₦airaland Forum

https://penastory.com/2016/06/03/unilag-for-humanity-pic-fic-series-god-win-tolu-aribisala/


“Everything I do na God win o, na God win o, na God win o…”



Really? God win?

Even you cannot help but be disgusted at the sight of this man dancing. So disgusting the way he is so overjoyed in this absolute filth of an environment. The very smirk on his face, I just want to wipe it off with a hot slap, because yes, no one should ever be so happy in such a backyard.

Is he raving mad? I ask myself every single time I see him or every single time he wakes me up by 5:30 am with his bell for prayers. Frayo will shout and clap and yelp to the same God that he calls omnipresent.

My room is opposite his, so yes, I bear the brunt of his early morning freak shows. One would think that in such heat, he will conserve the little air that comes in from his “little-or-no-window” window. But no, he chooses to use his noise to compound the heat for everyone.

In all his dancing, all I can think is he better not step on me with the slippers he took inside that toilet if he wants to live yet another day. Let us all fetch our water and get on with our sorry lives.

Wait. Why am I so angry? Why can’t I be happy for my neighbour? Today is his last day here. The last time he will have to go through any of this struggle. The last time he will queue for water, bathroom or toilet. The last time he will battle with an almost dried up well, and how much you have to pull and pull the rope before the rubber comes up with an equal mix of water and sand. The filthy bathroom meant for the whole compound, that even when you’re sleep on your bed, you are dreaming of new ways for you to position yourself so your body does not come in contact with the walls. Oh, or the toilet, which you have to stand on, while holding on to the walls for dear life, lest you fall and die. Not because of the cuts from the broken toilet seat, but because of what you’re falling into. Just don’t get up. Remain there and die.

Frayo is truly leaving! And I cannot help but be jealous of him. When will my own come? My miracle, or my stroke of luck? Mama Chichi meant it when she said they are following me from my village. Upon all my grammar, where am I today? I have lived in this compound the longest, as each family ends up leaving after a short period of time and the room gets replaced by a fresh one. Frayo has only been here five years and he is living today. His big sister set up a small shop in Yaba market for him to sell curtains. Apparently, he has been able to save to rent himself a self-contained room somewhere around his shop. They are indeed following me from my village.

Chichi has said it that it is his God that is doing it. So after all my strong-head, will I now go to him to take me to church? I remember the last time he decided to invite me to church. I was just coming in from the bar with one okay-looking woman, when he accosted me by my door. “Let me talk to you about Jesus,” he said. It was around 12am. What was doing me at that point was definitely not what was doing him. I didn’t realize when I screamed “I will not let religion be the alcohol of my soul!”

Religion? Hmm. That thing is only the opiate of the poor like me. Something to shift our minds from earthly struggles. An excuse. The mist that fogs up one’s eyes, keeping him satisfied with his lot in life, or at least tolerant of it. Will I give into this facade to cripple my mind? Will joining not make me the exact hypocrite I have been avoiding?

Looking at Frayo dance the way he is doing right now, making a fool of himself in front of these children, I feel disgust. It’s really disgusting. But I guess if that’s what it will take for me to end my seventeen-year tenure in Agbole-Micah, Dustbin Estate, I think I’ll give it a shot.


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https://penastory.com/2016/06/02/here-i-am-akorede-asunni/

Hearing the whisper of your dress
even before it goes sliding down your shoulders
Unto the boulders of your hips
And finally around your ankles
Thankful for this opportunity
to hold you in a full bodied caress

How can skin be soft as a flower’s petals
Warm beneath my hands and lips
yet strong enough to hold up beneath
The weight of all this thundering passion?

And am I then your lover or an assailant
Inflicting wounds of desire
Am I loving or are my kisses merely ripened fruits
Of selfish greed? Produce of my animalistic
need to devour and conquer and claim you as my own
annexed territory

morning after will come all too quickly
like some silent disaster nobody will know of but me
like a dream with every moment slowly fading
everything recedes and becomes ghosts and muffled echoes
the sounds that ride the crest of every crashing wave
the feel of petals beneath my lips, even the whisper of your dress




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https://penastory.com/2016/06/02/vendetta-episode-9-the-finale-abraham-isaac/

Excerpt from episode 8:

As the arrows fired, the soldier standing guard heard something fly at him and was quick to react. His sword blocked the arrow aiming for his head while the other pierced his heart. He died immediately. Kicking the guard’s body over, Ekdikisi reached for the knob and quietly opened the wide doors that led to her father’s quarters

To read episode 8: CLICK HERE

She opened the doors and stepped into the large room. Megaleio Hegemon was sitting in there alright. But something, had gone horribly wrong. Throughout the course of her mission, she had heavily relied on the element of surprise. Her ability to induce a raw, unexpected form of last-minute panic as well as capitalize on it had served her extremely well. Now, glancing across the room, she saw that she had lost that advantage.

The room was as tidy as usual with its usual gold-plated props. On her side of the long dining table, at exactly the same position it had been when she had first entered it was a steaming cup of cinnamon tea. It was a clear message that she had been expected and anticipated. She gripped her convertible bow cum scabbard more tightly around her fists and sat down to tea. She would go ahead with this; surprise or not.

Hegemon felt a wave of calm sweep through him as she sat down to tea. He had almost panicked when she walked in, looking as menacing as the ghost of a vengeful soul. Perhaps that was what she was indeed. The ghost of the maid had come back to haunt her. There was no need for unnecessary delay then.

“I know your identity and mission. But I do not know your name. What is your name?”
“Ekdikisi.”

Hegemon sighed deeply. Of course, vengeance. “Then, I must beg your pardon and request for a few moments of your time.” Since she was quiet and wore a blank but concentrated expression, he assumed he had her attention for the time being.

“I understand your grievances,” he continued. “Like most youth in their prime, I was overcome with desire and made the grave mistake of forcefully knowing your mother. It is an action I regret deeply. I cannot think of any form of justification for my beastly sin towards her. She was a truly delightful lady and a diligent maid who would have made an amazing mother for yourself and a wonderful queen for me. I’m willing to atone the injustice of my action towards her with my life. I also beg for your forgiveness. But there is one thing I am not sorry for and would do over and over again. Listen to me very carefully. The apparatus of the laws of a land do not exist on the premise of morality. When governing a state, a ruler must make and stand by decisions that foster the preservation and strengthen of the unity of the state, however amoral or illogical they might appear. When you were born as a girl child, your fate was sealed by the gods. Death became the only bulwark to the nefarious star gracing your rising. If it had been proclaimed that you were born of my loins as a female, authority and public sentiment would have departed the Megaleio Bloodline forever. This majesty, this united force of unstoppable power and splendor would not have been born. Know this, I do not regret the hunt for your life. For these Kingdoms to enjoy the peace and prosperity that they do today, there is nothing I would not have sacrificed. We’re not so different. You, my son, yes, son, have sacrificed your life and that of others for your mission. Before you arrive at the conclusion that your cause is for the sake of morality, realise that you are no better than I am for sentimentality sake. The guard outside is betrothed to be married to a fair lady two moons from now. Even if you had known that fact, you still would have killed him. He was to you, an obstacle. An obstruction to your cause that had to be put away. Whether he was betrothed to be married, or a father of three children, or a man with the burden of an aged mother, you still would have put him away without regrets to achieve your grand goal. This is the hallmark of a true leader. I have not much time left to live. I know this. When I die without a distinct successor to stake a claim to the throne, this world that I have created will fall apart like a pack of Cajun cards. My numerous sacrifices over the years will count for nothing. Everything I have built so far will break apart and my life’s work laid to waste. But more importantly, chaos will ensue. Chaos, carnage and anarchy like as never been seen since the beginning of the world. The leaders of each Kingdom will battle for the control of the lands of the Allied Kingdoms and whoever emerges victorious emerges so to rule over a disaster of epic proportions. This is why I made your mission extremely easy for you. I presented you with the opportunity to strike by ordering my personal guard corps to proceed on their annual training camp out. I made sure you got past the Northern Gate’s security by calling off the archers. I made sure you didn’t fail to gain entrance to my quarters by placing only one average soldier to patrol my balcony. Now, I make you a proposition. Here lies a writ that names you a Megaleio, which you are, and guarantees you full control of the Allied Kingdoms upon my demise. I want to you to take charge of the state and bring about a much required balance and stability to the anarchy that would ensue after my death. I have placed my royal seal on it as confirmation of its authenticity. All you need do is append your signature. I do not ask you this as a favour. Think of it as staking a claim to your rightful place and avenging the death of your mother in one masterful stroke.”

He rolled the scroll containing the writ over to Ekdikisi and waited. As she made as if to make a decision, Hegemon added, “I want you to know that I’m an admirer of your will, strength and courage.” He paused, took a deep breath and prepared himself.

Ekdikisi steadied herself with an effort. All that mattered now was she murdering this horrible, horrible man. He had totally outplayed the hand she dealt and now, she just wanted to destroy him and his damned legacy. She still had the journal, she would release it to the world after she had killed him. Maybe she would be killed too but if it proved to the world that the bloody Megaleio bloodline had bred weakness, had covered up the birth of a girl child, it was a reasonable bargain for her life. She picked the quill and stabbed it in the scroll, wrote a few words and rolled it back to Hegemon. Then, she picked her bow and took aim.

Hegemon knew it was over the moment she reached for her bow. His worst case scenario had come to being. Only this time, she wouldn’t take him. If he was going to be the last true Megaleio, he would have to go down some of his dignity. It was a stroke of genius that he had prepared for this eventuality. He had told his right hand man to check under his bedpost, where he had kept a copy of the writ he gave her. He would sign it and assume his place as the next Emperor. It was also a stroke of genius that he had assigned the archers to cover every inch of the doors and fire unless he signaled them not to. As soon as she stepped out of the doors, she would become a porcupine.
He reached for his dagger as she drew her weapon. His heart caused him sharp, excruciating pain but he only seemed to know it rather than feel it.

His nightmare suddenly became real, vividly real. Only, it wasn’t a rustle of wings but the creaking of a bow. As she let out a high-pitched scream of vengeance and fired at him. He plunged his own dagger into his chest and the arrow and dagger both seemed to hit him at once. As he blacked out, he saw the faint outline of the words “Go To Hell” on the writ Ekdikisi had rolled back to him, and blood. A lot of blood.

Ekdikisi did not stop firing until she got to the fallen body of the Emperor. She placed one final arrow close to his temple and drew until the bow broke. The force of it crushed the head of Hegemon and his brain spilled. Covered in blood and gore, she spat on his corpse and finished his tea.
Then, she walked over to the doors, kicked them open and stepped into the sunshine, welcoming an unwelcome death without open arms.

THE END

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https://penastory.com/2016/05/28/my-little-friend-from-heaven-kunbi-black/

Sometimes life can be pretty boring and at such times, we as humans begin to feel empty. Depending on our race, religion or socio-cultural background or experiences in life, we all go about filling this void in different ways. However, often times, we fill this void with our own selves because we tend to have become our own gods while on other occasions we realise our limitations as humans and at such times remember the existence of our maker; running hastily to him.

Thinking about a situation that happened to me recently, I can never bring myself to despise the popular words of the economists when they say, “Man’s wants are insatiable.” Neither can I neglect the words of God in 1st Thessalonians 5:18 which reads, “Give thanks to the Lord in all circumstances for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.” Whether we realise it or not, we are constantly reminded by God to continually give thanks and remain godly. Not wanting to sound like a preacher since I am nothing but Kunbi Black, an On-Air-Personality with Nigezie TV & Unilag FM, let me share my experience with a little friend only God could have sent from heaven.

On the 15th of May, 2016 I experienced something that I thought would be selfish for me not to share. Though I already shared it on that particular day, I actually intentionally missed out some parts of my experience. That particular afternoon, I went to pay a visit to some friends at Jaja hall in Unilag and I recollect quite vividly how I nagged to them about being broke. “Life can be so boring without money.” I had kept repeating and after that discussion I headed to Red Bricks to get myself food since all the complaining seemed to have zapped the food in me.

I wasn’t that hungry, it was just that warning feeling of impending hunger pains which could have been ignored for a little time more if I chose but then I felt like chewing something (man must replenish himself after too much talk.) I got myself a meal of about N300 with a chilled bottle of coke to step it down with. Looking back now, I wish I had not gotten the meal before I came across what astonished and touched me on my way to the faculty of Arts. I saw a little boy of about six to seven years, he was looking very dirty and unkempt. With a stick in his hand, he kept trying to strike an unripe Mango from a tree and for some strange reason I watched his antics. Alas, he struck what must have been gold to him when an unripe mango came crashing to the ground and he ran to it with joy. His face was lit as he balanced on a log of wood nearby and began to devour what I figured to be his lunch with much gusto.

“Noooooo!” I screamed, “It’s not ripe.” His face clouded with what I could only guess to be embarrassment, anger and pain as he threw the fruit away guiltily. I realized I had embarrassed him and belittled his lunch, reminding him of the grimness of his reality. He must have cursed e inwardly for the intrusion. His stare was enough to tell me I was his biggest enemy. Trying to make up for my blunder, I mustered my kindest tone and asked if he had eaten. A little boy made me feel stupid with just one withering look and I realized the folly of my own question. Need I have asked? He obviously had not eaten judging from his appearance and the manner in which he had attacked the mango.

To cut a long story short, I found myself giving him the last cash on me to afford himself a better meal and from the changed that came over him, I knew I had been forgiven and in the characteristic manner of a child, I had gone from being an enemy to a friend.

I had only taken a few steps when I looked back and he had vanished to thin air. Even Usain Bolt couldn’t have gone so fast. My little friend had gone back to heaven but not without leaving a message. God used him to show me a boy who had not eaten in days and was probably only waiting on a miracle to happen while I had been nagging about being broke when I could afford an unnecessary meal. We all are often carried away by what we need that we forget to say THANK YOU GOD for what we have. Have you said THANK YOU GOD today?

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https://penastory.com/2016/05/28/poetry-play-38/

Samuel Oluwatobi Olatunji and Llushes



L:

Precious you, I’ve been hot

Waiting all night long

The darkness has been my companion

Slip in beside me

Let the night witness this conversation

S:

I have walked into the night

For the comfort of your caresses

I crave for that conversation between my body and yours

Come closer, queen of the moon

Let me have a taste of the red berries of your lips

L:

Oh, take me love warmly into your embrace

I shiver in anticipation of your kisses

Can’t keep the tremble off my legs

My lips quiver just inches away

I can smell the want in your breath

S:

Close your eyes

We are about to go to paradise

The paradise of passion

We will ignite the airplane with our merged lips

Breathing into each other

Then my hands will walk the geography of your body

From the hills on your chest

To the path that leads to the ocean between your thighs

Where I will come to swim

To taste the flavour of your flesh

L:

I feel it too

The lingering touches

The immersion to depths

The passion flows endlessly from inside of me

Gently beckoning you to explore

Take care to paddle and row with me

I can barely breathe

I am choking on my passion

Deliver me safely

S:

Don’t worry, I will be a good captain of your ship

No iceberg will sour our Titanic tale

I will make you moan my name all night like a ringtone

When my tongue dials the buttons of your breasts,

Which will be surrounded by my handling fingers

L:

Your holy tongue

Oh, the pace you set with it matches the pounding against my chest

Your lips set me on heights I never dreamed to attain

Nibble on

Mould my breasts as you will

I can’t hold the moan any longer

If you dip into my honey pot now

I’ll blast into a fury of uncontrollable emotions

Writhing from my legs to my lips

S:

From your breasts, I will go between your thighs

First with my tongue

Which will be John the Baptise that has come to prepare the way for the Messiah

With a clarion call of cunnilingus

Then I will give your my middle leg

For you to wash with your mouth as Jesus washed the feet of His disciples

L:

Oh, now I can’t feel my legs

I wonder how you are so good with what you do

You’ve baptised me enough

Now lick me dry again

Make it slow then go faster

Part my insides as Moses would

Walk in between

Feel my warmth and get lost in it

For I shall drown you with my flowing sweetness

S:

Symphony of sweetness surrounds us

As I walk with my rod into your Red Sea like Moses

Heading for the Canaan of consummation

I come into you as a gentleman

But your fingers play the guitar of my back so well

That I have become a ghost rider

Riding deep into you with the fire of pre-intimacy

Look how bright the night burns with the fire of our flesh

L:

The night has gone silent

This is much more than it can handle

The only sound rocking the darkness is the sweet symphony of our bodies

As they are merged into an unbreakable bond

Baby, don’t stop

Don’t break the rhythm as we break out the sweat

Touch me once more, love

Let my heart stop just that moment

So that all I feel is the longing we’ve both denied ourselves

Will you touch me again?

S:

I will touch you over and over again

With my lips, fingers and every part of my body

I will be the almighty shark that run your sea

Swimming in the sweetness of your body

We will always make melodies of moaning

I will continue to kiss you in French

And be your king forever, oh queen of the moon

L:

They lay at our feet

The moon and stars

They know just how much our bodies surmount the galaxy

Feel me

Fill into me

Turn me inside out

Let all the goodness that was covered be unveiled

Sex

That word doesn’t even begin to cut what our conversation has created

We need a body interpreter

The squishy sound we are beginning to make are incomprehensible to the normal ear

Fill me in completely and pull out barely

S:

I have found home in your body

A home that has made me an introvert

Always indoors, inside of you

You have brought me to the peak of passion

This is not just another intercourse

It’s a discourse

You and me talking with the alphabets of our bodies



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https://penastory.com/2016/05/27/the-world-ends-anon-ymous/

The worlds end

Dark day

Grey clouds

What can the sun say?

Its covered in dark shrouds

A little drizzle

Anticipate the storm

The air sizzles

As mortals try to stay strong

The bright blue sea

Will soon be red

Fear turns the animals white

Its here, the worlds end



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Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/05/27/unilag-for-humanity-pic-fic-series-homecoming-opeyemi-ojatuala/

I would wish to say a lot of things, perhaps a long story to mark off a better beginning or a short poem. Writing may describe only a little about this place: this maze, the happiness and the content, the lack and ignorance eating up this place. A little girl ran past me wearing nothing but panties; she screamed as she ran along hopping towards a group of other children who were playing on the black earth littered all over with dirt and rot. The little children were dancing to a song distantly playing in another place but the air carried it so easily to them, so they danced anyway, nothing to worry about for the moment. That was their moment and they would maximise it.

As I walked, I was careful not to step on excreta, and I watched as the older people stared at us, like newbies and laughed at our almost practised steps and composed humble mannerisms. The weather was cool but occasionally, there was the choking dampness that came with the air and sometimes, you could hear the silence swallowing up the noise. There were some youths speaking pidgin and screaming at themselves from time to time.

As we entered into the house of one of these people, I could see from the small one-room apartment that the roof was caving. The acrid smell of clothes and furniture dampened by the rain that had seeped in through the walls and roof of the house filled the air. The people seemed to shrink inside the house and did their best to smile.

A little boy caught my attention. He sat at the corner of the room, covered with dirt and eczema. His sad eyes were burning bright and full when he saw me with food. He curled out a smile and slightly stretched out his arms to plead for the food. His mother after realising this, looked embarrassed and shouted at him.

“You no fit see sey dem be visitor?” She said with a shaky voice. Her lean dark body shrunk even more after the statement.

“No, mummy, it is okay. It is because of them we are here.” I said calmly, my eyes still fixed on the boy who had hidden himself into stacks of clothes. The little boy came forward as I stretched my hand towards him and held my fingers with both of his hands.

As we left the house, his little hands pulled me towards a group of other young children who were staring idly at a goat chewing a paper on the floor. As we approached them, there was an uproar of happy noises as the food was calmly collected from my hands and placed on the ground for everyone to eat. I watched as their hands plunged into the big flask and emerged filled with rice and stained with stew.

After the meal, the little boy pulled me again, this time running. I hopped along with him until we got to a clearing and he showed me the water with all pride. It was jet black, covered in dirt and pungent smells. “Our river,” he said as he grinned from ear to ear. I stared at the water and beyond the walls that fenced them and the water from the world. It was quiet.

There was the collective love that connected all of them despite their lack and being in a place filled with nothingness; only the rubble passed on from people who held the pillars of the country. They had their fears and had given up on the hope that had once existed. And so, they lived on what was left: hunger and happiness plated with sadness. This was their home, there was nowhere else to be. They would want it to be better, but hope is not a word in this place.

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https://penastory.com/2016/05/25/it-costs-a-thing/

Those dreams of her should be torn, trashed and burnt
Those poems you wrote about being friends forever should be read and never remembered
The words and the wishes shouldn’t cost so much
The time and effort, and the memories lost in the fire should never be recovered
The pain and the shame should be better than the hate
The middle finger to that stupid and selfless promise should be enough to pay for all the loneliness you feel in the rain
You should know when the dance is over and the music has stopped
You should know when to accept the dead is dead not lost
Your heart won’t always win
and your head knows the pain is real
For your soul will always be willing, your flesh will always weak
Keep all the love in your heart and live with the shame of your greed
Hold unto hope and be hate free

For love don’t cost a thing , freedom from those dreams and what could have been always will

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https://penastory.com/2016/05/25/burn-ada-burn/

Burn Ada Burn!!!
When we were young, our hearts was made of gold
I showed you my half and you let me see all of you
I adored you and you worshiped me
We both had our youthful age to ourselves
But then you grew and I grew too
You grew into a perfect blooming flower. Perfection
You forgot the heart you once cherished. You hated.
No, you detested but yet I held on
You made the blue dark scary
You made the roses ruthless
Every symbol of love you shattered
Every ounce of passion you destroyed
Burn, Ada Burn! You found my other half
And with it you fled
Burn, Ada Burn

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https://penastory.com/2016/05/24/but-i-have-come-and-done-walter-zion/

I didn’t offer nothing

But my best was the insurance

It didn’t change nothing

But you pretended it as nice

Those moments meant nothing

But the blind gave the second chance

Yet again you failed me

But I have come and done

I lent you my pen

But you wrote me in chalk

I offered my desert

But you served me a broken plate

The moment was all in cloth

But yet again I know,

I have come and‎ I have done

I took in a new face

To agree to your suite

But you chained to your race

And slapped me in my pace

But in the midst of all I tried

And now, I have come and done

I know I offered my smile for breakfast

At noon I was almost the sunshine

I thought the sunny was our meant

But your faith quenched the light in a blink

Now the blame resides in the midst

Maybe the happiness was just undone

So far I have come and done

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https://penastory.com/2016/05/24/vendetta-episode-8-abraham-isaac/

Excerpt From Episode 7:

He opened the safe containing the centerpiece of his plots and felt a calming relax course through his very veins. He afforded himself the luxury of a smile. Soon, the time would come to put his plans into action. Very soon. For now, there needs be time to rest. With that thought, he eased himself unto the comfort of his bed and soon drifted off into a calm slumber.

To read episode 7: Visit Profile or www.penastory.com

Ekdikisi cast a sharp look over the boulder she had just scaled. It would have been a fatal mistake if she had been followed. The foliage stretch before the perimeter made for an excellent camouflage and she intended to be make maximum use of it. She had successfully taken note of the security details of the Northern Gate during the time she had first passed through as a tournament entrant. The wide expanse of untrimmed grass made for a perfect hunting ground for an archer, from above or beneath. But it also made for a perfect camouflage pattern for a stealthy creeper. As she twisted and turned her way through the grass, she bypassed the perimeter and kept moving. It wouldn’t do to show herself until she got to the palace. The key was secrecy and stealth. She got close enough and spotted the guard on duty. He was the same one she had met on her first passing. It was a pity that he would have to be casualty. Risking a face-off might draw attention to the fact that she was in the wrong place and create awkward scenarios. That wouldn’t do. She placed the convertible bow cum scabbard on a vantage position and took aim.
Howie was having a bad day. It had been enough work at the border without this sudden instruction to tighten up security and report any abnormalities observed back to the Emperor’s retinue who were on their annual training camp out, a few miles away from the borders. The Emperor had also secretly called off the archers manning the border for a reason unknowable to him. Damned dung! He felt naked without the snipers. If trouble was on its way, they were more than capable of picking it off before it got within fifty yards of his personal space. This wasn’t the kind of action he longed for.

At least, he had this damned horn. If there was an incident, he was to blow on it and the Emperor’s retinue would be swarming the area like ants. He had also positioned all of the damned soldiers at the perimeter. Dammit! Better them to face what was coming than him. He hadn’t concluded that thought when a swishing sound pierced through his chest and stuck out on his back. He tried to reach for his horn before another arrow hit him squarely on the forehead. He felt an excruciating pain before his world went black.

Ekdikisi approached the fallen body cautiously. The horn and unusual change in the security apparatchiks of the Gate alerted her sixth sense of an impending danger. She had expected return fire from the snipers which was why after taking aim, she had tied bowstring to a tug and had pulled from another position. That way, whatever counterstrike would have been concentrated on the position of the bow and not hers. But, there had been no counterstrike. That wasn’t too worrisome. She had already breached the gate’s security. She shed her camouflage and examined the female piece of clothing she had brought along as part of the mission. It fitted her perfectly. Good. Her usual key weapon was the element of surprise. It was how she had won the tournament and it was how she intended to kill the mindless Tyrant and eliminate his bloodline forever. She would appear before him in her true form. Not as Pete Rosenberg but as the child he rejected. As the girl child he valued less than his lust for the throne. Not as a guard in his retinue but as a voice, the voice of vengeance and vendetta, as Ekdikisi. That was the element of surprise, the ace in her pack of cards. That would strike the fear of the gods in his evil heart and if the shock didn’t kill him, she would.

She examined her blade and saw that it would need some sharpening. She had walked a considerable distance from the border by now and was now in the streets of the city. She pulled a veil over her face that revealed only her intense, green eyes and a fraction of her nose. Eyes that were so alike to those of her father’s. If the old dimwit had not been so occupied with recruiting her and obtaining her pledge of allegiance, he might have actually noticed that both their eyes were an exact copy. It was by a stroke of luck that he had been non-observant and she had the common sense to have kept her head down, she thought.

She walked into the marketplace and quickly signaled to a knife grinder and moved into a shadowed area. As the grinder collected her sword and began to sharpen it with priceless precision, he threw her a sharp, curious look. That wouldn’t do, she thought and smiled through the veil. Panic gripped the man as he hastened and endeavoured to be quickly finish with the sharpening. He recognized her. Or him. The boy from the Tournament. What was he doing as a girl? He was jolted out of his thoughts as he noticed that the sword was a little too sharp now. The lady or boy was still smiling as she handed him his fee and collected the sword. He started to hurriedly walk away but had not fully turned when he momentarily saw the flash of the sword and reached for the back of his neck. There was a gash of steady flowing scarlet there. He felt faint and fell. Ekdikisi stepped out of the shadows. It was a pity that she had to kill him but he had recognized her. That wouldn’t do. It would have jeopardized her mission if the knife grinder had left to mouth off in the marketplace about her identity or what he thought it was.

It didn’t take her long to get to the palace. This was the easiest part of the job. It was abandoned but for a single guard manning the entrance to the Emperor’s quarters. The other members of his retinue were training outside the gates which was where she ought to be as well. That meant she experienced little or no opposition until she stealthily got to the left corner of the balcony of the quarters where the soldier was standing guard. She had anticipated this and was more than prepared for it. She positioned two arrows onto her bow and aimed for two fatal positions on the soldier’s body, his head and heart. As the arrows fired, the soldier standing guard heard something fly at him and was quick to react. His sword blocked the arrow aiming for his head while the other pierced his heart. He died immediately. Kicking the guard’s body over, Ekdikisi reached for the knob and quietly opened the wide doors that led to her father’s quarters

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https://penastory.com/2016/05/23/if-i-were-a-book-akorede-asunni/

If I were a book
I would be that hard cover
Sitting a little out of reach
Somewhere to the left of the shelf
Absent of a fancy illustration
Of a stud holding a damsel
To his rippling chest
As if his heartbeat were a secret
she needed to hear

My name will be etched in plain gold
Lettering across my spine
There will be no writing
At the back, no clues or hints
To let you know to expect
Unicorns or submarines
Or unicorns in submarines
Wearing purple hats and playing
Chess and dissecting the meaning of life
Or a love story so sweet and sticky
You could pour it on your pancakes

I would be fat and daunting
Written in Calibri size 10 on recycled paper
And the reader would have to squint
And hold me up to the light
To make out the wording on my pages

And my story wouldn’t be sequential
It would start with a small letter I
And the only punctuation
Would be the ones that were necessary

And there will be no neat
Tying up of plots at the end
Where all the answers are dug up
And aired and marveled at.

The tale will simply
Drop off the last page and continue
In the reader’s imagination



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https://penastory.com/2016/05/23/now-that-you-are-here-episode-eight-a-tale-of-deception-betrayal-and-murder/

Excerpt From Episode 7:

Damilola’s hand flew to her stomach and her voice was shaky, “my baby, tell me my baby is alright!” Her violent reaction drained her of the little energy she had and she dropped back on the bed weakly just as Muyiwa walked in. He had a patient’s file in his hand and he looked like he had been working all day. She could sense the sadness surrounding him and in a weak voice, she whispered, “the baby is gone isn’t it?” Muyiwa stared at her before nodding his head in affirmation. She closed her eyes and sobbed quietly.

To read episode 7: Visit Profile or www.penastory.com

With her hands folded under her breasts, Damilola stared at nothing in particular. She was sitting in her bedroom where she had refused any source of light and wouldn’t come out of since getting back from the hospital. Losing the baby felt like losing Gbade all over again only this time it hurt even more than she could ever have imagined she was capable of hurting.

Anu who was staying with her since the incident was beginning to run out of patience. It was already two weeks and Anu was hoping by now that Damilola would get her life back together and move on but all she saw was the constant flow of tears and the self-pity whenever Damilola managed to talk.

“Why me all the time? I can’t keep a man, I am here lusting after another woman’s man and now my baby has been taking from me. This life just doesn’t want me in it.” She would wail out and start another round of sobbing as if the well never dried up. It hurt Anu to see her friend hurting and being unable to do anything to alleviate her pain. She couldn’t comprehend the pain Damilola was feeling. If she knew Damilola was even contemplating suicide, maybe she would have had her checked into a psychiatric ward immediately but Damilola kept those dark thoughts to herself and never was able to do it because she didn’t have the courage to end her own life.

It was on one of such listless days that Muyiwa stepped in with a pretty lady behind him. Light flickered in from the opened door and Damilola turned her head away, hiding her face in the already tears soaked pillow.

“Hello Dammy,” Muyiwa’s voice was soft and strong. It was nothing like Anu’s pleading voice.

“Hi Dam,” the second voice sounded unfamiliar and Damilola looked up to study the woman standing beside Muyiwa. She looked pretty with the striking large eyes and full lips that gave the oval face a larger than life look like some Barbie doll without looking too soft. Damilola’s eyes roved over the other woman’s figure and noticed the carriage of one who was unaware of her own effect on men. Something told her this was Halima and hatred welled up in Damilola as she realized what contrast she must make next to the gorgeous looking Barbie doll. Damilola shot Muyiwa a dark look and managed to crack a smile at Halima who rushed forward to embrace her in a hug like they were long lost friends.

“Oh you poor dear, I am so sorry about your loss. I just had to come over when Muyi told me about what happened.” Damilola wasn’t sure how to respond and found herself hugging the other woman back while shooting another dark look at Muyiwa who was smiling sheepishly.

“I am terribly sorry,” she continued “but we can’t have you moping around like this forever.” Halima dragged Damilola from the bed gently and led her towards the bathroom. Muyiwa smiled wryly to himself as he listened to Halima chattering excitedly like she had just found herself a new best friend. Lord bless her heart he thought to himself.

***

To say Anu was speechless when she returned from her grocery shopping to see the change Halima had wrought on Damilola was to undermine her shock. The same Damilola who wouldn’t get out of bed was talking and laughing with Halima while Muyiwa listened to both of them, a look of pride on his face. Anu felt a twinge of jealousy that this stranger had been able to help her friend when she hadn’t been able to but she dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come. Damilola’s happiness was all that mattered. Halima talked about everything like they were all old time friends and Anu son found herself warming up to her as well. She wondered what Halima would think of Dammy if she knew that the woman she was helping was sleeping with Muyiwa.

***

It was now two months since the miscarriage and Damilola had been able to get back into her old routines following Halima’s intervention. She was reading a novel and munching on her favourite chocolate cookie one evening about two weeks after Halima’s visit with Gbade when he phone rang. She stared at the phone as if it was some dangerous weapon when she saw Gbade’s name appear on the caller ID. Her heartbeat quickened in her chest and she felt a rush of excitement. She picked up the phone gingerly as if any wrong move was going to make it explode and answered the call.

“Hello Dammy,” the sound of his voice brought a wave of emotions with it and for a second her mouth refused to open. She mentally chided herself for being such a fool and managed to mutter a cool hello in return.

“I am sorry about the miscarriage.”Anu had informed him about the miscarriage when Damilola had refused to come out of her room.

“Took you long enough didn’t it?” She replied curtly.

“I am sorry for not having checked on you earlier. I just felt I would have been the last person you would want to hear from considering how we left off. How are you now?”

“I am fine! Thank you for asking.”

“Are you sure?”

He was using that tone of voice that had always had her melting in times past and she felt a twinge of excitement which was replaced by anger and then excitement again. Damn him for making her so confused! Then the alarm bells went off in her head when she heard him say, “I am coming to Nigeria to see you Dammy. I miss you and I know I have been a jerk but I want to make things right with you. When I think of love, you are all I can think of is you. I love you Dammy and I can’t stop loving you.”



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https://penastory.com/2016/05/21/the-rants-of-bros-timi-naija-problem/

So where is the problem?

The street hawker, has finally turned to a middle income earner, he searches for a high-income lady to become his bride. What about those girls that were on the street with him? The talk of the town is on the clergy & their supposed flaws. Everyone is avoiding issues of domestic abuse, feminism, the death of the alpha-male & societal values. Oh my, I told you I loved you, but I lied Should you care, or are you hurt? Where’s my faithfulness? The society didn’t ask, so I forgot to carry it along when I came to you. You came for love, I offered you lust. Anyway, Uche the businessman chemist sells contraceptives. If it fails, any clinic in town would offer you the business of abortion. It is cheap, it’s your choice, live with the guilt alone. I just came to conquer and leave.

I heard we now abuse our leaders, I heard we even curse the land, that it will never be free from corruption. I also confirmed that our words carry power, they never return void. Oh woman don’t cry when you son fails in the night, you spoke negativity into him earlier in the day. Hey brother, stop all those motivational speeches. You know we became entrepreneurs because we were jobless not because we wanted to give value. We are definitely making the money, I hope we can give the value.

Oh boy you don’t have respect ooo, you don’t even have common home training. Who’s your mother? Did your father pay her bride price? How can you use your left hand to give a beggar like me money?
ehh? Is it because I’m a beggar? I am very sorry sir, I would make sure it won’t repeat itself again next time, if there’s ever going to be a next time. Pause/ I think the talk is becoming too much, they have started jumping into conclusions. Is anything wrong they asked? No, everything is okay, I answered
Okay is now the new wrong. Haven’t you heard? Homosexuality is now okay.

Wake up! Wake up! Stop sleep-talking. Get up, go and look for job as your mates are out there. Driving new cars and bringing money back home. Mama, it is okay, stop comparing me with other people. Don’t okay me, do you ever say it is okay when I’m serving you food? Mr. Man, I have checked your particulars, they are all complete but one more thing, your tires have expired. Oga police, help me manage this ‘happy weekend package, share it with the boys.’ On to the next one.

We are the Nightwalkers, we don’t stop until you get satisfied. We look expensive but we are cheap. Just drive by, and horn twice, we understand the code. It’s either betrayal of trust or acquiring of some STD, the ball is in your court. In the end we will all blame the government and if that doesn’t work out then we will shift the blame to the devil.

So, where lies the problem?

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Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/05/21/unilag-for-humanity-pic-fic-series-smile-grandma-smile-torera-adesina/

There had been no light for almost six weeks now. This was not an occurrence uncommon to us but it was definitely worse than what we were used to. The drinks in Grandma’s fridge could burn one’s throat, but customers could not complain as we were all in the same situation. Every night still, men would gather in front of the structure that managed to serve as a shop, where Grandma sold beer and peppered meat, downing bottle after bottle of beer. I’d sit on one corner of the floor listening to gossip flowing from their alcohol oozing mouth. Men gossiped worse than women. Later at night, grandma and I would laugh at what a sight the men made. We didn’t really think about where they got the money to spend on alcohol when the entire community knew whose pants had holes in it and who couldn’t even afford pants. Yesterday, Victor from the structure beside our own abode had fainted and the neighbours had struggled to gather grains of garri to force down his throat with a little water. Most of the children walked around all day in pant. Clothes were for extremely special occasions like leaving the neighbourhood which rarely happened, or when it got really cold. Even on cold days, parents would force their children to sit indoors under cloth wrappers. Uniforms were the only other things we wore and they were treated like gold.

I splashed through mud on my way home from school eager to see grandma and share the good news with her, trying not to consider the fact that no light meant it would be another night of heat. Heat meant we would leave the doors open so we could have a little oxygen at least and that in turn meant mosquitoes and a full view of the waste riddled water that served as the foundation our house sat upon. I cringed thinking of the smell. Urrghh. God, no. A barely recovered Victor walked with me moaning once again about hunger. “Shut up, Victor! I’m trying to think. I’ve not even been living here as long as you have and I’m already used to the hunger pangs.” I cut him off mid-grunt.

“You aff come agen wit dis your grama. Because you come from big place you will be doing yanga wit englis”

I sighed. “Idiot” I muttered under my breath and increased my pace. We were about 15 minutes from home. Eight other children were running around us, playing a game of ‘police n thief’ and I was trying to keep an eye on them while filtering through my thoughts. I was the oldest of this bunch, and grandma always charged me to be responsible for them. The thought of grandma made me smile again and I thought of the package in my hole-ridden bag.

Victor was right. We had found ourselves here three years ago after my parents died in an accident and left me with grandma as my only surviving relative. We were not particularly rich prior to this but I had gone to a good school and had a good home and good food to eat. They died deep in debt they had kept hidden from my grandma and soon after everything they had left was taken from us. I don’t know the details but I know Grandma had taken what little she could, carried me and moved here. I still heard her sobbing some nights for her daughter and son-in-law but she never wavered in front of me. Not in the three years we’d been here. She was 66 and she moved like a 40 year old hiding the pains I knew she had in her joints.

We got home and Victor, having realized I was not going to say another word to him, stalked away. Everybody would go in to get out of their uniforms then come back out to play away the hunger until mothers came in from shops to cook what they could.

I removed my uniform but remained in my boxers and singlet. Grandma would never let me walk around the way the other kids did.

I walked to her shop and saw her sitting outside, scarf loosely knotted on her head fanning herself with the bottom of her wrapper. There were no customers in the shop. The men hadn’t returned from the day’s struggle. Business was slower during the door. “Good afternoon, Grandma” I greeted prostrating.

“Welcome, Kola. How was school?” She said smiling.

“Great. I have something to show you”. I stood up and opened the bag I hadn’t dropped at the house and brought out the little square box.

She jumped from her seat. “Eh, Kola! Where did you get this?!” She shouted. I know she’d never accuse me of stealing so I did not get offended or angry.

“Calm down, old woman. There was a visitor from another school in my class today and she gave me for my last school result.” I laughed removing the phone from the box. It was a small camera phone with ‘Techno’ written on the head.

She relaxed and sat down back smiling.

“Thank God. But what are you going to use it for, Kola?”

“I’m not keeping it grandma. I will give my class teacher back tomorrow to sell it. I trust her enough to give me the money. You can follow me.”

She drew me close to her and hugged me to her sagging breasts. “Omo daadaa. Omo mi. Olowo ori mi. You are the reason I know we will survive this”

I hung on to her for all I was worth. This woman was my life. I knew I had done the right thing deciding to sell the phone. We would use whatever amount came out of it to live. Maybe move out of this dump.

I pulled back. “Let me take a picture of you with the phone, Grandma.”

She smiled through her tears and leaned back on the door of the shop. “Okay”.

“But I have to read through the manual first sha.”

“When you’re ready.”

Minutes later I stood in front of her and said “smile joor, Grandma” and even though the smile was indulgent it was the most beautiful I had ever seen. I would ask my class teacher to print it for me before she sold the phone. That smile on Grandma’s face. The most beautiful smile I had ever seen.

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Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/05/20/where-is-nicole-part-2-alabi-ayomide/

Excerpt From Part 1:

“My daughter is not a thief!” Mrs Afolabi responded in a fierce voice.

“Oh well this is the girl that was brought here last night, the only difference is that she’s a bit taller than you described,” the coroner said and removed the sheet covering the body.

“This is not Nicole,” Mallam Abubakar and I shouted. The coroner looked at us, we looked back. If this is not where she was, where is Nicole…

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

We left the coroner’s office and even though Mrs. Afolabi was in serious tears, I was hopeful that if Nicole wasn’t the girl that was shot on that fateful night, maybe Nicole was still alive although I kept on wondering where on earth she could she be seeing it was almost noon. Mrs. Afolabi immediately called her husband who was thousands of miles away to explain what had happened but she couldn’t and it got to a point where all she could do was cry so I had to collect the phone.

“Good day sir, it is Femi, Nicole’s friend. I stay three minutes away from you sir,” I said and waited for his response before he proceeded to ask if the matter had been reported to the police. I answered in the negative, explaining our earlier thoughts of thinking she was dead only to find out at the mortuary it wasn’t her body.

“Go to the police station right now and report the matter,” he ordered, “I would be in Nigeria in in two days,” he added.

I was accompanied by Mrs. Afolabi and Mallam Abubakar to the station where we met the District Police Officer who happened to be a friend to the Afolabi’s and he asked us to explain all that happened. He asked us further questions, “What would or could Nicole have been doing out by that time she was last seen out? Who was the last person to see her? Where did we think she could have gone to?” His questions seemed to be directed at me and I started sweating as the guilt began to eat me up. If I talked, wouldn’t I be suspected in the matter? I asked myself.

Another part of me chided me for my selfish thoughts and reminded me that telling them I was the last to see Nicole could help the police in their search. I gulped inwardly and blurted out, “she came to see.” My voice was quaking with fear and in a flash, Mrs. Afolabi was out of her seat and had dealt me two slaps. Tears rolled down my cheeks and I stared frightened as she held my shirt, screaming and yelling to get her her daughter. I had no one to bear me witness that I saw Nicole off to her estate but Nicole’s friends testified that I was the last person to see her.

Two days had gone, I had sleepless nights, my usual Dysania had gone and Nicole was yet to be found. Suddenly I heard a loud bang on my door to my surprise, it was Mr. and Mrs. Afolabi with three police men. I was taken to the police station and later arraigned to court where a judge found me guilty of kidnapping, possible murder and I was sentenced to 87 years imprisonment.

It’s been 43 years now and no one has heard from or seen Nicole. Before I draw my last breath, I write a poem dedicated to her.

“Oh! There she is with the benignant smile

Following the slow but loud thumping of hearts

She moves like a butterfly in its erratic flight

And just like the sun; she fades into the night.”

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Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/05/20/unilag-for-humanity-pic-fic-series-i-will-put-a-pen-to-it-an-email-carolyn-banks-ose/

Subject: I will put a Pen to it

(06/06/2013 4:22pm)

From: OAminatahsule52@yahoo.com

To: Boi2033@yahoo.com



Dear BOI,

I choose today to take sides with many who believe life has no meaning, and those who see life and all its meaningfulness. My reason being that no matter what we term life to be, we can never get the real definition of it. Life wears a garment of complexity.

When I was much younger, I wanted so many things and above all, I wanted to be loved. While growing up, ever since I was able to talk and reason, I desired something that no money in the world could buy me and that was Happiness. Happiness that I could share with everyone I knew and loved. I was nicknamed Miss Children and Miss People Lover, because of my excess love for children and people. I never wanted to see anyone suffer, die or get hurt. I always dreamt of becoming a philanthropist; I always hated the idea of making people suffer for gain. I loved the poor and hated the rich, whom I thought were selfish and wicked.

Even with all these thoughts, I was never truly happy because things remained stagnant and I didn’t understand anything. As a child, I didn’t know much of God; neither His rules nor His purpose. I had numerous questions but no answers. I went to church on Sundays; only then did I open my bible to read. And all the preachers I had met failed to answer any of my numerous questions.

When I became sixteen, I had the zeal to serve God and I started to read and study my bible. In it, I found out that the God I served was amazingly mysterious. Every day, I wanted to know more about God through the bible. It was at this age that I found answers to numerous questions. Knowing this made me forget all the unhappiness and pain I had had all my life. Knowing God killed my shyness and brought out the boldness in me. Knowing God changed my life, giving me a new view of life.

But this experience was short-lived. As I became 17, the experience I had always wanted to write an autobiography about crushed on me and all my hopes and faith faded away like the dew of dawn. My world crashed and I started to ask new questions.

“Is there truly a God that loves and cares? Is there anything like love? Is there any worth in loving people? What is life and its purpose?” All these questions and many more, but there was no man to answer me correctly.

I’ve found out that man and all his ways are lies and a fraud. A fantasized reality that we’re unconsciously blinded to. The God that many, including myself, believe in has done a wicked thing, though He claims they are for our good. He has given us a ‘forever’ punishment to chase after the wind that we do not see nor will catch. We will all die trying.

Boi, men are fools for believing they have a choice in everything they do, but the reality is this, we have no choice, we’ll never and can never have it! The only choice we have is to live the part created for us. God, the Creator, is the Shepherd and we are the sheep. DO SHEEP QUESTION THE ORDERS OF THEIR MASTERS? Of course not! Instead, they obediently follow him to the slaughterhouse.

Boi, do not get me wrong. I do not see God as completely wicked, but I see a wicked thing in what He has done to man. Religion has so falsely led us all to a pit and we all follow blindly from behind with all willingness. We fail to see that religion is man searching for God while true worship is God searching for man.

I’ve realized that man is not to blame completely for all his actions but God and His antagonist. Man walks in fear, and blindly preaches the incomprehensible way of God.

I used to tell myself positively that the world will be better, but today I have forever killed the belief that people will change their ways and become better. The happiness that we all seek is the wind that we chase and will never catch. What a wicked lifestyle!

Waking up this morning, I realised that my life has ended and there is no reason for me to live anymore. The world is not a place for people like of me. I truly can’t take it anymore. I’m just twenty-two years old. I grew up with my parents divorced and I always finding it difficult to choose which side was right to stay on. Since I was three years old, I was made to stay with my paternal grandparents after the law found my both parents to be irresponsible, worthless pieces of shit, unfit to live together!

My step-grandfather took interest in me. He toyed with me whenever grandma was not at home. He molested me. When I told my ‘sick’ parents, they intentionally refused to believe me. They said I was lying, thinking I wanted to destroy the reputation of the old man in the society, who was a well-known clergyman that never failed to preach holiness in all his sermons and publicly condemned the act of paedophilia. You would always find him with his big bible and bald head screaming “GIVE YOUR LIFE TO CHRIST” through the waste-ridden Dustbin estate.

I’ve been subjected to both physical and mental torture since I was a child, and this man of God, my grandfather was the main source of my subjection.

In my pursuit for happiness, I hurried into marriage and I found myself hurrying out at the age of nineteenth. I got pregnant that year. My marriage went down into the gutters and the floods swept it away. My twenty-years-old husband thought drugs and alcohol were much important than love and his pregnant wife. His actions and abusive words further increased my torment. He said he was no longer attracted to me and that I was the worst thing that ever happened to him and the child I carried was not his.

Before the child popped out, he had left me. I had to work extra hard to eke out a living. I became a complete jest! My family abandoned me. I had no one to run for help. The church I attended was a museum for the rich and well-to-do, yet the poor, sick, broken and needy are neglected. They are like a floor for the upper class to step on. I left the church feeling frustrated and betrayed me.

When I was finally delivered of a bouncing baby boy, I named him Idhom, meaning ‘hope’, as I held him in my quavering hands. My step aunt and uncle come to my rescue when I could not pay my hospital bills; this was the first kind gesture I had ever received from my extended family. I tried to make my husband know that I had given birth and make him take responsibility. “I don’t fucking care!” He yelled at me.

I struggled and struggled to care and provide for my son as a single parent but nothing seemed to work out well. Every time I saw my child cried in hunger or illness, it broke my heart. I just hated myself so much for his suffering. I hated to see him suffer.

Last year, I pondered over and over a thought of giving my son a better life. I thought of providing him a temporal home and guardianship with someone I trusted. Then I thought of my step aunt and her husband, who after fourteen years of marriage, had no child, and they were there for me when I gave birth to my son. It was such a good idea. So I decided to give my son a new and better life in their house. They were so glad that I took my son to them. They promised to treat him as their own son. Although I had issues with trusting people, I still trusted them, enough just so my son can have a better life.

I left him in their care and moved on with my life. Occasionally, I came to visit him when I got free time. The very few months I came around, I got to see him a lot, but after a while, all changed. Whenever I came to see him, unlike before that I used to see him often, I was only allowed to see him once in my many visits. There was always an excuse from my step aunt and her husband to prevent my seeing him. Although it seemed odd to me, I always gave them the benefit of doubt.

Things were tough that was the only reason I gave my son to them and nothing more. At a point, things were so bad: no job and no home. I thought since they had been doing well and they were kind to me, there was nothing wrong in giving my step aunt and her husband full custody of my son. It was a good thing to see my son growing well and happy. They asked me to sign a file, making them the full guardian of the child, and I did. I did, even when an inner voice said I shouldn’t. I felt I was doing the best thing for my son.

One morning, I was online going through my Facebook account when I saw a post by my step aunt that my son name had been changed to George. I could not believe it. They had promised me such a thing would never happen and that they would always tell my child that I am his mother. Now, I found out that I have been deceived.

When I called my mother to inform her of this breach of agreement and trust, she said that I should not bother her, because she was not the court of law. I felt so annoyed when I later found out that the people I asked to be his guardian, temporal guardian, never called my son Idhom, but George.

Boi, why are some people so cruel? Why do they always look out for their own interest alone, not minding if another is hurt? The only thing I wanted for my child was the best. I feel childless now. I feel I have lost everything and I am completely alone in this wicked world. I feel very depressed, worse than I felt two years ago. I feel like an empty body, just a cavity.

I have been contemplating suicide and I have made up my mind. Only death can take away my pains and trouble. I am fed-up with life and the heartless people, occupying this world. My son was my hope. Now that I have lost him, I am hopeless.

Boi, if you feel my pain while reading this, you can write back to me. I just pray l will be alive when your email reaches me. I am yet to decide what I will used to kill myself that I will not feel much, or probably no, pain before dying. Although I am afraid my death may hurt my child when he grows up, I have no choice now but to die. I feel I can never give my son happiness or anything of worth, so he does not really need me.

Tonight, I will sing the song of the dead with the dead multitude. I will use my hands to beat the drum of the death. See you afterlife, Boi.

This piece was published in the loving memory and honour of the writer late Carolyn Banks Ose (1994 – 2016)

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Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/04/29/unilag-for-humanity-pic-fic-series-i-did-it-for-you-mama/

Perhaps you have heard stories of poverty, or even seen poverty. Maybe you are one of those who have had to bear the lash of hunger as it whips you mercilessly until you become so immune to the pain that it no longer hurts you. You who the ache has become so familiar that you are now friends with it. You who your mother has had to tell stories to make you forget the hunger in your belly.

You who with every rain is afraid you would be left homeless or worst die should the wind be too heavy for the excuse of a house you call home. You who have seen death, filth, hunger, pain and deprivation, for you my story would not be surprising. It would be nothing new because you have seen what a single heavy wind can do to a dingy wooden shed, what starvation can do to a newborn baby, and have seen men do the unthinkable to survive to feed their family.

For those of you that have not had to fight your siblings over the bowl of garri your mother had to leave soaked for as long as possible with hopes that it would magically swell and be plentiful enough to fill your craving stomachs till the Lord is kind enough to bless you with another meal. For you who have never known the pleasure of finding the remains of a leftover bread in the refuse dump. You who have never had to tread murky waters barefooted just to make it to school. You who the buzzing sounds of insects and flies have never rocked to sleep on the bare floor made soft with tattered tarpaulin discarded by the woman selling boli. For you, I have to start my story at the beginning just so you might understand a bit of why I did what I had to do.

I am not exactly sure what woke me up, whether it was Mama’s dry cough that wouldn’t stop or Bimbo’s foot hitting me squarely on the mouth as she rolled on the mat that we shared in our wooden shed somewhere in Dustbin Estate, Ajegunle. I contemplated biting one of her toes in anger but then something told me I shouldn’t have had my mouth open in the first place while sleeping. I couldn’t bear it any more, Mama’s cough came at me again like a reminder and I stood up from the mat and turned up the lantern wick that had been left burning slowly. Mama wasn’t going to be too pleased that I was allowing the kerosene burn faster than necessary but I found cold comfort in seeing the room brighten up. My eyes took in Bimbo who slept on despite my having banged her foot angrily on the wooden floor, and I looked at Mama who as if sensing that I was looking at her with her faded wrapper hanging loosely around her coughed again.

I stood up and went towards the door. I had to get out of there, I felt like I was suffocating seeing my five other siblings lying in a state of sleep in the tiny room that could barely contain three in the first place. A gust of air hit me as I stepped out into the dark and the heap of refuse that was the view stared right back at me. I wish I have some money, maybe Mama could have some drugs for her cough, I thought to myself. Mama’s cough came again as if no matter where I go, I was never going to be able to escape it and I sighed in sadness as frustrated tears welled up in my eyes. This wasn’t the life I had asked for! She deserved better! She deserved more than to have had her husband crushed to death by a careless trailer driver when his only crime was being an inexperienced bus conductor trying to make a living so his family could have food.

Following Papa’s death, I had had to grow up fast. We had always been poor but things were not as bad as this when he was alive. How could I tell Mama who could not afford to buy drugs for her cough that I needed money to write an exam in school? It wasn’t her fault, the only little money she made from her boli sales went into feeding the six of us that she called her children. We were lucky enough to have food to eat and I couldn’t possibly add to her worries. Should I take Tade on his offer?

Tade always said that boys from the Dustbin Estate had to survive in life by taking from those who had more than them. But then Mama warned me not to join the boys who she said would amount to no good if they didn’t change their ways of depriving other people of their possession. Tade called it obtaining. “Snatch one purse in go-slow, you would have enough money for your fees. These rich people get money for their bank account.” His voice resonated in my head and I sighed. That had been three weeks ago. The deadline for payments was two days away, and I still had not paid. Should I take him up on his offer and accompany him tomorrow so that I could have money to pay for our fees? Had he not said I could even get a bag or mobile phone that could help improve Mama’s business?

“Kilo n se nitan niwoyi?” I turned around and Mama was standing there. Under the bright moon, she looked like a frail goddess starved of offerings with her hair hanging limply around her ashen face. The sorrow lines seemed to be etched into her face as if they belonged there naturally.

“I came to wewe.”

“Okay, emi na fe to. Don’t stay out…” the cough again. She leaned against the door for support and tried to catch her breath.

“Maami, e kpele.” She nodded her head and wiped away the tears that the cough had brought with it. My own tears were of genuine grief as I watched her go into the heap of refuse and squat to relieve herself. I decided then I had to do it for her. It was going to be for Mama, not for me, but for the other kids. They deserved better, Mama deserved better and if it takes going on a robbery just one single time, if taking away from the rich could give them that, then so be it!

Now how could I have known that I was going to get caught? How could I have known that I was not as smart as Tade, and the mob would catch up with me? How could I have known that I would ruin the news that Bimbo got a scholarship with the news of my arrest, and throw Mama into a state of further sorrow just when she was beginning to think life was smiling at her again?

“Why did you do it? Omo mi ko kin jale,” Mama sobbed when she came to see a battered me at the police station.

“I did it for you, Mama…”

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Source: PenAStory: www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/04/26/where-is-nicole-alabi-ayomide/

“What else do you want from me?” I asked

She replied, “a little time in the dark to talk to you, to tell you how everything we had went south.”
“We’d do it tomorrow, I am too tired to talk I need to sleep,” I promised and kissed her goodnight at the front of her estate before turning back.

Only to wake up to the wailings of her mother from the other side of the gate. My heart and my mind were racing on a collision course trying to figure out what could have gone wrong. Wait a minute! “Where’s Nicole?” I asked. I got no response. “Where the hell is Nicole I asked again?” The only response I got was a little whisper, “she’s gone.” I lost my mind faster than the speed of light; tears rolled down my cheek profusely. I couldn’t remember the last time I cried so much.

Apparently Nicole was said to have been shot outside her gate while sneaking in to the estate by one of the vigilantes that paroled the estate on hourly basis who was of the mindset that she was a burglar due to the incessant robberies that had occurred in the estate over the past months.
“Please where is my daughter’s body? When can I see her?” Mrs Afolabi asked in a faint voice. As she spoke, tears gathered in her eyes.

“She’s at St. Gregson’s mortuary.”

Mrs Afolabi was accompanied by her neighbour who broke the news of her daughter’s death, Mallam Abubakar and I to the mortuary. The receptionist asked us what we needed. I replied describing a young girl, dark skinned, 18 years, black hair, 5 feet 7 inches who had been brought in between the hours of 10 and 11 pm sometime the previous night.

“Oh yes I was on duty, I think I know who you are talking about, she was brought with two other young men suspected burglars I guess!” she answered, directing us to the coroner’s office. The coroner attended to us with cold shoulders because he claimed that the person we were there to see was a suspected burglar.

“My daughter is not a thief!” Mrs Afolabi responded in a fierce voice.

“Oh well this is the girl that was brought here last night, the only difference is that she’s a bit taller than you described,” the coroner said and removed the sheet covering the body.

“This is not Nicole,” Mallam Abubakar and I shouted. The coroner looked at us, we looked back. If this is not where she was, where is Nicole?

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Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/04/22/unilag-for-humanity-pic-fic-series-wont-you-help-to-sing-ifeoma-nnewuihe/

They should have told me not to stand there. But they didn’t say a word. Even I didn’t know the they. So blaming them was lazy of me. I could have blamed the rain, the acrid smell that exudes from places unimaginable. I could have blamed the waste, which the convenient people brought like gifts to the altar. The comfort etched in the laugh lines of their faces, even the professionals still had hope in their eyes. They went about depositing the waste as though it wasn’t their real job, and that something better was bound to come along. That was not something you came across in this bank where all things ashamed of was credited. The waste, which we waded through, as if dancing two two in a canoe.

It was almost normal for me though, I’d loved here for just about a year or so. The others, they knew nothing else to love. Watery dreams of Iya Biliki’s pottage, watching Rastaman sing inconsistent lyrics of Bob Marley’s Redemption Song, catching people who came by to throw their waste and blackmailing them with eyes just a little shiny with tears and lips theatrically turned down like a half moon for five or ten naira. Those were the dreams here.

Did I mention that my dad was Rastaman? He wasn’t always that though. Not when we were living at Tincan. He used to be one of those artisans that car owners collectively decided to hate but grudgingly agreed that they needed. Fuckaniser. Fulkanizer. Volkanizer. VULCANISER. Whichever you prefer. Maybe the fumes from cars were not enough for him you know; maybe he needed to see the fumes from his person to be able to claim himself from himself once again. It started with the Saturday draught ritual with the okada riders, bus drivers and regular low lives whose residential address no one could vouch for. They just happened to be available when a draught match was going on. They never played. They were always watching the game with eyes a little keener than necessary. Eyes shiny from too much gin and too much greed. As for my father, Saturday was his day off. It was also the day that he indulged in sniffing, snuffing, sniffling and guzzling a week’s worth of pay.

“Chop am na!” One of the regulars said.

“Chai, this man no sabi play sef…” said another.

“You wey sabi pass everybody, oya come play!” My dad retorted.

I could hear the passionate anger in my dad’s voice. This was when he still had passion for something except gin and backyard igbo. The scene flashed in my head as I stood on my centre stage. Feeling nostalgic for times that shouldn’t even breed nostalgia. That is what Dustbin Estate does to you. Even when you love it so.

It all happened like a joke you know. One day we had a room in a “face-me-I-face-you” at Tincan, and the next day, we didn’t. It happened like someone had snapped a finger and said abracadabra. My father’s Oga got fed up with his lateness, drunkenness and “lowlifeness” in whole. So he did what rational people did. It was sunny the day we came here. It was also extremely hot. “We’re being ushered into hell!” “We’re being ushered into hell!” Those words played and replayed on my mind. Even though our former house was cockroaches-ridden, and soot had stained the shared kitchen, and bedbugs that surprisingly gave malaria were sleeping partners, I would have given anything to go back there. The house owners here couldn’t be bothered if you stayed or if you left. I had to carry my brother Rukevwe at my back because he was really ill. My father didn’t care. My skin didn’t also care to notice when the short puffs of breath on my back stopped. More than enough was buried that day. I had to wrestle for my soul because it almost was too.

My eyes regained focus, and I looked at Jemima, Shode and the other children, whose names I cannot recall. Too many look-alikes in this part of town. Perhaps it was the hunger that made them look like clones, perhaps it was my hunger that blurred my vision. They didn’t look back at me. They all laughed at something Shode said. I briefly heard something like “kerewa” from him, and I laughed too. Maybe they would notice that my laughter was a call for them to watch me do what I yearned to do. But they kept on laughing, oblivious to my own laughter. Shode was singing a song we had been told not to sing, and cracking a joke that we had been warned to let be in its fragile shell.

As I stood in my faded green dress on my own stage, slippery from nature’s elixirs, I replayed all those beautiful voices I heard on the radio. The ones who weaved tapestries of all the things I desired so strongly. They were the salves that rubbed my feet, when they hurt too much from walking barefoot. The mother that told me to work hard in school and spanked me when I was being stubborn, the handsome boy that promised to love me forever, and the voice that constantly rang in my ears that this world is not my own.

I heard Rastaman in the distance and these days, I loved only what I could hear from him. It lacked passion and even pain but it had all I needed. It asked me if I would help to sing. If I would help to sing the song of freedom, because it is really all we ever have in this side of town.

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Source: PenAStory www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/04/22/poetry-play-31/

Samuel Oluwatobi Olatunji and Keenah-kay Chekwas



K:

My heart is grieving from within

A pain so deep it’s overwhelming

S:

Last night, he picked my heart

And nailed it on the cross of Calvary

K:

I watched it bleed at his feet

Powerless to stop the flow

S:

My eyes bled like my heart

Then a weakness wrecked me

K:

I looked for something to hold as I fell to the ground

In a pool of heart’s blood

S:

And gradually I drowned praying for oxygen to breathe again

K:

In the abyss of myself

I saw the reflection of a heart once held by love

S:

I have known how to love

Now I only know how to hate

K:

I have been hurt countless times

And cried many a river

S:

Now I will cry no more

You will never find the hue of hurt in my eyes again

K:

Deep down inside

I’ll fight a lot of battles to keep up my façade.



Source: PenAStory www.penastory.com