₦airaland Forum

https://penastory.com/2016/11/04/8-cosgroove-close-the-place-to-be-buried/

The day started as every other day of my life would start. Firstly with the general morning devotionals my family always have. It was Sam’s turn to read, teach and explain the word that morning. He is usually fast at most of the things he does, so in less than thirty or so minutes we were done and sharing the grace. It was a public holiday and everyone in my family was very much around. Mum doesn’t like it when Sam conducted the devotionals, she always spend another thirty or so minutes going over what Sam had said in a very subtle way but that morning we were all shocked at her silence. “Mum, nothing to say?” Nene asked sarcastically but my mother just shook her head and knelt down bowing her head on the seat where she sat. We all did the same as Sam shared the grace.

It was almost 11am when our breakfast was served, I spent most of the early hours of the morning in Sam’s room, we were both watching a series from his laptop. Nene was supposed to assist Nneka the maid in cleaning up the house but each time I go out, I see her busy with her phone. She’s always with her phone. Sam was the one to bless the meal, he was fast about that too and as soon as he had finished saying “through our lord Jesus we ask,” my father was quick to ask, “Have you not learned anything in this house?…”

I looked at Sam’s face to catch an expression but there was nothing, no excuses and no apologies, he just stared blankly at my father who was still speaking.

“I’m highly disappointed in you, you can’t even pray. How do you survive at school? “He was still talking when Sam began to eat his food, Nene joined him and I stared at the both of them in utter amazement. They must be out of their minds, I thought to myself or maybe that’s what the university do to people. We usually don’t expect guests on weekdays, it was a Monday and a public holiday. I heard the doorbell ring, followed by a knock, then a ring again, followed by several knocks on the door. It was as if whoever was at the door was in doubt of the doorbell. I stood to answer when my mom yelled at Nneka to get the door.

The dining area was not clearly seen from the entrance where people come in from. I was very curious to see who was at the door. I expected it to be my cousins. The next thing we heard was, “Jesus! Please, please don’t kill me please I’m only a house girl o,” it was Nneka shouting at whoever it was at the door.

“Nneka, who is that?” My mother yelled from her seat as my father stood up and headed towards the entrance. I knew there was trouble. I didn’t know what was going on and I looked anxiously at Sam for clues on what to do. He had his earphones on and didn’t know what was going on, Nene was busy with her phone so I stood up to leave for my room.

I suspected that my family were being held hostage after thirty or so minutes of silence, my mother hadn’t yell at anything, Sam’s music wasn’t playing and Nneka’s always moving steps wasn’t heard from where I was in my room. I came out of the room and peaked from the stairs to see what was going on. There they were, my family, my father, my mother, Sam, Nene and Nneka, they were all on the ground. I didn’t know what was going on or what was happening. The house felt so cold and quiet. I slowly walked down to where they were, “Mum, Sam, Dad…” I called but no one answered me. The obvious had happened.

“Sam, I called out again, that was when I felt something hit me at my back. That is all I can remember sir, before I blacked out. I woke up in a hospital not remembering how I got there, I know my family is gone, dead by a face I never saw. Now I can’t walk because of a face I never saw, the doctors said I was hit by a very hard metal and it affected my spinal cord, I will be unable to walk again.

So if you’re reading this now, bury me where my family was buried, I don’t apologise for taking my own life. Bury me in white and on a Monday, in my father’s mansion where my brother and sister were laid, bury me in 8, Cosgroove close.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/11/03/haunting-shadows-episode-2-rooky-kamiz/

Excerpt from episode one:

And then like a bomb waiting to explode, he pounced on me and dealt a heavy slap on my ear that rang into my medulla and recalled childhood memories of when I first felt true pain. And at that moment, his ever faithful alibi PHCN interrupted the power supply and in darkness all I could make sense of was his fist cutting through thin air and my voice resonating the pain that tortured my senses and in no time the world turned blurry and faint as I lost grip of consciousness.

To read episode one, visit profile or www.penastory.com

The little girl swirled around in her frilly pink tutu. The sun was out, the swing moving slowly but nobody was on it. The playground was empty except for the little girl who had stopped spinning around. She was looking straight at me now and muttering something inaudible.

I focus on her lips, trying to figure out what she was saying, but it got fainter until I couldn’t hear her voice anymore although her lips were still moving.

She points towards something in my hands and I look down to see a neatly wrapped baby. I look back up to see the kid fading into the background. Everything was fading into the background.

The kid was crying now and still pointing at the baby. The swing was in full motion. The baby on my arms starts wailing really loud. There was chaos everywhere.

The swing starts creaking and the baby’s cries become almost unbearable, I start screaming….

****************************************

I open my eyes to a very insanely bright light. The full blast of the bulb hits my eyes and makes me cringe in agony. I raise my hands to shade my sensitive eyes from the burning pain and I notice the drip attached to my hand.

I squint my eyes to look closely at my hand and then the stand that held the drip. I wasn’t registering anything but the insane pain behind my eyes. I move my head a little to look around the unfamiliar room I was in and immediately felt the sharpest pain in my head.

“Ah,” I mutter as I lift my free hand to my head.

I feel something that feels like a cloth wrapped around my forehead. I keep on touching it until I realised it was a bandage. A bandage around my head? Why? I obviously was in a hospital, but I had no idea what I was doing on a bed with my head in a bandage. There has to be some explanation. I try to sit up on my bed and immediately plop back on it. The pain that pierced through every part of my body that moved was too real and too raw. Maybe I had been in an accident. But I couldn’t remember anything. I touch my head again and strangely finding comfort in the feel of the bandage.

I resigned to laying back on the bed with my eyes trained on the ceiling. I keep trying to remember what had happened to bring me into the hospital. It had to have been an accident. I mean, what else could it possibly be? With my mind still on this, I fall asleep.

I wake up seemingly hours later to a nurse injecting something into the bag of drip connected to my arm. Another nurse had my arms wrapped in a blood pressure checking instrument. The pressure on the instrument increases, tightening around my part of my arm that was encased in it. I notice a thermometer lodged in my underarm. The nurse injecting fluids into the drip turns around, and our eyes meet. She looked shocked, but quickly recovered and gave me a really beautiful smile. She was a really beautiful lady, with a shape that would turn heads. Not too curvy but even in the shapeless nurse’ uniform, there was no denying that she had a killer body.

“Agatha, the patient is awake,” she said, obviously talking to the other nurse who was scribbling something on a pad-like object. I turn to see the addressed nurse look up at me in surprise, then shock, then something resembling incredulity, like this was an unexpected turn of events. This reaction made me very uncomfortable. Obviously, I had not been expected to be conscious, at least not right now. Was there something wrong with me? Was I supposed to be dead?

“I’d get the doctor right away. Help me take her temperature and finish up here for me.” Nurse Agatha said, dropping her pad on d bed and hastily making her way to the door. The killer-body nurse slowly makes her way to my bed, her eyes appraising my body as if looking for malicious signs, something out of place, something bad. I squirm mentally at the attention this nurse was giving me.

I try to move my head again and once more I am accosted by the blinding pain behind my eyes. I cringe visibly.

“Take it easy. Don’t try to move around too much, your body is still repairing.” She reaches under my arm to remove the thermometer and checks it for my temperature and writes down the information gotten on the pad left behind. She unwraps the BP instrument from my arms and carefully takes it off, taking care not to move my hand around too much.

“How do you feel?” she asks, placing my hands back on the bed

“I feel like a train ran over my body. Like an elephant is sitting on my head. Like I fell off a skyscraper. Like my body was forcibly thrown from an airplane into the sea. Like I fell off a mountain top and had my body firmly acquainted with all the ragged edges from top to bottom. I think that is about it.” I answer, running out of comparisons for how I feel.

“You are a funny one, aren’t you?” she gives me another one of her stunning smiles and I am once again reminded of how gorgeous she was. And she had dimples too.

“I am just saying it as it is. I can barely turn my head without feeling like a knife has been plunged into my skull. And when I tried sitting up, my body screamed for help.”

“Are you a writer?” she folds up the equipment, places it on the bed, then walks over to the head of the bed.

“I think so. I write books and scripts,” I watch her walk over to me. She walked like she was unsure of where she was going.

“That’s great. I like to think that I would have been a writer too if I had the chance. Raise your head a little, please.”

“Then why aren’t you a writer?” I cringe as I lift my head, but I try not to shout. She lifts my pillow into an upright position, then presses something on the bed. The bed starts moving up, adjusting until I was in an almost sitting position.

I rest my head back on the pillow, feeling more relaxed.

“This is so much better, thanks. So why aren’t you a writer yet?”

“Well, my father had his mind set on me becoming a doctor or a nurse. I didn’t make it into medical school, so here I am.”

“That doesn’t stop you from being a writer.” I adjust the pillow until it felt just right.

“Between working my shifts and taking care of my sick mother, I do not have a lot of free time.”

“I am sorry. What about your father, and siblings?”

“Father’s dead and I am an only child. My birth was really stressful for my mom and complications during the labour damaged her womb.”

“I am sorry.”

“You don’t have to be. Plus I do not have the training to be a writer.” she takes down my blanket to my waist, and tucks it in.

“Do you read books?” I felt an itch just behind my ears. I lift my hands to scratch it, and put it right back down. “I have an itch behind my ears but my hands hurt when I lift them up”

“Let me take care of that for you.” she reaches behind my right ear and scratches around until she hit the right spot. My sigh of content lets her know that she had the right place.

“That’s much better, thanks”

“It’s my duty. And yes I do read books but what has that got to do with writing?”

“A lot. Sometimes, that is all the training you need. And an over-active imagination.”

“What was your discipline in the university?”

“Business Administration,” I smile at her. It didn’t hurt so much. She smiles back and is about to say something else when someone I assume to be the doctor walks in with Nurse Agatha. She immediately closes her mouth and picks up the pile on the bed.

“The doctor is here.”

“She can see that,” my assumed doctor replies in a curt tone. I could sense the tension between both of them. There was history here, albeit a tumultuous one.

“I am sorry,” and to me she said, “please excuse me, I have other patients to see. I’d come check on you later.” She pats my hands and starts to make her way to the door.

“I never asked for your name” I say as she nears the door.

“I am Sharon.”

“I am….” I am cut off by the doctor who tells her to get back to work so he could attend to his patients. I already hated him. Why would anybody be hostile to such a likable person. I decide then that I was on Team Sharon even though this doctor had my life in his hands.

“She was just doing her job,” I retort to the doctor after Nurse Sharon left.

“I know, but I need to do mine too and she was obstructing that,” he moved towards me and accepts the pad that Nurse Sharon had left behind from Nurse Agatha.

“I didn’t think so.”

“Well, I did,” was the cold response I got. I decided that I really hated this man.

“So how are you feeling?” he asks looking over the information scribbled on the pad.

“I already told the other nurse. You should ask her.” I retort with as much venom as I could muster.

“Please ma, don’t make my job any harder. I just want to know how you feel generally.”

I resign my defiance and explain to him in plain terms that I was in pains all over.

“Well, that is expected, you were badly bruised when you were brought in. You have been in a comma for two weeks.”

He hands the pad back to the nurse, draws closer and checks my hands for something.

“Two weeks? What happened?” I respond in disbelief.

“We would find out soon enough. I am going to ask you a series of routine questions now. This is just protocol to determine how much the wound to your head might have affected you because you were badly bashed in the head and we noticed some trauma on the cranium which we think could have affected the brain.”

Well, that explains the bandage. But brain damage? I feel fine regarding… I nod.

“Okay. First question, this is just standard routine. What is your name?”

Really? That is the question to determine if I had brain damage or not? I chuckle at the ridiculousness of the question. Well, I’d tell him my name. Its….

Wait, my name is….

I slowly turn my head towards the doctor and then the nurse. Fear pervaded every pore in my body.

My name is…

“I don’t remember.”

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/11/02/my-encounter-with-the-wild-solomon-uhiara/

I have always admired the wild and dangers lurking beneath nature. So being adventurous, I occasionally visited the forest a few miles away from where I resided. Armed with my sharp glittering cutlass, I would travel deep into its depths. Last weekend, as I scouted this particular site, I heard loud squeals from the stream flowing within the forest. My adrenaline heightened and goosebumps grew on my arms and neck. The high pitched sound grew louder as I wondered who or what animal made such bizarre cry. I have recently learnt to control my frightened self and thus set out to see what lay farther. I tiptoed further trying to make no sound.

From where I stood, I saw a figure bent over, struggling with something straddled between its legs. Honestly I thought it was some dog or a vampire eating and devouring an animal. That Dracula movie soon leapt into my mind, making me quiver with fear. I strained my eyes to see what this creature was. My eyeballs dilated as my brain processed the image my eyes met. It wasn’t a mere dog. This was the wolf that had escaped the National Zoo on Tuesday. It turned as it sensed my presence. It howled aloud maybe inviting his pack for a delicious meal of human flesh. I shook and trembled in fear. I have never been so scared in my entire life. I stood, frozen still and sweating profusely.

It snared at me as it left its unfinished meal for a better one. It unrolled the flesh covering itss mouth exposing scary sharp teeth. I can swear I saw it smack its moist lips. It was taunting me. I still wielded the cutlass in my arm. It paced back and forth maybe waiting for me to run. I was no fool, I have read some books on the wild and I even follow up the discovery channel. I knew how these things hunted. They hunted their preys by inflicting fear in them. It snared at me once again this time rushing towards me hungrily. I managed to swing the sharp cutlass end of the cutlass in time to hit it smack on the nose. It squealed crashed to the ground wriggling in pain.

I wasn’t going to let this animal get the better of me. I summoned up courage and athletically advanced towards it, slashing it on the head once more with my cutlass. This time I cut real deep, fracturing its skull. It was a clean head blow and it let out animalistic noises as if it was begging me to have mercy. I wasn’t no fool you know, you don’t mess with a full blooded Ibo boy and go free. It died few minutes later leaving behind its heavy carcass which I hauled back home on my broad shoulders.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/10/31/fallen-hero-alabi-ayomide/

When I was young, I never understood why people cried so much when they lost a friend or relative. After all, when someone dies he or she is going to rest in a better place or so I thought. I never actually felt concerned about it because I had never felt the pain of losing someone so dear and of great importance to me until the 23rd of June 2013 when it happened at 8.45am. On this fateful day, I was on my way to my diploma lesson at University of Lagos (UNILAG) but for some reason I decided to go to the hospital to check on Aunt Choosy who was admitted earlier but gave up the ghost that morning. I couldn’t believe it because I never, not even for a second believed that people who God probably took a lot of time to create could actually die.

Aunty Choosy was an easy going person, easy to talk to but at the same time very strict when it came to education. We usually called her Aunty Iron Hand. At a point, I saw her to be this very wicked person who was always picking on me, nothing I did no matter the score I had in my exams if it wasn’t 58/60 and above, it wouldn’t please her. Little did I know she was only looking out for me but no one understood why she was my favourite aunt and neither did I. All I could say was that I was afraid of her.

The midterm continuous assessment results were out already and I was so excited to see my scores and eager to show Aunt Choosy so I called home from the boarding school but no one was answering, I called Aunt Choosy’s phone too but it was switched off. I became extremely worried. “What could have happened?” I asked myself. Several hours passed and still no response from anyone. “OLADIMEJI OLUWAFEMI your mum is on the phone,” the house master shouted repeatedly till I got to him. I ran with so much excitement, “Maami what happened, I have been calling your phone all day. What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Femi, Aunt Choosy had an accident but not to worry she would be fine.” Maami said, paused to let the news sink in and then continued, “she just needs to undergo surgery.”

“Okay I hope she gets well soon,” I replied in a faint voice.

Two days passed I didn’t hear from Maami or anything about Aunty Choosy. I became afraid so I called again. “Maami, what’s wrong? Is Aunt Choosy okay? How was the surgery?” I asked continuously but I got no response. “Maami are you there?” I asked again.

“Femi I am here, well Aunt Choosy’s surgery was successful but there’s a little problem Aunt Choosy is in a coma and the doctors have been doing all they can to revive her but not to worry she will be fine,” Maami said.

Thirteen days passed and Aunt Choosy was still in a coma, she couldn’t eat or drink water. “Wow!! She’s indeed a fighter,” Doctor Maxwell said as he placed his stethoscope on Aunt Choosy’s unconscious body. “There is no way she won’t get well,” he added. We were so over joyed with the news but little did we know that the joy was going to be short lived. The next morning we all rushed to LUTH because Aunt Choosy was finally leaving the intensive care unit to a normal ward to recuperate.

“Maami, how long will Aunt Choosy stay in the ward before I’ll be able to see her?” I asked because I needed to see her before going for the diploma lesson.

“Well we can’t say for now but don’t worry you will see her soon.”

Suddenly, we saw the doctors and nurses running back and forth the intensive care unit, ‘what could be happening’ I wondered. I decided to peep since the door to the ICU was left wide open. I noticed that Aunt Choosy’s monitor went from beeping at intervals to beeping continuously nonstop. Then I saw the doctors trying to revive her and tears rolled down my face as I walked towards the waiting room hopelessly.

“What’s going on with you, why are you crying?” Maami asked anxiously but I couldn’t answer. Shortly after, Doctor Maxwell walked in with a gloomy look.

“I’m sorry but we lost her,” he said in a mild tone. The entire waiting room was filled with noise from weeping as Aunt Choosy’s lifeless body was moved to the morgue. I became academically lost without Aunty Choosy, she was basically the only one who believed in my dreams of being a pilot. But here I am studying accounting which I am not doing so well in. She left the entire family behind way too soon.

Every morning I wake up and pray to the heavens for just a minute to tell her how I feel about the whole situation and another minute to say goodbye to my hero properly. For thine is the kingdom the power and the glory forever and ever. Amen.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/10/29/a-living-hell/

“Stop please. You’re hurting me.” I repeat like a mantra but my abusive husband of six months is deaf to my pleas. This is the third time he has physically assaulted me this week and it is just Thursday. I inwardly calculate the amount of money I have spent on concealers since we got back from our honeymoon. As he uses me to practice his boxing exercises, my mind flashes back to the first time I saw him.


I was a fresh graduate from the University of Nigeria still in search of a greener pasture. I had just recently completed my National Youth Service Corps program and finally had to move back to Lagos to live with my family. It was one sunny Monday that I was combing the streets of Lagos for vacancies that Chike and I met. He was tall, broad, handsome and very charming. His charm has a switch then but was now broken when it came to matters involving me. I was glad I was dressed in one of my finest attires when a Land Rover parked by my side of the road and the sexiest Greek god I had ever seen or imagined asked if I needed a lift. I quickly agreed as the sun was blazing and I could not pass up an opportunity to see an Adonis up close.

He had the perfect white teeth that radiated the sun rays when he smiled or spoke. His long black eyelashes framed his face beautifully and made me envious. His eyes were shaped like the seeds of a lentil, beautiful, smooth and spherical. His face sported a slightly crooked nose which boasted of several fights but the ruggedness and odd angle it stood at added to his sex appeal. He had a full head of hair and each hair strand stood out proud and curly. I constantly stared at him with my mouth wide open and mostly did not hear what he said.

I was lost in my sea of thoughts but was brought back to the present by a firm but gentle tap on my shoulder. I apologized for my wanderings and asked if there was any problem.

“Oh no. No problem at all. I just wanted to know the name of the beauty gracing me with her presence,” he said. I blushed a deep shade of crimson and wished then I wasn’t one of those with the light skins that tell all its secret. But then being light skinned also had its advnatages, it meant I was considered very beautiful.

“Oluchi. My name is Oluchi,” was my reply. He nodded and said my name suited me well. My name means ‘work of God.” As the well trained child I was, I thanked him and he proceeded to ask me where my destination was. After a couple of minutes in an enjoyable car ride that had no dull nor quiet moment, Chike dropped me in front of my house and asked me for my phone number. I tried playing coy but ended up giving him before stepping out of his car, thanking him then proceeding into the house.

I had not fully planted my feet in the house before my mother started questioning me on who dropped me off. Having a tight knit relationship with my mother meant there were no rooms for lies so I started narrating the whole incident to her and her reaction was her smiles and advices before she told me to make dinner for myself.

The following weeks saw Chike calling me at every free time he could get and trying his hardest to gain my love. We were constantly going on dates, visiting each other and he even came to my church a couple of times. He met my family and won their hearts over with his charm and self-confidence. He was well liked by my friends and I was the envy of all. My new boyfriend helped me to secure a very good job at a multinational company, pay for my siblings’ school fees, support my family and helped me start a little business of mine. Chike was liked and respected by all and sundry. After the best nineteen months of my life, he popped the question. It was a romantic moment as he asked me by writing the question on a pair of killer heels I had coveted for a while. The whole incident had me bouncing like a beach ball and I told the story to all who cared to listen and more. I flashed my ring everywhere I went and in a couple of months we were married.

That was when everything went sour. My lover turned into a monster I did not recognise. He kept constant tabs on me and even goes as far as getting someone to follow me around and report to him. He checks my phones and all my social accounts and beats me up if I have any male follower or friend. He completely alienated me from my friends and forbade me from seeing my family. He constantly feeds them with lies about how tied up we were with our jobs and our undying love for each other. He keeps up his financial duties concerning my family and refuses to let me do a thing. He even goes as far as selecting my wardrobe. To the public we look happy and in love but I am very sad and lonely. As quickly as it started, the beatings became frequent and worse. I get beatings for something as trivial as forgetting water in the electric kettle. Yes, he is that petty. I am constantly in and out of hospitals for internal bleeding, broken bones and concussions. I have become a life size punching bag and there is no one to turn to. I have tried talking to my mother but she gives the excuse of me being a married woman now and I have to endure whatever may come my way so I can have a happy marriage.

This current beating is as a result of using our second best China to serve his Sunday meal. We had just gotten back from our parish and I had quickly gone into the kitchen to put everything in place for our Sunday brunch. I particularly felt so close to God today, it was almost like I could touch him. I prepared his favourite which was garri and okazi soup in the fashion he loved so much and was very pleased with myself. All I can remember as I set the table was the darkening of his eyes, the long purposeful strides to where I was and the hefty slap I was landed with that left me dazed for a couple minutes. I stood shocked and tried asking what was wrong but all I got were punches and kicks with him shouting that I used the China. He is currently breaking China on my head and as I scream in pain, he slams my head against the wall. I feel a dizziness and the darkness envelopes. I close my eyes, the darkness is soothing and I give in to it, refusing to fight any longer.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/10/28/talking-drums-the-revelation-obed-okocha/

We are sitting far from each other, and allowing silence take preeminence. She is sobbing and murmuring things that my ears cannot pick – I was not even interested. Why did she choose to smash my her heart against broken bottles? I really did not see this coming, I thought she meant the three popular words of I LOVE YOU – she was not different from the rest, she was just a vulture. “True love is a bastard, a concept coined not in a dictionary but a fairy tale annoyingly believed by man. A bastard being emptiness, it never existed. A true lie.” I was saying inwardly with a bitter and damaged heart.

Titi is supposed to be my wife in a month’s time, a woman that I was to call my other half. We kept a vow, we were not going to have sex before our big wedding, and whenever she says this all my replies took one form, “I have heard baby, whatever baby says is cool by me.” I always smiled whenever her face and mannerism tiptoed into my exclusive thoughts, she was all I could talk about whenever I chill at Mama Ndubisi’s beer joint with my friends all tagged along – little did I know I was in for a shocker.

I met Titi somewhere in Abuja during my hustling years. She has a pointed nose, slim body, and big smile. I knew she was the girl for me, and after two months of meeting, we were the perfect love birds. I remember how we shopped in every shopping mall in Abuja – Tuesday nights were never complete without a late night movie in Jabi. I enjoyed her company so much, and it was not long after that that I slipped an engagement ring on her finger. “Oh man, as money don kiss my life, and as e don sama me with better girl, why will I not dance shoki?”, that was my give away punchline whenever my friends and I discussed our escapades, attachments, and breakups.

“Yoruba? Yoruba girl?? Last year was Calabar, earlier this year was Igbo and one tomboy Fulani girl. Ugochukwu, what is with the swap of girls? I hope you are not looking forward to tasting every tribe before you inform us of the final pick? Hmm.” Mama had said during my last visit to her and as you would expect, I was with the defense. “Ehn oo! I did not come to get a slight affront from you or anybody. She is Yoruba, and so? Later we would be saying Nigeria is doing bad when all we do is foster discrimination even within our country. I am getting married on Christmas day which is a month away and your blessings would matter.” My mum was sluggish in saying, “Sorry, Mr. Lawyer, I hope you win this case.” I hate how she twists all those words to cause a pierce in my chest. I left her sight immediately and was quickly on the next available bus to the city.

Titi always said she was a virgin. It was what even gave her a pass mark as I boasted same. “I am slightly unwell,” I was telling her over my mobile phone. I did not think she would come that night as it was almost 11pm. “Boo boo, what is wrong na?” Her hug was comforting, I seemed to have suffered I MISS YOU sickness as my body began to shape well; for a second, I was off colour, but on seeing her I was as a monkey. With ripened and overdue want, I muttered something like “kiss me’. All her efforts to make me see the possible effect my advances would have on our vows did not work. She laughed like a witch, it worried me a bit but I shook it off as one of those lady-like way of expressing take me in your arms. With my lights switched off, the sex episode was granted adventure for extras as I had to find her tiny lips, and every organ sensually relevant. One pound, no screams; she lied to me, Titi was no virgin – what if it was our wedding night?..I was completely disappointed, my mood was out, and like faint drops from a tap, my libido was shrinking calculatedly. A white flash from her eyes! I jumped up immediately, and she was quick to put on the light. “Baby what is the problem?” she asked with the hope that I did not notice she was not a virgin. I kept mute and backed her, sitting far from her while still on the bed. Her groaning flew in, she was apologizing – she felt I noticed the easy access and leak in her forbidden fruit.

Here am I, completely silent and glancing at the hour-glass shaped instrument my grand ma bought for me when I was 10. I did not say a word to Titi, if I wanted to, it will be to apologize for believing in true love. I sat in silence, the talking drum had its bigger face staring back at me. “Oh! This must be the encumbrance to my emotional prosperity,” I said aloud. My grandma never liked me, she is probably the talking drum, the five girls I ditched were of similar situations – all non-virgins, all with shiny white eyes flashing at once.

“Tonight I smash you,” I talked to the talking drum. Upon exiting my door, the curved stick, the well-polished membrane used in beating melodious rhythms on the gan gan (talking drum), aroused me in a manner never experienced. So I play my gan gan, and I smash it not.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/10/27/haunting-shadows-episode-1-rooky-kamiz/

“Where could he be by this time?” I ask myself as the big clock chimed its twelfth count. It was 12am and my darling husband was nowhere to be found. I stand up from my working table to stretch my back. I had been bent over this darn script for hours and the only break I had gotten was the short dash I made to the kitchen to carry down the burnt pot of beans I had left cooking. Very burnt pot of beans I had left. I tend to get carried away with work a lot, but in my defense, the script is due for submission in a few days and I still had a turn of corrections left to make before it is even marginally presentable for review.
I walk to the window on the other end of the room and look out, hoping to see the headlights of my husband’s car making it into the driveway of our mini-mansion. Aside from the occasional night lights that broke into the darkness, the drive way was as dark and empty as could be. Not a sound was to be heard for miles, as we had no neighbours. A light breeze blows in through the window, momentarily chilling me. I straighten up, close the window and went back to work. That should get my mind off things for a while.

“Where in devil’s name could this man be na?” I ask myself two hours later as the clock signaled the end of the hour. He should have been home by now. Kunle stayed out late, but never this late. Has something bad happened to him? I try his cell phone. The automated voice calls out a lack of network connection. His office number rang and rang, and kept ringing. Ha! Where could he be? I try his best friend, Shola. Surely Shola knows where he is.

“Shola, sorry to disturb you. Do you know where Kunle is?”

“Kunle said he was going home hours ago na,” Shola answers with the voice of someone forced out of a really exciting activity. Sleep.

“He isn’t home and he isn’t reachable,” I could feel my eyebrows forcibly coming together as my forehead folds up in concern.

“Ha! Let me try calling him. Maybe he is stuck in traffic or has car trouble.”

“Please do, I am really worried.” I hang up and stare out the window. Haba! Kunle, where are you? I save the unfinished edit of the script I had been working on, forfeiting all hopes of concentration. I shut down the laptop and clear away the mess that was the top of my working table. I carry the almost empty bottle of wine that had been my companion for hours, drain out the little that was left in d bottle down the drain, toss the bottle in the trash and chugged down my half glass in two quick gulps. I was already twirling down the path of blissful sleep when I heard the unmistakable sound of Kunle’s car making its way into the driveway. I had been telling him for weeks to go and get that engine checked out. It sounded like a rat got caught between two cats who were just out to have fun. The engine was crying out for help, but somehow Kunle was oblivious to it. Why fix what’s not broken, he had said. I pick up my BlackBerry and checked the time. 2:30am. I slide my legs off the couch that I had almost fallen asleep on, put on my slipper and walk towards the front door to unlock it. I open it just as a clearly drunk Kunle reaches the first stair. I rub my tired and still sleepy eye as I watch him try to compose himself up and into the house.

“Kunle, don’t tell me you drove in this condition.” I close the door behind him, at the same time I catch him in time to stop him from missing a step that would have sent him Careening into the sitting room and making a big mess of everything.

“What eez deez condition juuu speak of?” A signal of how drunk he was. A very bad one. You could always guage how drunk Kunle was by the way he talked whenever he was under the influence of alcohol. He always imitated a movie character, sometimes even down to the accent. It was not uncommon to hear him say, ”Howdy, guv’nor,” a couple shots into the bottle and right now he was in his Jack Sparrow phase, which was the phase just before the other phase which was the phase before he passed out.

“Speeeeak to me, wench. What eeez deez condition of weeesh juuu speeak?” his words slurred by the pervading and overwhelming presence of alcohol.

“Never mind, just come and sit down,” I try to get him to sit on the sofa that was closest to the door.

“Leave me be, wench. Me thinks me can find me own way around me house. Unless you think me short a man to handle me own business.” And here comes the ‘me’ tirade.

“Just sit down, Kunle, let me get you some water.’

“Me needs rum. Water is for many a faint-hearted man, and Kunle is no faint hearted scum.” He pronounces the ‘scum’ as ‘scam’, so it takes me a while to register what he meant. He muttered some inaudible words again and I ignored him for it was obvious he was intoxicated and I had to get him to rest or if possible bed. After staggering for some seconds moving nowhere in particular he seemed to have remembered something and yelled at me suddenly.

“Me didn’t get no warm welcome and me is meant to be king of this house,” I ignored him one last time trying not to get on my own nerves and handling the situation the best way I could and before I could think straight he pushed me and looked at me with disgust and slight rage, “Don’t you dare me silly what is a “LovePeddler” like you doing awake this late in the night?” he asked

Still staggering and without thinking, I stared at him, and with venom in my voice said, ‘I guess that makes two of us whores now, doesn’t it?” And then like a bomb waiting to explode, he pounced on me and dealt a heavy slap on my ear that rang into my medulla and recalled childhood memories of when I first felt true pain. And at that moment, his ever faithful alibi PHCN interrupted the power supply and in darkness all I could make sense of was his fist cutting through thin air and my voice resonating the pain that tortured my senses and in no time the world turned blurry and faint as I lost grip of consciousness.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/10/26/the-prayer-of-a-sinner-my-solitude-solomon-uhiara/

I am held up in my thoughts like a wolf on a leash, like a wild shark locked in an aquarium. Scared of frivolous nightmares, I hope will never come. The only aid rendered is the drums beating loudly in my head. For countless hours I have been in despair. The pain is so unbearable and so clutching my weak fists, I manage to stare into the eyes of my long awaited oppressor to come finish his bloody sick mind games. His large eyes bulge out, amazed at my instantaneous recovery. Only if I had the wings of an eagle. Only if I could command the armies of heaven to come scare away my fears. Only if I had the powers of Harry Houdini to levitate me out of this quicksand I am sinking into. Only if I had a guardian angel hovering above my head.

When I was a kid, I would stare into the darkness and imagine a figure with deadly horns, red hot eyes and smoky nostrils. No, this wasn’t the grim reaper. This was something else. Something real bizarre. I would yell out my mom’s name and flee. Most times, these images chased me to my doorsteps, most times they retreated. I guess I am a man with fear. I guess I am a man with demons. Demons devouring my hopes, dreams, and sanity. Don’t pretend we all don’t have one in us. It is that negative voice that whispers to you in the middle of the night. It is that wild, shaky and malevolent voice that creeps into your mind when your sanity is at rest. Even as I fiddle with this old ballpoint, listening to some record over the stereo, I still feel those demons hovering like drones above my head. No. They are not my angels. Where did they drift to? They never leave my side or is this a bloody test? Are these demons going to drown me in my sorrows or are they just toying with my emotions? I guess time will tell.

I looked in the mirror last night and just couldn’t gaze at my reflection. The image I saw was blurry. Yes. I know now. I just got a perfect picture. What I saw that night was time erupting like volcano before my shady eyes. Time is wasted, tick-tocking, trying to hear the quiet voice of my savior, stretching forth my arms as I derail into this pit praying to my heavenly Father who repeatedly proves to me of his existence and care despite my little faith. My dearest father, please save me from the darkness engulfing my soul. Save me one more time. Save me from myself. Save me from my actions which I am never able to account for. Emancipate me from greed, selfishness, sheer wickedness and my overwhelming ego. I just am human. Emancipate me from my emotions which always pushes me to wrong paths when am between crossroads. Save me from myself.

I had another nightmare. I saw myself fleeing from fate. I saw myself fleeing from karma. I raced until I threw up my lungs. I felt my respiration fail and my heart trying to burst out of my broad chest. I felt the lines of sweat twinkle down my body, from my neck down to my thighs even as they do right now. Was it another nightmare or just the adversary playing with my imagination? I guess time will tell. Time always whispers. Time always holds the hidden answers. Oh my God. I can hear his loud footsteps from behind me, slowly creeping like a gigantic carnivorous spider towards my sorry ass. How long will this last? How long will it take for this sickening paranoia lurking on top my head like a guillotine? I guess time will tell. It always holds all the answers to our endless questions.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/10/26/vengeance-is-a-red-sea/

When one ember is left alight, no matter how dimly it smoulders, a fire will eventually break out. More is lost through stopping halfway than through total annihilation. The enemy will recover and seek revenge. Men must either be caressed or annihilated; they will seek revenge themselves for small injuries but cannot do so for great ones; the injury therefore that we do to a man must be such that we need not fear his vengeance. Remember, time takes the venom to grow stronger. One should never ignore an enemy thinking him to be weak. He becomes dangerous in due course like a spark of fire in a haystack. They may act friendly but that’s only because you have defeated them. They have no choice but to bide their time. When pity or the hope of reconciliation makes us pull back from doing away with our enemies, we only strengthen their fear and hatred for us. Having beaten them and they are humiliated, why then should you nurture the resentful viper who would someday kill us? Forgiveness for sinners is a sin. God shows this with hell, I showed this with vengeance.

———————————————————————————————-

We were determined to subdue, come what may. All we left with were sheathed weapons to maim, kill only when push came to shove. When the call comes, who are we to disobey? Pawns to lords, lambs to slaughter, so were we. We never tired out as we did the bidding of those whose paths we wished to trod. Sometimes, what we wanted and why we did all we did were unanswerable; it was as though it were out fait accompli.

That night was fateful. Indeed! It was Moses. Moses was my brother-in-arm. He was my forerunner. They called him the Vulture because he never left carcasses until they were buried. With his one eye shut, his prey remained well shot. Moses was my subordinate, meant to start from where I finished. That would tell you how much role I had to play before Moses could come in. I need not tell you that faces may mislead, the heart is dark – darker than the depths of horror. I was ruthless not because I was a killer but because I never cared who was killed and how. I was called Desperado. My boss made me to be in charge of his boys because he admired me. In due time, I became fastened to Moses’s affections. We colluded to execute our every machinations; even the residues that were hidden within the hearts. Moses indeed, grew fond of me and always told me we were in this together. Each time we did stuff, Moses gave me credit for it even as much as I didn’t deserve it desire. Soon, I became that admirable Crichton in the midst of the other guys. This admiration indeed was a free lunch as like everything that comes free, is a hidden obligation or a debt to be paid. You may still be wondering what exactly we were up to. Well, here’s it. We all were acolytes to a panda in the hood. We, who grew together in the same suburb, respected him. Characteristically, he would profligately spend money on us; his generosity was to a fault. We struggled to earn a living not because we were orphans but because the society chose to respect those who resisted dependence, hook or crook. The house was commodious but we enjoyed the cool of cigarette smokes as the fire sparkled up the irresistible desire to plunder and depredate. By struggling, we gambled, we clubbed, we fought and maimed. We couldn’t really say we were slaves to our Boss. We just didn’t have a choice. You know, sometimes in life, we aren’t necessarily put in the best positions to make the best decisions; you can’t be hard on yourself. We weren’t cut out to be this ruthless. Men are wicked, the degree is only variegated. Those who allow darkness to shine through their eyes are called wicked, others who allow goodness to illuminate them are the goodhearted. I was both. I allowed the goodness of obedience to shine through me as I executed the depths of my darkness.

That day, as we arrived the scene, a grassland close by a pub where boys drank to dementia, I entered and met the prey. I confronted him and we rounded him up. He has been a disturbing person to our Boss, hence our predilection to torture him. He was a smaller boy than I am. Of course, we were all small boys just with different levels of cruelty. After harassing him and warning him seriously, the floor was Moses’ to finish the task and then we would flee. Hesitant, Moses spurred me to anger as I asked, “Guy wassup?” He kept looking at me. All of sudden I was slurping out blood from my mouth. It was Ade. Ade hit me hard with a bottle on my head. I slumped to the floor still spewing blood from my mouth. I could barely see clearly. The begging “prey” soon became the one in whose mercy I lay. Beaten to repentance, I was preyed upon. He and his cohorts drinking close-by (another set of vagrant children just like us, thirsting to cause mayhem and regret their lives thereafter),dashed on me like heavy locomotives. I got hit on my head three times without mercy. I was cut and injured badly. Left to embattle with life and death, I remained unconscious for eons of hours. I managed to reach out to a nearby brother who knew “wassup” with me. He kept me for two days before I went back home. I was neither able to eat nor explain myself to anyone as I stealthily received medications. Busy mother had complained begrudgingly times without number but a man has got to do what a man has got to do. In the bitter process of revival, I could still remember they kept asking, “Who send you come this guy?” but I couldn’t recall telling or not. I was sure I didn’t. The last I heard of Moses before I saw myself barfing in blood from a torn head, was, “Na you be the wrong man guy”. To us, that meant that I was the real person to be hunted and not the supposed prey. Nobody told me the mission I went for was to step on the wrong toes, not even Moses. It was his plan to have me beaten. He betrayed me but unlike Judas, it wasn’t with a kiss and like Brutus to Caesar, he gave me the deadliest blow and then deserted me. I felt back stabbed. Of course I was.

It took me months to recover from the wound which till today, has an insignia beneath my hair to remind me of the fact that people have always admired and put me ahead of them because they had an interest they were yet to unsheathe but would eventually. I am wary of the close one because he smells my blood, the way he sees my act. When he gets bored of the smell of my blood, he will strike. Sometimes, the only friends you should keep are subdued enemies because they have more of loyalty to prove. Lesson is, despise the free lunch, every time I remembered the incident, I fueled seven times like a furnace. Sometimes I wished he had crushed me completely because I know I wouldn’t spare him. Other times, I was happy by his undoing.

I left the house 10:00pm on a Sunday, six months later in search of Moses. I had recovered and was now in rude health. I had gathered his new whereabouts. He knew I was going to come with a heart that carried only my reprisal, a hand ready to rend and ears that were shut to supplications of absolution. He fled far from home to another settlement not afar. He holidayed for months not knowing how much I suffered. I got to the foot of the wall of the compound and flipped over it easily. As luck would have it, Ade was about to leave the building when he found me standing at his front. He could not run. Ego wouldn’t let him apologize. In fact, it was a rule – never run, never apologise for death is a necessary evil, which comes when it wills so. Armless, he rushed at me and I devastatingly landed a bottle on his head. I despise Coca Cola. It brings back memories, eh! I kept hitting his head on and on and on. He kept squirming and slurping out squishy fumes out of every visible orifice but for his ears and eyes. Before I left, he plunged into the residue of his wicked heart to throw at me, some parts of the broken bottles. I was assured he wasn’t dead after all. I returned to hit him again, this time on his shoulder blades. He kept groaning loudly till his voice became faint; too faint and then swallowed into nothingness. That was the last I saw of Ade. I hear he is no more, I hear he’s almost dead in a faraway place but each time I care to listen, I hear the cockles of my inner man telling me that even Moses destroyed all the Egyptians in the Red Sea without mercy.

Accept that some will always want to hurt you and destroy your emotions. Depart from them and never consider changing them. When they strike leaving you with a chance to come back, crush them totally.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/10/10/the-story-of-eve-obed-okocha/

I remember everything that happened last night; I remember it like it was a second ago. I put the young man six feet below me for one reason – he deserved it. I am not sorry for what I did, I believe my decision was the best call. The police must be close by already but whilst I await their scary handcuffs, let me tell you my sorry.

My name is Eve. I did not get the opportunity of meeting my biological parents – good I did not. I was found inside a properly weaved basket floating on Mbuti’s gentle stream. Madam Sako, an elderly woman deprived of children saw me and came to my rescue. She believed me to be a gift from the gods, I was deemed an answer to her prayers. I grew up knowing her as mama, I loved her so much. I was more precious to her than Gollum or Smeagol’s love for Frodo’s ring. I was all she was talking about, I was Madam Sako’s laughter. She built trust between us by telling me how she found me, I could have decided to trace my roots but I was still calling her my mama – she was my comforter.

I was nine years old, still yet to start school. I was always assisting in mama’s shade. Ishi Ekpe village was remote to development, it had two schools which was presumably erected by Mr. Adolphus upon missionary visits to our village decades ago. Mama could not afford N15,000 school fees, and this was why I did not see the gate of the schools – I understood the financial confrontations. Mama called me one evening and tipped me about her discussion with Mazi Arinze. She was telling me how Mazi Arinze requested I accompany him to the city that I may become somebody, only for her to be in tears. Mama wanted the best for me, but was luminously scared of letting me go to an unfamiliar place.

“Mama ki mee i na-ebe akwa?(mama why are you crying?)”, I asked innocently. I felt it was a great idea only to join in the tears when mama said she was not going to the city with Mazi Arinze and I. It was a complete emotional night for us but what had to be done had to be done. Mazi Arinze came the following morning, he was mama’s childhood friend, with a Nokia phone. He gave this to mama, he gave mama money to get a sim card and whatever she might need. They agreed there and then that I would come back every December. I was happy that I would see mama in a short time as it was by my calendar, September. More exciting was the fact that I was going to pursue a good life in the city.

“Mama, motor, cheii motor”, I said this smiling sheepishly. I hugged mama goodbye, and quickly entered the blue Peugeot car. We arrived Lagos in the evening, and I was too sleepy and exhausted to notice that Mazi Arinze fathered eight girls probably my age. It was 6am the next day when Mazi Arinze came to my room, he held my hand and welcomed me to Lagos once more. He discussed school plans with me, he told me that I would start the following week to catch up with the already begun session. I was entirely grateful, and was asking almost immediately if he was the father of the eight girls. He laughed after an unconscious belabor of OH OH OH; “Mbanu my daughter, mu na-enye nnu ncha aka ka uwa di mma” (no my daughter, I am only giving you girls assistance that you all find life less of an albatross), he carefully stressed. He said he had just one son named Buchi. Mazi Arinze then told me that there was great need to change my name from Nwamaka to Eve. When I curiously asked why, he said that this is the city and English or succulent names are borne by every child. I believed wholeheartedly. “Mazi ka maka nwa gi? O noo na lagos?”(Sir what of Buchi, is he in Lagos too?), I was asking. Mazi Arinze told me that Buchi was in Spain schooling; he was proud talking about his son’s ever excellent performance even without me prompting the long details.

I had grown into a woman. I was 20 years of age but was still under the roof of Mazi Arinze.

“Sir, I would like to visit mama. I learnt she is unwell”, I said. Mazi Arinze seemed carried away and when I traced his eyes, he was staring at my chest area.

“Mazi! Mazi!”, I smiled – he was only being a man lustfully attracted to ripened breasts (I understood his unconscious glance). I needed money to take care of mama, but Mazi could not be of assistance, he expressed his broke state – the girls that I grew up with stole his savings from his cherished KOM KOM, and were nowhere to be found. Buchi was back from Spain, he was now a medical doctor, he was now my last hope if I must get the required sum to save my dying mama.

“Hey Senorita! Why are you looking perturbed? Come sit on my lap that I may solve your troublesome worries,” Buchi said. Buchi and his words, he knew how to make me blush – his thighs seemed like heaven as it was enough comfort whenever I rested my bottom on it.

“My mom is down in health, and I need N50,000 for now so that the doctor over there can commence treatment,” I was saying. Buchi quickly reminded me that he was a qualified medical doctor, and while he stroked my hair, he said,

“Tell Mama that she will be fine. my team will get her fixed tomorrow.”

I could not control my emotions anymore, I was kissing Buchi aggressively. He was busy touching me in my private chambers, he was the only man that understood my body language. He was not only skilled at healing the sick off the hospital bed, but he was extremely adroit at doing more than enough to my urge plea.

“Hmmm..uhhh…Buchi stop! We cannot make love, you are like a bro..”, I was about completing my sentence. Buchi was not going to have no for an answer, so he forced my legs open and defiled me. I was hurt so bad, he left me bleeding and laughed.

“Ewoo! O Buchi mee m ife? Sooo!! Chimoo”(is it Buchi that did this to me?), I cried in my room. I became his sex slave afterwards as he came for more chops most of the time. I could not take it anymore and had to report to his father who was instead quick to deny my claims. I was kicked out of the house, and settled with N100,000 by them. I used the cash to pay hospital bills for myself and mama. Mama died of cancer regardless. I came back for blood, I went back to Lagos to stop the screams from my inside – mama was screaming in my head though six feet under. My world was ruined, my life knew extinction, and my hope was met with shadows. Buchi was just about entering the compound when I caught him unawares with a noiseless stab; he died with little struggle as his heart accommodated the big knife. I killed him in front of the gate man, I was totally relieved.

NOW:
I am listening to the policeman read my rights to me.

“You are under arrest for the murder of Mr. Buchi Okonji. You have the right to remain silent as whatever you say or do will be used against you in the court of law…”

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/10/10/spiritually-or-manually-inflicted-part-2-da-jandy/

Excerpt from part 1:

As we drove home, neither of us uttered a word concerning what transpired the previous day until we got to our street and then in his usual manner, Damian told me not to mention a word of what had happened should our parents inquire of his activities. As always I kept my mouth shut.

When we got home, mum sighting my luggage inquired about the reason why I returned so soon. The quickest reply that hovered around my mind was, “Mum, I missed you so I decided to come back home”.

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

Daddy asked Damian about school and Damian replied that school was fine. Dad also inquired whether the car had also reduced stress for Damian (in my corner where I was staring at the both of them, I thought, of course it has reduced the stress of taking a cab to go clubbing at least now he can drive down to the club at any time with his squad). Damian accented to that fact. Satisfied, Dad went inside to relax and the rest of the household went about their normal activities with everyone going to sleep inside to sleep at about 10pm.

The following day, our ritual (morning devotion) was done and everyone went their separate ways. Damian returned to school that day and throughout that week I reminisced about the drunken state incident. In my mind, I said a prayer to God to protect and guide my elder brother not to encounter danger in his escapades. Like the saying goes “he whom an elder loves, he chastise”. Fast forward to about two years later, Damian was a final year student and I had almost rounded off my secondary schooling. The little sister was also coming along just fine. It was second semester for Damian and of course the last semester of his five year acquisition of knowledge journey. Mum and Dad had called him specifically at the beginning of the session to admonish him on how to continually “be the good boy that he has always been”. He thanked them with promises of his good conduct and went off to school with the knowledge that it was his last lap and he needed to be subtle on his unproductive movements and rather give all his energy to his academics so as to graduate with a very high grade. It worked out well for him because he distanced himself from his friends.

On the day of his last exam, having just concluded his last paper and being in a state of jubilation, his friends came and suggested that they all go out to make merry. They were all ecstatic at having successfully completed their final exams. Damian thought about the call he received from Mum and Dad that morning intimating him about a dream which mum had. She had dreamt about an accident but he was quick to allay her fears promising her to drive carefully. As his friends urged for a round of jubilation, he pushed the thought to the back of his mind, he wasn’t going to drink too much and besides, it was the last day of chilling with his guys. Evening came and Damian in company of his friends drove to Club Iyalobo which was situated at a distance away from the campus. As expected, it was a fun galore for them as usual. At first, Damian was conscious about his alcohol intake knowing fully well that he would be driving them back to school later on and also the dream about the accident kept pushing its way back to his consciousness. He however threw caution to the winds when his friends began to tease him about his lackluster attitude and he began to gulp as much alcohol as them. Despite not being too high, his spirit felt disturbed as they drove back to school. The last he remembered was the loud music blaring from the car stereo when he woke up in the hospital. He and his friends survived but the car was a write off. Mum and Dad were mad at him but at the same time grateful to God that it was not a fatal accident. Dad wondered what people would have said if he as a devout Anglican had lost his senior son in a motor accident just when he had completed his final papers while Mum blamed the accident on the work of evil doers.

Damian recovered fully and began to live a normal life and even secured a job with a company but he never forgot that incident, the only thing that kept and still flickers in his mind is whether the accident was perpetrated by evil ones or whether it was self-destruct. Till this very moment, he is still in a dilemma as to what to believe on whether the accident was spiritually or manually inflicted.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/10/07/saved-by-hope-solomon-uhiara/

The once glittering roofs turned pale brown due to the harsh weather condition during the dry season. The brown leaves lying scattered below dance to the rhythm of the wind in a random motion. The wind sweeps them into the streets and further to the other side. The grasses being compelled to the heat surrender the juice in them to the scorching sun. Over at the next yard on which the Catholic Church stood, the huge bell swung from one to the other indicating the next mass. It’s the dry season again you know. The journey of the dusty wind from the Sahara deserts to this place will soon be felt wildly by the young, elderly, sick and the unborn. The winds still ravaging the entire street peel out the loose roofs, passing clouds of dust from window to window and doorstep to doorstep. It soon gets close to rescue their abode from the menace and encroachment of the plastic bags and nylons held hostage by the wind.

She managed to pin the glass window to the frame, cutting short the illumination that had once graced the room. Alone she was in the dark. She couldn’t afford going to the kitchen to light the kerosene lantern. In fact the darkness suited her. At least the eyes of the gods were turned off from her. She lay on the cemented floor which previously cold and mild was turning warm and itchy. She still didn’t mind. She lay there restlessly rolling from one side to other. Her health was deteriorating, muscles weakened accompanied with a hacking cough that made the itches in her sore throat chronic. She lay down for hours as she focused her eyes into the pitch darkness wondering the number of forces lurking in the darkness to claim her doomed soul. Life was paying her back for her deeds.
“Life is wicked and dreadful,” she thought to herself. Maybe the dirty arms of death will be welcoming. Maybe the abyss won’t after all be what they claim it to be. She whispered a prayer to her Maker, pleading mercy and freedom.

She was edged back to consciousness by the heavy metallic ring tone of her cell phone. She grinned in annoyance and heaved a sigh of relief as she stretched forth her left arm to grab it from the top of the tiny mattress. It was her lover, Chika. She smiled thinly to herself then clicked to answer. His cool voice set ablaze all the negative notions she had within herself.

“How are you now? Am sorry I have not come to visit,” he said softly. That was all she needed at the moment. Someone to tell her sorry. Someone to care and talk her back to the young fragile person she once was. And this voice on the other end was the answer to her silent prayers. They conversed for minutes as he tried to lure her back to health mentally. He knew her so well. He knew what she was like when she was ill and so understood every bit of her condition without her even pushing far with explanations. This was the only reason she chose to live life anyway. Without his strong but mild voice on the other, she wouldn’t be plastered with these smiles on her face. She despised death and the abyss. She despised despair. She despised hopelessness.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/10/07/spiritually-or-manually-inflicted-part-1-abolagba-da-jandy-joshua/

The day started like every normal day with my parents, siblings and I gathering together in the living room to have morning devotion. My Dad was a devout Anglican and if you observed him from afar you would conclude that he was a deacon or better still a priest. My mum likewise was obsessed with the duties she carried out in the Women’s Guild. Flowing from this insight on my family, one could say that we were a Christ like family.

The devotion started with my Dad leading us to recite the Apostles Creed. He never missed it. Later on, he prayed for me and my siblings, admonishing us to be godly children and eschew societal vices which youths engaged in. My elder brother, Damian was the only one in higher institution, he was about 20 years of age and although he portrayed a Christ like attitude at home, in school he wasn’t much of a religious person. You would wonder as to how I knew about this being that I was barely a teenager (13 years) and still in secondary school. I knew because he would always keep late nights at school when I go over to his apartment which he stayed in school. Dad was wealthy and willing to spend money on his family (both nuclear and extended) so as for them not to seem impoverished. Damian to my knowledge kept bad company in school I was well aware of this but he had chastised me not to mention anything I saw happening in his school at home. I didn’t want to annoy my elder brother so I religiously kept my mouth shut even when mum and dad inquired about how Damian was faring at school. All I usually did was to reply saying, “he is doing fine” and that was all I was permitted to utter.

Damian despite his lifestyle was not academically weak, as a matter of fact he was one of the scholars in his class and all the lecturers would sing of his academic gusto. Little were they aware of his escapades with his friends who ironically also did well academically. At a certain level, Dad decided to buy Damian a car, mum supported the idea (of course which mother wouldn’t, at least her son was doing well) and within a week my elder brother had a brand-new automobile. He was glad and when he was returning to school, he took me along because as at this time my school was on holiday and I had days to spare with him. I could make some meals too, that also made Damian to always crave for my company even though he knew I saw things which ordinarily I shouldn’t have seen.

At the end of class the following day, Damian came back to his apartment and whisked away some outing outfits in company of his not so friendly friends. They came back very late at night and I was already asleep, they banged on the door and when I opened the door, they rushed in. It was obvious they had gone clubbing or drinking, and the first thing they did was to for food, Damian asked me to bring the meal which I had prepared earlier. I brought it and they all devoured it before going off into sleep, their snores competing like two athletes on a track. The following day was a week day and they ought to have had a class but dem broses slept past their time for class thereby wasting the full day. At about 1pm in the afternoon, they woke up and headed their various ways, leaving myself and Damian behind. Damian freshened up and went to read. Later that evening he drove the both of us home. I took along my things telling him I would love to spend my remaining holiday at home. As we drove home, neither of us uttered a word concerning what transpired the previous day until we got to our street and then in his usual manner, Damian told me not to mention a word of what had happened should our parents inquire of his activities. As always I kept my mouth shut.

When we got home, mum sighting my luggage inquired about the reason why I returned so soon. The quickest reply that hovered around my mind was, “Mum, I missed you so I decided to come back home.”

To be continued

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/10/07/our-babies-daddy-two-sisters-and-a-man-queen-izuwa/

The pianist played a melody to usher the bride and groom into the cathedral. I was all smiles, my relationship with Funmi my younger sister had been non-existent since we lost our parents in a car crash over eight years ago and I couldn’t make it to the burial. I had sent money though, only to get an alert the next day with a text from Funmi saying “Never mind”. All efforts to speak to her have been fruitless. Imagine my excitement to get an invitation card delivered to my office for her wedding ceremony as “A GUEST” boldly written on it; at least i was invited.

The groom walked in first. To my shock, it was the same guy who had attacked and robbed me of my innocence in my first year in the university. The father of my 13 year old son, having the baby of an unknown father had destroyed my relationship with my parents before their untimely death. After they had questioned me about who impregnated me and all I could do was cry day and night. My aunt who was unmarried had come to pick me up from the house and I moved to live with her in Abuja. How could he marry my sister? He stared at me now and just looked away, almost like I was insignificant.

Was he thinking I won’t remember him? That tall frame, perfect dentition and eyes that bore into my soul and shone like the knife he had held at my throat as he violated me over and over again. No! I had never forgotten him. That night had changed my life forever. I am 32 years old, unmarried and cannot dedicate myself to loving wholly. My mind whirled and turned in different directions. He had ruined my life and I would be damned if I let him ruin my sister’s. The Father’s voice brought me back to the present, asking, “Is there anyone who wish this man and woman not be joined in holy matrimony? Let him or her speak up now or forever hold his or her peace.” He turned to look at me, I could see amusement in his eyes at my discomfort and that devilish half grin of his as he faced the Father and made a hand gesture for him to continue.

I jerked up and mumbled some words of him being the father of my son. Funmi slumped to ground. I rushed out to lean over her, felt her pulse, thank God she was alive. Just then, I noticed the baby bump. Tears welled up in my eyes. I was too late.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/10/05/birthdays-are-for-mourning-a-widows-lament/

Have you ever had a day that means two things to you? Like the day you finally got a bicycle is the day you broke your leg or the day you were born is the day your dad died. Or the day you got a promotion at work is the day your house burnt down, or the day you got your retirement is the day you discovered you had an aggressive form of cancer. Maybe your dad got a stroke at your wedding or your best friend drowned at your birthday beach party. Or your spouse died on Valentine’s day or your son went missing on Christmas day and you never found him. Or your last living parent died on the day of your convocation. So how do you feel on this day? Are you supposed to be happy or sad?

I ask myself these every year when my birthday comes up. It’s like a reminder that I have lived one more year without my husband. I can remember the year he died, he rushed off to work as usual. I had a nightmare but I didn’t get a chance to tell him so I just prayed and let it go. No stupid nightmare was going to spoil my day I got up, got dressed in my birthday suit, did the most beautiful makeup I could that morning. Called the confectionery to make sure everything was going fine with the cake order. I called my friends to make sure everyone was clear on the events for the day. I got to work and checked with my staff to be sure everything was fine. And nothing was out of place. I called my children to make sure everything was going fine for them at school and to remind them to be home by evening so we will celebrate. So everything was going perfectly as planned so what was the point of the nightmare? I prayed again anyway. Then I called my husband, he was in his car on the way to the airport, he had a job to do that day in another state. I prayed for him as usual “Make sure you’re back in time for the party” I told him.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world dear, just wait till you see your birthday present,” that’s the last thing I heard him say. There was this loud noise, I heard him shout something, the call got disconnected. I got worried so I called back immediately and his phone was switched off. I called his two other phones but they were switched off as well. I called his driver’s phone, switched off too. What was happening? I called everybody at his work place, they said they will trying reaching him. I waited impatiently, nobody called back I picked my car keys and drove off to his office. I needed answers and apparently nobody was going to tell me anything if I didn’t meet them. When I got to his office, I asked for his PA, I was told he just left to do some work. “I’ll wait for him then,” I replied. 5pm saw me at home with all my friends, staff, children already getting on with the birthday party plans. I broke down in tears when I saw them. Temi was involved in a fatal car crash that morning. They called his office and his PA had to go identify his body at the mortuary. At that moment all i could do was hold my kids tight and cry. I couldn’t hear a thing anyone was saying. I don’t know when I passed out. When I opened my eyes at about 9pm, I decided to call Temi to check on him and make sure he would get back home before 12am tonight and also to ask what he wanted for dinner. His phone was switched off, then I remembered the nightmare that was my birthday. I screamed then, so loudly my family rushed in, I still have no memory of how the rest of the night went.

So now every year my kids get me a cake and birthday presents. They try to cheer me up. “Mum you have to promise us that you won’t think of dad today,” I will nod and smile. But what sort of person would I be if I didn’t remember Temi? So my question is, “Am I supposed to be happy on my birthday? Do I have the right to be happy? How am I supposed to feel? Is my birthday still supposed to be a good day for me? Is it my birthday or Temi’s remembrance?” To be honest, every time I go to bed on the 11th of June, I silently hope not to wake up the next morning but for my children but then I never know what to do or how to feel, I wish the day could be taken off the calendar.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/10/05/fulani-boy-my-story-of-betrayal/

I remember Usman even today. His memory lingers like a pale veil hovering in my subconscious. Sometimes I even seem to hear his voice ululating in my mind. The throaty clatter of his words used to make me laugh. I remember when I first met him. He had been quarreling with Mama Useni over the sizes of kwose she had wrapped into his package. They were too small, he had complained. As she spat angry words at him in reply, cussing in the most unholy tune, I came along with my flask, whistling under my breath. Words may not describe my consternation on seeing him quarreling with Mama Useni. Nobody ever confronted Mama Useni over her unscrupulousness. She had the most hideous voice and a wicked tongue and since she was the only one who sold kwose in the vicinity, we all grew to condone her egregiousness. The only other option was to give up the treat of having kwoko and kwose in the morning. For most of us, this was unimaginable. Usman must have felt as strongly, but he had always been too ornery. I was glad to finally find someone who could afford to antagonize Mama Useni.

I hated Mama Useni. I really did. I hated her loud voice and her nagging attitude. I hated the fact that she always called me Nyamiri with that particular disgusted edge to her tone and she always sold me the smallest balls of kwose! But I was always too chicken to complain and so I was rather shocked when I saw the skinny Fulani boy, barely my age, quarreling on an equal platform with the gorgon. When I eventually got served my package of kwose that day, I gave him one ball from it. Only then did he let Mama Useni to her peace. To me, it was my way of commending a bravery I could never afford. He thanked me heartily and left; heading straight to the bush market, where as I came to realize, he lived.

I was heading to school that day. Later on, he came to meet me in mama’s shed in the bush market, and invited me to play football with him. He seemed to have known me even before that morning. He was the first boy and only boy in the community to have asked me out to play. I was grateful. After that day, we became friends; me, the Igbo boy who just newly moved with his family to Tudun-wada and himself, the unusual Fulani boy. He was really something else you see. The way his mouth twisted into an unexpected grin when his little mind conceived the most mischievous pranks, and the way he knew all the roads and all the games and all the scary stories. He once told me a story of two truck-pushers who used to live in the community who killed themselves after smoking Indian hemp. Apparently, they struck each other to death in the bush, thinking each other to be demons. Their ghosts were said to still linger in the bush market, looking for Indian hemp. You could only see them through the veil of smoke that streamed from a stub of Indian hemp. I actual believed his stories. He was the most exceptional almagiri. He could speak almost fluent English and knew things about school I didn’t even know. He told me everything I came to know about universities until I eventually entered one. He would have been a bright student. Usman soon became my best friend. I would give him food whenever he came over to my house, mostly from my ration. My parents soon got fond of him too. There was nothing not to like about the fair skinned, skinny, polite Fulani boy, with a knack for jokes. He taught me many things over the years of our friendship. I finally was able to pull together sentences in Hausa under his tutelage. In return, I taught him to read. The last time I saw him was ten years ago, on our last night in Kaduna.

That night, the rioters broke into our compound with their glistering sickles and sharp daggers. They blew into our building, the cold wind of doom. The sad realization that came with their chants left the stomach watery and the eyes weak. That night, they killed my father and my brother in their hysteric ritual. I watched my brother’s head get severed from his neck by Mallam Musa the butcher from under the silhouette of our cushion in the parlor. I would have screamed, if saliva and the air from my heavy breathing did not leave a clog in my throat. They didn’t find me, and they left. Papa was killed when he went outside to beg them, speaking Hausa as fluently as themselves, and soliciting in the name of Allah. After they came inside, they noticed my brother behind the TV and offered him to Mallam Musa. Chidi was two years younger than me. Mama had not being around that day. She too would have been killed, her pregnancy notwithstanding. They would have made a huge show of her too. As they left, the men who had killed my father and younger brother took several looks around our one room and parlor apartment as though sensing another presence. And that was the last time I saw Usman. His eyes met mine in one quick flash as he scanned the room before they left. The small dagger he held glowed in the dark, reflecting the red of fresh blood. He quickly took his eyes from mine as he chanted “Allah hu akbar”, easily stimulating a reply from his comrades as he headed for the door. But in the flint second of our interlock, I saw in his eyes a story, one of sadness, despair and guilt. One scary story, he would never get to tell me.

Today I hear his hearty laughter whenever I see another picture of carnage on the TV. And I pray, the warm, throaty sound of it, give me heart for forgiveness.

SOURCE: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/10/01/growing-from-a-boy-to-a-woman-part-2/

Excerpt from part 1:

No!!! God!!! What is happening? Not my voice again. I looked back to where Shade was standing and I watched carefully as tears slowly strolled down her cheeks. I hated to see her cry but I hated more to see myself go through such evil transformation. Something was wrong and as we both wept bitterly, we knew we had to do something.

To read part 1: CHECK PROFILE OR WWW.PENASTORY.COM

Days grew into weeks, weeks into months, months into a full blown year and nothing seemed to change except for my breasts. There was nothing I hadn’t tried. I had gone on several dry fasts, prayed ceaselessly and cried endlessly but it all seemed like God wasn’t listening. It all seemed like the more I attempted to get rid of them, the more they became rounder and firmer. Gosh!!! My life had suddenly turned upside down.

I suddenly started to feel different, not because I thought I was turning into a woman. That would have been simple to understand. I just knew that all of a sudden I couldn’t relate to being a boy and, eventually, being a man. I stopped connecting to my male friends. I wanted to sit and be pretty, even though I was Sade’s man. Around that time, I started locking myself in the bathroom whenever I went visiting Sade. I was fascinated by her sanitary towels, wrapped in pink and white and perched atop the toilet bowl. They were the ultimate feminine symbol even though I was ignorant of their purpose.

I would raid her make-up bag, slathering my face with foundation, lipstick and mascara. I would bring her blouses and trouser suits into the bathroom, enjoying the thrill of doing up bows and zips, and posing. I would turn my face to the mirror like I was in a music video and a woman would return my gaze. Then, eventually, a knock at the door would shatter the fantasy. Sade had become suspicious of my lonely moments and always intruded.

“Baby…baby you have to calm down, it would be fine,” became her favourite line in the last 12 months but was it actually going to be fine? Was I going to go to sleep one night and by morning, my breasts would have disappeared? Was Sade going to stick by me forever or was she going to give up and walk away soon? *breaks down sobbing* I guess she heard my thoughts but who was going to blame her? You? Don’t you dare!!! You have no idea what the poor girl went through? Had it been you, would have stayed for a week? You know it is very easy to condemn and judge, we feel safer when we criticize because we are not the ones wearing the shoes that pinches but have you ever thought of how it would feel if the tables were turned?

Life became more miserable for me without Sade. My second year as a woman was worse without her. I couldn’t think straight, I started eating less and to make matters worse, my muscle mass became leaner. My shoulders, thighs, arms, and my waist thinned out. I became fleshier around my hips and bum. It felt strange but at this point I had gotten used to it. I looked in the mirror and, slowly, I was morphing into my late mother. I looked so much like her. I was still staring at myself in the mirror when I heard the knock that changed my story.

There at my door front, a man stood, eyes fixed on me. I had long since stopped having visitors so I wondered who he was but there was something familiar about him. He dipped his hand into his bag and brought out a photo and then it suddenly became obvious. The whole secret of what she had left me for became open. He looked me straight in the eyes and said, “You lost a girlfriend and now you have a boyfriend.” I looked him in the eyes and began to cry because I loved her so much but her changing to him shows that she loved me more. Right there, all the years of anguish and confusion fell away.

P.S:- We are currently somewhere in New York and Sade now goes by the name Femi and I, Sade.

THE END


Source: PenAStory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/09/28/carry-my-message-to-garcia/

I had a field day with a friend of mine dickering over the petty items in his dime store. Intermittently, we would stop to have a discussion. Boy ol’ friend, really been a long time. Last I saw him, he was a student and now the tides of life have thrown him to haberdashery. ‘Life no easy o’, he kept pummelling into my ears. While he persisted in our cordial discussions, he went deep into the throes of life, spilling out wisdom like a sage over a cup of coffee. I’m glad he has seen life, I’m glad life itself came in the most intelligible form to nurture him. Must have been baker’s dozen years since I last saw him; how much he has garnered in 13 years,” he said mortified. I scoffed. Years ago, this friend of mine would say,
“I am irate. I have this uncanny hatred for the idea of values and the entire African society. I despise the fact that too much emphasis is placed on things I consider imperceptible. Our fore fathers were the bastards of the earth; an entire generation of illegitimate products of illegitimate children of Adam and annoyingly, they made a melange of savage customs – the custom that cannot provide an android phone.

Life is a free world, people call it a two-way street but it’s actually a cul-de-sac. Life is a lot easier than we make it seem and that’s simply because we make a foolery of freedom, placing stalwart concern on ideas that do not matter. If a man decides to transgene and become a woman what’s the problem with that? A woman who decides to enlarge her bosom should not be considered as having done something out of place. Why do people consider androgyny as a vice? If a man decides to have thousands of wives, what’s the big deal? If a woman decides to break out of her marriage suddenly and live a life of her own, what’s the problem with that? The society keeps horsewhipping those who flagrantly actuate their discretion to suit their enlightened self-interest, why? Life is not supposed to be a peremptory affair; life should be happy-go-lucky.

In relationships, there should be no reason why commitment should be so stressed. Not until marriage, no reason why anyone should be committed to another. If a guy cheats, what’s the big deal? If a girl decides to have multiple boyfriends, there’s no reason why she shouldn’t besides there’s no ring on her finger yet. Why should her freedom be undermined? A guy could keep as many girls as he wants and decide who to marry when the time comes, so should a lady. We are free living creatures and the only restraint we need is the one that inures to our discretion. Why should the society decide what is right or wrong in a relationship? It’s all bullshit…
People live in cities yet their lives are run-of-the-mill. A man’s live becomes boring because he cannot drink to his fill and have great sex with whomever he deems fit. If he does, he is irresponsible. A young man in his 20’s is shackled by the ideology of barbaric inmates who came up with irrelevancies and called them ‘societal values’. Girls crave sex just as men. Why does society restrain them? Why not allow them unleash this fire in them and bless oh ye male folks with it, drink to fulfilment and live without fear of vituperation? Goddamn it, this whole life is boring.”
As an adult, he has grown to say this, “The beauty of childishness is the ability to question every logic of life and try to overreach ethical beliefs but with maturity, these questions answer themselves just as you grow up from one phase to the other. The more you grow into life, you will understand that every foolish move you made must be regretted one way or the other. That’s the cycle of life. We are created with rationality and the ability to purge our conscience. What is right may be relative but there is always a standard. Humans know what is just right, we only avoid the truth sometimes. No wonder even the bitch wants an upright man for a husband, the philanderer wants a virgin. There comes a time where the guy who spends all his time flirting around and drinking in pubs will have the realities of life looking straight into his eyes. Women misbehave and cheat just as men, and that’s because they can love any guy that comes their way and attaches himself emotionally, they crave to punish their partners who cheat or even because they are bored. But then, that girl who cheats on her boyfriend with his best friend as a payback, makes a lame move. They will quarrel like guys and someday bury the hatchet like men around bottles and then make fun of you for being a LovePeddler. You will grow to understand that revenge in that manner wasn’t worth it. Girls who know themselves do not bother over men who are not serious with their own lives.

The major problem of youths is the justification of stupidity and the postponement of wisdom to the future. They tell you, ‘We could be all crazy and frolicsome for now, when we settle down we will comport ourselves; fools. You are 21 already and you think your life isn’t settling down already? You are a jester. The drama you cause on social media will soon be swallowed in oblivion. You are 20 and above and you haven’t had time to set your priorities right? You are a joker. Sleep with men or women all you want. Party all you like but nobody runs away from their shadows. Someday, your misplaced priorities will find a way back into your head. You would realise you need to settle down, you have a family to raise, perhaps you have no idea how many millions will make a house for you, perhaps you think cars are stolen. You will need to work, you will need to cater for some persons whether you like it or not. You will need to marry, perhaps you could decide to be Don Jazzy or Linda Ikeji but trust me, their lives will always be a standard for the foolish. A real woman knows that she has so much inside of her that her daughter needs to tap out from. She raises a family and builds her daughter to make more impart. A real man knows that he needs to raise a proper family and stop fooling around. A real man knows that he needs to be committed to a woman and plan a future with her. A real woman knows that she doesn’t need 10 boyfriends to make it in life, all she needs is a man who will live his life for her and build her dreams up to achievement. A real man knows that he doesn’t need a side chick, all he needs is a woman who sees a king in him and encourages him to become that which he aims to be. A real lady knows that cheating on her man with his friend as a pay back is not worth it. She has got better things to do with her time other than fight for a man who is not ready to be serious.

Things are seriously messed up. People are messed up. Relationships are messed up. Families are messed up. Children are messed up. Kim Kardashian, Dbanj, Linda Ikeji are not standards for living. You are entirely different from them because you have a life to live that isn’t theirs. Stop justifying your inability to live well by the fact that you are not the first person to live wrongly. No matter how much we deceive ourselves, the truth is etched deep in our conscience. Admit it, you want to have a beautiful home, you want a loving and supportive partner by your side, you want good kids, you want children to make you proud, you don’t want gay children or lesbians, you don’t want smokers or party addicts, you want to be known for good and not bad. You are scared to come to terms with the truth within you hence you justify homosexuality, you justify strippers, you justify rascally men, you justify smoking and drinking. Instead of justifying, I advise you to grow up. You may have made the mistake once in a while. I am not judging you. We all had a past sometimes, it wasn’t our fault but it becomes your fault when you don’t turn the tables. You have a better life ahead of you. Innocent children are subjected to your discretion. It’s not too late to think like a real man or a real woman. If you set your priorities right, you may just have that perfect life you always wished. Have a relationship with the right person, stay focused and build yourselves together. Keep the right friends, I mean look at your friends, some of them have great potentials in the future; keep them, don’t lose them to your indiscretion because in some decades to come, they will matter to you one way or other. In the end, life is a two way street, it’s up to you what you desire but before you leap, carry this message to Garcia.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/09/26/the-other-side-of-love-olatunji-samuel/

“I love you, Deronke!” He said as he got close to the dining table. His eyes were moist, and veins stood out on his face, neck and arms. I wondered how long he had been crying, shedding angry, bitter tears for a love lost. I wondered how long he had kept those words buried in his heart. The words that he now poured on me.

I let the slice of bread and the bread knife in my hands drop. His words were definitely stronger, more metallic than the clanging sound the bread knife made as it fell on the plastic tray I was using to eat my breakfast of bread, butter and tea. I stared at him with my mouth agape as if wanting to swallow the words that dropped into the air from his mouth.

“You what?”

“I love you with the whole of my heart! I think of you everyday. Your smiles. The sunshine in your eyes. The redness of your lips. I just love you the way you are.”

“Since when, you fool!?”

“From the day I met you as my mud-mate. The day we used to bathe with sand. The day you used to be the police and I used to be the thief. The day I used to be the husband and you the wife. The day of nascent laughter and childish glory. I have loved you from the sunrise of childhood…”

I had known Debayo for twenty years. I had loved that boy who tickled me, chased me about as my tiny legs ran in circles. I had loved that boy who defended me from bullies. That quiet but bold boy who held my hands to school and also to church. That boy that made people call us husband and wife. He was my dream husband before I met Richard. I had waited for Debayo to confess his love to me, and to even propose to me. But he seemed to be comfortable with us just being friends. Mere friends!

So when Richard came with flattering lights, I succumbed to him. I agreed to be his girlfriend, and Debayo saw nothing wrong with that. He often told me how Richard and I were a perfect match. He even advised me on how to treat Richard the right way, the way a guy wants to be treated.

Three years of meeting Richard, he proposed to me. The next day was my wedding day, and this fool, my bestfriend, my poet, whose words made my bones to float in the air, stood before me, proclaiming his love.

“Why didn’t you tell me before now? I have always loved you. You are such a big fool!”

“I’m very sorry, Deronke. I have been a big fool. But my foolishness ends today. Come with me, my love. Let us run away from here and begin a new life.”

He came closer, begging me to offer him my hands. I just stood still, looking at him. He moved closer, grabbed my face and kissed me like we were going to die after kissing. I stretched my hands gently, grabbed the bread knife and plunged it into his stomach.

“YOU! ARE! A! BIG! FOOL!” Each word was punctuated with a stab into his stomach. His blood washed my hands and feet. I sat, placed him on a seat next to me. Then, I placed his head on my lap, and stroked his hair, singing a dirge for a love lost, a heart broken.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/09/24/growing-from-a-boy-to-a-woman-part-1/

First it was just normal nipples, then a needle-like pain, then a lump, then a mould and then full grown breasts. But how manage? Why was I growing breasts? For heaven’s sake, I was a teenage boy of 18 years and not a girl. Over the past few months I had noticed that I was growing them. My breasts were getting bigger and my nipples were extremely sensitive. There were other things about my body that were strange as well. I seemed to have bigger hips and a larger butt than the other guys. I didn’t have much body fat around my waist. When I looked in the mirror naked, my body was sort of like a girl’s. I tried to conceal my growing boobs by wearing loose shirts or jackets. I was always aware that I had these mounds instead of a flat chest. I decided to speak to my girlfriend about it. Up to this point I was reluctant to tell her about my breasts for obvious reasons.

“Shade…I don’t know how or why but I swear I’m growing boobs.” Her response was a five minutes silence before she finally burst into laughter. Why was she laughing? Did she think I was happy about it? Or had she forgotten I was her boyfriend and not girlfriend? I began regretting. I shouldn’t have told her but if I didnt, who else would I have told? I have been an orphan since I was 10 years of age and since then, she has been all I had, my friend, adviser and confidant. I couldn’t believe the one person I trusted with my topmost secret had decided to betray me with a laugh.

You see, when one feels betrayed, and laughed at, there is a clear sense of being violated. How often we get into relationship and believe we know the other person, their thoughts, their feelings, even their secrets. How we believe they will always be there for us, just as we know they are right now! Our own sense of wanting to be loved and accepted lets us believe this lie because we think it makes our life so much better. Even if we know we keep secrets from our partner, it matters not. It is really the secrets we keep from ourselves that are at the root of all our problems.

“Femi you are just a comedian, breast ko, breast ni,” she finally responded with laughter in her eyes. At this point, I needed not to talk too much, I simply took off my sweater and you needed to have seen the astonishment on her face. She just stood there eyes glued to my chest…ermm…sorry, my breasts. I can’t remember what happened next except for the fact that I realised as I made an attempt to snap her out, my voice sounded differently. I called out her name loudly again, “Shade!!! Shade!!!” but the more I called out her name, the tinnier and thinner my voice became. No!!! God!!! What is happening? Not my voice again. I looked back to where Shade was standing and I watched carefully as tears slowly strolled down her cheeks. I hated to see her cry but I hated more to see myself go through such evil transformation. Something was wrong and as we both wept bitterly, we knew we had to do something.

To be continued...

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/09/22/sleeping-beauty-my-hospital-experience/

I waited mindlessly for my turn, I tried to keep myself busy with my phone but there wasn’t much to do with it. I was bored, lonely and felt marooned. Yet, I had no verve for chatting with anyone. I woke up in the doldrums, and as I left home with no one to commune with, an unnatural ennui struck me. Meanwhile, I had woken up with the lark to hastily run to this hospital at a time fair to middling but public hospitals, eh? The modalities and bureaucracy can be sickening, not to mention the incertitude of not being attended to. I was amidst several persons all seated as the crow flies – a large amount of old men and women, you would wonder if it were a Darby and Joan party. Of course, senectitude attends us with several maladies, I hunched.



“Destiny, you are number 52 right?” One of the nurses asked from her cubicle with a facetious smile. I simply nodded affirmatively and let out a grimace to complement her guilty smile. This was the fourth time she was asking me the ABCs of my coming here. Indolent nurses, insolent behaviours and impudent utterances, a common tapestry in hospitals. I resumed reading John Grisham’s “Pelican Brief” I earlier commenced out of angst.
As my mind journeyed far into reading, my attention was stolen by a young beautiful girl who sat by me. She came with her parents and they all joined in the wait for attention. She ferreted about the hospital with a pra.ctised feet. I could tell she had visited the hospital before now. She was very happy and animated. I envied her ability to be happy in a place where the acrid smell of hardened drugs almost disembowelled me. She’s a kid, I thought but, I was wrong.

“Good morning uncle,” she greeted innocently after minutes of clambering over benches. Believe me, since I was born, I have never seen such a smile. I have never been a victim of love at first sight and I found the idea very underwhelming but this girl was easy on my eyes.

“Good morning, how are you?” I smiled back.

“I’m fine uncle. Why have you not greeted my mummy?” she asked. I laughed up my sleeves as I was quite ashamed I hadn’t greeted the parents even though they were a spitting distance from where I sat. I realised I had been consumed by the mesmerising humour of the book I was reading. The mum looked at me and smiled too. I greeted the parents and then she continued. “Uncle, why are you here? Are you sick or are you a doctor?” I told her I needed to do a bit of checkup. She sat close to me and continued talking. She was so smart and engaging. Trust me, I find it highly amazing when a lady engages me in a discussion for minutes, even hours. These days, they are boring and unadventurous with chats; the reason the young girl caught my fancy. I tried to discern her age but her sharpness, voice and innocence in tone convoluted my mind reading. She was altogether but a young girl, no more than 12, I supposed. She kept asking me questions of different sorts and I was laughing uncontrollably.

“Uncle my name is Treasure and I like my name. Should I tell you what it means? I’m sure you know uncle. You said you are a student and not a doctor so students know English,” she said and giggled.

“Yes, I know what a treasure is. You can call me Destiny okay?” The next question was one I never expected. She was just too smart for what I could conceive was her age. “Uncle, are you married? Do you have any treasure in your life?” she asked, grinning and winking at the same time. I kept laughing because I didn’t expect her mind could be so profound. The parents kept looking at us and smiling. I’m sure they knew how interesting their daughter was. They didn’t restrain her.

“Treasure I’m not married yet, okay? I’ll get married when I cease to become a student” I answered holding her shoulders.

“Uncle what’s the meaning of CEASE?” she asked. Very adorable of her. In fact, I love kids who are sensitive of what people tell them, it’s very promising.

“Cease means ‘stop’, okay? What class are you now?” I answered and furthered the discussion. I gathered she was just in JSS 1 with such a bright mind. Many of her questions awed me not because I am easily excitable but because I least expected a random kid to ask such personal questions. Look who the cat dragged in, I received a call from a friend who inquired the goings on at the hospital.

“Uncle Destiny, is it not your treasure that called you?” she teased and laughed loudly. I told her it wasn’t but she wouldn’t believe. “My Dad always calls my mum his treasure and my mum calls my Dad the same too.” She said still doubtful of my reply. Her mum beckoned on her to keep quiet jokingly. She was obviously talking too much, I agreed.
We spent more than an hour still waiting for the doctors to attend to us individually but I didn’t notice that I dawdled. Even when I desired to come out the hospital to get confectioneries, she opted to follow me and the parents agreed. At a point I was uncertain why the parents trusted me with their daughter’s safety. I noticed she couldn’t keep up to my pace so I raised her to my shoulders as we walked along.

“Uncle, don’t fart o. I have a lot of weight” she teased again. I laughed and continued. I bought all I needed and then went back to the ward to meet the parents. Her father had left at our arrival. The mother just kept smiling at us both. As we ate, I narrated George Orwell’s ‘Animal Farm’ as she wanted a story. I first read that story in primary 5, I told her. I taught her a few lines of the animal song they sang on the field and she learnt them easily. Really, I admired this young girl. She was already like my younger sister. She took me away from my sulky mood to being happy. Some of the laughter and guffaws I let out were so sincere, I realized I hadn’t laughed so freely for some time and it was horrible of me. Perhaps, too much to think of and too much to upset you, I surmised.
A while after eating she flaked out on the bench I sat on. She slept for about thirty minutes, or so. While she slept, I asked her mum how old Treasure was. “She will be 13 by November” she answered. Wow! That’s so cool, I thought. Hearing the mother speak, I had no more doubts as to the daughter’s sharpness. Treasure was a dead ringer for her mother – same looks, beauty, wit and smile. Then the mother told me something about Treasure.

“You know why I’ve been smiling all this while? Treasure is a very funny girl. She talks a lot but recently she has not been very happy because she is not fine so I had to allow her play as much as she wanted with you” she said. I was surprised. She didn’t look ill in any way. She could run and jump and laugh heartily without any tell-tale signs of indisposition.

“Sorry ma, I thought she only followed you here. I didn’t know she was ill i shouldn’t have stressed her,” I apologized. Her mother was getting emotional and that was making me jittery. Whatever it was that made her morose couldn’t match the blessing she had for a daughter.

“No, it’s okay. Treasure needs to be happy. She’s got a few weeks to spend now. She has a hole in her heart and the doctors say she may not make it if we don’t treat it quickly. We need a couple of millions to save her. She’s just here for a checkup. We need all the prayers and support. Please pray for my daughter as much as you can. I’m sure she’d be grateful too,” she smiled. I was shocked. I didn’t want to cry because the mother was crying already but covering it up with a smile. My eyes were pale already. Treasure? A hole in the heart? How could that be? I knew biologically that such only occur at childbirth and continue to hollow out the heart at maturation. I wept bitterly at heart. I couldn’t believe my ears. I looked again at treasure as she slept. So innocent. ‘She has no idea she will be dead soon’, I told myself. I couldn’t hold back a tear or two. No jokes. It’s not like I have so much tears to waste but you need to have seen this girl just for 2 minutes. She was out of this world. Oh God! Why her? What has she done to suffer such pain? These questions kept coming and the mum was already crying much.

“I will pray for your daughter ma’am. I won’t forget I promise. God will help her ma’am Please be strong for her,” I enjoined trying to make her feel any better.

“Thank you very much. We are grateful” she muttered. I couldn’t stand the message and the sight of Treasure sleeping. I quietly woke her up and told her I was leaving.

“Uncle Destiny, why are you leaving?” she asked. “I’m going to see my doctor dear. Please take care of yourself,” I told her and hugged her this time.

“Uncle Destiny will I see you again? Will you tell me another story?” she asked. I gently kissed her forehead and told her I would see her again. I really hope I do.
“Who is Number 52? Come over” the doctor called in me. I left, and by the time I came back, Treasure was gone.

SOURCE: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/09/22/my-wedding-day/

I looked into the mirror just before I headed out and for the first time in my life, I was truly happy. Beyond my amazing wedding dress and my stunning makeup, I knew that the heavens must really love me because I had finally reached my place of stability, my last bus stop.

Ours was love at first sight; like he would always say. To him, he was created to love me and it didn’t matter the time or the season as I would have still been his. We could stare at ourselves for several minutes never wanting to break the gaze. Ours was that kind of love that was so powerful, being just a few metres apart from ourselves felt like a long distance relationship even if we were under the same roof.

Sometimes, there was no need for words with Jason not because I was mad at him or anything but because the body language complimented whatever we were doing and even when we talked, we always found ourselves completing each other’s sentences. We totally adored ourselves and to us, sometimes sex was not too relevant, I mean, we could play under the sheets all day and night, cuddling, kissing and being intimate but no penetration not because we were not crazy about ourselves but because sex had simply become an icing on the cake, the cake being our deep love. Our love was invigorating and I was so happy to finally have someone who loved me for me. Nothing to me could ruin our perfect love story or so I thought.

Jason was oblivious to my past as I made sure I never talked about it with him. That was a part of me that hurt deeply and I wasn’t willing to share with anyone, at least not for now. I was all shades of messed up before I met Jason. As a matter of fact, I could have sworn that I was cursed from birth or how else would one explain how I never got to even meet my mom as I was told she died whilst having me. And my dad, oh my lovely dad grieved his wife for a year and despite pleas to take another woman as his wife especially for my sake, he didn’t listen and he refused to take even a maid. I was raised by him alone and I did enjoy myself as he made sure I lacked nothing. He was my hero, yeahh he really was as I had no one besides him but when I clocked six, the whole story changed.

My father started coming home later than usual, always staggering in. I couldn’t quite comprehend what was wrong at that age but even I knew there was fire on the mountain when my dad started paying me visits in the night. He would tell me to be a good girl and open wide my legs which I did whilst crying because he always looked scary. Then my father would have sex with me and always groan like a beast as he would pull out and tell me to go back to sleep. This went on till I was eleven when I entered boarding school but even then, the damage had already been done. As I entered my teen years, I was already a sex addict and I couldn’t understand my insatiable appetite for sex. It didn’t help matters that puberty was very kind to me, I was endowed in the right places amongst all my peers and so as long as you were a guy and you had something in between your legs, it didn’t matter if you were a security guard, or the principal, I slept with all.

There was no stopping me even all through my university days and I soon became very popular for my sexual escapades. I collected nothing from the men because I had little use for their money, my wonderful father gave me more than enough but my desire for sex was just unquenchable. And then I met Jason, a good man. Of all the men I have ever come across, he was the most sincere, he was the one who made me realise there was more to life than sex, he talked to me like he was God sent and made me believe I was a princess. He would always prod me about my past and I would always tell him to let it be and that I would tell him when the time was right. If only karma wasn’t a bitch. If only one could go free for every misdeed one does. If only wishes come true maybe my happiest day wouldn’t have turn out to be the worst day of my life.

I still remember vividly as I walked down the aisle with my father and took my place beside Jason as we exchanged our wedding vows amidst laughter and tears and just before we were pronounced husband and wife, the Priest asked the question that changed my life and made me wish that the ground would open and swallow me. “If there be any one who objects to the joining together of Jason and Beulah together in holy matrimony; speak now or forever hold your peace.” And that was when my heart stopped. Almost immediately, about 20 guys rushed up threatening to burn down the church if we were joined together as some swore that I had slept with half the men in the city, among them were Jason’s colleagues, friends and distant cousins. I had slept with every single one of them at least twice. As I looked into the face of my beloved and saw his eyes begging me to just deny the claims and that he would believe me, I pushed my way past the mob trying to stop my heart attack and that’s when the spirit descended on me, I just knew I wanted to kill my father and I didn’t care what it cost.

That fateful night, I walked into my father’s house at about 11pm and went straight into his room, seeing him lie on the bed peacefully asleep made my blood boil and as I looked at his boxers, I smiled because I knew just the perfect thing to do. I reached for his boxers, pulled it down quietly and began to stroke his manhood, even as I pulled out the knife I had hidden at my back and in one swift move, I cut off his manhood and watched him writhe in agony. Then I sat down beside him, finally happy but not before I heard the sirens.

SOURCE: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/09/19/surulere-the-tragic-union-alabi-ayomide/

Dad has always emphasized the fact that patience is a virtue. Patience is the key to healthy living as well as time being for everything, but all you need to do is be patient. Well that wasn’t the case for his sister-in-law Aunty Kemi. Aunty Kemi is from a family of 11 with mum being the seventh child. Aunty Kemi who was too lazy and unserious to graduate from the Lagos State University dropped out after spending six years on a four-year course with nothing to show for it. She got married to Ahmed who she met barely two months ago and all her siblings warned her especially Aunty Tosin but she turned deaf ears.

“Kemi, you can still end this madness even if we are just few minutes away from walking you down the aisle, you don’t really know this boy!” Aunty Tosin said.

“Well Tosin, don’t you ever call him a boy, go and get a man of your own, you are already 41 and stop taking drugs for other peoples’ headaches,” Aunty Kemi replied, accompanying her words with two dirty slaps. Aunty Tosin turned back and left the premises without attending the wedding. The union was rosy until after the honeymoon. Ahmed beat Aunty Kemi on a regular basis, he beat her before going to work in the morning and seconds after he steps into the house in the evening. Monday to Saturday she had to take his beatings while on Sundays they would both come to our house to eat the usual Sunday afternoon Jollof, playing and teasing each other like nothing had happened.

On a fateful day, I was on my bed in school when my phone rang. I didn’t know the number so I didn’t pick. It rang continuously and mum always told me that “when your phone rings continuously with the same number, make sure you pick up,” so I picked up and to my greatest surprise it was Ahmed. We exchanged pleasantries but I noticed a trembling in his voice which sounded a lot like fear.

“Ahn ahn Ahmed, what’s wrong,” I asked. He said Aunty Kemi was at the hospital and was in a coma. “What could have happened?” I asked in anger.

“She fell from the stairs,” he answered.

“But the last time I checked, bungalows don’t have staircases,” I fired back at him.

“Well, that’s not the point, just get down here!” Ahmed exclaimed. I immediately understood what had happened so I took my bag and rushed down to Lagos. I was almost at the hospital in Lagos when mum called to tell me Aunty Kemi had given up the ghost. I got so angry and went to the police station to report what had happened.

“Good day sir, I’d like to report a case of domestic violence as well as possible manslaughter,” I said in tears.

“What! Where! Are you sure of what are you saying,” the detective asked. “Not to worry, my boys and I would go with you,” he added.

We got to the hospital and I saw everyone in tears but amidst the tears, I was determined that Ahmed was going to jail for what he had done.

“There he is!” I thundered. Ahmed was shocked. He took to his heels and fled the hospital. He was eventually caught after a 15-minute police chase and charged to court. We got to court three days later and Ebun who happened to be Aunty Kemi and Ahmed’s only child saw that they were calling people to a box and asking them to talk when she started crying out loud that she had something to say. She kept on crying when she wasn’t listened to so much so that the judge came down from her seat to carry her. Ebun however still insisted that she had to something to say until the judge finally relented.

“What could she possibly have to say?” we all wondered as Ebun ran into the witness box. “Daddy beat mummy everyday even when mummy is sleeping, daddy slap mummy with frying pan, mummy fall down. Mummy did not stand up again, daddy still continue slapping mummy with frying pan till mummy finally die,” Ebun said. The courtroom was filled with noise.

“Ahmed you are evil,” the judge said. “Well, let this be a lesson to you impatient ladies and hot tempered gentlemen in this court room,” she continued. “You! Ahmed Ikuelogbon, has been found guilty on a 2-count charge of domestic violence and murder, you are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment with hard labour. I rise.” The judge thundered in annoyance.

Two years has passed and Aunty Kemi’s case hasn’t been forgotten and the same time we made up our mind that it wasn’t going to spoil our mood because Aunty Tosin was finally getting married. The wedding was fantastic and amazing. When it was time for the thanksgiving, Aunty Tosin broke down in tears and asked for a minute silence for her late sister. When the minute was over we all ate, danced and gave glory to God.

“SÚRÙLÉRÉ!!!” Dad whispered to Aunty Tosin as we bade her goodbye.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/09/09/a-burning-rage/

She kept on stabbing the carcass, venting her frustrations on the punctured body. The red coloured liquid spurted out like a fountain on a brown knot of skin. It was like the knife spoke to her and poked through her. She glistened in the setting sun like the sharp end of broken glass cups.

Shania trekked by the stalls of bread, the aroma wafting through the air complimenting the horrible smell emanating from the gutter. She wore a black T-shirt with designs of a broken heart on it, maybe reflecting her inner turmoil. A short nicker which stopped close to her calves.

She had just born her first child, a boy who fidgeted at the slightest moment he noticed any other person was near. It was like he shared her fears, an unknown mutual fear and showed her sorrow whenever he cried. Crying not in a loud voice but in whispers, the kind that stems from the soul.

Shania didn’t even want to remember, pushing it to the farthest corners that lay in her mind. She was raped by her mistress’s husband, who denied it with all the passion needed for denial that he did no such thing. Belonging to the rungs of the ladder, she was relieved of her job as a house maid and told to never come back by her mistress who had been finding opportunities to do this for so long.

The yellow and black buses sped past Shania without her knowing it. It had just rained and trickles of water from rooftops found their way into the gutters. Even the water had a destination, Shania didn’t. She didn’t know where she was going, she was just going. But even with all the sorrow and frustrations in her soul, there was also anger like a brown knot binding her soul and her soul yelling to be set free. She had to vent her anger, set her soul free. As she continued her walk, she however looked about her this time around. She could still recognise where she was, It was then she saw it.


It spoke to her soul, it was not the kind used for cutting up fruits or beef but there was something humane about it for her. There was something humane about it for her. There was something angry about its haphazard design, like it is used for killing, puncturing holes. She would buy it, she made up her mind, with the last amount which was left off her salary from her mistress. It proposed its violence to her as an instrument of freedom, even if it would not wipe off her sorrows, she could use it to disentangle the knot binding her soul.

It was then she heard her name. It came from the knife she just bought. She had heard it say her name and looked at it, listened to it tell her the succor it would bring to her soul. Only if she could trust it and puncture her soul cutting the knots. She had to trust it, she had no choice as she wanted to be free. Turning back, she began to walk back from where she had come, she had gotten what she wanted, found her destination.

Back in her room, she sat on her bed beside her sleeping son, plunging the knife into her soul. It was then she knew her soul would die, but only then could it be free. Free from the anger that bound her soul, free enough to forgive the man that raped her and free enough to kill him.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/09/08/i-have-a-cold-feeling-he-has-gone-mad-again-babatomiwa-seriki/

I have a cold feeling that lingers for a while now and it cages my heart like frost. It comes once in a while and left in its wake is me quitting somebody. It has proven its damage a number of times and the shreds it leaves behind still ache like a fresh scar. My mind chafes from the pressure built deep inside of me every time this feeling starts. Such feeling like I am a werewolf howling at the full moon to ease past a transformation into the dark night; it’s hard to control and it hurts to scare off yet another significant figure from my life.

Good people are far and few between and yet I still send them packing. I know how hard you are trying to settle the thought of me being unrealistic, like “it’s a feeling, why can’t he shake it off…” But on the contrary, we all have our demons to battle, they might come in different forms but we all dream a nightmare. This is mine. I just worry whose turn it is this time: (family, friend or “lover”?).

I bet you will agree I have a family fit enough for the screen; my folks and three lovely sisters. The former I owe my enlightenment to, she paved a trail of exposure I followed through the years and she still doesn’t hesitate to guide me aright at her best. The latter, my “wing man”, my boon companion whom I relate my escapades from time to time, she holds my hip of secrets and if I should at all prove vulnerable and in need of stronghold, she’s boldly standing guard. The little one, not so little anymore, giving by her height and added slugs; selfless to a stretch and always got my best interest at heart. My folks are hard to ignore because they are all over you like hair; good hair that is. Has family failed me so much i want to give up on them? Am i being reasonable?

Friend: Or at least the vague definition of it. I’m not a people person and I vividly hold to account one time someone carefully analyzed me as an evil you like from a distance, once you close by then you might be disappointed. I have seen friends go, right after I bore them with my defensive attribute so I wouldn’t waste much energy to ward them off, most of them eventually leave.

“Lover”: I know some might wonder why I bless the word with a quote, well let’s think of it as emotion being acknowledged in a way. I am not the usual everyday dude every girl would fall head over heels for to say the least, it takes effort and persistence to reach me within. Over the years, I have built a wall so high around me to keep off advances, most try to climb over but give up before they reach the peak. I wouldn’t blame them; i mean who has time to nurture a grownup who is not willing to yield.

Just few people stick around and watch me unfold out of my shell and it works for a moment; i let off my stiffness and give room for companionship but just when the rugged trip starts to ease, i ruin it all, i make a mess of it.

Is this another episode of “he has gone mad again…?” Can I hold back the flames that keep burning from within and how long can i fight the urge. I just hope time tells a good story the next moment we talk about this.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com