₦airaland Forum

https://penastory.com/2016/09/07/it-shouldnt-have-been-her/


There she was on the bed, so fragile, trying to understand how things got so wrong. “Sade, life has lost its meaning, How could I have been so stupid?” she wept.

Words fall short in times like this, I mean I should have known he was the devil himself? With our religious background, dad being a pastor and mum an ever ready evangelist, I mean I and Bola literally grew up going to church every day and the message was clear to us, be free of sexual immorality. Mum rang it in our ears as we hit our teen years and that had been the plan really or so I thought in my mind.

I think the real problem started with Bola not knowing herself. You see, Bola has always struggled with her identity as Omo Pastor because everyone saw her in that light and therefore any little thing she did, they were always ready to condemn. Bola would never use makeup or wear trousers but as God would have it, she didn’t need any of that to start with. She was the favoured twin as we were not anywhere near identical. Her face was like that of an angel, fine girl no pimple as they would say. Smooth and artistic with cheekbones like that of Angelina Jolie. Her ebony colour stood her out in the midst of a crowd, anointing oil was her body cream, even I with my expensive creams couldn’t match the clearness of her skin. She had the perfect dentition, we always joked about how she should be used for a toothpaste advert. Her long hair was black, most times she didn’t even need to make it as many always came to ask her if she fixed Indonesian hair or something, her hair was just bad like that. Her legs were straight, she had moderate sized boobs and butt, she was the African woman Tuface was describing in his song as her smile could light up a large auditorium. My God, wasn’t she perfect! And it seemed to many of us that what made her different and unique was the fact that she seemed oblivious to many of her womanly qualities as she was very humble and warm.

Guys were always on her case, we never had to stress on what to eat or money to spend because her ever able toasters were ready to spoil us. I think I was spoilt the most, you see being Bola’s sister has many advantages, they all thought that I could help them woo her so they were always calling me as well as pleading with me to convince her to date them. Well, in our final year in school, I already had a boyfriend and to me, I had reached my place of stability so it was only natural for me to talk to my stubborn sister.

“Bola, we are now in our final year oh, once we convoke and we go for service, getting into a serious relationship would prove harder because none of the men there would be convinced that you don’t have anyone.”

She didn’t even bat her eyelid as her ever ready reply came. “Baby girl, I haven’t seen anyone I like. I’m not in a rush jare. Time still dey plenty besides everything works together for good to them that love God.” Usually I would join her to complete her favourite bible quote and we would erupt into laughter.

In our second semester however, I noticed that Bola began to grow distant, she always came up with excuses on how she was busy and couldn’t see me. I was worried and confronted her about it and it was then Bola confided in me that she had just started seeing someone.

“His name is Tola and he is just the most beautiful man I’ve ever met,” she gushed excitedly. I was naturally happy for her and told her to be careful nevertheless as this was her first relationship. She laughed and gushed about how the wedding invitation card would read, “Bola Weds Tola, isn’t that cute?” I was intrigued and couldn’t wait to meet the man who had made my sister drunk in love and so when the time came for me to meet Tola, I was excited. He drove into our hostel with a Mercedes Benz G-Wagon and got everyone staring, we entered into the car and he took us out to a nice eatery around. Permit me to say that I wasn’t disappointed at all, I mean he was definitely the real catch, he was really tall, with a nice athletic body, huge chest and I could even see from his sweatshirt that he had a completely built body. He wasn’t handsome because that would have been a gross insult, Tola was beautiful with brown eyes, he was charming and knew just when to say the right words. Bola couldn’t eat much as she kept blushing all through the dinner. I was comfortable with him and her though because he was cool and never in a rush. He seemed to have everything in control. He was clearly crazy about Bola too as he would always come to school to see her or take her out and they will get back the next day or the day after. I tried all I could to convince Bola to take things easy and let it flow as I was really concerned about her state of mind because he completely revolved around her life but she assured me she was fine.

Of course she was, until tragedy struck. One day in hostel, Bola collapsed and was rushed to the hospital. Our parents came over as soon as they could and she was diagnosed of typhoid, she was treated for typhoid and we returned back to our hostel while our troubled parents went back home. She seemed to be recovering pretty well until she fell seriously ill again a week after and this time around the doctor ran a series of tests on her and it was confirmed that my twin sister had contracted the deadly HIV. There was no question as regards where she had gotten it from as we both cried our eyes out. She opened up to me and told me how she found him so exciting and how he disvirgined her three days after they started dating. She said he would tie her hands and inflict pain on her during their love making but she didn’t care because she loved him deeply and truly believed they were meant for each other, To make matters worse, when she told Tola about her predicament over the phone, the bastard in his ever cool demeanour just said he just added her to his list, and that she would be fine as he has been living with HIV for about three years after he contracted it from his ex-girlfriend.

So here we are, my parents, I and my sister on her hospital bed. I can’t describe the pain and shame my parents feel. The mockery, the Pastor and his evangelist wife, the ones always helping people and counselling homes, the same ones whose daughter now has HIV. The irony! To Bola, her life has been shattered, the world has brought her to her knees and these days she doesn’t even cry anymore, she just looks into space. I am worried and my heart is broken and I can’t help but blame myself. Why did I pressure her to have a boyfriend, why didn’t I do my research on Tola? My questions to myself are endless but they still can’t change the reality. I wish I could turn back the hands of time, they would never have met! But I have resolved to do all I can to ease her pain. Life is worth living no matter what happens, even in the midst of pain, doubt, uncertainty. If you can be strong enough to pull yourself up, you can live another day and so I have made a promise to myself whatever it takes that Bola will feel the sun on her face again. Whatever it takes. One thing I know for sure though is, it shouldn’t have been her, not my baby girl, not my twin sister.

SOURCE: PenAStory www.penastory.com

Nora wasn’t always the impassioned lover she became, it was an acquired taste. Nora like every other manipulator had no respect for people’s emotions. I mean, too many had poisoned her sense of right reasoning. A compulsive smoker and a lover of spirituous liquor were descriptions she answered to. She would party all night and lumber the clubs within her reach just to have fun. I haven’t said she was ugly, No, Nora is a ravishing beauty; too delicately beautiful you would wonder why she took no guy seriously. Well, I needn’t mention that she toiled with the emotions of men – the Adonis and the ugly. For Nora, guys were only to satisfy her selfish interests after which she would send them to Coventry. Well, the sages have always said that even the devil has a soft spot. No human is completely impregnable. It only takes the right person, the right circumstances and the right time to unsheathe every human. I mean, that’s literally why we are humans and Nora wasn’t any different.


Typically, one said night, she was smoking at a club. She had boozed alcohol down the hatch and so, she was not in her marbles. To ease the effect of her tender drunkenness, she lit up a cigarette and hurled its smoke down the throat, reflecting the projectiles of consumed smoke out of her nose and mouth rather dexterously. Just then did a young handsome guy approach the club house, she ordinarily would give cold shoulders to any guy who entered or egressed the club house as she wasn’t flickered by guys but this particular guy was a cause for concentration. She couldn’t but notice his suave disposition. A tall, fair-complexioned cute young guy is perhaps the fancy of many eyes, even Nora’s. Nora intended to get his attention and put his emotions in jest when she was done as she would other guys. As she approached him, he was surprisingly unwelcoming especially considering that she wasn’t a girl of nowhere consequence. He was utterly rude to her so it dawned on her that he wasn’t in notice of her by any means. He completely ignored her to the extent that hurt her interests. As a go-getter, she flared up at his refusal to flourish her presence with rapt attention. She staggered out of his presence almost falling to the ground. The debilitating effects of the alcoholic drinks she took resurfaced as she could not even walk herself up for a car to go home. A guy with the above fine qualities without chivalry and gentlemanliness is of course, incomplete. Thank God for Chris. He knew just what to do, when and how.

Chris eventually gave her a lift home in his car. As he rode her off to her destination, they had discussions and exchanged contacts. Time became the designer of fate. You know, sometimes life itself is chequered; it’s a total mess. The unpalatable arrangements of events doesn’t always mean fate itself has faltered. Time is always the ultimate master planner and arranger of life’s event, the revealer of what is to be and what is.

Getting down to brass tracks, Chris and Nora eventually became hands in gloves with each other. They were good friends who had a lot in common. As a way of fostering their friendship, Nora became a changed person. Her garment of lasciviousness, drunkenness and smoking all transfigured like Moses’s. Chris encouraged her to be more studious and concentrated on top priorities as a student. She heeded. Gradually, their friendship morphed into a superfluity of emotions; emotions of love. The friendship transformed from a charade to a chemistry. A beautiful girl and a hotly contested guy amongst females, what more is there to sever this blessed union? Absolutely nothing! Like I said, Time is the revealer.

Months later, Chris popped the question and advanced his proposition to be her boyfriend. She agreed with a hysteric embrace to evince how much she had agreed to his emotions and desired his proposal. The relationship came with everything good. They were very enamoured of one another. They had their first kiss in the warmth of the evening. It was deep and passionate, much of a piercing stab of emotions than a mere palpable satisfaction of lust. They were indeed happy with each other. Nora had a confidante; a very close female friend, Sophie with whom she confided in about the happiness the relationship had brought her. Teasingly, Sophie would ridicule her of her kisses and others. That evening, Chris and Nora promised to see each other after classes for the day. I shan’t forget to mention that Chris was a student also.

The next day, Nora after lectures proceeded to meet Chris in his class since all attempts to reach him through phone calls were unavailing. On getting to her class. She saw a mammoth crowd of persons all scattered about in small groups, here and there. Some of them cried loudly while others sobbed softly with obviously swollen eyes and heavy hearts. Confused, Nora enquired the whereabouts of Chris from one of the course mates who had plunged deep into a paroxysm of tears. He muttered, “Chris is dead. He was involved in a car accident”. Have you ever been in a situation where you wished you never heard the truth? Have you been in a situation where having heard the truth, you would sit back to wait for another truth because no matter how hard you try, you can’t come to terms with the former truth? That was Nora’s. She could hardly believe her ears. She screamed aloud and just then, she let out a sharp scream out of her sleep. It was a dream. Good heavens!
Fidgety, Nora woke up Sophie who had stayed back in her hostel to pass the night. She checked the time, it was 6:30am just in the nick. She shuddered in revulsion as she told the dream to Sophie, rolling her hands above her head and snapping her fingers as a way of customarily rejecting any of such portentous forebodings of her dreams. “I’m too scared Sophie. I don’t want anything to happen to Chris” she heaved in fear. Sophie drew her close to herself and assured her it was but a dream and nothing more. Suggestively, she opined that Nora should give him a call that morning to hear from him.

“Hello Baby” Chris responded.

“Morning baby. I love you so much and I never want to lose you,” Nora said, heaving off her panicky state of mind with a deep sigh.

“I love you too baby,” Chris responded.

Just then Nora heard brakes screeching against the tarred road. It was as though a car was struggling with an inertia. Just then the car hit something. Nora could no longer hear anything but wailings from the phone.

The last she heard of him was “I love you too baby” Chris was dead now, too dead to hear his baby cry.


SOURCE: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/08/22/thump-thump-goes-the-fist-torera-adesina/


“Jide!!….Jiiiddeee…Jide!!!T-t-t-he b-baby is c-c-c-r-r-ying. At least let me attend to him… Jide p-p-p-l-lease please just st-o-o-op-p.” Her persistent pleading touches my ears but refuses to sink in. I have to finish what I have started. I begin to pound harder in time to her stammering. “J-J-Jide” thump, thump, thump, thump. A part of my brain keeps asking what is going on. What am I doing? Isn’t this the woman I had promised to love and to cherish? This bloodied and battered huddled being in front of me is the woman I swore to protect. But I can’t even protect her from the monster that dwells in me. “P-p-p-p-please.” Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

Somewhere in the house, my son is wailing at the top of his voice. The sound grates on my already raw nerves. I exchange my fists for my legs and begin sinking kick after kick into her soft, fleshy body. She doesn’t even put up a fight. Through the red haze blinding my eyes I can see tears streaming down her face. If I know her very well, she isn’t crying because of the pain, she is weeping for her son who is hungry and needs her. And she is weeping for me. For the man I have become. The shell of a man I have become.

“Olaji-ji-jide.” Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. “I am begi-gi-gi-ging.” thump thump thump thump thump thump thump. The other part of my brain, the more dominant part, is determined to channel all the rage and fury and shame and bitterness in me through this medium. However, Kitan’s cries are becoming increasingly louder and I am afraid the child would blow his voice box out so I step away from the mess I have created. We are both panting.

She lies there on the floor, where I threw her, for a few seconds before gathering herself together and limping into the room where our son is. I look away from her retreating body not wanting to see the damage that I have done. The monster is gone just as quickly as he came; a billion emotions are rolling through me but anger is no longer one of them. I look around me slowly, taking in the other damage done. The living room of our two bedroom apartment looks like World War IV just happened. I don’t remember throwing anything around but I remember the sound of body hitting glass, body hitting wood. I did not want to hurt my fists so I flung her instead.

“Jide. Jide. Jide. What are you?”

She comes back out carrying Kitan who has tears streaming down his face but has his mouth fastened greedily to her right breast. Her clothes are in tatters, there is blood all over her body, one of her eyes is swollen shut, her lips are cut and her hair seems to be missing some chunks. Gosh not her hair. Not her long beautiful hair. This is the worst that has happened so far. Ever since the monster took home inside of me, this is the worst he has done. She starts putting the room in order turning furniture back up, putting the stereo back in place all the while rocking the child clinging to her chest. I stand in silence unable to speak or move. She is picking up shards of glass with her bare hands. I make a move to help her but she cuts me off with a look. Shame washes over me and I step away to sit on the couch.

You are definitely mad if you think she’d let you touch her. I look at the face of the child whose little fingers are still holding on trustingly to his mother’s breast. He meets my eyes and there is no fear in his. Just trust in the body that is nurturing him.

”Go get changed. I will take you to the hospital. You might have some….injuries…” I try to speak as coldly and uncaring as possible but now that the rage has faded, regret has taken its place. She shakes her head, looking straight into my eyes, daring me object.

“I’ll go after I prepare dinner and clean up.” She limps out of the room, heading for the kitchen. “Dinner will be ready in an hour,” she says over her shoulder with a small smile.

Source: PenAStory www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/08/29/confessions-of-a-male-prostitute-part-1/

Hi! My name is name is James Anifowose, a 300 level student in the Faculty of Social Sciences (I wouldn’t want to mention my department for personal reasons). Today I decided to share my story to the world not because I regret my actions but because I feel someone out there might read it and make an immediate turn around should there be an individual out there trailing the path I trailed.

I got into the University of Lagos at a very young age, 17 (fresh out of high school) and like every other young lad, I saw myself as a ‘lucky bastard’ who despite all the stories I had heard and people I had met as regards being serially “Jambed” by JAMB, I still made it through for my dream course at my first and only trial. All seemed to be going on well with me in all areas of my life until one night, just like Davido Music Worldwide’s artiste, Dremo sang in his part of their label song “Back 2 Back”, my life switched in one night oh. The only difference is his life switched right while mine switched left.

It was about 10:55pm that very night and I was going back to my hostel at New Hall from the faculty and if you have been to UNILAG often, you would notice that the road leading from F.S.S to New Hall is always very dark and lonely. Did I know all these before this night? Yes! But did I think that a tap from behind and a casual exchange of words would lead to the switch in my life?

No! That night…*sobs*…my naive innocence was taking from me unwillingly. I became disgust and curse personified. At age 18, I was wickedly defiled by two young guys, I presume to be students as well whilst returning from reading. At that devilishly defining moment of my life, a new confusing spirit entered me. My natural urges to want to be with the female gender began to clash with my sudden developed affection for fellow men. I stopped looking forward to sleeping because my dreams were dominated by a beautiful water goddess who resided in the ocean. Interestingly, sometimes she looked like my late mother but even more beautiful and shapely. Whenever I wake up from sleep, my earthly pursuits begin to clash again. At one point, all I could think of is to make love to the female gender but then I stopped being attracted to girls of my age group, all I wanted was older women like the goddess I saw in my dreams. At another point, all I wanted was to become more like the ‘goddess’ of my dreams, I began to crave for feminine dressing, make-up and bleaching. Gosh! I was totally confused and so I spoke to two people who told me exactly what to do.

To be continued…

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/08/26/to-kill-a-rapist-chiebuka-ojukwu/

The blood dripped down his body onto the floor, I was shaking. Smoke still came out of the gun. He called out my name twice, I didn’t know what to do. All I could think of in that moment was I killed him, I shot him, I killed him, I am a killer.

I ran out of his room through the back window as some of his neighbors were knocking at the door. They must have heard the sound of the gun, the gun I had gotten from a cultist. His hostel was a walking distance from mine. I locked the door as I entered my room. I put my hand at my back belt holder to take the gun but it wasn’t there. It must have fallen off while I ran. I panicked. I couldn’t retrace my footsteps to look for it because I was scared of being seen even though no one really saw me. I picked out a spider-man shirt from the wardrobe and took my laptop and threw them in my school bag. I was locking the door when I saw blood on my shirt; I ran back inside and changed it. What have I done? What will I do? My mind raced.

I knocked at Nneka’s door, her hostel was deserted, I looked at my watch it was 2 P.M, and they must have gone to classes I concluded.

“Ugonna what’s wrong?” she pulled me into her room, “why are you like this?”

“I killed him…I didn’t mean to…I was…”

“Who did you kill?”

I lowered my head; I could feel her eyes burning fire behind my head.

“I kill the man who raped you.” I raised my head, her mouth was open, and she didn’t blink for what could have been two minutes.

“What?” she placed her hand on her chest like she was having a heart attack.

“But it wasn’t him, it was his roommate.”

“What?” this time, her eyes blinked faster than usual, “how?”

“I was angry when I got to his hostel, I held up the gun and when he opened the door I pulled the trigger and that was when I found out that it wasn’t him,” I gasped, “it was his roommate Nnanna.”

I looked at my watch; the time was almost 4 P.M. I was standing under a mango tree at Umunze, a mini market at the school. Nneka had asked me to wait for her here after answering a call from her roommate, who was returning from lectures. You see, Nneka was my girlfriend, we started dating two weeks ago and she was arguably the most beautiful girl on campus.

I looked at my watch again, this time it was 5 P.M, I decided to go back to her hostel to know if something had happened to her. I met her roommate who told me she left with Arinze, the man who raped her, the man who I had planned on killing. He must have coerced her I concluded. I decided to go to the police to give a report about Arinze. I knew it was the only way even if it meant turning me in. I boarded a bike to the police station and almost immediately saw Arinze. I stopped the bike man and began trailing him on foot with thoughts that he would lead me to Nneka. It took a lot of strength to keep me from attacking him.

We kept walking for about ten minutes and he suddenly stopped, he started kissing a girl by the roadside, I couldn’t see her clearly because he was obstructing her. Nneka! It was Nneka! It couldn’t be true. They both entered a house. It took me a while to regain my sanity, as my brain temporarily shut down.

I knew what I had to do, I had to speak with Nneka, I was sure there was a sensible explanation for all this. I stayed hidden in a nearby bush with hopes she would come out and she did. I looked at my phone it was 7.30 P.M. I pulled her into the bush as she walked by. I bound her mouth with my palm as she struggled and muffled.

“It’s me. You didn’t show up.” She stopped screaming.

“I saw you. With him” I continued, “he never raped you, did he?”

“I’m sorry. It wasn’t my idea. He asked me to date you for the money.” I left her there and went to the police station

“My name is Ugonna Anyasi son of Senator Madu Anyasi and I would like to report the murder of Nnanna.”

“We already know about that, boy”

“He was killed by Nneka Obi and her boyfriend Arinze.”

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/08/25/nothing-the-suicide-story-of-a-jilted-bride/

I look shabby, my hair han’t been combed and I still have makeup remnants on my face. The heartbroken voice of a singer mirrors my mood as he sings in the background the power of Nothing. I can relate to the singer’s pain and his repeated lyrics about heartbreaks.

It’s been a week but the pain still hasn’t subsided. Seven hurt filled days since he told me before all the guests at our wedding that he is in love with an illiterate tailor. Before he told me she is pregnant for him before the stunned guests. His parents looked relieved watching him disgrace and break my heart. I can’t blame them though, I have never been anyone’s choice of wife material. My life has been nothing but a series of heartbreaks leaving me with nothing but this damaged shell called person.

As he talked about his love for her, I crumble to the floor in my gorgeous Vera Wang dress, my perfectly made up face suddenly losing all its allure. I felt every day of my thirty seven years that day. She may be an illiterate but she has got the love of my man, and she is quite young. I should have seen it coming, I should have read the signs but I guess the whole pressure of about getting married blinded me, leaving me with a clouded vision. Look at me now, relegated far beyond that place called square one. I allowed myself be disgraced and humiliated on a day that should have been my day of joy in the presence of both guests that I know and do not know.

Nobody stopped him as he spilled his guts. I have never felt more alone in a crowd but somehow I managed to walk out of the church, my mum’s lamentations about my failure as a woman ringing in my ears with dad’s affirmation echoing it. The bridesmaids watched me go, their pitiful stares and glances following me. I couldn’t bear to look at any of them. At the door, some of the guests whispered words of encouragement but I knew they didn’t mean it, I have come to the end of my road.

Suddenly the church was a flurry of activities as everyone began talking at once just when I threw the doors open. Mom suddenly remembered her duty as a mother and rushed after me, allowing me to cry my eyes out for the one week since he broke my heart, refusing to remove my wedding gown. He wouldn’t pick his calls or reply his messages. No one has cared enough to check on me. They must feel it is embarrassing. The words of this song mirrors my aching heart. I am alive but barely breathing. No one would care if I die, maybe I should write a letter about how I want to be buried? I want to be cremated and have my ashes spread into the ocean because only the strong tides can wash away this pain and humiliation. All my belongings can go to charity or perhaps an organization for abused women?

I stand up from the bed and come out of the bedroom. Nobody is home. That is how much they didn’t care. 37 and back in my parent’s house. I take my car keys and drive to my favorite restarunt, the one he used to take me to. I order their most expensive meal and after my meal I drive around the city, it isn’t such a bad place, beautiful in fact but I don’t belong here anymore. At last, I drive to the hardware store and purchase a sturdy rope, smiling for the first time as I request the sales boy to knot it for me. He did uninterestedly, couldn’t he see I am wearing a wedding gown? But his eyes look sad like he has problems of his own.

My whole life flashes before my very eyes as I drive back home. From running to meet mum to being shoved aside and then the faces of the different nannies before being shipped off to the boarding to school. What a waste my academic achievements, virginity, good girl attitude would be when I dance with the ocean tides. I am numb, the pain feels like a part of me. The song is still replaying itself as I walk through the door and I increase the stereo to the loudest. Tying the end of the rope to the ceiling, I climb a chair to reach it and sling the knotted end through my neck. I take one final look round the house and before the courage can leave, I kick the chair from underneath me. For the first few seconds, all I can hear is a ringing in my ears then the biting pain as the rope cuts into my neck. A wave of darkness hits me as I swing free and then there is nothing.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/07/15/unilag-for-humanity-pic-fic-series-some-heroes-dont-wear-a-cape-nanya-kooper/

She wakes up at 5am again. There’s no use for the alarm, which she can’t afford. It’s already a part of her, a constant reminder of the day ahead.

It rained the previous night. The roof was leaking, droplets of water soaked the bed where she slept next to her kids. And the smell of mud and wet filth filled the night air as sleep enveloped Dustbin Estate.

This morning, it is the sound of noisy drunk men that wakes her up. The men are discussing hood politics and how the government’s priorities are messed up. The beer makes their voice to be as loud as a pastor preaching on the altar. She couldn’t blame them, the estate has made them what they are now: idle drunkards, who attempt to forget their miseries in alcoholic euphoria.

Her man used to be a part of these drunk now. Now, she has three children, but no husband. Her man died some years ago from an unknown illness, possibly contacted from the unhealthy state of living plus extreme alcohol consumption. It was these conditions that rendered her a widow.

Every morning she wakes to body aches because the bed is so hard, too cold and infested with bugs. She hates the lack of warm nights, hating the cold that often makes her bones to shiver.

Today, she decides to say a prayer to God. It’s been long she prayed last. Her predicament has made her forget a few things. She commits the day to Him and hopes He listens to her humble petitions.

Then she begins to prepare herself for the day. First, she wakes the children and gives them the little food she had kept in the small storage under the bed. It is stale bread as usual. That is the little she can afford; hence, the kids cannot do much except show gratitude because there is something for them to eat and they won’t be starving as they do once in a while.

The early stench of careless urination by people around greets them good morning as they feed. Once they are done feeding, her little ones wear their tattered uniforms to school, a shed under a tree, which doesn’t deserve to be called a school.

By 8am, she’s at the shop – just a little kiosk made out of wood. She sells the little things that people need – a box of matches, sachet water, chewing gum, sweets, biscuits, chewing sticks and so on.

Sometimes, a few folks from the neighbourhood come keep her company with their arguments, laughs and little talks here and there. This act provides a comic relief to their tragic existence on Dustbin estate. All day she remains in her shop, never tiring so as to make a living, hoping one day, she and her children won’t see Dustbin estate anymore. However, the little she makes, the little ones take from it. It is what they survive on – the little little things of life.

Her future is laid out on the floor for her children to benefit from it. Her life is all laid out on the floor. Her children are all she cares about.

The night comes and she takes them home. She’s worried, tired, nevertheless she’s strong. Her heart is full of pain, but she thrives on in a community filled with nothing but broken dreams, tainted realities and the hard life bestowed on them. And the next morning, it all begins again. Our superhero continues in her attempt to save the day. Always unrelenting.


Source: penastory.com

This is a true life story as told by Uzoma Uchechi Kingsley

Permit me to share this story. After work on Tuesday, I decided to run to Ikeja Computer Village to buy a phone, specifically an iPhone 5s. I had just been paid my May salary the day before working 28 days extra before I could get paid. Since I was lacking a good phone, I decided to use the money to buy a phone. I added up my last savings totaling the money to 55,000 naira. Upon getting to ikeja, I met with a certain Hakeem who promised to take me to someone who wanted to sell his phone, a neat iPhone 6 for that amount.

First I found this discomforting and I told my friend with whom I was with that my spirit did not accept him but my friend urged me to check out the phone. So we went along and checked the body of the phone, the charging port, the camera and lastly I asked him to call me to be sure it didn’t have any mouth or hearing issues. He did and everything was okay. To even make sure it was not just a ruse, we swapped our phones and I gave him my small Samsung torchlight phone to call me to be very sure and everything was still okay. I went ahead to ask how much he was selling, he laughed and said 85k. I paused and told him I didn’t have that and we kept negotiating till we settled for 55k. The whole time, I had the cash in my pocket but I pretended that I needed to use the ATM. We walked to the ATM and I just checked my account balance, pretending to withdraw.

I went with the guy and my friend to a certain shop close to the Fidelity bank I withdrew from and gave him the money to count and he gave me the phone and assured him it was complete but he started shouting that the money was too poor and that I should add something. See me na. as a JJC I promised to add 500 naira but he kept shouting that he won’t accept and that I should take my money back and gave us the money while he took back the phone. I just sighed and walked on with my friend. My friend paused for a minute to count the money only to discover that the idiot had duped us. He wrapped a torn carton shaped into the form of N1000 to wrap it and at that moment, I nearly fainted as tears rolled down my eyes. I had been duped

Did I work for one month and 28 days for another man to eat my sweat? Several thoughts went through my mind but then I remembered I had called his number earlier when we were testing the phone, so I opened my call log only to find it empty, the idiot had cleared my call log so that I couldn’t have his number or any trace to him. I tried calling the number of the guy who introduced me to him but he denied being a part of the charade but kept asking me how much the fraudster collected from me. He promised to call me back to give me information about the idiot who duped me but I waited all day and no call came from him and when I call, all I get is laughter. Permit me to leave his number here 07062596294. Such criminals shouldn’t be spared, thanks.
Sometimes the only thing that needs to be removed is a memory.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/07/12/maami-a-mothers-love-babavin/

I picked up my Invictus face cap from the sofa, about an inch from where maami was seated watching Jenifa’s Diary. As I strolled towards the door, Maami’s voice followed me, “Look left and look right before you cross the road oh! Look up too; you never know,” she said, absent- mindedly.

I rolled my eyes and shut the door behind me. Maami and her dry jokes. Look up koor. I looked left as I was about to cross the road. This time, I did something right. Lo and behold there she was, sauntering on the street as if she owned it. No, it wasn’t her dressing that set her apart and commanded attention, though she was decently dressed in blue denim and an Ankara top. It was her carriage and grace. It felt like the scene of an American movie, but it wasn’t. The chants of market women and the sight of little children dancing to the latest music dominating the charts, ‘Customer Dada Ni’ reminded me we were on the streets of Bariga. Damn! Dammit! She was beautiful; a reflection of God’s artistry.

This was a whole new feeling and I felt like a village boy on his first flight in an airplane. It was love at first sight. I felt light headed as I caught a glimpse of her a second time and I guess that was the feeling of common sense leaving me. The battle was on from within, a battle every guy has to fight at least once. Common, she is too beautiful for you. She would snub you. What do you intend saying? The thoughts raced through my head but these fears vanished as quickly as they came. I mustered all the courage in me just the way I have seen my favourite cartoon character Johnny Bravo do on TV several times.

“Heyyss…Sorry to disturb you. I know this is wrong but…,” she turned calmly and her eyes were rather as our eyes met. I could swear in hers, I saw Venus and a galaxy of stars. At that moment I hated being a boy, males always have to think of what to say to a woman in a bid to impress her. What can I say to sound but funny and impressive? Honestly I didn’t know so I blurted, “Pardon me! I’m Adesoji.”

She smiled and said, “I’m Feyisayo.”

Letters seemed to spell out into words as we got talking and began walking down the street together. The chemistry was evident and when at last it was time to part, I brought out my phone and punched in “080” before handing it to her. She laughed hard at how genius that was as she punched in her digits. She stopped for a moment and my heart skipped a beat.

“What if it’s 090?” She said, a teasing light dancing in her eyes.

“Err…. what if?” I replied, struggling to cover my embarrassment with a smile. She laughed even harder and punched the rest of her digits before handing over my phone. She flagged down the next taxi we saw, and without haggling about the price, she told him her destination and got in. She didn’t even haggle over the cab fare, I thought to myself. I trust myself, emi ke! We both waved goodbye as the taxi drove off.

I forgot all what Paul my friend told me about making girls wait. I sure as hell didn’t have time for mind games. I called her the very next day. That was the first of many subsequent calls and endless nights of chatting till both our batteries drained. Days turned into weeks, weeks slowly rolled into months and so did our love grow. “Honey, sugar,” she would call me. “Jedi jedi’ is not good,” I would reply.

We had a lot in common; from our hatred towards the irrelevant courses taught in school, to our love for Manchester United FC, to how we both sucked at relationships, to our shared love for Fela Anikulapokuti’s music. I could go on and on, but I lost my mind the day she told me about her love for amala and ewedu. She didn’t need a broom; I was swept off my feet already.

Days into the third month of our meeting, we went on our very first date. It wasn’t the regular cinema date. What better way to express our shared love for amala and ewedu than over plates of it. We paid a visit to Olaiya canteen in the heart of Surulere. We got seated and laughed at how we didn’t care what anyone thought about our date, as we awaited our order. Our perfect date was short-lived when her phone vibrated while we ate, and I saw the caller ID, a strange name, ‘Bullet’. She hesitated before picking the call and walked away. Minutes later she walked back, washed her hands hurriedly and said she had to leave as it was urgent. She picked up her bag, pecked me on the cheeks and walked away before I could even complete my sentence. I paid the bills and left almost immediately, my appetite having followed her out the door.

Later that night, I sat by the balcony with my earphones plugged in enjoying the cool breeze that escorted the night, while Maami prepared for night vigil. I heard loud bangs on the door, which I ignored guessing it was our noisy neighbours disturbing for the umpteenth time. Suddenly I heard voices coming from the living room of which a voice overshadowed all others.

“Owo da? Nobody would get hurt!” It sounded feminine and familiar. I rushed into the living room to the sight of four armed men. One shot at me in shock, reflexes I assume. It happened in a flash. I slammed into the sofa and hit my head hard against the patent wooden floor. It wasn’t the bullet that sent me crashing down, it was the weight of Maami. She took the bullet meant for me.

“What have you done? Let’s get out of here now!” the feminine voice said. I looked up to see Feyi whose eyes held a sorry glint as they all ran out. I held Maami in my hands, tears rolling down my cheeks as I shouted for help. Surprisingly, the paramedics arrived quickly with an ambulance and whisked Maami out of my arms. “Oga mi. There’s a pulse, she’s passed out. This one still dey alive oh…” one of them shouted to the others. They examined her closely and fished out a Bible in the breast pocket of her coat. The bible had taken the bullet. I latched onto those words of hopes that Maami is still alive as we drove down to the hospital. It was the longest ten minutes’ drive of my life. I paced the hospital ward, praying that she would be silent. At last a doctor came out and indicated I could go in. I rushed inside and saw Maami lying there, the beeps from the electrocardiograms in the room, the only sound. I sat by her bed side and took her hand. “Maami, I love you.” The tears fell from my eyes as I couldn’t help but think of a mother’s love for her child.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/07/11/my-mistake-part-1-alabi-ayomide/

I sat looking at the skies, filled with hope that Aduke would call me to tell me she misses me or at least for me to know she is okay since I had lost the right and privileges of calling her my friend. Well this was what happened I explained to Michael.

“Aduke and I used to be very close, we were so close people assumed we were very much in love with each other and were dating. I love Aduke beyond measures and I am sure she loves me more than the way I love her. We heard the rumours about our supposed love life of course, I was going to break silence on the issue but Aduke said I should keep quiet and let people assume what they wanted to. Months passed and the rumours had spread faster and wider than the Chicago wild fire. It got so bad that every girl I tried to woo turned me down just because they believed I was dating Aduke who is easily one of hottest girls on campus. I met a girl named Funke on instagram, pretty, light skinned, hour glass body, caring and she was a fresher. I explained and even though Aduke wasn’t comfortable with what was going on, I was of the mindset that she was the one for me regardless of the fact that she was suffering from typhinia. Weeks passed, Funke and I spent so much time together that we became the talk of the campus.

‘Yemi, who in God’s name is Aduke,’ she asked. I didn’t know what to say, I perceived the destructive aroma of trouble as she asked and I told her Aduke is just my friend.

‘She can’t just be your friend, she came to my room last night and asked me to stay away from you, that you are in a relationship with her.’

“But she is just…”

“Please stay away from me, I hate you,” she cut in heatedly and walked away.

I was furious. Why would Aduke decide to destroy my life like this? She has a boyfriend and I am single. What else does she want from me? I asked myself. I decided to go to her room three days after the incident. I barged in furiously and before she knew what was happening, I had slapped her twice.

‘I never want to see you again, stay away from me and stay away from Funke,’ I said in anger watching as the tears rolled down her cheeks.

‘How can you do this to me? How dare you barge into my room and slap me without my doing anything and you are mentioning a name I have never heard of? What kind of devil have you turned to? This is not the Yemi I know and love,’ she said, tears streaming down her face.

‘If you love me, let me go, I love Funke and she’s the one I want to be with,’ I replied and walked out of the room. Aduke ran after me and shouted that I had just cut the bond of our friendship. Days passed, I didn’t hear from Aduke but every night I could hear the echo of her voice saying that I had cut the bond of our friendship. I debated within myself whether to call or text her but something always reminded me that she was the one who offended me and should call me instead. Regardless, I found myself going back to her room to apologize but she wasn’t there. That was how we stopped talking for over a year now.”

“How could you have been so callous Yemi?” Michael asked as I finished my tale. “Notwithstanding what you heard, you should have asked her first before hitting her,” he added,

“Come to think of it, when did Funke tell you what Aduke told her?”

“September 12 2015 at around 9.45pm.”

“Can you imagine! Aduke and I were not even on campus or in Lagos for that matter, we were in Abuja for the launch of our clothing line , so please tell me how she could have been in Abuja and on campus at the same time.”

What the hell have I done I asked myself. “I am going to Funke’s room,” I said to Michael and bade him goodbye, my head bowed with regret. I got to Aduke’s room and knocked on the door but no one answered I turned the knob of the door, the door opened, I walked in and for some strange reason I went straight to her bedroom and to my greatest surprise I met Funke and Aduke having lesbian sex, I blacked out for some seconds and regained consciousness thinking it was a Nollywood movie I was watching but unfortunately it wasn’t.

Funke walked out of the room in fear and Aduke was staring at me in shame.

“Listen, I am not bothered about the whole sex bullshit I just want to know the truth,” I said.

“Listen Yemi,” she stuttered, “I don’t know who Aduke is, I have never seen her before I have only heard about tales of how much you guys love each other so much and I wanted something at least similar to that so I tried to tear you guys apart. I am really sorry.”

“WHAT!!! How could you do this? Why didn’t you just fucking ask me?” I thundered. “You were indeed a mistake.” I said as I left her apartment in annoyance.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/07/09/a-day-i-shall-never-forget-part-1/

December 12, 2012

It was about 2:30am in the morning, I was restless and suffering from what my learned colleagues at the department of English, University of Lagos would refer to as “insomnia”. In layman English, I couldn’t sleep. In that terrible restless state, I decided to find something engaging in order to eliminate boredom. As I began to descend the stairs of our then beautiful duplex located at the highbrow area of Magidi Isheri Estate, the power holding company of Nigeria decided to restore the power supply. To borrow local parlance, “NEPA won mu INA de”.

I became really excited that at least I could keep myself busy by watching the television but it was that day did I found out how boring Nigerian television stations can be. At that point, the pain of having a DSTV dish hanging beautifully on the wall outside with the decoder yet no subscription became poignant as it was now more or less an artifact. At this point, I know certainly that I have succeeded in getting you confused and you believe I have contradicted myself, isn’t it? *scoffs*. I get that a lot but believe me, I am not mad and I know exactly what I am saying. Let me save you from your misery by throwing light on certain issues.

Initially, I made mention of the fact that my family and I resided in the highbrow area of Magodo and then you got confused as to why people living in a duplex at Magodo won’t be able to pay for common subscription of 15,000 naira for DSTV? Well my dear that is the first lesson of life anyone who wants his/her name to be written “gidigba” in the book of life. Never get carried away by the things of life that other people own but you don’t. Because Shola cruises round town in the latest Range Rover or Emeka just bought a house in Banana Island does not mean that all is well. Dear sir/ma, uncle/aunty, brother/sister, I need you to understand that, “All that glitters is not gold”. Most of the people you desperately want to be like, simply live a life of PACKAGING. Nobody wants to be left behind or looked down on and so we all make up and live fake lives. Whether you like it or not, if you truly search your heart thoroughly, in one way or the other, you would come to the realization that you have also lived a fake life or even is currently living one.

89.75% of Nigerians live a make believe life. We tend to incorporate the habit of claiming to be what we are not, just because we want to meet up with our peers. The same thing applied to my family. But can you blame my father for wanting to give us (my mom and siblings) the very best of comfort? Can you? The truth is you can’t! It is not that we even lived an extravagant life but I guess we weren’t just fully prepared for the stormy days. Thus, we simply had to “package” when we had the big financial blow.

Not to digress too much, on that very day, I had settled for T.V.C (Television Continental) to watch “The Adventures of Kunle Thomas” because apparently that was the only thing that appealed to me. Exactly 15 minutes into it, sleep finally decided to open its warm hands and embrace me as I snored my way into the other side of life. I hadn’t slept for an hour when I woke up to the event that changed my life for good and made me become who I am today to the glory of God and to the shame of the Devil. From my sleep I heard a very loud noise; getting up I thought the sound was coming from outside so I ran out in anxiety and fear. As I stood panicking outside, I tried to figure out the cause of the noise but to my utmost surprise everywhere seemed peaceful except for the sound of my headstrong neighbours who had decided not to change over and turn off their generator set.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/07/08/birthday-gift-tobi-davies/

“Not again,” you said this to ring a bell in Badejo’s head when he began pulling his trouser. This day, you were sure he would attack but like before you did not know how. Within you, you wished you had magical powers to tell his balls to fall off. Unfortunately, you are not from the clan of Babalawos neither are you are from the clan of the Edo Dibias. Just as you expected, Badejo came rushing towards you shouting, “My friend remove those coverings. Let me see those mangoes on your chest.”

As usual, you could not weep. All you did was to think of a better plan as you pulled your clothing; a plan to fall those balls. Over the years, you have been continually wrecked by Badejo, your father. You wished it were not the way things were, especially after your mother died. Every day, since you marked thirteenth birthday, Badejo mounted you like a bowl of Eba and Egusi soup. The day you switched to resistance, Badejo whipped you like the child that you are. After that day, you poured hot ororo on his face with him spending three months on the hospital bed as you laboured for his recovery. You vowed to pay back as you wished he had become blind that instant.

To you, all hopes of recovery had been dashed by emotional and psychological trauma in fixed in you by his act. Consequently, you wished you had another plan to tear him apart but of course, no plan was foreseen. Now this very day, after following your only confidant’s advice, Obebo, the previous day; you decided to do something, something greater than the previous incident. To kill not just his face but those balls. You decided to kill him although shame might become of you. “Yes! That is it, psychological and emotional death,” you said.

Instantly, you went to Addide to buy the 58mps digital camera and fixed it on your dresser, setting it perfectly to form a makeup. As expected, that should become of you, being eighteen years old in four days. You said, “This will be my birthday gift.”

Just as he came groaning and looking at you with his fat and sweaty body, you struggled to make the video a perfect blockbuster to movie lovers and a shock to critics and the law by letting him tear your singlet as you reacted in outermost shock. As he penetrated, you said, “Daddy, you do not have to do this to me, its been five years.” He slapped your face, you smiled. To emphasize even more pain that you were used to, you kept screaming.

And in thirty minutes, it ended. This resolution to your long conflict that led to a climax has come to realization. And you thought to yourself, at last, I killed him again…what a perfect birthday gift.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/07/08/unilag-for-humanity-pic-fic-series-providence-clement-ehimare-oriaifo/

The memories of my last visit to the Dustbin Estate, Ajegunle have become regular especially when I see the sandal I received from the cobbler. Somehow I felt I was envied by all and sundry whenever I walked past, but that was all in my head actually. I still remained in touch with the cobbler and his family… Oh! Please do not be surprised, I am that grateful for what they did for me. I was still rolling in my subconscious when I heard my phone alarm beep and I realised I had been awake for almost three hours. Ofcourse it was too late to grab another round of sleep for the fear of my horrible boss. She is Agnes by name and most times I wish I could bypass her demeaning frame and get on her good side. A rumour at the office says, she has been really unlucky with men, hence her negative outlook on life. Before I could continue, my phone alarm reminded me that I had wasted fifteen minutes analysing my boss’ attitude to my detriment. I jumped up to prepare, but didn’t meet the time as I was late again and very foggy looking. I was surely in soup…..

I work as a journalist for a multinational company by name “FactorSystems Media Limited,” which is Nigeria’s leading enterprise as far as journalism is concerned. I work in the Newspaper section and I have my own column – “Dealing with depression” which is actually one of the hottest columns in any Nigerian newspaper.

I got to the company gate and saw my boss at the entrance to the main building from outside and my heart pulled an Elsa on me (It froze with fear). It was no use thinking of an excuse as she always expected that from me. Do not be surprised, it was actually that bad. Sometimes I always wished that the main building had more than two entries, I sometimes feel that it was made that way to punish me. As I walked into the compound, I took a periodic gaze at my boss in the distance and discovered that the resentment on her face just kept intensifying making her look uglier than I have ever imagined; she was beautiful actually but my hatred for her brutality became like a mask over her face.

I got over to her and didn’t utter a word. I expected her to rant or tell me the story of my life, make me regret I was born and remind me that the reason she has been stalling my sack is because of my wonderful attitude to my work, which she always reiterated was failing, meaning I could lose my job any time if I didn’t make amends, But on the contrary, she said “follow me to my office”. Normally I should have been scared that it meant that I was up for a sack, but this time I was more afraid at her decision not to yell at me. I gave her a five minute head start to her office and met her calmly seated, waiting for someone that seemed to be me, because I have never been in her office on my own.

“The company is organising its usual camp retreat this year for the newspaper department, as one of the programmes to kick start its Golden Jubilee celebrations,” She said as she adjusted comfortably into her chair. She went on, “It is compulsory for all staff of this company and as you know, everyone would be grouped in teams of twelve members”. I was about to cut in when she gave me ‘The hand’, that shut down my ability to think and reset my mind to listening mode. “You have been grouped already and you would be spending the whole of the next two weeks in any rural settlement of your choice”. She kept talking, but I was busy thinking of where to choose without listening, since I knew all she was about to say and then it hit me, “Dustbin Estate”, I said without recalling that I wasn’t listening, which meant that I cut short her sermon. She noted my choice of location without making any fuss about my interjection, which was borne out of my desire to see the cobbler and his family again. For the first time since I joined the company, I just picked a rural area to camp without thinking of the consequences, but it was already too late as Margaret Thatcher already acknowledged it and would never edit it for the world, but being that the essence of the camp was to rejuvenate passion for writing and an opportunity to heal any writer’s block available with a price tag on it for the best team, all at the company’s expense, who was I to complain?

Time dragged by and it was time for the retreat. We were all assembled for one final briefing and I discovered that my boss was going to Banana Island for her retreat. The human nature in me blamed me for not being able to pick somewhere better than my present destination, but I didn’t regret it since I was going to see the cobbler and his wonderful family again.

The company made all the arrangements and soon my team of six guys including myself and six ladies, were enroute Dustbin estate, Ajegunle. On our arrival, I discovered the company had arranged for the best hotel in the area which was like a boys quarter compared to the hotels in the urban parts of Lagos. We were ushered into our rooms, they were four in number: Two for the ladies and two for the guys, mathematically leaving three souls in a room of the same sex. The rooms were already customised with three beds, a toilet and a bathroom with a poor taste in furnishing. It took us the whole day to settle in and as we did that I felt my teammates secretly cursed me for this kind of location but I didn’t care actually because I was more concerned about the task at hand and emerging as the team of the year for this year.

The following day was like a day set aside for conflicts as my teammates kept arguing about what we should write about. Some wanted something abstract while some wanted a motivational piece and so I came to a conclusion that we should all head out to different venues to sit down and think for a while and that was what we did. I decided to capitalise on that opportunity to visit the cobbler. I felt I had taken advantage of my teammates since they didn’t know I wanted all to head out for my selfish interest, but who cares, I was doing it anyways. I left the hotel premises without looking sideways at the poor excuse for a restaurant the Hotel manager bragged about and headed straight for the Tricycle Park popularly known as “Keke Maruwa,” which was down the street, more like a ten minute walk. I arrived at the park and I was taken successfully to my destination, only to discover that the cobbler’s shop was locked. I instantly got on a bike to the cobbler’s residence and met Kenny and this time, his sisters. He was so excited to see me and introduced me to his sisters, Lade and Kemi. I didn’t want to waste much time and so I inquired about his parents with a wind of urgency because I also wanted to start my meditation as soon as possible. “They are at the market,” Lade said meekly. From her voice I could deduce that she was about ten years of age and so I asked for directions and left them with the sum of five hundred naira each.

It was hard locating the market for a newbie to that zone like me and the poor state of the ‘Dead’ pathways, yes! Pathways, they didn’t deserve to be called roads as I barely recognised the colour of my sandals by the time I arrived at the market due to the enormous amount of mud around it. As I kept analysing the poor state of my footwear it struck me that I didn’t ask the kids how to locate their parents and the market was so crowded that one would think there was a stampede. It was just a large body of moving people buying and selling in one way or the other to satisfy a need. I decided on the most frustrating strategy ever – to walk round the market, shop by shop, kiosk by kiosk, pathway by pathway till I could find either the cobbler or his wife.

Hours went buy and I didn’t need a magician to tell me that my strategy was a colossal disaster. I got hungry, frustrated, pissed, at myself majorly and at the poor state of the market. After about four hours of futility I decided to chill. I approached a sorry excuse for a restaurant and began to imagine how people ate here, but I was too hungry to do any medical analysis, so I went in and did justice to my stomach, hoping I don’t fall sick afterwards. I planned another strategy this time I decided to search item by item, from shoes section, to stationery section to food section to metallurgical section and then to clothes section. With other sections in sight and the sign of another failed strategy staring in my face, I decided to give up. Turning back to move out of the market, my phone dropped into the mud and kept cursing in my mind till I reached for the phone, and as I made to stand up, I saw the Cobbler’s wife, three steps away from me with clothes on her hands.

My joy knew no bounds; I was ecstatic, unimaginably happy, and so happy that I didn’t make to approach her immediately. She was still with a moving customer trying to sell the wares in her hands, but she didn’t anyways and so I stepped before her. “Good afternoon, ma,” I said with a consummating smile. She was also surprised in her own way. “Precious, how have you been? Please come with me,” she said as she ushered me to a kiosk containing more clothes and offered me a seat. I saw her husband, the cobbler in the distance returning with another bundle of clothes and the smile that erupted on his face when he recognised me set up a fresh beam of smile across my face.

We all settled down at the kiosk and I explained to them what brought me to Dustbin Estate, the hotel I was lodged how I went to the cobbler’s shop, found out that it was locked, took a bike to their residence, meeting their daughters and Kenny and how the kids directed me to this place and how I eventually wriggled and fought my way till I found the wife and how she brought me here. I also explained that I would be at the hotel for two weeks and I needed to write a story with my whole team involved and how we all headed out to meditate on what we should write about and how I haven’t figured my title out yet. The cobbler apologised for not being at the shop and explained that on “Market days” he usually accompanies his wife to the market to maximise sales since the influx of buyers on these days is usually enormous as I could see. He also advised me to write about my experience and a title hit me “Life in The Slums.” I was there with them for so many hours and departed the market by 5:30pm.

Once in my hotel room, I discovered that all members of my team had long returned as most of the guys looked like they were asleep for most of the day. I went to the bathroom and after I showered and had dinner, I called for a team meeting to ask for the various titles and I discovered that no one had anything tangible to offer, so I told them about what I had come up with and they lazily agreed. It turned out that my deceit paid off in the end since it brought forth a title of the write up to be done.

For the next twelve days, I engrossed myself with frequent visits to the Cobbler and his family and writing the article, by stringing different experiences together, from frequent mosquito bites, to erratic power supply, to poor drinking water amongst other amenities, poor transport network and my experience at the market. The day before we were to go back to civilisation, I completed the write up, left it to my teammates to edit while I went to say my goodbyes to the Cobbler. It was a sad setting as I was about to leave that day but I promised to return in no distant time. A family that I never knew from Adam had this effect on me and it was overwhelming.

The following day we left dustbin estate and once at the company, I immediately sighted my stiff of a boss looking really radiant and for the first time in my three years in that company, she was all smiles. “Who knows if she finally found the man of her dreams?” I joked. I went to the editor’s office to drop my piece on behalf of my teammates and left to resume my duties…

Did my team and I emerge champions of the retreat? Only time will tell….

Get updates on our post by joining our BBM Channel via C00396EEB, if you are reading from mobile click: http://pin.bbm.com/C00396EEB

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/07/06/donating-the-body-organs/

Guess who went to clinic today…….. Me!!!. My first posting was ophthamology. That’s the department that deals with eye care in general and almost everything there is microscopic and you have to be careful. Oh there weren’t any patients on admission because resident doctors are on strike. It was more of an orientation really and the consultant that took us round was really funky. I was happy about that because I thought we’d end up with a mean old doctor. Oh when a senior colleague asks you to go somewhere and wait for him you’re not to go there and take a seat while waiting. You don’t put your hands in the pocket of your lab coat when talking to a senior colleague.

Most patients on admission in ophthamology department spend a short time on admission like 3 days. Day 1 is the day before surgery, day 2 is the day of surgery and day 3 is the day after. Minor operations are done in the laser room. Now to the part that got to me, eye donation. Yes you can donate your eyes. Of course when the consultant asked how many of us would like to donate our eyes when we are dead, we were reluctant. Who wants to be buried with empty eye sockets, so he explained to us.

First there’s a form an individual fills more like a will and it is usually signed by the person in the presence of his lawyer and a family member (usually next of kin). Next when the person dies it’s the responsibility of the family members to contact the hospital within 24hours so the eyes can be taken. It’s a legal thingy and they can be sued if they don’t. Here’s the good part though, donating your eye is a good thing to be honest. The cornea from one person’s eye can help save 5 people from blindness and unlike the lens there’s no artificial cornea. So it’s really important and helpful to others. Think of it when a person dies all these things would decay, the eyes will become sunken almost like nothing is there; the eyelids might even be closed so what’s the use? Give someone who needs it. Apparently there’s one cornea bank in Lagos at LASUTH (Lagos State University Teaching Hospital) and according to what we hear, only one just one O-N-E Nigerian out of millions of us has found it in him to donate his eye to the cornea bank. So we import corneas from India (I know we like importing in this country) and I don’t know the break down but I expect such a surgery to cost more because of this. Now imagine if the patient doesn’t have much.

I’ll like to believe people aren’t donating because they don’t know about it and not because “we want to go to our graves in one piece “. That’s something I don’t like to hear. The doctors won’t tear your corpse apart or anything. They’re not taking your skin, you’ll still look like the next dead person, and they just want the vital organs that by the way can save a lot of lives. I mean you’ll still be touching lives even in death. Personally when I’m old and I know I could die soon I’m gonna fill that form and donate as many organs as I feel like. I’d rather someone live on it than have earthworms live on it.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/07/05/the-bar-elias-saheed/

Came steadily and readily for the night, had been waiting forever for it; the day hasn’t been favorable least I could do to myself was a shot. Ambled into a bar, oozing and dishing out things I assumed not describable. Walled myself into a comfort zone, letting go off shots. Countless heads strolling in and out. The music was so calm but I’ve got my troubles within. I couldn’t restrict the sight of girls wrapped up in sinful clothes, still can’t unfold my cause who am I to blame.

The gist gets going like I wasn’t present. The lilt of her hair bought me back to life. Almost choking on my own drink, she looks joyful but the way she gulps her shots was of depression. Hello, a presumed way of me getting attentions. She looks away, I guess that wasn’t enough. I had to touch her dress with my lustful compliment you look gorgeous, a resounding smile that wasn’t of pleasure but acknowledgement

Drafting my plot into her, I offered her a table least I could think off. She was full of worries and laughter, I tried getting solace in her but peace within is more necessary, Her lamentation wasn’t bizarre perhaps conflicting; a dazzling fashion designer before things went wrong her dress says otherwise. Such is life, the responds that triggers her own question

I went on dabbling and dodging my woes. I’ve got my downs but watching her lustfully radicalized my thoughts, hoping not to grow old into the nights. I’ll rather get laid in the bar than getting layoff at work. I hear myself fading away far from the music; she still gobbles her drink, filled with smiles. It wasn’t chemistry flowing just two drunkards caught up in a mess. I felt out of the blues, I haven’t been much of talker or a drinker but tonight I got myself deemed my walk home was all about redeeming my life.

PS: Committing ourselves perhaps can make us find answers to tales that was never asked.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/07/05/twenty-episode-17/

Excerpt from episode 16:

In her sleep, there was Matthew again. He was lying on the floor beside her somewhere in a garden that looked familiar. They were talking and kissing when suddenly, David, the twins and Uncle Osas gathered and all four of them stabbed Matthew but didn’t touch her.

“Kill me too,” she yelled in her dream. “Kill me too! Matthew!” That was when she woke up.

To read episode 16: Visit profile or www.penastory.com

Maryam stayed up until past 3a.m, she had never experienced trouble sleeping but that night she kept tossing and turning. Her mind was worried, not only was Chioma missing, Mrs. Ugochukwu’s lackadaisical attitude was saddening.

Maryam felt a rumbling in her stomach, she felt hungry too. She had returned home very late the previous night. She had tried trailing David and monitoring his movements with hopes that she could detect something to help with Chioma’s whereabouts but her efforts had proved abortive. Her parents were already asleep by the time she got back home, only the house help was awake when she came knocking at the door. She made the decision to go see Mrs. Beebs the following day and finally managed to drift off into a troubled sleep.

***

Mrs. Beebs was one of the oldest residents living at Edmund Crescent; she lived alone and hardly ever had visitors. Chioma had once told Maryam that she could go for a year without anyone coming to visit and as she prepared to leave the house for the visit, Maryam questioned the logic behind her own actions.

Her parents were still asleep when she was slipping out of the house and she was grateful for that. She didn’t want to have to answer any questions about why she had come home late the night before or why she was heading out so early.

‘Tell baami and maami that I have some things to do and will be back later in the day,’ she said to the little girl who was picking beans for breakfast in the living room as she headed out.

‘What things aunty?’ the little girl asked.

‘Tell them exactly what I told you, when did you started questioning my movements?” Maryam snapped at the little girl in annoyance. She felt edgy enough as it was without being made to feel any more conscious by the help.

“Tell them I am at Chioma’s house,” she added by the door and slipped out.

Mrs. Beebs’ house was alive with activity even at that hour of the morning. People were trooping in and out of the house with gloomy faces and it was with trepidation that Maryam entered the house.

‘Chai!’ she heard someone exclaim.

‘What’s going on…?’ she asked turning to a young boy who was looking around him with a forlorn expression on his face.

“That woman, the one that has a very big waist was found dead this morning.” He said it as if he was trying to convince himself that she was really dead. Maryam stared at him dumbfounded, she didn’t know whether to scream or turn away. She suddenly felt heavy and it felt as if the room was swaying and she was about to fall. Her legs didn’t seem like it could carry her and she staggered into the room where the attraction seemed to be.

Mrs. Beebs body was lying in a grotesque manner on the floor, her neck at an unnatural angle and her lifeless eyes staring in shock as if whoever or whatever had killed her had not been what she would ever have expected.

“Somebody should call the police, this is not a circus.” Maryam said feeling sick to the pit of her stomach. Everyone stared at her as if she had gone mad and she couldn’t believe the way they gawked at the body of the dead woman. Her phone beeped and she read the text message, ‘The obstinate fly follows the dead to the grave.’

***

Mrs. Ugochukwu came to slowly with a frown. Her consciousness registered that David wasn’t sleeping beside her on the bed. She got out of bed and stretched, her eyes falling on a framed picture of Chioma. David had said he was going to make some enquiries at the company before they called the company. She felt worried about the safety of her daughter but assured with David’s reasoning that it was better not to scare the kidnappers into doing something by getting the police involved.

It was not until mid-day when she finally decided to call David.

‘Hello…’
‘…..’
‘I’m not sure, you just left’ she said putting her left hand on her waist.
‘….’
‘No, no one has called me, but I called the detective’
‘…………..’

‘How was I supposed to know, you were not here, I had to do something. My daughter is still missing, what kind of mother will I be? I had to.’ She said pacing about the room.
‘Hello? Hello…?’ the line had gone dead.

Why was David so upset she had called her detective friend? She had no minute to think further when the doorbell jarred her out of her thoughts and she hurried to the door. Standing there was Osas, her brother-in-law.

‘What do you want,’ she asked in clipped tones, trying to hide her surprise.

“I’m here to make peace with you and forgive you. Won’t you invite me in?” he said and entered the house without waiting for a reply.

‘You had better leave before I call the police.’ She waved her phone threatening in his face, her voice rising.

‘There isn’t any need for that,’ he said as he sat down.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/07/04/now-that-you-are-here-episode-fourteen-a-tale-of-deception-betrayal-and-murder/

Excerpt from Episode 13:

He wasn’t just a cheat anymore, he was now a murderer. He knew it was going to be only a matter of time before the police would find him even if he ran and he was too weak to run. How can I face the world? He got out of the car and headed back towards the house. There is only one thing for me to do and I have to.

To read episode 13: CLICK HERE

He walked into the room and looked around him; everything was still the same way it was when he had dashed out in a hurry. His eyes went to Damilola’s lifeless body lying on the floor and for a second he cast his eyes down, the tears threatening to spill. He swallowed involuntary as he moved towards the body and turned her over. He pressed his face into her still heart and for the umpteenth time wished he had not come over. He allowed the tears flow into her dress, hoping she would stir in his arms and smile at him in that her special way and tell him she was faking to be dead but as a doctor, he knew she was gone.

He stood up and lifted the body on his shoulder like a labourer would carry a bag of cement and carried her to his car. He opened the door to the passenger’s seat and propped her against the chair. The body flopped forward lifelessly and he adjusted the position to give her the look of one who was resting or sleeping, before quickly strapping the seat belt to keep the body in place. He closed her unseeing eyes which seemed to be staring at him guiltily and then he went to the driver’s seat and drover out of the compound.

His heart beat rapidly in his chest as he drove towards the Third Mainland Bridge. Every few minutes, he would sneak a peek at her, still longing for her to smile or stir but each time, she remained the same. As he climbed the bridge from Adekunle bus-stop, he increased the car speed and said a silent prayer of thanks to the heavens for the darkness of the night. The probability of getting rescued was slim and that was just the way he wanted it.

John Legend’s “All of Me” filled the interior of the car and he wished he had given his all to just one person. He wouldn’t have been in this mess then. He was on the bridge now and he increased the speed even further before making a sharp turn towards the water, closing his eyes and taking his hands off the steering wheel. It happened in a split second; the car hit concrete and was sent flying into the air as it flipped over. He heard the splintering of glass and crunching metal and what seemed to have been a human scream before the car tumbled into the murky water below and darkness took over.

***

Anu looked around Damilola’s room with unseeing eyes, her hands were moving without any direction from her brain. It was a month since Muyiwa and Damilola’s death but it still hurt as if it had happened just yesterday. She had lost consciousness when she was told the news of the accident and when she came to again, she had wept inconsolably refusing to eat or drink for days till she had to be sedated. The task of clearing out Damilola’s apartment had fallen to her and as she sat in the once happy room, she wallowed in her grief again and wept bitterly.

Halima had left the country about two weeks after and had not even bothered to attend the funerals. Anu wiped her eyes and tried to get herself together but the pain was too raw so she collapsed back on the bed and screamed like one in agony. Her husband Tunji rushed into the room and embraced her like a baby.

“Hush baby, hush. It’s going to be alright, I told you already, you don’t have to do this just yet. Damilola won’t want you so torn apart. We all miss her, we all do.”

Anu’s sobs became louder.

“I should have done something Tunji, I should have done something to save her. She was on a self-destructive path and I didn’t try harder to save her. It’s all my fault. I can’t believe I watched her die. I want her back Tunji, I want her back, please just let her come back.”

Tunji’s heart felt like it was breaking to see his wife blame herself for something that was clearly not her fault and he clamped his mouth shut to control the anger he felt towards Muyiwa. There was no point being angry at a dead man. He led his wife out of the room and closed the door behind him and as he turned the key in the lock, he vowed that was the last time they were ever coming back there.

[center] THE END[/center]

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/07/04/in-the-path-of-death/

My eyes open slowly, I squint my face as I try to focus my vision. The sun shines brightly, my eyes hurts, hands hurt, my back hurts, it seems my whole body aches. I am on the ground, in the bush, in pain and unable to move. I have no idea why I am there or who I am. I close my eyes and within seconds I fade out of consciousness.
I wake up a few moments later, the sound of voices, distant voices awaken me, they are rough and guttural. I try to call out but I only let out a low moan. I need help, badly. Seconds transcends to minutes and then the voices fade off, I lay hopeless. It takes a lot of effort for me to sit up, I grab a stump and hurl myself upright. My leg is soaked in blood and swollen and it is then I remember what happened.
My name is Nuel, I had taken the night bus from Lagos to Benin, meaning to go to Uniben. The bus was sailing smoothly, making good speed when all of a sudden as we approached Ore, we sighted a roadblock up ahead, the driver, an old hand in the business had immediately reversed.
“Ritualists,” he shouted as he tried to turn the bus around. But he was too late, as if on cue, six men all sporting guns came out of the bush and began firing at the bus. Screams filled the air as each passenger prayed to their god. I who was seated at the front seat beside the driver had watched in fright, unable to move or even say anything. The bullets ripped through the tires and the body of the bus, shattering the windshield, shards of glasses scatter in every direction making way for the tens of bullets that found their way to the driver. His blood splatters and stains my cloth. I have never been so alone in my life.
With the loss of the driver coupled with the bullet ridden tyres, the bus swerves out of control headed towards the bush, somersaults several times ,throwing me into the bush. I landed on the ground hard and hear something in my body snap before losing consciousness. Now I am awake, my legs broken and unable to move. The voices are back and closer.
“Find the first passenger,” I hear a thick voice say.
I am trapped, unable to move, unable to run. Unable to escape. I hear footsteps coming closer and closer until it is just beside me. And just as I slip into unconsciousness, I hear the voice shout out, calling out to the others.
“Boss, I have found the man,” and with that, I fall unconscious.
“Cut,” the producer yells.
I stand up to my feet, helped by the man in boots. My leg is not injured or covered in blood, I wasn’t on any night bus. You see, I am an actor, and this is what I do.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

Checkout Www.PenAStory.com .....The fastest growing literature website...