon as I started walking out of Chuks’ room, I happened to ask myself a weird question. “Segun, don’t you think it’s high time you became that special breed of human too?” Hell no!!!! I screamed out loudly not minding the fact that I was in public. Yes, I know that for a while now, I have always been the victim when it comes to love but suddenly switching from the ‘heartbroken’ to the ‘heartbreaker’ wasn’t going to solve anything or was it?

Now I am confused but come to think of it, why do these girls still fall for guys like Chuks at the detriment of guys like me? We offer true love, care, attention and one hundred percent sincerity yet they run after guys that care less about how they feel and derive joy in turning their hearts to a round leather ball. *deep sigh* They only remember us when they are a few months away from 30 and the pressure at home has multiplied. Can you imagine? They waste away their lives and our time when they are in their prime but expect us to accept them with open arms when they have become overipe Mtscheeew!!! You know they are actually being idiots because no matter how hard they try, the love is gone. No amount of begging, time or money could bring the love back. It’s all gone.

Right now as soon as I’m done writing this, I would be heading straight to Lekki where I intend to meet with a group of young men known as the ‘Heartbreakers’. Since my Church mind won’t let me become one, I have decided to solidly support financially and materially these men as my payback to all the girls who did same to me but then I remember I also have sisters.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/12/08/white-dress/

They danced with frantic movements. Everywhere looked confused, rough. Upturned tables and drunk guests. Even though some sat down, it still looked disorganised as the loud deafening sound of fuji music blasted through the speakers situated at specific corners. Even the tables were coloured white, the whole ceremony took on a white colour so it was a wonder why something that looked so serene and pure would be so scattered. There was no sign of the ushers or servers. If they were there, they had melted into the crowd as everyone was either drunk or engrossed in the merriment to notice anything.

The contorted face of the bride as she watched the crowd and looked at her husband to be was one of horror and puzzlement. He was drunk, she looked at him. He had filled himself with drink on the very day he had to be conscious of everything he would do. Did he not want to marry her? He had filled himself with drink so he will not remember this moment or he would only recollect it in a haze. Even the people only came to merry and were not interested in the undertones of tension that sweltered between the family of the bride and the groom. Each family sat apart like there was a visible division between them, a division of affluence and poverty. It was not surprising that the master of ceremony would only pay attention to the bride’s family who in turn showed their monetary capability to the detriment of the groom’s family who just sat on their segregated seats like defeated dogs.

He would not take it lightly with her he had decided. If she will disgrace his family because they were not rich like her family then he will get back at her in the only way he could; through the marriage ceremony. Her elder sister who had sponsored the marriage was the worst. She controlled everything even those who were to be given special treatment by the servers, neglecting his family. He had seen the scorn on her face when she looked at him that morning, like a smear of filth on her sisters white wedding dress. If only she would leave all of them for him. That’s what marriage is all about, isn’t it, either him or her family with their money?

The M.C had called the bride and groom to the dance floor. You could see them hold each other like two wrestlers locked in an embrace of battle. She turned her nose when she smelt his drunk breath. Telling him how he had gotten drunk again on a day supposed to be happiest day of her life. And how he replied with how she was oppressing his family, how they neglected them, pointing to his father who was sitting on a plastic chair, his head full of white hair bent low staring into space. His other relatives sat behind and watched with forlorn faces.

She had wanted to tell him after the whole ceremony, when they were alone together, away from the external world of her aunt and her oppressive tendencies. She could not say she had not noticed it but what could she do? Her aunt never supported their relationship. She could leave her aunt, he thought. She looked pretty even with her sad face, tears filled eyes and ruined make-up. Even in his drunken state he still knew he loved her. He asked her she would have to choose which side she wanted to stay on, her aunt’s or his? It would never work without clarifying that.

It was like they were alone now. They didn’t even dance to the music, rather they whispered into each other’s ears as they held themselves with as everyone watching them. It was no longer the grip of two people who wanted to get in a fight, it was the grip of two people who didn’t want to let go. Something had changed about them. She told him she was pregnant, she didn’t have a choice now did she, as she smiled at his astonished face. There was some glimmer of hope for them after all. Her dress looked whiter than before as he placed his hand on her stomach.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/12/07/i-will-burn-with-you/

“Go!” he screamed. I couldn’t see his face in the dark but the urgency in his voice was unmistakable.

I clung to him sobbing. “I don’t want to go without you. I will stay with you.”

“I will find you, I will join you in safety, I promise.” His voice is soft and soothing now, the urgency of the previous moment gone.

“We have to go now, they are getter closer,” the driver cries impatiently, his voice laced with fear and panic.

Chinedu untangled himself from my embrace and planted a kiss on my forehead and gently urged me into the open back of the already overfilled lorry. I stumble across bodies and my hand lost contact with his.

“I will find you Aisha, I promise…” the rest of his words are drowned out by the noise of the rickety lorry coughing to life as the driver turned the key in the ignition.

“I love you Chinedu,” I cry as the lorry begins to move, slowly picking up speed and taking me away from him. The wind whips my face mercilessly and my tears sting my eyes but I don’t care, I am more concerned with the fate of my lover who is about to face the wrath of Islamist extremists by himself.

How could I have known that the dreaded Boko Haram sect would decide to attack during Chinedu’s visit? Gidan Kwano had always been a serene town and there had never been any attack on Minna in the past before even though other states in the northern part of Nigeria had been victims of Boko Haram’s nefarious activities.

The lorry has gathered enough momentum now and is speeding across the long stretch of road, putting more and more distance between my lover and I. I allow myself to stare gloomily around me. It is barely dawn and the time must have been just a little around past five a.m. The scared faces of some other students from Federal University of Technology, Minna stared back at me. Like me, most of them are in varying degrees of UnCloth, there had been no time to pick clothing when the alarm that there was a Boko Haram invasion and it was getting close to where most of we students reside a little distance from the university.

Chinedu and I had been wrapped in each other’s arms when Bolanle, my next door neighbor rapped on the door vigorously and alerted us of the impending doom. I had wanted to pick some few things but the sounds of gunshots had Chinedu forcibly dragging me out of the apartment and we joined the others as we rushed to the bus stop looking for a quick means of transport to carry us to safety. We were fortunate when the lorry stopped but it was already filled with many others running for dear life and they were willing to take on just one more passenger. Chinedu didn’t think twice before he ordered I get on board the lorry.

I clung to him refusing to leave.

“Be a good girl now Aisha, this isn’t some Romeo and Julie type of love. I won’t die. I promise I would find safety and meet up with you. You have to be safe. If you don’t want to do this, do it for the baby,” he implored.

How could I leave him? He had come all the way from Lagos to be with me while I write my final examinations. We had had plans of going to Abuja to celebrate as soon as I wrote my final papers when I told him I was pregnant from his visit of two months ago. For two lovers who had to suffer the agony of a long distance relationship, every precious memory counted and even though I had tried to dissuade him from coming, he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“You are about to graduate now, it is time we told your parents about us and with the baby on the way plans for our marriage need to be made.”

Sitting in the lorry, I wish he had postponed that trip. Tears fall out of my eyes as it dawns on me Chinedu is unfamiliar with the terrains of Minna. His sojourn to the north has always been because of me having lived in Lagos all his life. During previous visits, he had always had me as a guide and without people after his life. How was he going to escape from the deadly sect?

“Stop the lorry, I need to get down,” I shout.

The scared faces turn to look at me in surprise but the driver doesn’t slow down. How could he when he there is the danger of bloodthirsty maniacs ambushing us should he stop the lorry?

“Please I need to go back, my fiancé is back there!” I scream but my words are carried away by the wind. Nobody pays any attention to me, they are mostly in shock or too scared for their own lives to care about a distraught girl crying for her lover.

The lorry suddenly veers off the road as a loud explosion rocks the ground. I gasp as a ball of fire and smoke light up the skies from the place where we had just left.

“Nedu!!!” I scream and pass out as another explosion goes off followed by gunshots. The second explosion is louder than the first and the driver who was still trying to get control of the rickety lorry from the first explosion steers sharply. The tired lorry tilts dangerously, throwing most of sideways. My head hits one of the bars of the lorry and the sharp pain in my head and the billowing smoke is all I remember as I pass out.

When I come to, mother is seated beside me and at first I feel disoriented as my gaze flickers around the room. Where am I? The sterile white wall of the room is confusing? The last thing I remember had been visions of billowing smoke, fire and sounds of gunshots? Was I dead? Is this paradise? Is mom an angel?

My feeble attempt to move must have alerted mom because she rushes from the chair and is beside me. “Thank Allah you are safe Aisha. We were so scared about you? The doctor said you suffered a concussion and you were in shock. You kept on repeating the name Chinedu. Is he a course mate of yours?”

The mention of Chinedu’s name brings back the horror and I jerk up.

“Chinedu! Where is Chinedu? Mom I have to find Chinedu, you have to find Chinedu…” my voice is frantic with worry.

Mom looks at me from underneath her veil anxiously but is spared from answering as a doctor walks in with dad in tow. Dad is a top Imam at the central mosque and he is so much of a disciplinarian that his mere entrance quietens me. One look at his stern face hidden in the mass of flowing beard and turban on his head and I can tell he is far from worried.

“You are pregnant Aisha? Abomination!” he yells at me with venom in his voice. He advances towards me menacingly but the doctor restrains him.

The shock on mom’s face must have mirrored mine because dad hisses malevolently and continues, “You don’t even know you are pregnant? How would you know when you have been whoring around on campus?”

“Chinedu is the father of my baby and he is dead. He gave his life to save mine.” My voice is quite and drained.

“Well I hope he burns in hell,” dad fires back at me with fire in his eyes as he takes another step towards me.

“I don’t want to go to paradise if he is going to hell, I would rather burn with him.” It is like my voice has suddenly developed its own freewill. How could my father be so callous? I stare at him defiantly.

“Doctor, if you would excuse us for a minute, I would like to talk to my daughter in private.” Dad says with calmness.

“Sir, I am afraid I cannot do that. Your daughter is still in shock and you are not in control of yourself right now.”

“Do you know who I am? I would have your job and get this hospital closed down if you do not step out now. Are you implying I would harm my daughter?”

The doctor seems to wither under dad’s voice and mumbling something about checking on other patients, he steps out of the room.

Dad moves closer and pushes mom aside impatiently, “You are disgrace and you do not deserve to be called my daughter. I don’t ever want to see you again, you decide to get pregnant and you get pregnant for some Christian boy? May your soul and his burn in the eternal flames of hell.”

“Let me die already so I may burn with him, he gave up his life for me and our baby. I don’t want to go to paradise if he is going to hell, I will burn with him with all pleasure and should the angels call me a fool for giving up my grace for him, I won’t look back because I would be comforted by his love.”

Dad gives me a hard look and taking his wife by the hand walks out of the room. That is the last I ever saw him and his wife. Looking at my little son now, a replica of his father, I know I made the right decision to burn with Nedu.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/12/07/lets-just-be-friends/

You remember when we talked all night? Time isn’t easy on us really. How can love just die? Life is so fragile, it’s like I could cry. I promised I would never tell you just how I felt, but what if this feeling still makes sense to you? To think that you were my everything, these memories now seem so old. Whatever it was I felt, it was deep and it was love. Love is such a silly thing, you know. You were mine just yesterday but now I have no idea who you’re. – Selena Gomez: Camouflage

Shade was the most enchanting lady I have ever known. We were just awesome together; people always said that about us. We were in love with each other without restraints. You know the kind of love you have no idea where your senses go? The kind of love that makes you want to constantly prove to her that she’s special? Oh well, that’s mine. Shade and I were cool. We had great plans together. She was always happy to have me around her. “You’re so moist and funny,” she’d tease. On my end, I would smile innocently wishing she said more. What the hell did she ever mean by ‘moist’? Being soft enough to be manipulated perhaps. She made me feel like a King until a shade of Shade I never knew came out of the blues. Shade started acting funny. She avoided calls, no replies, always resisted seeing me and all. Like a lamb to the slaughter, I kept at her. I kept caring and calling. To make matters worse, it all happened at a time distance wouldn’t let us commune eye to eye. She used to tell me that distance was never a barrier for those thoroughly persuaded of each other’s worth. Maybe she forgot. Maybe she didn’t care anymore but I did. The more I cared, I never knew I was creating a deep hole in my heart nothing could fill. She kept giving excuses. Lies. The silly thing about love, you just don’t care; you are blind to signs. Even when I felt she wasn’t interested anymore, I kept pushing. I loved her so much. I couldn’t let go.

Months rolled by, seeing Shade was a problem. Sometimes, I would preach the essence of communication to her but like many worshippers, my sermons she paid no heed. Soon I started hurting. As the gentleman mafia would say, men cry too. When I started hurting, I realised I already went too deep. I had created a deep vacuum in my heart for her to fill but what will I do now?

“Shade what’s wrong with us?” I would ask.

“We’re fine,” she kept saying. No form of heartbreak is more painful than the one where you have no idea what went wrong. I spent nights trying to figure it out but I couldn’t. Maybe certain things were meant to happen that way. I already heard everything will come to an end, I only hoped my end with Shade wasn’t near.

“Boo, I don’t think it’s going to work out between us. I just don’t feel it anymore. Let’s just be friends,” she said on a remarkable day.

After the call ended, I wept bitterly. Where did I go wrong? I tried to be strong but every time, my heart failed me. I dug too deep into it with my stellar memories with Shade. I lost focus, rectitude, concentration and most of all. I lost the heart to love. While I died in pain and anguish, she was strong and hale. Like every other girl, their pains are always relieved because there’s always this respectable nice guy that helps to heal her wounds for his own interests to surface. She had them galore. I couldn’t tell anyone what happened to Shade and I. I slithered away in pain, washed my face in gooey tears. Shade, the question is, what type of friend would I be now? What should I do when I see you with someone else? How do I remain a friend without Catching Feelings again? Is it always so easy to forget the moments and memories?. If making me a friend would make you feel less guilt, I’m sorry to disappoint you. Don’t stay if you are ever going to leave and don’t try to stay when you’ve left. Truly, being a friend wasn’t going to help. I needed more. I loved her too much.

Time crept in to give us the slack we needed. Days, weeks, a month, we were already apart. It’s terrible to think that the person you used to have long and deep chats with are now the “hellos and hi” you see on your lists. How come? How soon? I am moving on already though. I have to accept that I can never always get what I want. Love is a vicious cycle, I believe. Those who are hurt will hurt other innocent souls. I must confess, loving someone who doesn’t love you is not the worst feeling. Loving someone who made you believe it was in return but never was, is worse. The worst feeling is the type I feel now – not being able to love someone else because the person who broke your heart stole the pieces alongside. But then, I’m moving on already because I have no choice anymore. I will spend the rest of my life penning my song and the verses I write will speak for me. Good boys don’t make history so I may never be what you assume but I don’t want your hooks or auto-tune. If I’m off-key then that’s alright with me. Oh and maybe you will learn this when I’m gone, my song will carry on.

For every text left unanswered, every call unattended to, and every hopeful glance ignored, my heart broke a little more till there was nothing left to shatter. And just when I thought I had felt real pain, I saw Shade in the arms of another and then I felt my soul crack.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/12/05/the-chain-series-truimphant-adeniran-vincent-babavin/

I thank God for my life, I mean, being born into such wealthy family gives you every reason to thank Baba upstairs. My dad was a foreign ambassador and was nicknamed, “Father of many nations” by my mum. He was always in and out of the country; a philanthropist at that. My mom, a top level civil servant, business woman and model; not what you think. She is not a runway model. She was more of a face model and she was into adverts. So yes, she’d pass of as a model. Her versatility was also an inspiration to a lot of people. Apparently, she was a model in more ways than one. I was the last of seven children, the only boy amongst them all. Five of my sisters had been married out; the last was far away in India studying medicine. I had everything at my disposal. The keyword being everything, from attending the best school in this part of the county, travelling abroad every summer holiday, and to having the latest of toys.

All these took a twist in the summer of my SS2 holiday. Mum walked into my hotel room to tell me I was no longer going back to that school. I paused the movie and transferred my gaze from the laptop screen to her face wearing a smirk. Finally, I am going to finish my schooling over here in America I thought only for her to tell me I was being transferred to a public secondary school. I felt a numbness in my legs as the words fell out of her mouth. I knew it had to be the punishment for throwing a house party a girl almost drowned in the pool while they were away. Dad never complained about it but I knew he had something terrible planned for me as punishment. I wailed and questioned her.

Her reply was, “It is your dad’s decision. Moreover, life is not always as sweet you’d want to have it, it has its own bitter side. You need to be unchained from the shackles of excessive pampering. You need exposure!”

Those words got me silent. I didn’t bother asking her to try and convince dad as the undertone in her voice showed she was into the whole idea of my transfer. My dad’s word was gospel anyways.

The remainder of the holiday rolled by without me noticing. I was distraught by it all. The hardest part of my new reality was telling my friends. They laughed over the news of my transfer for days. I guess that is what you get for having savages as friends. Upon resumption, I wore my new school’s colors – green and cream with a hideous pair of sandals. My first week at Feyingbole Grammar High was a nightmare; the second day of that week especially. During lunch break that day I was deprived my lunch. A boy from nowhere tossed my lunch out of my hands at the canteen intentionally twice. The second time, I challenged him and he called it “egbon”, his way of welcoming me. As if that humiliation wasn’t enough, I got back to a locker filled with grass and biscuit wrappers. I was too hungry to shout at anyone. I lived out my biggest fear of being bullied in High Definition (HD). I was picked on at every little chance.

My new reality went on and even though Mum could sense my struggle at school, she chose not to utter a word. I woke up late one morning to discover with dismay that I didn’t have any clean uniform to wear. I literally died at the thought of cutting grass or washing toilets as late comers would after morning assembly. The toilet in that school is best described a disaster waiting to happen! Normally, Nana, our house help would have taken care of my laundry, all I needed to do was wear it. All that changed upon resumption, my parents wanted me doing all that myself. I scrambled into the bathroom where I washed and towel-dried my uniform. I ironed it afterwards. One could say I dressed up on my way to school, yet; I was late.

I cursed my alarm for not ringing out loud enough as I imagined the bruises about to be imprinted on my palms after cutting grass. This train of thought was cut short by the punctuality prefect as his badge read, he signaled that I should go in without having to do any work asides pick one or two papers. Such relief! That was the very first day I smiled while passing through the school gate.

Shortly after settling into my seat, Mr. Babalola our Yoruba teacher walked in. He had this nickname amongst students “Aja One”, names in this school made no sense. Nothing did in general. I assumed it was the shape of his ears or something. There was uproar in the class as someone called his nickname throwing the class into a frantic state. Calm was restored when the punctuality prefect who saved my palms from blisters walked in. I was surprised at such authority. Apparently, over here at Feyingbole High, some students commanded more respect than teachers themselves. I thanked him afterwards as he tucked himself in the vacant seat beside mine but he passed it off as nothing. He happened to be my seat partner. We read chapters from Ijapa Tiroko during Mr. Babalola’s class. At the close of day, he walked me home as we talked along the way. He happened to reside two streets away from mine. His name was Damilola.

Damilola seemed to be all I needed to settle in fully, as tears I shed from the hardship of my new life dried up faster than a well in a desert. Our bond grew after first term results were released. I had an E in Mathematics while he on the other hand had an A; like he did in every other subject. He offered to tutor me for our WAEC examinations which were fast approaching. Some days we stayed back at school after school hours. Other days he came over to my house to teach me. I went over to his house after much persuasion. His house was rather small, almost the size of our garage, if not smaller. I started to realize life wasn’t all rainbows after all. I admired him a lot. He was frail in stature but full of big dreams; a near perfectionist. He was everything I wasn’t. I learnt the ropes of survival from him.

WAEC came around and I wrote with such confidence, after nights of rigorous study, practice and tutorials. Mathematics was a stroll in the park thanks to Dami. Yoruba was our last paper, after which we headed to my house. He wanted me to work on the National Photo Competition our principal had talked about sometime earlier. The theme: “Describe you last year of Senior Secondary School in one picture.” He understood my love for photography and encouraged me to take a step.

“What do you have to lose?” he asked.

We headed out after changing from our school uniforms with my camera in hand. Taking random shots at we sauntered down the street. On getting to his street, we passed by his house. His compound was all busy as they prepared for his sister’s engagement.

“Dami,” his father called, “come hold this head. Learn how to be a man!” his father ordered.

He took off his shirt and threw it in my direction before his father’s words left his mouth. After he was done dehorning the cow with his father, He playful raised the horn to the sky like a gladiator in the arena. The pose struck me and I took a shot. Unknown to him that described my last year of senior secondary school, I felt triumphant!

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/12/02/the-son-of-amadihoa-a-forgotten-god-lives-on-solomon-uhiara/

In between the withered sheets of broad leaves laying rampant on the soiled base of papa’s doings, within the heart of the skyscraper we called ‘achara’, there I sat, backing a capsized palm frond which hadn’t for once escaped the fast encroaching harmattan. I sat on the fleshy bark of uha tree. It was my father’s place so I should follow in his stead for that is how it should be. A son should strive to be higher than his father and fathers before him. I should participate in the invites he had recommended before time duped him, before his loving memories faded with decades and centuries.

Before all these instances and insidious trendy shifts in the easy swayed balance of the numerous African cultures and contradictory tales we are born to, before the inception of the developments of the Western beliefs in the soul of African diaspora, even before they knew their faces had certain features, they applauded my sincerity. Before those foreigners set anchor on our shores and brought forth their holy books and their religions, I was the only one they listened to and conversed with.

There are few occasions when perseverance diminished from their soiled and filthy nails and from their hearts; strong as rocks and hardened before fire. I was the one they called to. I could say I beheld the endings of their days but still the proximity to truth will be distant, far from their emancipation, not even an inch close as the knots binding our fates know not joy.

Rest assured I still inhabit this spot within this shade. The ones who worshipped me are gone. Oh they adored me, they praised my names. They called me ‘Ofor eji agamba‘, they traveled with my staff, they clothed me, but as you are aware time is an enemy of consistency. They have been scattered in the winds like dusts of a decayed carcass, one pertaining to the feline. They still do not know they are in oblivion and being introduced to their archaic ways cropped streaks of frozen smiles on my carved face. Profound ones I must say.

Ogidi carved me. He also carved papa. He used his tools as he gave me life – breathing in my dormant nostrils breaths from his lips. Up until this hour, I still can’t cling to a reason but the fact remains he did us. My father had reminded me of it again and again.

“Do you know we came from the forests?” he would ask me. “Do you know the hands of men gave us life and gave us these eyes and these nose and ears. Are they well shaped or should we bless them for the arms and body they included while they chiseled us out from the iroko timber?”

He was wise. He taught me wisdom, he taught me to bargain. Humans bargain but I bargain more. Being stolen from my top position has been the most indelible scratch on my back. This one being poked by the root of this uha tree of which the leaves remain fresh each day.

These days, I lay witness to their unawareness, the dangerous journey they embark. They do not see the dangers the way I see them. They detest my words but really they strive to journey to places, dangerous places where my grasp cannot reach. I tend to signal to them, I want to carry them and grip them around my back the way their mothers and sisters do – with this red garment that covers me when I am so cold that my feet trembles and my teeth quivers but my abode they know not and time and the western cultures has caused the drastic decline of the handful of awe their past heritages devoted to my father and to me.

My father designed the four market days; the Nkwor, Orie, Eke, and Afor. You see, he did not lack sagacity but their eyes have been blinded and have been plunged out the sockets. Their beliefs have receded with the downfall and collapse of our ancestral monuments; an edifice for true tribal devotion and traditional activities, not excluding the homages they paid me during the aftermath of bountiful harvests.

Things are now as abacha under prolonged ferments – as water and time pierces into the tiny skins of the sliced cassava tuber : gone from the manageable to intense severity, from the obscure to awe-inspiring ; not from my stand but before the eyes of the commoners which now are gauzed ; they envision precisely nothing tangible. They are confused and few regret abandoning me, they regret leaving behind their hereditary.

I am greatly aware of the things they call secrets. Those imminent irresistible speeches they say to each other in the dark alleys, in the deep nights cuddling each other’s back, the worms of lies they tell each other, the preys they scavenge, the wicked false testimonies they bear against each other. I should probably jump to the highest hills and the tallest trees and scream it aloud, “I know everything you do! I am not a stranger to them!” The ones who required my audacity to search the truth became acquaintances as I likewise their confidant. I had always resided within their abode for decades as I soon regarded their abusive nature as unpure and sub-standard before my now squeamish self. Disregarding the solemn existence of their little hearts, soft as the leaves of ede, as soft as the touch of warm water bathing a naked body.

I am in full awareness of all these because I dwell amongst their abodes as I am the only invitee before their premises. Whilst there are few good hearts, I have invested in the ugly. The wicked think wisdom is in my bosom; this is true but I will convince you less that I have been lending out false indications in the absence of truth.

From the very onset, skipping the little unimportant details that are not embedded in this story, my transfer from Ogidi’s carpenter shed to this place has made me palpable. They carried me from that place; that gritty piece of crap, where my father had survived the dusts of time and the hardship associated with shrinkage, they carried me and set me down in this little coven shelled by this tree. They fed me, prostrated before me, they prayed to me, they sang to me, they even recited chains of words which I barely could understand. Their mouths moved in rhythm as there chalked bodies shook back and forth in my presence. They poured me libations which was the best part.

Whenever Okeke came to exhaust his words, the following usually transpired: at first he would arrive with his bottle of schnapps and a keg of Palm wine. ‘All this for me?” I would flicker my tongue and question myself. I must think my father did the same things. Okeke would then pour the drinks before me. I chew softly on my lips once again. The bottled one peppered my chest as if it half burnt it down, even the incense it aroused on top the brown soils diminished with every second. The other was sweet and juicy like nothing I have never tasted before. He would drop seeds of kola also on the bare earth before me. Those were times when being this way paid. After all, they say you don’t watch a masquerade from a spot; you pace around with it as it pursues and as it dances and shakes the beads that dangle on its neck and on its waist and on the ankles. After the libations were concluded, Okeke Mbali would divulge his escapades to me, both the ones I cared and others which weren’t my place. I would reply in a croaky voice, “Your deeds are canceled, go in peace my child”. He would beam up like a flash, his chest will bulge then he will leave the offerings for me to digest.

They made me mortal with those gifts and their requests for whichever way you kept yourself, others followed.

An earlier day came when words hit me like surprise. I was sound struck. So I asked papa “gini mere”. He shared with me a lukewarm smile and his ridiculous answer was “ehee… You have tapped it from the source… Ehe nwam igbaligo”. He smiled at me maybe showing affirmation.

I shuddered too easy and pretended to comprehend his reply. You can barely visualize me move but indeed I did. I shook my static head and I held my waist with my palms. Papa understood but he never explained further anyway.

Recently, my looks are nothing to behold. My little arms and short legs have begun to wither. The harsh seasons deal me against my looks. I’m the only survivor of all the other beings. I am the last to be entertained by the demise of my folks – those ones that held me in their arms when my father lost his strength and his abilities in the deceitful hands of men. Men are sabotages and they only seek nothing else but supremacy over their fellow brothers and neighbors.

Do you comprehend the curse behind prolonged solitude, the ordeals encompassing my accomplishments and name. My father was called the Supreme. He ruled the Ibo lands. He ruled with his rage of thunder and his followers were similar. I am the son of Amadioha. I am the only son of the god of thunder. I’ll never cease to exist because the spirits of the land are me. So in this backyard of Mazi Okeke whose generation refused to pay their shares of respect I’ll live, I’ll still watch over them because unlike others, I am not malevolent in nature.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/12/02/home/

She held the carton close to her bosom as she walked down the street. Sunrise was an hour away and the street was dead quiet save for the echoes of her slippers hitting the ground. She looked at her baby inside the carton, he was sleeping soundly. She watched his little chest rise and fall and tears flooded her eyes again, he was beautiful, he was innocent, she loved him too much, almost as much as she hated him. His long nose stood straight and firm, just like her father’s and she wished so much that it was not so.

She got to the orphanage and placed the carton carefully in front of its gates. She looked at her baby, still sleeping and kissed his forehead. She stood and took in a deep breath, then banged repeatedly on the gate and ran. She ran across the road and hid in an uncompleted building, from where she watched the carton.

She had not slept in months. At night, when she closed her eyes to sleep, she saw her father throwing his Bible at her, she saw her mother’s face, mournful. That day never left her memory. She had walked into the parlour, where her father was reading the bible and her mother was marking examination answer sheets.

“I have something to tell the both of you,” she had said. Her father closed the bible and smiled

“What is it?” he had asked, “Come and sit here with me,” in retrospect she was glad she had not done so.

“What do you want to say?” her mother asked not looking up from her work.

“I think I am pregnant,” she blurted out.

“What do you mean?”

“I am pregnant,” she said again, her voice louder this time.

“That’s not possible,” her mother said, pushing aside the answer sheets “you can’t be pregnant, you are still a little girl, you are a virgin.”

She remained quiet and looked to her father who just stared back at her without any expressions on his face. She had not seen her father not smiling before.

“Talk to me!” her mother was screaming, “who is responsible?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered

“Eh? What do you mean you don’t know? You were raped?” her mother was asking “Someone forced himself on you!?”

“I was not raped,” then her father threw his bible at her. It surprised her, one second he was sitting, unflinching, the next he was hurling his large bible at her. It missed her stomach by a few inches. She looked at her father, and he was no longer her father. The ever smiling church deacon was gone, replaced by a very angry man.

“So you are a common harlot,” he spat. “I am a Godly man, I cannot harbour harlots in my house, what would people say? Did you think of that before you went jumping from one man’s bed to the other? A deacon’s daughter pregnant out of wedlock and does not even know who the father is,” he was raging mad.

“I do not jump from bed to bed.”

“Chineke kpo gi oku.” he said. “You are no daughter of mine, leave my house. This house is God’s house, it cannot contain iniquity.”

“Dad?”

“Don’t you ever call me that, you ingrate,” he was standing now, shaking all over. “I trained you well, very well and this is how you repay me? Drag my name through the mud? God forbid.”

Her mother arranged for her to go to her grandmother’s house in the village to live till she had her baby. Her father told the church that she had gone to do a pre-degree course at Nsukka. Her arthritis ridden grandmother took care of her, her mother visited a few times, her father never came. On the day she went into labour she prayed that God take her life or the baby’s or the both of them. They both made it, the doctor had told her that she had the most beautiful baby he had ever seen and for the first time in months, she was happy, then she saw that nose. She did not name him, her mother called him Godswill, her grandmother called him Chimdimma, but she called him nothing, he was just her baby.

From the incomplete building, tears running down her cheeks, she watched the carton. The minutes crawled past and light began to creep into the sky, her baby began to cry. She immediately wanted to run over there and carry the baby, to tell him how sorry she was, how much she loved him, to take him back home. But the gate opened and a woman appeared, the woman took the baby from the box, looked up and down the street, shook her head and went inside.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/11/29/las-vegas/

‘What drink would you like sir?’

Her smile was zombie-like. Her glaring eyes motivated Emeka to choose quickly.

“Apple juice.”

She had already moved to the next person before he could say thanks, her robotic smile remained plastered. Emeka was unperturbed. He wouldn’t allow a few oddities alter his euphoria. He was jumping like a child in his mind and struggled not to giggle out loud. He couldn’t allow these folks know he was a ‘JJC’. His skin colour blended with theirs like dark chocolate to white. He knew he should have started the bleaching process much earlier but he would just have to make do with his fake accent. His bladder began to knock on his stomach. He couldn’t stand dozens of white faces staring as he walked to the restroom. He twisted his legs a little more.

“Please fasten your seatbelts and remain in your seats. We will be expecting a little turbulence. Thank you”

Emeka heard the pilot in horror. The urine was forcing its way out like a flood but he had to hold it. The plane of the U.S. Airways trembled lightly, he began to pray silently in his mind. In the midst of his petitions, the plane began to tilt violently. It tilted dangerously to the left and panic broke out like a swarm of bees. A murmur could be heard from the cabin which erupted into noise as the plane was threatening to fall from the sky. Emeka’s prayers had graduated from murmuring to full scale shouting. His prayers were mixed in pidgin English and Igbo. The plane was in raucous. Apparently everyone knew how to pray. The atmosphere was full of screaming and fear in all sorts of languages. Emeka didn’t even notice the river seeping through his trousers. The pilot managed to get a hold of the joystick. The tilting gradually normalised. The atmosphere of fear began to dissipate. The prayers were calming down and sighs of relief were being heaved. Some were badly shaken and others were still hyperventilating. When near stability was reached the pilot immediately began to apologise and comfort with his words, the flight attendants quickly went round aiding those in distress. Emeka also began to stabilise and he quickly took a hold of his English, he looked around to see that no one was staring at him. He began take in deep breaths. A breath got stuck in his heart as it began to thump quickly. “Chi mo”

The sweat quickly tensed round his body, as he noticed his trousers and his chair was wet. The flight attendant just came to his row and he looked up at her, his eyes pleading.

The bronze lion roared in front of the MGM Grand Hotel. It didn’t notice the bridge connecting the hotel to The Excalibur, nor the people who walked on the bridge. It was night and this was the city of lights. The electronic billboards advertised circus acts, magicians, strippers and so much more. The buildings were tall and majestic and the lights personifying the city sat like stars on all the buildings. The bridge connecting the two hotels swayed lightly as people crossed it. Everyone had their destination, the night was young and the adrenaline was high. It’s Las Vegas! No one seemed to notice the beggars that were on the bridge. They sat at the side of the bridge, their smell and appearance enough to solicit any attention, but they were ignored. There were white ones, with a black amongst them. No one cared, they were saving up their coins for the casinos.

Emeka came walking on the bridge, he was taking a final tour round the city. He was coming out of the Excalibur Hotel that he was lodged in, but he found it hard to appreciate the magnificence around him. His mind ran around to his experiences in the last days. His euphoria had died since, all his expectations had been strangled of life. America was supposed to be the dream nation, where all his fantasies would come through, but everything was overhyped. He had spent most of his savings to come here, to take his mind off problems at home. But from the inception of the journey he had been humiliated. He shuddered when he remembered the event on the plane. As much as he tried to force an accent and fit in, he still felt isolated. The infrastructure was gorgeous and it was impossible to find litter sleeping on the floor, but the people spoke too fast, they didn’t have good food and everything was expensive. Things seemed to have an artificial quality here and there was a spirit he couldn’t identify with. He had spent the bulk of his money in the casinos and in…warmth crawled through him as a smile slid across his face. The smile fled as he realised how much he had left in his pockets. Halfway across the bridge, he remembered his country, the terrible state of the economy, the price inflation, the hunger, the tension, the lack of belonging for his people. Anger boiled in his chest and resentment seeped out in him as he looked around him. He knew that it could take decades for a city in Nigeria to be close to what he was staring at.

‘What is wrong with our government? What is wrong with our people?’ He kept on asking himself. He didn’t notice that he was so close to a beggar. He felt a tug on his trousers and he looked down. The beggar stretched out his hands with his face down. Emeka was heavily touched and remembered the ones at home. He put two notes in the man’s hands and ambled on. He knew this would take a toll on him but he felt better. He stared at the bronze lion and wondered how a city this rich could still have homeless people. He turned round to see the destitute again. Tears welled in his eyes. The white beggar had moved closer to the black one and gave him a dollar. There was still some hope left in the world.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/11/28/the-pitter-patter-tolulope-esho-thiorlu/

It rained heavily that night. The darkness was so thick it was almost impossible to make out the feature of anything. I walked quickly, with my feet floating across muds that were like teary eyes on the ground till I got to the bus station. The bus had not arrived yet, and I had to wait for it. Luckily for me, there wasn’t any crowd waiting for the bus; only a few drunken men chatting in endless jokes to the pitter-patter of raindrops; and an old woman followed by a svelte damsel, probably age fifteen or sixteen. The damsel was wearing a short purple gown and brown sandals. She wasn’t coming from home, I thought. It seemed she had gone for a party, gotten drunk and lost track of time like any normal teenager these days.

This was the first Friday night in three years that I didn’t attend a party to find a Sheila to shag. Seeing this damsel now made me bit my lip. I began to imagine how pleasurable it would be to have my dick in her mouth like a fat toothbrush. She caught me staring at her and frowned; her forehead creased. I chuckled. What a naive child, I thought.

“Excuse me, young man,” the old woman faced me.

“Yes, ma,” I answered in the most polite voice I could fake as I walked closer to her.

“Sorry, this girl is trying to get to Aguda… Do you know the place?” She asked.

A surge of happiness soaked my damp shirt and trousers. I had thought the girl came with her grandma, but oh goodness.

“Yes, when the bus comes tell the driver to stop you at Rainbow, you might see a bike going straight to Aguda.” I told her. As I spoke to her, I could see how shy she was: she kept looking at the ground, nodding her head to confirm what I said like an almost lifeless lamb.

“Thank you, my son,” the old woman appreciated me, patting my back with her right hand.

Two circles of light flashed on us, and a creaking sound brought the bus towards us. We all made our way inside. I sat next to the girl and the old woman.

“You look dashing by the way,” I whispered into her left ear. She didn’t respond, instead she just looked away, ignoring me. I felt pissed, but I tried to control myself. Who the Bleep does she think she is? I have bleeped girls far finer than she is. Bleep it! I didn’t allow the anger in me to overflow; I covered it up with the lid of a synthetic smile.

Few minutes later the driver halted at Rainbow gate, and immediately, she got down, thanking the old woman before she left.

How rude! She didn’t even thank me for giving her direction! My anger intensified. I decided to stop at the next bus-stop; it wasn’t at all far from Rainbow gate. I began walking again under the rain, desperately hoping to find her. She didn’t seem like the smart street like girl. I finally got to Rainbow gate. Only a few bike men parked their bikes in front of the gate.

“Oga, excuse me, sir, no vex sey I disturb you. I dey find my sister, one girl wey wear purple gown com dis place now?” I said to one of them.

“Yes, she talk say she dey go Aguda for Island. Shey we get Aguda for Island? She no sabi where she dey go at all, I tell her make she call person. She no know road.” From the way he spoke, I knew he was from the north, yet he knew Lagos more than the girl, who might have been born and bred in Lagos.

I smiled. Tonight was just getting better.

“Where she dey?” I asked

“She go meet the gateman for this estate…”

My heart skipped, and without another word I banged on the estate gate. Few seconds later, a very dark head peeped out after opening the small gate, shouting “who is there?”

“Where is the girl?” I don’t understand why that was the first thing that came to my mind. The man should be in his late thirties. He was holding a pistol and a torchlight as he stepped fully out of the gate.

“And who are you?” He asked.

“My uncle,” I heard a thin voice say from his behind. The man let her out and eagerly, she rushed outside.

“Are you ok?” I asked her, holding her hand. I noticed her hair was rough like she had been struggling. She nodded, looked down, and started crying.

“You slowpoke! What did you do to her!” I grabbed the man’s neck, and he struggled for freedom, almost choking.

“Nothing… I swear…” He panicked.

I felt he was lying, and got pissed the more. I fed his face with my fists, and kicked him in his pants, hoping to burst his balls. He fell, groaning in pain. Damn! It would be very easy to rob this estate with such a weak gateman, who could hardly defend himself.

“Come with me,” I grabbed the girl’s hand, and we walked away until we finally got to a nearby bus station. I checked the time. It was 1am already. We would hardly see a bus at this time, and no one was around anymore after we had walked for a while. The girl began to sneeze, although the rain had reduced to sprinkling drops.

“Sorry dear, what’s your name?” I asked

“Lisa Okere. Thank you for what you did. He didn’t actually do anything. He was begging me to stay and I didn’t.” She answered not even looking directly at me.

“Sorry dear,” I hugged her. My heart beat faster and faster as I could feel the small of her premature breast. Right there, the beast in me stood hard in my pants and my hands moved slowly downwards, touching her butt. She jerked off, but I dragged her back.

“Leave me alone!!!” She began to cry. I quickly covered her mouth with my hand.

“Shhhh…be a good girl…” I whispered, biting her ear. Her eyes became clouded with tears. She struggled as I covered her mouth with my left hand, grabbed her waist with my right hand, and took her into a bushy area beside the road. I flung her down to the grassy ground, where I could pin her well.

“If you keep quiet, I will let you go…” I told her. She didn’t seem interested in my terms and conditions… So when I let go of her mouth, she screamed. I was angry that she liked being rude to me. I slapped her so hard that she bled from her nose…

“Fucking keep quiet!” My scream ate her scream. She started crying as I pulled up her gown, pulled down her pants, and choked her mouth with it.

I removed my belt, pulled down my trousers and boxers to expose my almighty demon of a dick. Oh, how I loved my little monster! It always knew what it wanted. I think the demon scared Lisa for she started struggling again, and was about to remove her pants from her mouth, but I stopped her and tied her hands with my belt.

There was no welcoming romance before I buried my demon into the grave between her thighs. She wasn’t all that tight, after all. I moved in and out fast, then faster and faster and faster, feeling the heat even in the cold air. Lisa had stopped fighting which was a good thing for me as it gave me easy room to pleasure myself over her body.

Bleep! It was heaven!

I tore off her gown from the neck to expose her beautiful breasts. She wasn’t even wearing a bra. Anyway, I had no time to think why, I grabbed her firm, fair oranges, and pressed them soft.

“Ah, Lisa…” I sighed into the silent ears of the night.

Satisfied, I came out of her. I didn’t bother to cum like I had done for quite a number of girls, whose names I couldn’t even remember. I let my lips brush over her nipples gently, then my mouth sucked her breasts one by one… Her body tasted sweet, serene and smooth. I couldn’t restrain myself from going in again, even with her nipple still in my mouth.

This time I went in slowly, enjoying the pleasure from the surface of her pussy. I soon got bored of the slow motion, and I delved deeper and faster. And faster. Faster. Faaaaaaaaaasteeeeeeeer.

“uhmmmmmmm uhmmmmm,” My moaning reached a high musical note. I soon came out, and released cum all over her body…

Now, my chest had stopped beating faster than normal. I felt satisfied. I stared at poor Lisa. Her eyes were red and swollen for she no longer had any more tears to she. Wet sand filled her scattered hair. She looked like shit. I removed the pants from her mouth.

“It’s almost 4, you might see a bus now,” I smirked at her.

All she could do was stare at me.

“Say something!” I commanded her. Silence. Nothing came out of her mouth.

“I said say something!”

Still nothing.

“Lisa…”

She kept staring at me with cold eyes. I touched her face. She was gone. Her body was just lying there like a deserted dustbin. Fear gripped my body without giving it another thought I began to walk away quickly from the sin I committed.

It started raining again, splattering with larger drops of water like beating drums to folk songs. I didn’t care much about the rain again has my steps quickened, I managed to see the road

“You!” He called at me, I stopped to turn back, there he was looking at me, his face beaming like he had won a lottery

“Who…are…you?” My voice shivered, he smirked “Are you afraid?” He came closer, without thinking I began to run, I couldn’t tell if I was running fast enough until i felt a sharp blow hit my head, I landed on the floor, without recovering, the blow came again and hit my balls, I screamed, the pain like pouring acid on one’s flesh.

“Shhh..be a good boy and I will let you go” he whispered into my ears.

“Who the hell are you? Just tell me what you want,” I cried. He was laughing, a crooked hoarsely laugh.

“Isn’t this fun?”

We were on the side of the road, few cars passed flashing their lights yet I couldn’t make out his face. My head was still spinning a million stars, slowly I drifted away into the darkness of the universe. In the universe, I watched Lisa kneel in my front with my genital in the warmness of her mouth as she sucked slowly, massaging the cork with the tip of her mouth, she sucked deeper arousing my sensitive, I pushed her head continuously front and back to quicken the pace.

“Ouch!” She bit me and that was when my unconscious became conscious, I woke up on the side road, my drunk self staring at a crowd that were anticipating if I was dead or not on a bright Saturday morning. The way it all began I could not remember.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/11/26/the-soldier-of-umuhia-solomon-uhiara/

The Calabar middle aged driver showcasing his danfo drove towards the one man check point, looking unhappy and in pain as he straightened a rumpled twenty naira note with his left arm, massaging its front and placed opposite his lap. Even as it was polythene, it took time before it briefly straightened. It indeed consumed meaningful time.

“Stop there, I say stop there.” The sweaty soldier commanded, shinning his bright torchlight fully and all the way into the eyes of the occupants sitting, scattered inside the yellow bus, outwardly and entirely regarded as danfo also as molue in some places such as Lagos, This wasn’t any of such places. This was Umuahia. This belonged to the Ibo tribe of the east. It was considered and agreed inherited from the ancestors, as there ways of living mightily portrayed their every behaviour and decision.

Umuahia is one of those towns in Eastern Nigeria where development settles at the lowest depths and upholds corruption from past and present governments. The government workers earn wages so low you will spit out saliva at hearing the numbers. A town with cultures as diverse as non-other and the breeze oozes through the River Imo. The place is cold. The place is also warm; high intensity of sunlight during the aftermaths of rainfall. Also with popular markets like Ahia-ukwu and Ahia-eke and Ndoru, places where entirely everything was traded.

So therefore, whilst clutching his rifle in agitation and muscly forward in attempt to quit the approaching danfo. The brightness blinded their eyes momentarily as the passengers kept idly shut, instantaneously and abruptly as a solemn silence spread. Swinging and dangling in the pregnant atmosphere that bore extortion. One of a kind carried out in the open, under the sinking sun and before the upcoming eyes of the moon, still crescent and lights brightening as the evening clinged firmly to time.

“Officer good evening,” he greeted as he stroked the gear of his half dead automobile sideways after the bus had skidded from a near distance and finally at a halt. The little distance it concluded as he roughed out his huge head outside through his window previously was seen as to require more space and time. He showed forth a fake smile.

“Oya roger me,” Officer Egele said. He was in a soldier’s uniform, although slightly aged and faded, he wore the camo with utmost dignity. The law enforcer demanding for prohibited grants from the public. Even when few retarded steps backwards and in front of where the bus was, a sign post displayed: “Do not give any form of gratuity from the general public to the army”. It was clearly inscribed in English and Ibo languages.

“Oga na now I just de begin work,” the driver said. He beckoned on the soldier to see, flipping the few notes in his hands and shrugging his shoulders.

“Roger me joor,” The solider retorted, now hanging his gun on his left shoulder, dangling loosely as he paced back and forth from the edge of the barricades partially blocking the road then to the driver.

“Officer abeg, I’m just coming out now. See na,” He pled and pointed his right arm towards the back seats. Four passengers, all market women dressed in Ankara and fine head ties were all silent, leaving the driver to do the talking. “Na only four passengers I carry na.” He said sidelining his neck from an edge to the other side.

“Ehhh, oya park there. I say go and park there!” Dishing out commands and insults was his resume. The driver frowned. He summed the amount of time wasted, if he continued this argument, which clearly he was losing. He, refusing to pullover toward the other side of the untarred road then waiting for this man do his usual routine check, remained thereafter in his half battered bus, carrying an accumulated degree of goods, ranging from fresh harvested tubers of yam and baskets of tomatoes and pepper, onions and recently horticulture vegetables. He offered a twenty naira note.

Egele refused, dangling his neck as he openly rejected it. “For wasting my precious time, fifty naira is my prize,” the soldier said as he stared at the cars spreading behind the driver, summing up the money he was about to make mentally. He continued, “I need white,” he added conclusively. “just white,,, eh,,,, only white.” His face frowned, squeezed tightly like a bunch of rumpled and worthless naira notes held together by an elastic knot as his black dirty palms watered for the naira.

In the town of Umuahia, white meant fifty naira. Why indigenes thought it somewhat whitish in colour, and short for easy communication is beyond understanding.

“Officer abeg na,” The driver begged more.

“I say park there you stupid man.” The soldier yelled, cursing and gradually getting infuriated, removing his rifle from his shoulder and jamming it slightly against the bus.

Still, traffic jammed as plenty cars approached the check point. No one dared to use their horn as Egele Onye Army owned this route. To them, they considered this an hourly ritual, paying their bids to the authorities, a tithe forcefully demanded, not just tithes but bribe forcefully collected from weightless pockets.

Contemptuous and in fury, disregarding his rights, his own sweats, he handed out the money – two disheveled twenty naira notes and a half torn ten naira . He withdrew his arm, stretched it further towards the ignition key. The bus cranked as he set to go.

“Ehee, oya begin dey go, move, move.” Egele waved at the pale faced driver who in annoyance stepped hard on the pedal, disappearing towards the village market.

“Nawa oo,” the market women chorused, “all this army people, they will not kill us oh.” They in unison consoled the thoughtful incensed driver, galloping further up, towards the popular Ahia-ukwu market via the bad roads.

Egele, usually referred as Onye Army returned to town following a dismissal from the army, few months until now. He sought to enforce his laws into his community, he called it community service. He called it ridding the streets off thugs and criminals. He was stubborn, too much of it that the army couldn’t curtail but you see, that happened several years back. He returned a victor after plenty years foretelling tales of his numerous escapades in Sierra Leone and in the borders of Burkina Faso, times when his services were regarded impeccable. His place of rest, a beer parlour up across the streets connecting the main road of Ahia-ukwu till the end of the adjoining brief street known as Boulevard Albert, owned by a local chief who had married three Yoruba women earlier in his vibrant days.

Onye Army was utmost punctual and present at places such as this. He craved so much social gatherings. He resided nearby, not too far from the joint located at the market. Temporally, he would sit at a plastic table placed at the rear side of the raffia thatched hut. Mostly keeping to himself and drinking his beer with his cigarette burning slowly in another hand. The other drunks consuming alcohol on the other seats would turn and listen to him uncap his piles of heroic tales. They were keen listeners, opening their ears as his polished words infiltrated through them, foretelling his fights as an ECOMOG soldier.

After this evening, he climbed a free okada. The okada man in an attempt not to piss him off tried to converse with him. They discussed openly, like fellow Nigerians not at all including ranks and all those bloody civilian jabberwocky – conversing with one another as the motorcycle galloped its way over the dusty Amizi – Ahia-ukwu main road. He recounted his wages, hiding both arms behind the okada-man who had already quit raising topics for discussions.

One thousand fifty naira, he thought smacking his thick lips.

“Oga na the usual place?” the cyclist asked.

“Yes my good friend, just park for that shop ehhn,” he replied as he pocketed his money.

The motorcycle throttled further, momentarily disrupting the silence as the cyclist applied the brakes to avoid running into a pothole. He wondered why the roads were still bad, no, not bad, but worsened as the rains flushed out the top layers of the red soils. Even though promises were offered following campaigns of several Ibo office holders. He sighed and found a free spot to park. Egele jumped down from the ‘okada’ still hanging his rifle on his shoulder.

“Ehe, thank you,” he said patting the cyclist hard on the back.

He wasn’t expecting payment so he marched the ignition, the engine shrieked letting out loud noises of worn out pistons and screws. He changed gear, returning it to one, swerved in to the main road as he dodged an incoming Keke-Napep then off he was as he disappeared out of the market.

It undoubtedly was ‘Orie’ market night. Even as time slipped towards eight, the place was likely busy – a beehive of monetary activities concluding soon before the silent night encroached their privacies. They said the Ahia-ukwu market was the largest. The most popular market stretched from other neighbouring villages down to the borders. They also said everything you wanted was abundantly available.

Ahia-ukwu never knew lockup shops just tables and kiosks. It was situated at the center of umuahia. A candid spot strategic enough for business and other illegal transactions. Near it stood the local primary school previously owned by the St. Peters Anglican church few miles away. It made it easy for mothers to sneak in from the market and monitor their children during and after lessons. This evening, it was completely empty except for most of the retired okada men who reunited there to smoke igbo. Igbo is the name for the local consumed marijuana smuggled from the borders of Cotonou. The vapours will drift from wherever they hid into the markets. It was profuse. The market women complained. The local police had long ceased apprehending them as there was no more space to bound them.

Tables decorated with basins and heaps of foodstuff ranging from garri, rice, sorghum and other cereals lay on top of each aged table shielded by umbrellas, dusty ones at that. On another end, two market women argued profusely over a customer. They dragged each other’s hair, twisting and curling to inflict pain. Passersby watched. Egele watched. He clung his gun tightly while he strolled to Nwanyi Enugu’s shop ignoring them. They’ve eaten this evening, he thought to himself.

His eyes mapped through the signpost in front which read “Nwanyi Enugu Bar and Restaurant”. It was inscribed on a Coca cola plastic sign. Below it read another message: “Food Is Ready,
Egusi soup, Uha soup, Vegetable soup, Pork meat, Kanda, Pepper soup, Fresh palm wine, Dry fish”. They were boldly written in white on the red plastic board.

Egele bent slightly, entering into the place. It was noisy, not much, but murmurs erupted following hails of “Onye Army – Onye Army”. The occupants cheered in merriment as he found himself his usual spot at the rear left of the little thatched restaurant. He waved at them showing acknowledgement as his brown teeth flashed towards them.

“Madam,” he called out “bring one small stout for me,” he demanded as his firearm rested on his laps. He wiped the dirty plastic table clean, pushing without much effort the bits of chewed bones and drops of water accommodating the table.

“Soldier man, welcome oh,” Nwanyi Enugu greeted. She was unadulterated. Her fat body was not mundane. She was bearded on the chin, not plenty but slightly. It was somewhat visible for an observant eye . She placed a tray on the table, removed its contents – a bottle of chilled stout and a washed rubber cup for measuring the beer.

“Ehee,” he murmured reaching forth for the metallic opener that sat idly on another table and uncorked his beer. He halfway filled the cup, waited for the foams to quench, then continued, filling to the brim the cup.

“Madam,” he called again, “bring pepper soup two hundred naira, ehh,” he said taking a sip of the cold brew.

“Okay,” she replied from behind the bar.

“Madam bring pork meat abeg,” another customer added.

She was behind the counter ruffling and jostling stainless steel cutlery from side to side. God knows what transpires in there, behind the wooden counter, behind the shut doors of the black kitchen painted with smoke. This is not the context of other regular beer parlours gracing the cities. Right in here, everything seemed readily available. The cheap fluorescent light hung loosely below the ceilings letting out a conducive atmosphere for pleasure.

She had returned bearing a tray holding the plateful of steaming beef drenched in a regular hot tasty peppery liquid. She unpacked the tray, then proceeded to place its content on the table.

“Anything else sir?” she asked.

“Yes, bring another Guinness for me,” He said reaching for a spoon. He wiped it clean using his uniform. He thence scooped a lump of meat with his spoon. She disappeared once again behind the counter as she jostled the cutleries once more. Seconds later and his recent order graced his table.

He scooped another piece of meat, chewed hard as his teeth ground the lump into tiny particles. He chewed slowly, sucking out the salty juice then washed his mouth with a cupful of beer. He reached forth for the meat once more throwing the last lump into his mouth. In so doing, he was accomplished, but not completely as the juice still remained. He raised the deep ceramic plate to his mouth and gulped. He was done. He soon raised his head, noticing the patient faces of his regular customers, expectantly waiting for his nightly stories.

“Ouh-ouh-ouh-ouh,” he cleared his throat, then reached for a cupful of his drink, sipped a little then continued, “this world is bad.” He said this aloud once his mouth was empty, captivating the listening ears of his little attentive audience. His throat was crackly like that of two bricks shuffled against each other. The lot of them turned around in their chairs, directly facing Egele the popular orator.

“Madam bring cigar for me,” he said before continuing, “I remember when things were very good. When you can buy bags of cereals for the least naira.” He sounded educated and learned.

Nwanyi Enugu walked by and handed him a packet of Benson cigarette. He ripped it open, brought out a stick then hit the bottom slightly on the packet, rapidly, letting the tobacco settle towards the base. A perfect smoker he was. He sparked it, guiding the flames on the burning match to the base of the cigar. It ignited letting out cloudy vapours which drifted towards the left short window of the restaurant.

“I have been to Togo. I’ve been to Cameroon and also to Sierra Leone. I have seen things. Nwanne, I’ve seen plenty things. My last visit to Burkina Faso as a Nigerian soldier was bad. They called us ‘soldats’. On reaching Ouagadougou, we were deployed to arrest some minor hoodlums orchestrating a coup on the then government. We accomplished all our tasks while few of us lost their heads. Their women had backsides that could make you grasp for breath. We bleeped them. I bleeped plenty of them.”

He beat his chest, “have you ever tasted an African French girl?” he asked the silent men. They shook their heads in disapproval. Egele chuckled loudly, lit his half burnt cigarette, sucked hard on the stick then puffed out a huge cloud of smoke into the room. The vapours spread around. His audience watched admiringly. They wanted to be where he had been. They wanted to see adventures.

Egele rounded up, finishing his cigar as he took his rifle from his laps. He strode to exit the restaurant, stopped halfway then handed some notes to the woman. He left the beer parlour as the eyes of the other customers got fixated on him.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/11/25/when-the-gods-leave/


Mrs. Ndidi laid out her maps on the table, then she placed the globes on them, carefully making sure that all three of them sat exactly alike. Arranging her shop every morning was like a ritual she performed, like pouring libations to ani in the morning. The fulfillment she felt when she stood, hands akimbo, and watched her wares displayed was akin to the satisfaction that only came after supplication to a higher being. This particular morning, after she had stacked the encyclopedias and dictionaries on the second table and placed packets of pen and highlighters on them, she pushed her chair to the pillar that stood just in front of her shop and sat down. Ndidi then took out a chain she had bought the previous day and began to enchain her right ankle to the pillar. She secured the chain tightly around her ankle and the pillar – tight enough that she almost cut blood flow to her feet – with a large padlock and slipped the key into her underwear and waited for the day’s events to unfold.

The morning crawled by slowly and Ndidi was uncomfortable, her bladder had filled up and her right foot had begun going numb but there was no going back now, she had to see this through. A bus pulled up in front of the next shop and she wondered if they had come already, it was too early, her heart pounded heavily and her stomach churned. Her neighbour, Donald, emerged from the bus and she heaved a sigh of relief.

“Mama Nonye, good morning,” Donald greeted, “you opened today?” He asked, obviously surprised

“Yes,” Ndidi answered, Donald waited for a follow up, none was forthcoming so he shrugged and let her be. Ndidi liked Donald, he was a calm man and kept to himself most of the time, never asking too many questions. His wife, Prisca, on the other hand – she loathed. Prisca talked too much, she loved so much to converse and had a penchant for discussing trivialities.

“Are you seeing this rain, Mama Nonye?” Prisca would say to Ndidi when it rained “it has come to spoil the day, like it did yesterday.”

“Yes,” Ndidi would say, in a bid to be polite but willing the conversation to end. But Prisca would continue, “yesterday I nearly fell into the gutter, my street was flooded.”

On sunny days, Prisca would say, “this sun is too much, it’s just too hot,” and Ndidi would nod her reluctant agreement. “I feel like I am melting,” Prisca would then continue.

When a mad man strolled past their shop, Prisca would say, “I am sure it was marijuana that caused his madness, the way these boys smoke that thing nowadays eh, I doubt any of them are sane.”

Ndidi hated her.

Prisca appeared from the passenger side of the bus as her husband opened the doors of their shop.

“Ah ah Mama Nonye, you opened today?” She asked immediately she saw Ndidi. Ndidi’s stomach tightened, she had no time to answer her talkative neighbour’s questions.

“Yes.”

“We thought you had packed to the new site, you were not here yesterday.”

“I am still here.”

“Why? Today is the last day to evacuate oh.”

“I know,”

“But I thought you bought a shop at the new site.”

“I did.”

“Then why are you here? They will destroy your wares, all your books, when they come.”

Ndidi looked at her neighbour’s face, it was buried under too many layers of make-up so that when she squeezed her face in worry – like she did now – it seemed like a tired, old rafia mat “let them come.”

“Hmm,” Prisca sighed, “I don’t know what your plans are oh, but biko, be careful.”

“Thank you.”

“Anyways, Donald and I came to carry the remnants of our wares, we carried some yesterday but, we couldn’t move them all,” Ndidi nodded and murmured a reply.

She watched her neighbours load their remaining bales of carpet material into the bus – actually Prisca sat on a stool eating cucumbers while her husband carried the carpets. In less than an hour they were done, they said their goodbyes to Ndidi and drove off.

It was almost mid-morning when they finally came. She had almost expected them not to come that day, after all the government was never on time, except – obviously – when they came to ruin a person’s life. Their truck parked carelessly in front of her shop, raising a lot of dust and making her cough. A huge man busted out of the car and came raging, like a bull, towards her.

“What are you doing here, Madam?” He barked. “Did you not get the notice?”

“I got it, Sir,” she replied, her heart pounding heavily in her stomach as she looked defiantly into the man’s blood shot eyes.

“So, why are you here?”

“This is my shop, I am not going anywhere.” The man laughed, his laughter shook his entire body and seemed to shake the ground underneath him too.

“Look madam, you have to leave now. Once the bulldozer comes, the demolition will start.”

“I am not going anywhere, if you want to collapse this complex on me, then go on”

“What is going on here, Chima?” The man who had being driving the truck asked as he joined them, this man was smaller and had a pair of spectacles perched on his nose.

“Oga, it’s this woman oh, I don’t know what her problem is,” Chima complained.

The man Chima had referred to as oga wrinkled his nose as he sized Ndidi over, “madam, my name is Engineer Johnson,” Ndidi saw his need to sound important in the emphasis he placed on his title, “I am in charge of the demolition of this complex.” He paused, perhaps to see if she understood how important he was, she only stared, blankly back at him.

“Madam once the bulldozer gets here we will start the demolition,” Engineer Johnson continued, “so you better start packing your things”

“I am not going anywhere.”

“I do not like to rough handle women but if you insist on staying I will have you forcibly removed.”

“Do whatever you like.”

The engineer looked at her exasperated, “troublesome woman,” he said.

But it was a lie, Ndidi was as troublesome as amadioha, the thunder god, was calm. When she was sacked from her bank job because she refused to sleep with the manager, she did not fight. Instead she took the money she had earned and bought a shop and started selling books and stationary. When her mother in-law brought a girl who had barely left secondary school from the village to bare male children for her son, Ndidi did not complain, she took her daughters, Nonye and Dikachi, with her and rented a flat. When she saw the notice for the demolition on the doors to her shop one morning, she did not complain that it was just a two-weeks’ notice, like her neighbours did. She did not curse the government like Prisca did, neither did she fall to ground and began to wail like Mama Gozie – the woman who sold second hand Okirika clothes, three shops down. Instead, she did as the notice instructed, she went to the ministry of trade and commerce to pay for a shop at the new site. At the ministry, she met a heavily pregnant woman who seemed more interested in the groundnuts she was eating and the movie showing on a television across the room than attending to Ndidi.

“Have you gone to the new site?” The pregnant woman asked Ndidi, her eyes fixated on the television.

“Yes ma I have.”

“And which shop did you choose?”

“A7.”

“That’s along the road, good choice madam,” the pregnant woman tore her eyes away from the television for a while to scribble something down on the receipt.

“What did you say your name was again madam?”

Ndidi sighed, “Mrs Ndidi Udochi.”

“Okay, give me the bank teller,” Ndidi fished the teller out of her purse and handed it over to the woman. Another woman entered in the office and sat at the table next to the pregnant woman’s.

“Biko, Uju, tell me what has been happening in the film,” the newcomer said to the pregnant woman, “has the woman found out that her uncle used juju to kill her husband?”

The pregnant woman stopped scribbling and began narrating the movie to her neighbour. Ndidi did not complain, instead she wondered if she attended to her customers in the same manner when she worked at the bank.

The new site was located just outside the city, along the expressway. There had been complains that it was too far outside the city and that no one would patronize the traders, but the government was not hearing that. It was either you bought a shop at the new site or you forgot about it, after all the shops there were subsided by five percent for those who owned a shop at the ill-fated complex. Ndidi was lucky, she had gone on time and bought a shop on the prime A-line which sat directly along the road. When the pregnant woman finally handed her the keys and the certificate of occupancy, she drove straight to the new site. Her shop was on the ground floor and she could imagine the empty room filled with books, she could imagine the aroma of those crisp books filling up the room, she could imagine the sign outside the room reading ‘Mama Nonye’s books’. She was going to begin cleaning and moving the next week.

When Ndidi came back the next week, she discovered the locks to her new shop had being changed, her keys could no longer open them. Something was wrong. She drove back to Umuahia, to the ministry.

“What did you say your name was again”, the pregnant woman asked the irritated Ndidi. This time there was a Filipino telenovela playing on the television and the pregnant woman had been engrossed when Ndidi came barging in.

“Mrs Ndidi Udochi.”

“Mrs Ndidi Udochi,” the pregnant woman repeated as she looked over a list. “Okay, madam, your shop number is D16,” she returned her attention to the television.

“What do you mean D16?” Ndidi asked “It is supposed to be A7, I have my certificate of occupancy and my receipt here, they both say A7. There must be a mistake”.

The pregnant woman sighed, “let me see,” she said and took the certificate from Ndidi and looked over it, then went over the list she had with her, “Madam, you were reassigned to a new shop,” she said after some moments.

“Reassigned? What do you mean reassigned?”

“It means you have been given another shop.”

“Obviously,” Ndidi said, annoyed at the pregnant woman’s patronizing tone. “And what happened to my shop, the shop I paid for?”

“It has been given to somebody else, I suppose.”

“Given to somebody else?” For the first time in a long while, long enough that she could not even remember, Ndidi was angry “It was on a first come, first serve basis and I came first! You cannot give my shop to someone else after I have paid for it!”

“Madam, stop shouting, this is an office, people are working”

“Working?” Ndidi was furious and all she could think of was kicking the pregnant woman in her belly. “Working? You people are not working, you people would not know work even if it hit you in the face. What you people do here is stealing.”

“Please, biko, this woman do not start throwing insults here, respect yourself. You have been assigned a new shop, stop making noise and carry your wahala and go”.

Ndidi had raised her hand to slap the light out the pregnant woman when the door opened and a man came in.

“Come with me madam,” the man said. Ndidi held herself and without another glance at the pregnant woman, she took her certificate and followed the man. She followed him into a smaller office, the office was bare except for a lone table. There weren’t even chairs in the office.

“Look, madam, let me explain to you what has happened here” the man said as soon as he closed the door. “The shop you paid for has been given to the highest bidder”.

“Highest bidder?” Ndidi was confused, “but we all paid the same amount for the shops”.

The man laughed, his laughter explained it all and she understood. If she thought that going to the bank to pay for the shop and coming to the ministry to collect the keys was all there was to acquiring the shop, then she was naive. There had to be back channels, this was Nigeria after all.

“Look, madam, I don’t have to spell this out for you, but I will. Someone paid a considerably good amount of money for your shop, much more than you paid at the bank, and they got your shop.”

“But I have the certificate of occupancy and the receipt.”

“So does this person, but this person also has the right keys.”

Ndidi did not know what to say. Everyone knew how corrupt the system was, everyone complained about how the corruption had eaten deep into the government and the people. She knew, she had complained, but she did not know just how deep it had eaten, she could not even begin to fathom the scale on which this cancer had broken down the country. The government that had sworn to protect and to serve her had played a fast one on her.

“Madam, do not worry, I can help you get you shop back.”

“You can?”

“Yes, I can,” he came closer and said in a low tone “you know how it is, you butter my bread, and I will butter yours.”

Ndidi already knew where the discussion was headed, she said nothing.

“Just roger me,” he continued “seventy thousand naira only, madam.”

Ndidi, without a word, turned around and left the room. Without looking back she left the ministry and drove home. Her heart burned with anger and she did not know what to do. She could not manage the shop, the D16, she was left with. The D line was located in a disadvantaged area of the new site, it was hidden from the road by the A, B, and C lines. She knew could not let this go, there was no way she was going to let the pain she felt fester in her heart, like she always did. She had to fight back, for the first time in her life, she was going to give wahala, she was going to give trouble. So she stopped at a shop that sold building materials and bought the strongest chain she could find.

Engineer Johnson stood and started at Ndidi for some moments then he said to Chima “drag her out of there.” Chima nodded then folded his sleeves and marched over to Ndidi.

“Sorry Madam,” he said, but she only sighed and looked away. He grabbed her arm carelessly, she moved, the chair moved, but the chained rattled and held onto them. “You chained yourself?” Chima asked, the shock on his resonating in his voice. “Oga, this woman oh, she chained herself to this pillar”, he told his boss.

To be continued..


Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/11/24/behind-the-blue-helmets-da-jandy/

As he got into his room, just seconds after kissing his sofa, the lights went out. He knew that meant perpetual darkness till dawn. The only device which illuminated the obscurity was his android phone. All he ever wanted was everything, but now it seemed he had a basket full of nothing but void.

Brenny found solitude in company of the soft tune which came from his phone. This night of course, he had decided to find reminiscence in the tune which he chose. He wasn’t a jazz lover, but this night wasn’t a regular one and so he decided to play Kenny G’s “Alone”. As the sound filtered into his ears, the rush of memories both positive and negative came running through his mind. This made him shudder; how on earth did he get into this kind of life? The war in Syria had made him to be deployed by the United Nations on a peacekeeping mission. Brenny never envisaged such a clarion call would be made to him. At least he was just a junior officer who in fact saw himself as being inexperienced. Alas, the General didn’t see him in that light.

Given just a day to pack up and head towards Syria, he saw his life change like the weather. In normal circumstances this would be regarded as a promotion but not in this scenario, the rebels in Syria amassed unquantifiable pleasure from placing a kiss on the heads of any one wearing a blue helmet through the bullets of their mac five (a lovely gun which had the weakness of not showing love).

Brenny thought at least he would be deployed to a less violent area in Syria but providence had a “better” plan for him; he was deployed to western Aleppo, Syria. He had heard on the news and seen disturbing graphics of the war torn place. Brenny thought about what happened on the line of battle earlier in the day. The rebel forces had gradually taken over the area and so the troops had a tough time trying to ward them off. Both sides sought to take cover in the bosom of the remains of fallen walls.

In the duel, a young lad ran into the midst of the beautiful habitually flying bullets. In the twinkling of an eye, he laid lifeless on the floor amidst risen dust. He had been hit by multiple bullets. The sight was gory. The life of a lad of about seven years of age had been abruptly summarized. Brenny couldn’t stand the sight, he knew he was destined to be a soldier but not one who would face a civil war. He had fainting feats. The troop successfully drove the rebels to a distance but a significant casualty had occurred. The lad was gone and this had gradually become a ritual, whereby little kids were hit by stray and even straight bullets. Brenny thought about how long this would continue. Was the country going to be utterly destroyed like the Amalekites or was the war going to come to a definite end soon?

The music gradually came to an end signaling the need to get some rest in anticipation for another day of bloodshed and gnashing of teeth.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/11/24/writers-block-godwin-ayomide-ogu/


My left palm squeezed the crown of my head. My nails untangling strands in the forest of black hair that had now taken residence on my scalp, I hadn’t combed in a while. I didn’t need to; combing couldn’t change anything, my head would still remain a vacuum. I took a glimpse of the floor right beside me, kicking a piece of rumpled paper. One of the many rumpled pieces scattered around me that made an isle of me. I always believed that success was a fundamental part of joy. I thought success was a good thing. I was convinced that my talent only brings happiness. Auntie Beatrice called it ‘The thing that would change our lives’, it did. It changed hers, she got a car. It changed mine, I lost myself.

I was a young writer, a good friend, a happy person. That seemed like a long time ago as I sat puffing the roach I’d lit from the ash tray. I was corn for the press, they couldn’t pass up a chance to roast me. I looked at the joint, smiled and slowly dipped it into the tray. I used to lead a happy life. Used to; I became a celebrity. Everyone had their different theories for my sudden inability to write; my psychologist blamed it on pressure, aunt blamed her enemies, pastor attributed it to me ‘falling away from divine plan’.

After writing that article that ‘shaped the human mind’, I couldn’t pen any tangibility down. I hid this for a year, I wrote a lot of articles and books prior to this, I just kept recycling. What to do when I had exhausted all this recycled resources? Aunt had the answer for that. She found a young chap, She organized some essay competition and he won.

“His brain is wired like yours,” she said as she tried imposing this boy on me. Of course, I didn’t agree but any new original piece I wrote, my audience criticized heavily. They claimed I had lost my creative touch. I had to succumb to her. It worked but only for a while. The stupid brat became greedy, wanting his names on my articles. He wrote them but they were mine. The money wasn’t enough for him, he wanted my fame now. Of course, I couldn’t agree. He ran off, the stupid baby, into the ever open arms of the press.

It was never hard to write, I would just sit in my sitting room cum bedroom and the words would come. Now I had my own room, but the words never came. Well, at least, I had my friends or did I? All my friends suddenly became inconsiderate; they claimed I had changed. Did they expect me to remain that squeamish boy? I was no longer nobody. My blog now had over 500,000 readers. They didn’t understand that I couldn’t just come over to chill. No, money didn’t change me, I just grew up, and they still remained kids. I loved them the same though but they grew jealous and all deserted me.

I gazed directly into my eyes, looking straight at the mirror right in front of me. I turned my face back to the book, “I will pen whatever comes to me now” I mumbled to myself. It was going to come, the words…I was going to shame all my friends and foes alike. My pen remained at the same spot, no words came. I put the pen away.

“The inspiration is almost here, maybe I just need another puff” I thought to myself as my fingers scavenged through the ash tray.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/11/23/broken-queen-izuwa/

It was about 3am, I lay on my tarpaulin staring at the ceiling of the tent we had set up in a hurry the night before. It was raining heavily, trickles of rain drops fall into different buckets placed strategically lest the whole tent be flooded. I could hear all sorts of snores from exhausted men around me, some sounded likes whistles, some like cries or distant mumbles.

Just next to me was Chidi, we met on the screening ground in Owerri, we were both accepted to the Nigerian Army and headed to depot in Zaria, stayed at the same hostel throughout our six months training, both got posted to the Nigerian Army School of Infantry (NASI) in Jaji, and here we are again in enemy territory together in Argungu, Kebbi state battling the almighty Tanko clan that had terrorised the country for over two years. Seems fate had paired us together from the onset. He stretched now, raising his hand as if to cuddle me, I shoved his hand away, he made a snorting sound, and I could see spittle dripping from the corner of his mouth, I chuckled at the sight, wondering how he could sleep with so much ease. I stood up to pee, on getting outside the tent came the sound of an explosive going off just metres behind, the impact sent me to a tree just before me and I landed on my back.

I screamed at the top of my voice, “Chidi, Chidi” as another explosive went off, there is fire everywhere. I could hear the wails and screams of my comrade men. There is still no sign of Chidi. Our tent was burning as were others around. I couldn’t move .The thick smell of smoke filled my lungs stopping all form of normal breathing, everything went black.

I paused right there wheeling my chair backwards to join the group behind me .Mrs B said, “I’m sorry sir but you have to end with the caption.” Just then did I have the courage to say it out loud after over 30 years, “My name is Chukwuma MBA, and I am an alcoholic.”

The incident had left me crippled and at the mercy of my mother .At her demise I found solace in the bottle, it helped me sleep and keep the nightmares away and also family and friends. No job, no wife or children (I mean who wants a crippled man for a husband?). My youth was stolen by bitterness and anger. I built a strong wall around my emotions, letting no one in. But somehow I had fallen in love .Just when I thought the idea seemed almost impossible. My housekeeper, Mary had somehow gone past my defenses and made me feel like a man again, she preached the word of God to me, with that voice that takes me to the clouds each time I hear it, always talking about how drinking so much is a sin and God can heal my pains and restore me. I promised her to get better, to change so I can be the kind of man she would want to spend the rest of her life with . This group is a step to healing, to opening up about the hurts so the healing process can take place. There is really a lot to be grateful for.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/11/23/the-day-i-needed-love/

So here is how Sope’s Saturday went. I am Sope by the way, nice to meet you too. Ok so my Saturday. It’s really weird that I’m writing about this Saturday because it was a really boring one. I mean I should be writing about the Saturdays I had weddings to attend and birthday parties or beach outings with my family and bae or medical outreaches and stuff. Here’s what I like about this Saturday though, I figured I need to take a break.

Yeah, I used to party on Friday night’s or attend dinners or high profile events with my boss (carrying all his awards in one hand) till like 4:00am, rush off to some wedding by 10:00am because I’m on the bridal train or it’s an aunt’s birthday and I have to get the cake and the drinks and caterers. Or go watch the little nephews and cousins play soccer or have swimming lessons or chess competitions. Or nieces attend birthday parties and stay with them till 5pm just so they don’t have too much sugar in their system. Other than that I’ll probably be at the eye clinic till about 4pm. This is what happens when you have the most outstanding boss in the country and you’re the only one who’s not married in the family (they think single means jobless). Well technically I’m not single, I’ve been dating this guy for like 3years now I’m sure he’ll propose soon enough.

Anyway I started this Saturday with a terrible headache and chest pain, I was sneezing like I was allergic to something, burning eyes, crazy hunger and weakness. Basically today wasn’t a day to go out. Calling everyone and telling them I’d have to cancel on them seemed like a lot of stress so I switched off my Nokia (they’ll call and send messages and I’ll check later). So to my iPhone, I checked my snaps and everyone’s having fun. I text bae and he’s busy, (well he didn’t say it but his replies say so) so I let him be even though I really wanted to talk to him. Then I check my Instagram, I’m there for like 30 minutes going through Donald Trump bants, makeup videos, dresses and wigs on sale. Boring! Best friend hasn’t been online since forever. Surprisingly the only people that are online are the guys that are trying to get into my pants…No way! I’m not saying hi. So I feed my interest in neuropsychiatry, topic being why men and women are different. I don’t like explaining this to people because a lot of people take offence especially women trying to prove we’re all equal. I like to understand what makes us different especially our brains and how our minds work, I’ve come to accept the difference, love it, work with it and let help me become a better person. Ok I’m rambling now. Another reason you shouldn’t go inside my head, you’ll get lost! I ate. Pancakes, nutella, sprinkled sugar, an Apple, ribena. I slept. Ate again. Spaghetti, salad, plantain and fish. I spoilt myself this Saturday . When last?

I decided to do a lil man’s job and clean up, long story short I broke the window and I cut myself. Glass in two fingers and my palm, blood everywhere. If I was six years, I’d have cried my eyes out, even though I’m 24 I still wanted to cry and hear sorry and get cuddled up. I turned my Nokia on at about 8:00pm. No MESSAGES!!! really Wow. The world doesn’t revolve round me. Shocker . I decide to text bae “Hey dear. How was your day? I had an accident while cleaning, I cut myself real bad. Could you get me some ice cream on your way here?”
Yuck, too needy! I cancel the whole text. When he’s free he’ll text me. Next my best friend, but I realise my injury would be drowned in her gist of what happened today so I give up on that too.
I try some other people that should care but I realise I’ll just look like an attention seeking baby. So I text my mum Yes at least I can be a baby with her without judgement
So I text her “mummy glass just entered my hand its bleeding real bad” and she goes all, “My dear
do you have something to stop the bleeding with. Take out the glass and stop the bleeding ok? And make sure you cover it up so you don’t get infected ok.”

“Ok ma. I’ve done that,”

“Pele my dear. Be careful.. Next time ok?”

“Yes mum. Thanks. I love you,”

“I love you too dear. I’ll bring pounded yam and egusi for you after church tomorrow ok. Take care. Greet Gbenga for me o.”

Firstly I wouldn’t normally text her. I’m sure I’ve not texted her in forever Secondly, I’d have told her I’M A DOCTOR, I KNOW HOW TO CLEAN UP MY OWN INJURY but then I was craving the love so I let her. And then I felt real good afterwards and she’s bringing mum’s famous pounded yam and egusi tomorrow . This Saturday wasn’t bad after all, I got love from my day 1♡♡♡ and I got to be the 6 year old last child baby house all over again. Feels good!

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/11/18/the-chiefs-daughter-solomon-uhiara/

Here goes a young beautiful girl, financially indisposed and lacking permanent care from her slack of a father and her half unlived mother. She is of the Ibo tribe. She hustles in the city of Aba where hustlers make their home and get little or much income unlike those in cities such as Lagos where capable hands beg for bread on daily basis and sleep under the popular bridges. She defines her whack life in terms of frustrations and predicaments. Living amongst drug addicts and a neighborhood craving violence as a mother craves her child. She exists in a world full of benevolence and disasters of sorts. She sells oranges for her upkeep. She eats a few. She drains off the sweet juice from the tasty fruit. She sells more.

A neighborhood popularly known as ‘Ngwa Road’, she remains on her own, carelessly unwatched by a parent and no guardians surrounding her mundane struggle. The fight for freedom and peace, in the mornings, she strolls to the bush not too far from her father’s house and there she plucks a generous number of ripe oranges. She hauls them back home on a plastic basin and cleans them one after the other with a hard fabric and rinses them. She crafts on their yellow backs streaks of fine slim lines making their appearance shining and appetizing at first glance. She learnt this from her late mother. Her mother had died a few years back following a heart attack. An ailment that could have been curtailed if funds were not much of a hindrance but she passed to the great leaving behind a young promising daughter to be watched and tendered by an uncaring lazy father. A father who indulges in snuff and profuse alcohol, bottles and several crates of beer, packets of cigarettes, different sets and sizes of boxes full of fine grinded tobacco and worn out plain trousers with empty pockets of Naira.

The young girl bears Nkiru as her local name which when interpreted meant ‘first to come’. Indeed, she was the first and last. She preceded those unborn by her father, those that would have lived life as she did now, those that would have been subjected to a father’s policy of maltreatment and lack of care, those that were to lag behind if her mother hadn’t severed her life, cutting it short to save theirs. She had cut her life short to make this world of chaos unseen and bizarre to them so that they could remain unaware of the troubles, drought and acute famine gracing today’s generation.

The Ariaria market held promises. Fleets of lock-up shops lined up on both sides, they filed their way to the east and west wing of the popular market. One stare held revenue and income. Different commodities hung on the entrances of each store. Those that sold clothing put on display, mannequins, male and female, those sitting and a few standing erect with fine clothes covering their naked parts. She hauls on her unkempt hair the flat metallic tray, now old and peeled of time and it’s essence, balls of fine peeled oranges. She carries it from place to place in hope of a buyer.

“Give me fifty naira own,” a shop owner yells.

She pauses abruptly, places the tray carefully and steadily on the bare earth, unwraps the ties of polythene transparent nylons with her dirty disheveled palms and packages four balls.

“Three for the amount you asked for and one more for the usual ‘jara,’ she smacks her lips as she counts the money handed to her; two ugly looking twenty naira notes and a half torn ten naira note.

Contempt. With much effort, her little goods remain off her tray. She, still hungry and malnourished visits home once more as she sets to prepare dinner for herself and her father. She is indeed kind and self-outspoken. She fears no one as nature treats her with lengthy and stingy arms.

The day is a Saturday, her father launches the morning by grating his stock of tobaccos with a Coca-Cola bottle. The residues hang in the air as dusts which he inhales to avoid waste. He obviously detests wastefulness but acts unconcerned towards the heaps of time: grains of time wasted as the once bright future of his only family deteriorates into oblique choiceless conditions of pain and profound regret. He thence guides the ground particles into his little box disregarding those littered on the cemented balcony.

Nkiru brings forth his breakfast of local rice and palm oil stew, nothing to look up to, just bare and barren like the deserts in North Africa. He chews the hips of rice, smacking his nicotine stained lips then dragging in the mucus sipping down his nostrils as the peppery stew stings his tongue. His throat gradually gets sore. Sore like clockwork. The itches get utmost chronic as he massages his throat with his palms. He coughs and yells for water. Along in haste rushes in his daughter. She places the tip of cup half filled with water on his lips. He rushes the liquid as he chokes once more. His eyes bulged out slowly as he realizes he was choking to death. He was choking on the rat poison. He stares at Nkiru hard as he drags her towards his side spanking her on the back. She struggles to be set free, to be put off the tight grasp of her dying father. His last words resounding “gba-ha-ram n-wam” he says thus in the local dialect. She sits back afterwards as the tears crumbled like an avalanche down her face and that of her father’s. Had she been mistaken or was this an ordeal to be orchestrated by the bereaved and those fed by alcoholic thoughts of parents and guardians who act blindly and naive towards the wellbeing of there offspring.

Realizing her mistakes, she squeals out cries of pain as the neighbors scamper in through diverse directions as they witnessed the now lifeless body of Chief Odogwu Innocent. The once agile chief who had failed to care for his child following the death of his’ Lolo’.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/11/16/tales-from-a-convict-part-2-abolagba-joshua/

Excerpt from Part 1:

On that fateful day, we had planned our route of escape just in case we were chased by persons who we planned to borrow their bags from. I wasn’t a fast runner but I had to just try to keep up if I wanted a share of the spoils of war because stealing and running a long distance so as not to get caught was a petty war to me.

To read part 1: Visit profile or www.penastory.com

The woman whom we targeted was wealthy, we could tell from her outward disposition. One of the Class Five boys saw that she had placed her hand bag on a platform right in front of the store in which she purchased her groceries, and within the twinkling of an eye he snatched the bag. From this point, my agony had just begun but I was unaware of it.

The boy who snatched the bag tossed it to another one and signaled all of us to head towards our escape route. The woman from whom we stripped the bag began to scream like a goat in labour and sympathizers including some men found out what had happened. The woman told them that some street urchins had stolen her hand bag which contained valuables. The men started chasing us as we ran towards our escape route. Three of the boys had passed under the chain fence which cut off the market from the residential area. At this time the stolen bag was in my custody and I was in company of just one of the boys.

The men from the market were in hot pursuit, the three boys who had scaled the chain fence shouted at me and the boy who was in my company to hurry up because the men were closing in. The leader of the gang asked me to toss the bag over the chain fence so as to enable me scale the fence with ease. I obliged and he alongside the other two boys whisked off with the bag. At that moment I had already started entering under the chain fence in a bid to escape the claws of the men chasing us but alas I was caught alongside the boy in my company. We were asked to produce the bag but we couldn’t and as you would expect both of us didn’t know the houses of any of the other boys. We all met at a neutral location daily. The men seeing that we couldn’t produce the bag became furious and carted us away to where the woman whom we stole from was still standing and bleating. As soon as she saw us in the arms of the men she became glad and calm until she discovered that the bag was gone.

Before we could say anything, she had landed us two quick slaps on both cheeks. A burning sensation tingled in my ears and I knew we were in deep trouble. The woman was the wife of a high court judge. She wasted no time in calling the police to incarcerate us pending when her husband as a judge would sentence us to prison. I vividly remember her making it clear that “you little brats would rot in jail”. Fast forward to some days later, my uncle after searching for me without any success, decided to lay a complaint at the police station and to his greatest surprise, he was told I was brought there alongside another boy by a woman on account of us stealing her bag and not being able to produce it. My uncle was in a dilemma and he inquired if he could bail me out, but being a criminal offence, the police said no. He went an extra mile to solicit for the mercy of the woman whom we stole from but all to no avail. She was bent on ending our lives literally.

The court session was brief and we were sentenced to life imprisonment even though the offence did not warrant such a mighty sanction. It’s been two years now, I ought to have finished my secondary schooling by now but I am behind bars. Uncle has spent a lot trying to reduce the sentence to a definite time or better still bail me out but all to no avail. I guess it means I would be here for good. The prison is not nice at all and the labour is very tedious. I always remember uncle’s warning to stay away from bad boys.

My lack of obedience has brought me here and I regret every inch of it. I heard there is something they call state pardon which happens once in a while. I hope it occurs soonest and I hope I would be lucky by then but till that time, I would be in my dark cell wishing I was obedient from the onset.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/11/14/the-chain-series-it-doesnt-matter/

I used to think that I was frozen and that love was a silly figment of foolish romance paperbacks but I was wrong. The realities of love stared me in the eye when Jessie became hands in glove…

Jessie and Bill were greatly in love with each other. At some point it was difficult to understand how they both came together because of their apparent differences. Jessie was the cynosure of many eyes, she was from a wealthy background and that made her all the more desired. Poor Bill, just a brainy boy on the breadline; too impoverished to take care of himself let alone another. All through college they stuck to each other like Eskimos in an igloo. I could remember the last college party; it was memorable. No one expected Bill to be Jessie’s date but then they were happy together. Being a friend to Jessie, she usually confided in me, how ostracized she had become because of Bill. Many of her folks condemned her for having anything to do with Bill.

“What would people think of you when they see you with Bill, the lowlife?” her friends asked but she defied all entreaties to leave Bill in the lurch. Oh Jessie, it must have been a tough decision for her to make. The pressure of people’s thoughts about what you do and how you live could be overwhelmingly exhausting.

Soon after egress from college, Jessie became a full-fledged barrister, her forte. Bill, having studied Business Management kept toiling to curry a job for himself, it was an uphill task. I remember several occasions Bill would ride his bike to see Jessie in the firm she practised. Damn, the mere presence of a bike guy hooking up with an esteemed lady was demeaning. On a particular occasion, Jessie had a board meeting with other attorneys in the firm when she got a message that Bill was around to see her.

After a peep down the balustrades, Jim, Jessie’s boss queried, “What affair could you have with such a guy? Why not deal with people of your station in life?”

Jessie felt embarrassed and left the meeting hall. She overheard a handful of them bursting into gales of laughter as she skedaddled out of the hall. She went back to them and said, “That man you see over there looking for me will someday become the President of America.”

Yeah right, you would agree with me they called her bluff but she was right. That “Jessie” is the Hillary Clinton, a woman who stood by her husband through the thorns of life.
Bill Clinton became the first President from Arkansas, one of the smallest states in America with Hillary as his wife. Despite the condemnations reeled on their union, all that mattered was what she saw in Bill and not what others thought about her.

Upon knowing their story, I was touched. What a coward I have been. I have shirked from so much responsibilities and passions simply because I feared that people would fight shy of me. But really, who cares? All that ever mattered and will ever matter is what is good for me and not what someone else “sees” to be good for me. I am lovelorn because I left the one that truly loved me for the one that I loved, believing that people would condemn me for loving such a “lowlife” but now I suffer rejection from the one that I call ‘worthwhile‘. I must have been incarcerated mentally; the fear of opinions, the fear of being calumniated, the fear of them. Sometimes, I am disappointed at myself because I know I am better than the decisions I make, the risks I malinger from and the passions I evade. I will learn to live up to myself.

The greatest imprisonment of mankind is the excessive consideration of the thought of others about what we do and how we live. Many persons are one decision away from an entirely better life but the questions of “What will my friends say? How will they see? What will they think?” muffle them up to shrink into nothingness. Those perceptions, those thoughts, none of them matters; all that matters is you. Not until you set your mind free from the disturbing thought of people’s perception of what you do, you will never be totally free to live happily. That which you have passion for only requires a start; you will only get better. Nothing happens when you do nothing, hence, emancipate yourself from mental slavery. It may be loving someone, it may be business, it may be an avocation you are interested in. Disabuse your mind of the thought of others and go for it. Always remember that not until you do, you are gagged in the heaviest chains.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/11/11/ekulama-1-the-silent-whispers-of-death-solomon-uhiara/

“This is not a drill, this is not a drill. All workers are to report at the muster point immediately and await further instructions.”

The crew working at the Ekulama 1 flow station hastily disregarded all their efforts to mend the broken pipe that was spilling profuse droplets of crude oil into the swamp. They evacuated the station which was situated at the back of the yard housing accommodations and office complexes. They hastily marched on, heading towards the designated spot. The Safety coordinator stood not too far from the gigantic Mikano generator waving them in. They did so in anticipation. Few minutes and the safe point was surrounded with anxious faces of young and middle aged able-bodied men in blue and orange coveralls, each wielding his safety helmet in one hand.

The Human safety coordinator began, uncapping his helmet.

“We’ve received a distress call from Ekulama 2. Militants have destroyed all the oil wells, gas turbines and positive displacement meters in the station. The place is a mess. We also have intel that they will be closing in on us in no time. They came prepared in their speed boats and machine guns and AK 47 rifles.”

He paused for a minute to let the frightened workers adjust to the news. They were awed to their waists as they processed the unfortunate news of their impending doom. You could visualize the unhidden expression of fear hanging freely on their faces. They soon wished they were far away, far from the riverine areas and into the main lands where bad news like this never occurred, maybe even having lunch with their families and arguing over some unimportant family matter.

“What are we to do now?” asked an old worker with a bewildering look on his pale face.

“We simply stay calm. There are procedures meant to arrest issues such as this. In the mean time, no personnel is allowed outside this yard until the incoming ambush is averted. We’ve sent an SOS message to the army patrols outside the house boats and those patrolling the waters. Everything will be fine.”

The lot of them knew everything wasn’t going to be fine. In fact, today obviously seemed like their last. News had it that this particular insane militant group wreaked havoc on refineries, pipelines and oil rigs encircling the oil nation. What was their fate now that they were next in line for an attack?

The soldiers on patrol soon arrived and set their rifles in strategic positions around the house boat. They were on alert, awaiting the gruesome shootout that was soon to become the fight of their lives. They stacked up supplies ranging from grenades to hundreds of magazines and then more grenades. They seemed ever ready.

Inside the yard, held commotion. The oil workers were in disarray as each scurried toward their different rooms in search of solitude. Some hid under the single sized beds while some hid in the toilets. They panicked and whispered prayers to God for emancipation.

Soon, high-pitched silence spread through the vicinity like wildfire. The huge Mikano generator was shut down so as not to draw attention. Even the fishes and crabs inhabiting the shores of the flow station were nowhere to be found. They were deserted. Outside the yard, the soldiers who had set up strategic formations around the house boat clinched their firearms and held steady awaiting the blood thirsty militants. Their machine guns were directed into the open river.

This held up for several minutes until an incoming speed boat navigated its way towards Ekulama I. The captain grabbed the microphone and yelled out, “Federal Water Ways. You are advised to change course immediately.”

The speed boat to their amazement increased its acceleration towards them as bullets ravaged the roof of the house boat. The soldiers at the other side of the boat ducked and scrambled towards the side from which the shots were being drawn.

” Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta,” bullets flew from both sides creating impacts on the house boats and on the half sinking speed boat. The boat driver struggled with the steering, trying to save the boat and the passengers from drowning.

More boats were sighted from the other direction. This time not just one, but tens of speed boats decorated with submachine guns and militants in army camouflages. This was a standoff. Bullets still pelted in from both directions until ballistics projected from one of the incoming speed boats hit the heart of the house boat. It erupted huge flames finely decorated with huge cloud of smokes which could be seen from a far distance. “Boom-boom.” The impact was so catastrophic that no single shot was heard from the fast sinking boat housing corpses of the patrol soldiers. The stench of gasoline, burning metals and fabrics spread through the scene. This was obviously a precisely planned attack. With the army out of the picture, they set out to blow up the oil wells that stood in front of the station. They spread like soldier ants throughout the flow station planting explosives at core areas.

The day before was as mundane as any other. Meetings and functions and other maintenance operations were carried out periodically. It also marked the day when the highly skilled technician by the name of Chidi visited the station in accordance to a contract reached between his company and the administration of Ekulama I. After his scheduled inspection on the leaking pipes, he ruled out any form of work until the next day and set out to explore the waterside.

The villages were occupied by indigenes whose major occupation was fishing. They never attended schools as the companies around provided none. He and two other workers boarded a canoe which conveyed them to the other side of the neighboring settlement across the Black River. This particular river suffered pollution. The spilled crude oil which constituted nuisance and disrupted aquatic life could be seen suspended on the top of the flowing water like Brownian motion. It was evening and so the tide was pretty high. The young boy paddling the canoe, propelled further to the other side of the river. The turbulence disturbed the steadiness of the craft causing it to sway from this side to the other side.

They jumped down as it hit the shores. Each man adjusted his clothes in attempt not to look disheveled as the prying eyes of the natives feasted on them. They were considered foreigners, “oil men” with plenty money as the indigenes called them.

Thatched houses, pregnant young girls with crying babies in their arms and fleets of canoes were all they could see.

They asked for directions and soon found a beer parlour in the middle of all the thatched houses. This one at least was erected with bricks and metal roofs.

The trio entered the Tavern. Several “oil men” also occupied some tables, each having a different brand of beer in one hand and a burning cigarette in the other. Neon lights flickered all through the room producing an inspiring atmosphere for pleasure.

After much pacing, they soon found a free table scattered with four empty chairs. They sat down and beckoned on the young attractive waitress. She sashayed towards the group. They stared admiringly at the gorgeous lady advancing in style towards their table and pondered where in the world she learnt such walking style. They placed their orders. Three bottles of Heineken and three plates of pounded yam and white soup. Few minutes later, she returned with their orders. Delicious plates of steaming pounded yam and white soup richly garnished with snails, shrimps, fat crabs and oversized fishes sat before them. The gentle air breezed in through the half open window swerving the steams emerging slowly from the plates. They rinsed their hands in a bowl and proceeded to devouring the tasty meals hungrily with their bare hands.

Local ashawo (whores) flaunted their assets for interested customers to see. They stood in groups wearing short gowns and hills that made them elongated. On the rear side of the beer parlour stood a fair mysterious young lady dressed in a tight short reddish gown that matched the black purse she held tightly In her left hand. The necklaces dangling on her slim neck were silver coloured, long and stylish like that of a model. The teat of her busty breasts protruded like an antenna for the whole world to see. She held a glass of wine in her left arm from which she sipped at short intervals.

She stared directly at Chidi. This stare was contagious. He soon felt uneasy and restless as he noticed the fixated gaze from across the bar. This was icing on a gigantic cake. This reality beat his expectations. The delicious meal, the captivating scenery, the cultures and traditions of these people, the fleets of canoes, and not forgetting the impeccable beauty standing at the other side of the slightly populated tavern was nothing compared to the vague imaginations he held for this place.

He rinsed his oily fingers then partially dried them on the curtain blinding the faint light from outside. He peeped through it and stared at the flickering flood lights illuminating Ekulama 1. To be truthful, no view beat the tiny lights scattered throughout the station. He excused himself and strode majestically towards the bar. There he whispered some words into the ears of the elderly bartender. The older man nodded and smiled teasingly then motioned to him to go through the hidden door behind the bar, which he did. He threw a wink at the lady fair lady in red. The mysterious lady followed suit, drooling behind.

That was yesterday. Today, he squatted behind the toilet door, quivering and shaking in fright. The thoughts of the previous evening played vividly through his unbalanced guilty mind. He wished he was in the city, maybe on a beach, in shorts and singlets, watching the waves tumble against each other, watching the little children build sand castles then breaking them down with feet. He wished he was safe.

” Boom-boom-boom.” More explosions erupted from the oil wells then another from the platforms housing flow pipes, gas turbines, pressure safety valves and positive displacement meters, then another from the neck-high metal bollards surrounding the yard and then another destroying the generator and then the loudest shattering the windows of the office complex.

“wou – wou – wou-wou.” The alarm systems wailed noisily from various directions.

From where Chidi crouched hidden, he crawled towards the small window, slowly stood up, peeking through the polythene shaded glasses. What he saw drew blood out from the corners of his dilated eyes. Three men knelt on the grasses, with their hands on their head facing forward towards the small window from which he peeked from. The cook and his assistant, alongside the potbellied laundry man gazed at him as they mumbled their last prayers.

“Click…ta-ta-ta.” The dead bodies slumped with a loud thud as they hit the ground. The gunner instantaneously shifted his tribal marked face from the dead bodies to the window,then commanded his mates to sweep the entire rooms. They dashed out in diverse directions like a beehive disturbed by the wind, yelling out “kugbou ha, kugbounu ha,” (kill them, kill them all).

Few minutes, and they were scattered all around the accommodation, combing out innocent workers. The number of hostages summed ninteen. From within, cries of pains and agony emerged followed by Rapid gunshots. High-pitched cries of pain and regret filtered its way from Ekulama 1, then an abrupt silence. The silent whispers of death.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/11/11/tales-from-a-convict-abolagba-joshua/

Things never felt the same after that day because now I have been sentenced to life imprisonment, and I heard it means a lifetime behind bars. It hadn’t always been like this. It all started when I refused to listen to my uncle’s advice concerning staying away from the bad boys who shied away from school to indulge in various nefarious activities at a location not too distant from our secondary school compound.

I was in class 4 (equivalent of SS2 in modern day) and due to my stature I was about six feet, the senior boys became my friends all in a bid for me not to join in the inter class fight which occurs at the end of the session. This fight had become a ritual over time and sensing that if I am not on their side I might inflict grievous bodily harm on them but if I became their guy then I would if it comes to the worst be neutral due to the affiliation I would now share with both parties.

Uncle was not too wealthy. He was a young bachelor working in a micro-finance establishment. He always dressed smart though due to the wardrobe allowances which he utilised judiciously and of course he needed to woo a young lady whom he would get married to and how better could he induce affection than to dress well at all times. Due to my uncle’s type of job, he left home early and came back very late having limited time to interact with me. He only dished out some advice and left the house for me to maintain after school.

I became lonely at times and my seniors at school would invite me to join them to play football against other schools and groups, this further strengthened my bond with them. Having in mind that my uncle would not come back on time, I would play ball and gallivant round town after our football matches before returning to my uncle’s apartment to rest and make dinner pending his return.

Over time, I became too close to my seniors in class 5 and when the holidays came, there was more time to play. It must not escape mention at this point that I also fraternized with my classmates but obviously not as much as I did with my seniors (my classmates were quite shorter than I was). Myself and the class 5 boys having become idle and tired of playing football, decided to go into the busy streets of our state of residence just to fool around and maybe pick up some loose change from nonchalant pedestrians and persons who came to shop along the busy street. At first I was adamant about indulging in petty thievery but due to the persuasion from the older boys, I gave in (at least there was no way uncle would see me, his office was a long distance away from where we planned to indulge in our thievery).

Things went well at first; in fact for a while things seemingly went well. We recorded massive successes in our escapades overtime and people even waved at us and willingly gave us their purchased goods to carry to their vehicles, this enabled us to plunge into their bags and purses carting away loose change (alongside the one that the persons who we helped also gave us). Uncle would come back home late as usual in the night and he never for once thought that I had left the locale and ventured into the wild city with my friends. On one occasion he asked me if I was bored staying at home all day. I said I wasn’t and that was the last about the issue. He felt I could sort out myself.

We had always done our street thievery and pick pocketing and never got caught until the senior boys decided to up the game and decided to start snatching bags as our pick-pocketing escapade wasn’t yielding the desired results anymore. The gang consisted of 5 boys (4 from class 5 and myself from class 4). On that fateful day, we had planned our route of escape just in case we were chased by persons who we planned to borrow their bags from. I wasn’t a fast runner but I had to just try to keep up if I wanted a share of the spoils of war because stealing and running a long distance so as not to get caught was a petty war to me.

To be continued...

Source: PenAStory - www,penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/11/09/to-fathers-torera-adesina/

I sat on the stump of a rotten tree at the lagoon front taking in the length and breadth of the world around me. Behind me, a family of four sat having fun with a remote controlled toy ‘copter and a wistful smile played on my lips as I turned around to watch them. There were two beautiful girls about four and six years old and their mum and dad having a cool and relaxing Sunday evening family outing. I turned back to the ocean, contemplating the beauty or lack thereof of life and all that is within it while listening to a radio interview.

”You are stupid. You’re so stupid. Sit down there and don’t move else I’ll beat you. Idiot. I turned back in time to see the father smack the younger of the two girls while repeating the words over and over again. “You are a very stupid girl. Very stupid. Idiot. Sit down there now.”

On the radio, the presenter was saying something about how lucky she was to have grown up with a father’s love. I watched the little girl slowly sink down to the bent tree the family was sitting on, struggling to hold back tears and my heart broke. I cried like I haven’t before. Huge heaving sobs and fat salty tears rolling down my cheeks, my heart shattering into tinier and tinier pieces as I saw the rest of the family continue with their toy while this girl sat a distance away and looked on.

Shortly after, they all stood up to leave. I thought that the scolded child would still maintain her distance but I saw her practically clinging to her father, trying to get him to notice her. He only absentmindedly patted her head while talking to the woman but the girl was still trying to get him to hold her hand. I watched them until I couldn’t see them anymore and then I faced the ocean once again and wept some more.

I had wanted to go to the man and explain certain things to him but I couldn’t because I am the coward that I am so instead I am writing this. If I could have been brave enough to walk up to that man, here are all the things I would have said to him:

“Dear sir, you may not understand now the magnitude of the damage those few words have inflicted on your daughter. I do not know what she had done or said that caused the outburst but I do know the impact such words repeated over time would create. Look at her look at you, you’re her hero, her life, her father, her first love. If even you could tell her with such assurance that she is stupid then why shouldn’t she believe when her teachers or classmates tell her the same; and the seed you ignorantly planted one Sunday evening and you constantly watered every other time you said those words will take root and grow until she is a 20 year old young woman seated at the lagoon front wondering how much pain she would have to feel before her lungs can’t take any more water and she stops breathing or how bad the impact from a moving truck would be before her heart stops beating. By this time, she would have crashed every relationship she had delved into with both females and males because her self-esteem would be nonexistent.

She would have left a string of broken hearts behind her because her fear of being hurt would spill over into her love life and she would end up running from all appearances of love, real or fake. She won’t believe she’s worth love or affection no matter how many times you might have bought her new clothes or shoes or toys or given her money; all of which are the only ways to express love that you know. Her mental walls would be harder to infiltrate than Troy was and she’d be trapped inside desperately trying to get out.

But of course you wouldn’t notice because she’d bring home good grades and laugh a lot and make jokes; she’d watch television with her siblings and play outside with her friends all the while replaying every time you verbally abused her.

Yes that’s what it is. Verbal abuse. You do not think so because the words are seemingly well deserve. But, the mind is most impressionable when it is young and innocent and open. Think of your words as a tiny cut on her skin, and when it’s starting to heal with the attention and affection you’re showering on her in the days or weeks after that first cut, she does something else that annoys you, as is inevitable with children, and so yet another cut is made as you lash out with more abusive words, and the pattern continues the cut being made over and over again on that same spot until what she has is a huge open wound that is constantly bleeding, never healing, and is really disgusting to look at because it has half made scabs one on top of the other.

Dear sir, do not, no matter how tempted you are, ever verbally downgrade your children regardless of how much they get you angry. I cannot claim to know how to handle kids because I have none of my own but I am someone’s child and I wish someone had told my parents what I now tell you. I am not sure what you should say or do when your children get you angry but I do know there are better ways than telling them they are stupid repeatedly. Look at your daughter now, see the love she has for you showing in her eyes unhidden. Cherish it because sometime later you will not see it anymore. The pain of your words will slowly bury it until she is so afraid to even spell love. And then she becomes a 20 year old young woman, staring at the ocean wondering how much pain she would feel before her lungs burst and she stops breathing. Just like the one talking to you now.”

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/11/05/from-akoka-to-yaba-left-part-2/

Excerpt from Part 1

I know you most definitely want to know all about how I ended up here but I hear the footsteps of the nurses fast approaching. It is time for our daily injection but not to worry, I promise to complete my story next weekend. Stay tuned.

To read part 1: Visit profile or www.penastory.com

Nurse Titi walked in dejectedly with her funny looking make-up. I could swear she always looked like a masquerade and this made me wonder if it was actually intentional. Was she trying to make fun of us or were the nurses treating us actually ex-psychiatric patients? Her eyes were fire red and I could see it clearly even though she managed to force a smile.

“Mad people.” She mumbled repeatedly. At this point, I looked at her puzzled. This wasn’t the usual Nurse Titi, something was wrong but I had to wait through the anxious hours of her round. I watched her carefully as she wore her gloves, meticulously handled the injections and carefully injected every one of us, one after the other. Watching her brought back memories of how I ended up here. My heart ached in bittersweet pain. I remember the day just like yesterday.

“Segun, where are you going to again?” It was the voice of my ever nosy roommate.

“Oga, no disturb me jare, I dey go overnight.” I have never enjoyed his persistent questioning so I always told him off with my harsh responses.

“Ahhh, bobo yi, ma para e. You beta no kill yourself oh. You have been in the library since 8:00am with no break, no food, no water, you came back to hostel, closed your eyes for five minutes and you are going for overnight again?” If only he knew I wasn’t after a first class, If only he knew I was only following my doctor’s instructions of getting my mind busy.

Fast forward to exactly 30 minutes later at room 102 in Faculty of Arts at exactly 12:05am, my stomach began to rumble, my body began to boil hot, my heartbeat made a continuous hundred meters dash and then the voice. I heard a loud cry from heaven but I couldn’t interpret. It was a strange language. I screamed out, “who are you?” but all I got was a delayed reply. I became vexed in my body and soul. My salivary gland instantly dried up as my legs began to weaken. I was a warrior that particular day and even as I ripped off my clothes, running round naked in the Faculty of Arts, I could feel my inner man’s refusal for such fate.

Three years after, I’m still searching for hope, searching for someone to believe me that I am back to my senses. I am no longer mad; in fact I was never mad, it was just a nightmare and a struggle against principalities and powers in hidden places. They made me act that way, they made me converse with them and dance to their music. I always wondered why nobody else heard them except me and maybe my fellow patients in the ward. I swear I am not mad. Please help me tell Nurse Titi and my family. I AM NOT MAD.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com