EIGHT
He knew her bride price had been paid and also who had paid it.
But he did not care. He was his enemy after all.
He’d seen her pass on her way to the tap, but he waited till she was coming back up, now burdened with her filled yellow jerry can.
She sang happily as she approached; she had seen her JAMB result earlier that afternoon. 292 was her score. She will get the admission, she was almost sure.
After looking at the result slip for many minutes, as if to be sure the 292 really meant her exam score and nothing else, her father had shaken her hand like she was a man his age before hugging her.
Her mother hugged her too and in that her self-possessed manner of not always acting so surprised towards things like that about her, said, ‘Obulozi ada mu?Is it not my daughter again?’
Now the boy jumped out of the bush to her front.
‘Jesus!’ she screamed, startled.
‘Kpoo ya ozo!’ Ozoemena crossed his arms on his chest.
She scowled at him. ‘Ozoemena, what is it?’
He ignored her.
‘What is it?’ She wanted to go the other way and he quickly moved in and blocked her again.
‘Ozoemena!’ She looked back. The narrowezi-amapath was as lonely as it always were. She wished now she had followed the other road that was wider and better used.
‘Ozoemena, let me pass now!’ Lines have appeared on her forehead.
‘Taa! Pass where?’
‘Heey! I will shout o!’
‘Shut up!’
‘Ozoemena!’
‘Adaojoo!’
‘Ozoemena!’
‘Adaojoo!’
She tried to go the other direction and he followed her again.
‘Ozoemena!’ I will shout o! People o…’
‘If I hearpimeh?’
‘What will you do?’
‘Ok, continue asking me question. Let me hearpimfrom you, ordinarypimand you will know if you will get to your father’s house whole.’
Her forehead creased further. Her neck hurt badly from the weight of the jerry can. ‘Ozoemena, what did I do to you? Eh, what?’
‘Are you asking me?’ He stared at her face. ‘Do you want to cry?’ He began to laugh. ‘You see your life now?Shebithat time you were following Obinna around likeijiji na eso nsi [flies running after faeces], insulting everybody as if you are a god, it didn’t occur to you that a day like this will come eh? That one day he would leave,abi?’
‘Ozoemena, let me pass na. Oya, please!’
‘He-he! Did I just hear please? Adaku Onochie said please? I must be dreaming.’
He made to look back.
She tried to run, but he caught her by the hand and drew her back.
Her jerry can fell in the process. The water-filled container thumped hard on the baked ground, bounced a few times but did not break.
She quickly bent and straightened it. She rose and shot him an ugly scowl. ‘Ozoemena Mbachu, what do you want?’
He shrugged. ‘Just two things. Two things!’
‘What?’
‘First, you have to go on your knees now, and then—’
Her laughter made him pause.
She clapped her hands. ‘Me, Adaku? You want me, Adaku Onochie,ofu adaOnochie, to go down on my knees for you?Inukwa! Nke gini jiri me, what are you?’
‘Ok. I can see you have not changed.’ He thrust his palm to her face.
‘Jesus! You slapped me, Ozoemena?’
‘Mka kabu mbido—this is just the beginning.’
She dived into him, head first. ‘You slapped me eh? You must kill me today!’
‘Hey-hey-hey, who is beating my brother’s wife?’ Uzo and his friend, Jideobi, were running out of the bush, their catapults swinging on their necks.
They came close and Jideobi flung the two squirrels they’d killed aside.
‘Boys, leg,’ Ada said to them.
The boys grabbed Ozoemena’s legs and the next minute he was on the ground. Adaku balanced on him as they held down his hands.
He wriggled underneath them.
Adaku was feeding him with sand and leaves when she heard, ‘Ogini! What is going on there?’
‘Uzo, now!’ she said.
The little boy fell to the ground and started to cry. His friend knelt beside him, pretending to be helping him.
Now Ichie Dumije was close. ‘What is happening here?’ he asked again.
On his shoulder was the long palm frond he’d cut for his goats. His in-curved machete was clasped in his right hand.
Adaku drew in a sobbing breath. ‘Nnaa, we were just returning from the tap when Ozoemena ambushed us and started beating us.’
Dumije turned to Ozoemena. He was wiping his face and spitting. ‘Nwokem, is that true?’
‘Ichie, don’t mind them o! They have been the ones beating…’ he abruptly paused, ashamed to finish up.
‘Ehen, continue.’ Dumije may have wondered why he looked dirtiest.
‘Ichie, nothing,’ Ozoemena said, finally.
Dumije stared at him. ‘Ozoemena! Ozoemena, so you have not changed? I thought that after Igwe’s warning that you have finally decided to change.’
‘I have changed, Ichie.’
‘Taa!’ Dumije barked. ‘Ngwa, gbafuo—disappear!’
Ozoemena started to walk away.
‘Ifulo,’ Dumije was saying, ‘okpukpu azu—fish bone—yet he won’t allow the entire village to rest.’
Ozoemena turned and Adaku flashed him a tongue. She smiled at the boys.
Dumije turned to her and she quickly cleared her face.
‘Hope you are okay?’ Dumije asked.
Ada nodded. ‘Yes, Ichie. You came in just on time to save us.’
‘Ngwa, you all can go now. Always be careful,inugo.’
She nodded again. ‘Thank you, Nnaa,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Ichie,’ the boys chorused.
Adaku bent to carry her water.
‘Do you need help?’ Dumije asked.
‘No, Nnaa, I can carry it.’ She put back heraju, lifted the yellow can and balanced its side on her head.
‘Greet your father,’ Dumije said as they began walking away.
***
In Lagos, business blossomed the first few months.
The boys made enough money to repair the TV, buy another stove, some pots and change the carpet. They also bought a sheet for the bed.
The first time Obinna cooked, egwusi soup, Ahanna had teased him that he should have been born a woman instead. He told him that not even Ego, his sister, could cook that well.
The hundred and twenty thousand rent money was complete now too.
They couldn’t wait for the landlord to return. He’d travelled to Ibadan to see his other tenants. Obinna wondered if any one of them owed him rent like them too.

Obinna’s eyes ran up to him. He did not understand the reason for the warning. He did not understand the stupid things Ahanna was saying.
How could he even be saying stupid things like that when he knows that he is a married man?
He touched the necklace on his neck now and drew in a deep breath. He started on his food again.
For all he knows, he has no idea of what Ahanna is talking about.
He is the one that even noticed the poor girl is buying his market in the first place. As if he had anything on sale.
Though he couldn’t swear he hadn’t thought about it once; the stares, the smiles, and the quiet way she said ‘Obinna, good morning’, each morning they saw each other.
He only began to worry when the food presents started. The first real discussion they had was on a Sunday morning when she asked him what his favourite food was.
He was near the narrow gutter at the edge of the compound, washing his singlet when she came close.
A small tray of beans was in her hands. She was picking out the chaff.
‘Obinna, can I ask you a question?’ she said.
He looked up at her. She was wearing a short gown and her yellow skin shone in the calm sun.
He saw the two thin marks on her cheeks and felt upset. He did not understand why someone would spoil such fine skin with marks he did not understand what purpose they served.
He had a razor mark below his belly too, but it was from the treatment of a stomach ailment he had when he was small.
‘Ask me,’ he said.
‘What food do you like well?’
‘Food I like well,’ he repeated, eyes turned up in thought.
‘Yes, favourite food for you.’
‘Ukwa,’ he finally said.
Confusion flickered in the girl’s eyes. ‘Uka?’
‘Not uka, ukwa. You don’t know it?’
She shook her head.
‘Ukwa is Igbo food. We cook it with corn and dry fish.’
‘Ok.’
She shook her tray slightly and blew off chaff. ‘So you don’t like rice.’
He appeared thoughtful again. ‘Rice is just normal food.’
‘Normal? As in how?’
‘Everybody eats rice. It’s not a special food.’
‘Ok, so your uka is a special food.’
‘Ukwa, not uka.’
‘Ukwa, okay.’
He was surprised her English was good, better than what he’d expected.
‘Do you go to school?’ he asked.
‘Mm?’
He regretted having asked. He was still battling with what next to say when she said, ‘Oh you mean if I go to university?’
He nodded.
‘No, but I have WAEC. And I do part-time program at Yabatech.’
‘Good.’
‘I work at Regis Media. Receptionist.’
‘That is very good.’
‘Yes. I was working with Apex before but I left. This place I’m working now is better.’
He nodded, and as if to please her, caused himself to feel more respect for her, because he now knows she is a student at Yabatech and has worked two jobs.
He imagined Regis Media now, a small print house in Ilupeju, a mighty company where not everybody could get employed in.
She was leaving when, suddenly, she turned back to him. ‘You eat rice at all?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Ok.’ She left.
Later that evening, she brought them rice, beans and fried plantain.
He thanked her, but did not eat the stew because there was too much pepper in it. He watched Ahanna devour the meal.
Again, he feared one day he’d become what Ahanna now is, Lagos would turn him into it too, a voracious omnivorous monster.
Two days after, Ore brought them moi-moi made with whole eggs, her first food he truly enjoyed.
‘Nice girl,’ he said to Ahanna as they ate.
Ahanna nodded, but he could not say if the head movement was to agree to his remark or simply another indication of his savouring of the meal.
He was humming and his eyes were narrowed.
‘So this is how she always brings food for you?’ Obinna asked.
Now Ahanna drank some water. ‘Nwanne, no o. In fact, this started when you came. I told you, she is really liking you.’
Obinna suddenly felt his tummy full. It was like the chewed moi-moi in his belly had suddenly turned into something else, something heavier.
Something stony.
He began to suspect Ahanna might be in league with the girl on whatever mission she was on when he began excusing himself.
He would leave the room for them and go outside.
At first, they appeared to have a lot to talk about, exchanging tribal stories.
He told her the story of a bad man in his village who had killed his brother and gone ahead to swear the iyi, thinking his counteractive medicine would protect him. ‘He die after four months fromibi, swelling of scrotum.’
‘Four months?’ she said. ‘That is far.’
He appeared surprised.
‘Ogun is sharp sharp. If not gun, machete or accident.’
He shook his head, amazed.
‘Sango uses thunder.’
He shook his head again. But one day, they seem to run out of talk and she touched him.

SEVEN
Ahanna told him his rent has expired.
He did not allow his shock to settle on him before he continued.
He told him he needed someone to stay with, someone hardworking and trustworthy, someone like him, so that they could work hard together and pay the rent, since the landlord had been kind enough to give him a 3-month grace.
‘Nwanne, this town is haaard!’ Ahanna said to him. ‘Very haaard.’
At first, Obinna thought nothing. His mind was blank.
Then anger surged through him. His skin became warm.
But he knew not who he was really angry with: Ahanna, for deceiving him; Lagos, for being sohaaardto live in, or the landlord, for asking people to pay rent in a house withoutsoak away.
He imagined him a short man in a long native attire and red cap shouting at his tenants, threatening to throw their things out if they didn’t pay their rent after a week.
That man was Deh Okolo in his village. One day, one of the tenants he was screaming at had beaten him to pulp, packed his things and left the same day.
His heart lightened a little now. He thought, at least, that Lagos landlords were different. It appeared they did not shout, the way Ahanna had said ‘he was kind enough to…’
And the man had really been kind to give a 3-month grace. Deh Okolo gave one week, yet with persistent shouting.
After the long speech, the truth, Ahanna finally gave him a chance to ask a question.
Before he could say a thing, he went on to add, ‘Nwanne, don’t be too worried, everything will be fine’, as if to ensure he did not get violent and beat him up.
But he did not. He only nodded and his chest rose and fell in a deep sigh.
He already knew what that last statement was – consolation.
And he hated to be consoled. People saying sorry to him when he is injured, telling him not to worry when he is sad.
The day his father died, he’d gone to the back of the house to join the boys digging the grave.
He preferred to join them than stay with his mother in the front yard where the people that trooped in donated pity to them in large bundles.
But the boys had asked him to go back, to leave the job to them.
He picked his ete and machete and started down their farm. He knew none of their palm trees had ripe fruits—he’d cut them all—but he would climb one, the tallest one, and cut down a few fronds for the goats.
People saw him and were screaming, thinking he was going to kill himself. Boys finally ran after him and overpowered him. They carried him back home.
That was when he began to cry, telling them to give him back his ete and machete, to allow him, that he was only going to cut some fronds.
‘Do you have any plans?’ he finally asked Ahanna.
Ahanna tilted his head to stare at him.
Then his lips quivered and broad smile came over his face.
He had made the right decision. He was the right decision.
He stretched his hand and Obinna grabbed it in an energetic handshake.
***
Ahanna took him to his shop when it was full morning.
He had expected to see a shop when Ahanna had said shop, but when they got to Oshodi, busy and bustling like it was the only market in Nigeria, what he saw was only a space, as small as where Mama Amaka would display her awalawa peppers and tomatoes at the Nkwo.
Ahanna greeted the other cloth sellers. They called him Papilo too and he shook hands with most of them, introducing him to anyone that bothered to ask as his brother.
He asked him to wait at the space so he could go and bring his wares.
He returned with a large bag. He helped him put it down.
Ahanna spread a broad sheet made by joining sacks together on the ground. After he set up the clothes, a huge pile of shirts, skirts, trousers, bras and pants, he joined the others in chanting, ‘Come and buy!’
‘It has fallen…f-l-a-t!’
‘Bend down and select your fine-fine top here, fine-fine jeans here, fine-fine pant, just two hundred, two hundred!’
He rang his bell. ‘It has fallen!’
Obinna observed him for a while before joining in the sales, calling of customers, convincing them to buy and packaging what they’d bought for them.
At the end of the day when they got home, Ahanna was amazed when he counted the cash.
He re-counted the bundle of notes again, giggling as he lifted one weak note after another, wetting his fingers occasionally with the tip of his tongue.
‘Nnaa, mehn! We sold today o!’ he shook Obinna’s hand in a way he thought was a bit too violent.
He smiled. He was happy that Ahanna was happy.
Afterwards, he asked him how he always managed to convince people to buy, especially when he was sure he never saw him join in the shouting and chanting.
But each time he looked, he would see that he was speaking with a customer who appeared obedient and listening.
Even though he knew what he did, he did not know how to explain it to Ahanna. It was the method he used at the Nkwo, when he stood with other barrow boys and instead of joining them to reach out and call customers, he would be quiet.
He would then pick a face, and with his eyes and well-timed smile he would beckon the person to come. And most times, the person would come, and would eventually hire him.
He had applied the same technique in Oshodi and it appeared to have worked just fine.
People are the same everywhere, he realized. You have to give attention to get attention.
Later that night, because he was happy, Ahanna took him to Madam Golden.
She was Igbo and made Igbo dishes; oha, egwusi and onubu.
He ate onubu with fufu. Though he complained that the onubu leaves were too stalky and over-washed, but he preferred it to the ewa goyin and Agege bread he took in the noon hours.
When Ahanna had beckoned the woman with her pot and oil container in a tray on her head, he’d thought it was fio-fio.
He liked the bread though. It was soft and stretchy—near-elastic—and surprisingly cheap.
But he didn’t like the mashed beans with the palm-oil sauce. It nearly nauseated him and he dropped it aside and ate only the bread. He was surprised at how Ahanna enjoyed the meal and had to even order for extra beans.
Sales were good the next day too and the days that followed.
One evening, they were munching on hot akara and Agege bread when Ahanna laughed and told him that it was like Ore is buying his market.
His teeth got trapped in the bread. ‘Ore?’
‘Ore na, the girl in room four.’
‘Oh, is that her name?’
‘Yes.’ Ahanna bit off a chunk of bread and threw a ball of akara into his mouth. ‘You should be careful though,’ he said, his voice now distorted by chewing. ‘You know she is a Yoruba girl.’

Trypa:





Sure I will

thanks bro.....one love man!

Once, he’d wanted to pull it off in the quiet, casual way clothing is removed during sex, but she’d held his hand and shook her head.
He stared at the necklace, and then straightened the paper.
He saw the pen marks on it and sub-consciously thought it was ‘I Love You' like they often did when they exchanged paper bits in class at Community.
But now he managed to read the writing under the dim light.
And he read it again, and again. And again. ‘Bring It Back!’
At first he didn’t understand the ‘It’, what it referred to, and then he did. The necklace. She meant the necklace.
And she had added an exclamation mark at the end of the sentence to mean it was an order.
He drew in a deep breath.
He folded the necklace in his palm and breathed into it. The pleasant smell of her filled his nose.
He opened the hook and wore it over his neck.
In the morning Ahanna told him why he’d brought him to Lagos, why he’d chosen him among all the other young men that desired to follow him.
Why he’d chosen him even over his own cousin, Uche.

SIX
She thought she wouldn’t sleep, but she did.
After dinner, she’d entered her room quietly.
She didn’t join the others to watch Super Story on NTA. Later, Ugochi knocked on her door to inform her a movie of Mr Ibu has started showing.
On the bed, all but her face was buried in her yellowkiri-kiri-starwrapper.
She told her younger sister that she wanted to sleep, needed to sleep.
Ugochi left and she turned to the wall and closed her eyes.
Their intermittent laughter jarred on her head.
She was tempted to unwrap herself and go out to the sitting room to see what was causing so much laughter, what Mr Ibu was doing on the screen, but she held herself.
She tried to think, imagine what he [Mr Ibu] was doing now. She got nothing at first, and then she saw a huge pot belly. Mr Ibu wore only white underpants, dancing round on the road while the children that gathered round him laughed loudly at him.
She saw herself among the children now, laughing out loud like them.
She was smiling on the bed, when suddenly the image of Obinna walked past the scene in her mind.
She turned to him. She was about running to him when he waved at her to stop. He didn’t talk. He only gesticulated with his index finger—turned it round in the air—in the way people do to mean they will be back shortly.
She nodded; she understood.
He would be back soon. He was only going to fetch something down the road and then he’d be back.
She felt unusually calm, settled.
In a short time she was snoring gently on the bed.
***
The short arm of the round clock hanging on the wall opposite her bed has moved some points now.
She was now sprawled on the bed, one arm here, one leg there.
She wasn’t snoring, but her breathing was deep. She was dreaming.
She saw that he is back already.
Obinna was back.
Something had happened to their bus on the way and they had to turn back. He knocked on the front door.
She stood and walked to the door, but when she opened it, it wasn’t him. It was Ozoemena, the loutish boy that go about the village stealing and causing trouble.
Then suddenly it was him, Obinna. Her Obinna.
She wanted to touch him and suddenly it wasn’t him again. He was now Nze Ofili, her father’s friend with his large hairy nose. Excessive use of snuff has turned the nose hairs yellow-brown.
His faces alternated on and on till she crossed herself and began to cry.
Then he came and held her. The touch was his, she knew immediately.
She looked up; it was really him. He held her and murmured something into her ear, something she didn’t hear or understand.
But she felt calm under his grip now, a heavy feeling of peace settled on her.
But, suddenly, he was gone again. In the weird manner of dreams, he’d melted into smoke and drifted away.
She woke up; the bulb above shone a bright yellow in her eyes and she squeezed her eyelids.
She remembered she hadn’t turned off the switch. NEPA always restored power late at night and she always turned off the bulb before sleeping.
She hadn’t prepared before sleeping. She hadn’t put on her flimsy night dress and applied talc to her neck.
She didn’t beat the bed with her wrapper to send out sand from the sheet before lying down.
It hit her again now, the new change to her life. To everything she was. Used to be. She feared she might never be herself again.
But then she remembered; he’d be back. He must. She has given him an ultimatum.
She shifted to the wall, reached up to the round switch and turned the nub up.
Sudden darkness fell over the room. She fumbled around for the pillow, clutched it tight and closed back her eyes.
***
He did not sleep.
So many thoughts kept him awake. The mosquitoes didn’t help issues, and so was the heat, and then Ahanna’s turbulent snores.
The room was dark. The burning candle on the table beside the bed was only able to cut out a small circle off the darkness.
He normally slept with the light on. Sometimes, his mother came in in the middle of the night to turn the light off, but only a short while and he’d wake up and turn it back on again.
Adaku had told him, once, that it was strange and he told her he liked it.
‘We will be sleeping in different rooms then,’ she told him, and he quickly grabbed her and said, ‘We will always turn the light off, inu?’
Now in Lagos, he prayed he’d ever see a glowing bulb again. Even if it is the murky ‘half-current’ glow.
Ahanna had told him when they came back from ‘short cut’ that they don’t normally expect electricity till past midnight, on Saturdays!
‘Well, sometimes, Sundays too,’ he added, ‘but it is rare.’
It was late at night when Ahanna finally told him they can now go out and do the short cut.
His tummy was threatening to burst. He’d been sitting all the while with his legs crossed, battling to hold down the cramps.
With relief, he followed Ahanna outside.
They walked down the road to the large central gutter with fast-flowing water.
Ahanna stepped on the edge of the ditch and pulled down his shorts.
He was watching him.
Ahanna crouched, his ass to the opening. Soon he gave out a low growl and he heard a thump in the moving water.
‘Oga do na!’ Ahanna said to him.
He tore a part of the newspaper he was holding and spread it on the ground.
He crouched and deposited his release.
Afterwards, he folded it carefully as one packaging food. But he was reluctant to throw it into the gutter.
What if the water didn’t carry it and people saw it in the morning?
They will open it and from the distinctive village smell, they will know that it is his.
‘Oga, I don go o,’ Ahanna said. ‘You wan chop am?’ He has wiped himself and pulled up his pants.
He eventually threw in the package and followed Ahanna.
He was not sure how to feel, learning that he’d be doing this every day, till the ‘soak-away’ is repaired.
He wished it was something he could do now, so that in the morning he would pull off his shirt, gather his tools and set to work. Like he did the morning after a huge wind blew away the roof of their kitchen.
Ahanna told him he should be grateful, that theirs was even better. Better than those living in places where gutters with fast-moving water was not found.
Later, he would learn how the women used small ‘penta’ buckets half-filled with water to do theirs. They did it in the bathroom and then poured it into the sewer through a small crack.
Because that somehow appeared more moral to him, he joined them and felt a little relief.
Now he opened the side pocket of his bag and brought out what Ada had given him. He rubbed the white package and brought it close to his chest.
Then he smelt it. Strangely, it smelt of her, her Joy flower perfume.
He tore it open slowly. She had used tape.
He saw a necklace and held it up in his hand.
The candlelight was dull, but he recognized the necklace.
He remembered it—the tiny sliver-coloured beads strung to a stretchy cord.
It was from her grandmother, she’d told him. She never removed it. Not even when they were making love and it obstructed his mouth from getting to her nipples.

‘Ife mi, bawoni?’ Ahanna said.
‘Fimile jor!’
‘Aa-ah.’ Ahanna was smiling. ‘Wetin I do now na?’
‘Shebi you run early morning go your village without telling me.’
Ahanna laughed. ‘No worry, we go talk about that one later.’
Obinna’s eyes were still on the girl. He didn’t know if he’d call her pretty or not. She was fair, the kind people in his village would call, ‘ocha-ka-omaka—fair beauty.’
The girl looked at him and did something like a smile. ‘Who follow you come?’ she asked.
‘Na my brother,’ Ahanna said.
‘This your brother fine o!’ the girl said. She was staring at Obinna. ‘Arewa omokunrin omo-igbo.’
Her eyes nearly got Obinna embarrassed. He wondered if she was one of the prostitutes.
They entered through the central passage. Ahanna’s room was at the far end. The rooms faced each other, an architectural design Obinna had not seen before.
Ahanna pulled the curtain, a loose faded white fabric, and asked him to come in. ‘Nwanne, welcome,’ he said.
He looked round the room. A small naked mattress was at the corner of the wall on top a carpet so threadbare he couldn’t tell what colour it had been.
Ahanna pulled a plastic chair for him. ‘Sit!’
He took the seat, his eyes still exploring the room. As if there was anything to explore. He was sure the Akira TV on the table no longer worked, owing to the thick dust film that lay on it.
Ahanna picked a small radio from the table and turned it on. A female voice was reading the news. The current governor just held his second-term campaign in one of the major markets and people were trampled as they hustled to get the rice and salt he brought.
Ahanna pitched a long hiss. He grabbed the radio and turned it off. ‘Nonsense!’
Obinna stared at him.
‘These thieves only remember the masses when it’s time for election.’
Obinna inhaled deeply. He was used to that phrase, people calling politicians thieves. But he thought thieves were everywhere, that everyone was capable of stealing. That nobody’s stealing was better. He didn’t want to keep quiet. But he was tired.
When his father was alive, Asika, his father’s friend, always aggressively protested the governance of the then local government chairman. He spoke bitterly of how he squandered the money meant for the community water project.
But when his father gave him fifty thousand naira to help him procure cheap corrugated iron from the market in Onitsha where he owned a shop, Asika returned after many months, saying the building materials dealers have stopped selling at that rate.
But he didn’t return his father’s money.
‘Change into something else so you can go and have your bath,’ Ahanna said to him.
‘Ok.’ He stood up. He removed his shirt and pulled down his trousers.
Ahanna gave him a towel and a bar of Premier Soap.
‘Can I go out like this?’ he asked, gesturing around his boxer shorts.
‘Sure.’
‘Ok.’
‘We’ll get water outside. Let’s go.’
‘Wait, can I get some tissue?’
Ahanna turned to him. ‘Tissue? You wan go toilet?’
‘Yes. That stew we ate at that stop is making my belly turn.’
Ahanna gave him a look, scratching his head.
He didn’t understand. ‘If there is no tissue, give me newspaper na,’ he said.
‘That’s not the case.’
‘What then?’
‘You can’t go to toilet now.’
‘Ah ah, why?’
Ahanna dropped one hand on his shoulder. ‘You see, my brother, we no dey shit for day time for this place.’
Obinna found this hard to grasp. Ahanna continued before he could put a question through. ‘You see, since last month our soak-away spoil, na short cut we dey do.’
He did not know what short cut is.
He did not bother to ask either.

Ahanna tapped his shoulder again. ‘Wake up.’
He pulled up and quickly checked his bag; everything appeared to be intact. He exhaled.
Maybe there is really no reason to be so scared of Lagos, after all.
Everyone was going down the bus.
‘Are we in Lagos now?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Ahanna said. ‘Let’s go down.’
‘Why?’
‘We are at Ore. We go down and eat before we continue,’ Ahanna explained.
The food was very expensive. With just N150, he could eat the best of whatever Madam Stainless had to offer at Nkwo market.
So when the girl that served them said their bill was N800, he turned suddenly to her. ‘What did we eat that came to that price?’ he asked.
The girl looked at him and turned away in the most unconcerned manner.
‘O bulo, am I not asking you?’
The girl hissed. ‘Oga, your money is eight hundred.’
He got up. ‘Nekwa, see this small cockroach o! Who do you think you are putting on that face for? Look let me tell you, I have a girl like you as wife at home. A fuller, prettier girl that you can’t even talk to!’
Ahanna paid and asked him to follow him, that he should leave the girl alone.
He tried to explain, but Ahanna only gave him that village-people-mocking smile again and he felt remorseful.
Maybe he’d over reacted.
Maybe he shouldn’t have raised his voice. Adaku wouldn’t have liked it too. Truth is, he was feeling all sorts and he couldn’t help it.
He turned to look at the girl as they walked away.
She smiled at him and shook her head: mockery tamed with understanding.
They got to Lagos at late evening.
From Jibowu where their bus stopped, they boarded a yellow bus to Oshodi.
Obinna was amazed at how the yellow buses never actually stopped fully and passengers had to jump in, women and the elderly inclusive.
He was relieved he had jumped in safely. Ahanna was more experienced.
An okada carried them from Charity Bus Stop to Number 16.
Obinna wondered if people lived in the houses he saw. They were in poor shape, almost pitiable, much poorer than the ones in Obeledu. They were all too closely packed and he wondered if the people living in them swept compounds. If there was any compound to sweep.
Ahanna paid the okada man. He took the feeble notes and counted them. ‘Oga, una money na 250,’ he said, his hand stretched out to Ahanna to return the money.
‘250? From Charity to here?’
‘Abeg, pay me jor!’ He shook the note to mean Ahanna should take the money back fast, as if the quicker he returned it ensured he got the complete pay.
‘Nwoke m, that’s what I pay,’ Ahanna said, turning to beat his bag to send out dust. ‘I live here and I go out every day.’
Obinna saw the man park his motorcycle to the corner of the road and get down.
His eyes ran to Ahanna. He looked unworried, prepared. He wondered if he had dual personalities now; one adapted to life in Obeledu and the other for Lagos.
He stretched out a N100 note to the man before he could get close to Ahanna.
The okada man collected the money and murmured a curse in Yoruba before climbing his okada.
Ahanna told him he shouldn’t have, that that was how okada men in Lagos behaved and that he should get used to it.
‘Forget that he spoke Yoruba o, he might even be our kinsman,’ Ahanna told him. ‘This is what we see in Lagos every day; you have to get used to it.’
He began hoping he would.
He looked round.
The street as small as it was, was crowded.
Dusty cars lined each side.
Hawkers with food items he’d not seen before walked past with their trays.
Lanky shabbily-dressed men and boys with rectangular boxes which they strike once in a while to create a ringing noise— to create attention, he was sure—passed too.
A thin man in dirty clothes walked past with a rectangular metal cart. About twelve black, 25-litre jerry cans were arranged in it.
A young woman tying a wrapper ran out from the nearby compound and called, ‘Mai ruwa!’ waving.
There were shops, kiosks with boxes of Indomie, Omo, long bars of green soap, arranged on a table in their fronts.
Bright-coloured sachets of detergents, Nutri-C, Milo and CowBell, hung on nails on the doors.
There were so many children in the street, most of them half-naked and dirty, but they were all smiling and playing and running around.
‘Let’s go!’ Ahanna said to him.
His voice was loud, almost on the verge of harsh, and again he thought that he was different in Lagos, behaved different. He searched for the reason, and couldn’t find one satisfactory enough.
It probably was the journey, he tried to comfort himself with, even though he thought differently.
They crossed to the other side of the road and filtered through a small gate, barely wide enough for two grown-ups to pass at the same time.
Obinna was surprised to see so many people in the small compound. A middle-aged woman sat at a corner, washing in a big bowl. The thin baby on her back was wailing.
Once in a while she nudged the baby, but it never stopped crying.
A man and a woman sat on a short bench by the wall, holding hand fans. They tied the same kind of wrapper and Obinna knew they were a couple.
There were even more children in the yard. He wondered where they all lived, if there was another bungalow behind the near-dilapidated one he was seeing.
He didn’t understand why Ahanna would decide to buy a house that old.
‘Papilo!’ the tenants cheered as they saw them. Ahanna smiled back at them. A tall, skinny young man wearing only a pair of boxer shorts came out through the central passage. ‘Papilo!’ He held his hand up in the air in greeting. Ahanna shook hands with him.
‘Welcome, where bread?’ he said.
‘How you dey?’ Ahanna replied.
‘O boy.’ The young man was scratching his head, forehead lined.
‘Papi darling!’ a thin female voice called.
Obinna turned. A yellow girl was coming out from a small building at the other end of the compound.
She held a red bucket and a yellow soap dish. A damp, faded-blue towel covered her from the chest down. Obinna stared at her. She joined her two legs together on a flat stone outside the structure and poured water on her legs.

Adaku stared at the big bus, reading the inscription on it— THE YOUNG SHALL GROW MOTORS—over and over again.
At the right, a man was loading passengers’ luggage into a hollow space at the lower part of the vehicle.
Obinna studied the items carefully.
Food items abound; palm oil in various types of plastic containers, bunches of unripe plantain and banana, coconuts and avocado.
Again, he wondered if there was enough food in Lagos. He still did not know why Ahanna didn’t allow him carry the plantain bunch and yam tubers his mother brought out.
His small ‘Ghana Must Go’ was pressed firm under his arm. It contained only his clothes, and his money.
When the man loading the bus asked him to bring his bag so that he’d find where to put it, he’d declined, shaking his head.
‘Oga, bring your bag na let me know where best to put it!’ the man, dark and short with dirty jean trousers folded to his knees, barked.
The white flip-flops he was wearing had circular holes at the back of his feet.
He came closer. ‘Oga, give me your bag.’
‘No,’ Obinna said, clutching his bag firmer.
With all the stories he’s been told about Lagos, he decided it was best to carry his bag himself. ‘I will carry it myself,’ he said.
He looked at his mother. Mama Obinna was expressionless. She did not know what was best—to give the bag to the man or for Obinna to carry it himself.
But she trusted his son’s decision, and said nothing.
Ahanna was smiling, that near-mocking display of amusement common to city people when they find everything villagers do funny.
The man was still staring at Obinna.
‘Mr. Man, go and load the other bags na!’ Adaku snapped at him in English.
The man quietly turned away.
Finally, a fat man climbed into the driver’s portion of the bus and honked the horn. The same man that loaded the vehicle walked to the door and announced, ‘Enter according to the number on your tickets!’
Obinna was staring into the piece of paper in his hand when Ada took the ticket from him. She looked at it and said, ‘Sixteen. Your number is sixteen.’ She gave him back the ticket.
He looked at her, their eyes met and he turned away. He bent toward Uzo, his younger brother, and whispered something to him. The boy nodded understandingly.
‘Nna m, bia—my boy, come,’ Mama Obinna said.
He went and hugged his mother. They stayed a little longer together. When they separated, the man calling out the ticket numbers was on number eight already.
Adaku’s eyes were straight into the air. They were blank.
He walked close to her. She quickly clung to him even before he could get close enough. He heard her draw in a noisy breath and wondered if she was crying. But he knew her better. He released her and held her shoulders.
‘Obim,’ he called her.
The tear wouldn’t have come if he hadn’t called her that. He wiped it off for her, at the same time fighting to hold back his.
But it eventually dropped, and they quickly clung to themselves again, as if not to allow people see.
‘Obinna,’ her mother called.
‘Sixteen!’ the man calling the tickets shouted again.
‘Go,’ she said to him, releasing him.
‘Number sixteen! Where is number sixteen?’
As he turned, she quickly reached inside the pocket of her gown and brought something wrapped in white paper. She thrust it into his hand and turned away fast.
He turned to look at her.
The man was now yelling. ‘Sixteeeeeen!!!’
Ahanna called him from inside the bus, waving.
He finally dragged to the bus and climbed in.
As she saw the last view of their bus disappear down the tiled road, her tears couldn’t hold again.
They flowed down her face like an open tap.
His mother came close and embraced her. ‘Ogadicha mma,’ she told her. ‘All will be well.’
But she knew it won’t. All will never be well with him gone. She knew for one that she wasn’t going to sleep that night, and that particularly scared her.
‘Don’t cry, my brother’s wife,’ Uzochukwu said, coming to stand in her front.
She wiped her face and produced a smile.
‘Don’t cry again,’ Uzo repeated.
‘Thank you,’ she said and nestled the boy to herself.
***
The road to Lagos was a long one.
Even though he had a lot of questions, he didn’t ask them.
He didn’t want the other passengers to realize it was his first time to the big city. As Ahanna had told him, once they know that you are new, they would extort you.
He looked round the bus; the people he was travelling with all looked docile and he wondered when he’d meet the bad ones.
The area boys.
The omoniles.
The ashawos.
He was not eager though. He wished now that Lagos would be as quiet and serene as the bus was.
He looked out through the window, the vegetation he could see now was different. There were no palm trees, only short trees with lush canopies. He didn’t see houses. He did not know where they were now.
Ahanna had told him when they got to Onitsha and Asaba, but now he was sleeping.
Many of the passengers were too. In his front, a large woman was snoring. The way her head hung loosely down, he wondered if her neck bone was still intact.
He did not want to sleep. Maybe there was just one bad Lagos person among them that would come and steal his money while he was asleep.
He felt a headache and quickly pressed his bag to be sure the money was still there.
It appeared it was.
Forty thousand naira.
Ninety-eight thousand was all he saved from his wheelbarrow business and other meagre jobs he did. He took 48 and left Ada with 50.
His mother had given him ten thousand extra to add to what he already has.
‘Use that and pay for your fare,’ Mama Obinna had said.
He had taken the money and added to the Fifty thousand he gave to Adaku.
He told her she would only tell their mother about the money if things got so bad, out of hand, and she couldn’t get his message.
He pressed his bag again. He could feel the wrapping there, he was sure.
But with slight dread he realized that sleep would soon overpower him like everyone else.
The elderly man sitting beside the snoring fat woman in his front has now joined her in the same posture, both of them looking like a couple at a strange wedding.
***
He didn’t know what happened, how it happened, but when he opened his eyes, the bus was not moving.

Trypa:



Y d aggressive words?

am sorry, av jez dropped anoda story check ma profile to read it if u're interested

and more and more?’
He smiled and his dimples sank deep into his cheeks.
Later that evening, they went to the avocado tree and felt each other. It was intense, the deepest they’ve ever had, as though doing it that way would keep them satisfied till whenever they would meet again.......(I think that should enough for now 'episode 5' will show up lerra in the afternoon, wana wash up and charge ma fone...see ya!!!)

But Adaku was not any bothered. Not when it was about marrying Obinna. She had never been surer of anything her entire life.
She gave Azuka a small smile. ‘I think, Azu, that when the owners of the company are bonded enough, they will always work something out.’
Her eyes lingered on Azuka, her lips still slightly curved in the smile.
Azuka flattened her cheeks and did not say another word.
Soon, her mother knocked and said it was time for her to come out. She turned to her friends and they giggled with excitement. Except Azuka.
The trio hugged themselves before stepping out.
She was amazed at the crowd that had come. They had hoped it to be a small occasion, but then, it was an eating and drinking occasion.
There is a popular saying in Obeledu that you don’t know how many friends you have till you call a party.
She stood in the middle, hands folded in the front. Her friends stood behind her, smiling and shy.
One of the elders, Ichie Akunne, who was her father’s eldest brother, stood and called her. ‘Omalicha, come.’
She walked close to him and knelt.
Ichie Akunne poured out a glass of wine and gave to her. ‘Stand, my daughter. Go and show us your husband!’
‘Yes, nna anyi!’
‘And if he is not here, come back let us go to Nkwo and buy you a man,’ another elder said beside them, cackling.
Adaku stood and looked round.
He was easy to find. He smiled at her and her fingers around the cup quivered a little.
She started to move, one graceful step after another.
‘Omalicha!’
‘Asa mma!’
‘Elelebe eje oru!’
They were calling her, extending their hands in false desire.
Finally, she knelt before him, drank a little from the cup and handed it to him.
The crowd cheered.
FOUR
He came early to her house.
His trip was the next day. He’d promised to spend the entire day with her today.
As if that would change anything. But she had agreed anyway.
They went two trips to the borehole together. And then he helped her split wood.
He took the axe and she stood behind him, watching.
Each time he lifted the axe, his arms firm in the air as they clasped the tool, his left foot holding the wood secure to the ground, she thought about how much she was going to miss him, those arms, those thighs, his chest, his lips.
His touch.
And now he turned to her and smiled; that smile too—she quickly added that one. She bit her thumbnail off and hugged herself.
Her mother came out and smiled at the huge pile of firewood.
It was enough to last them a month. She thanked him and gave him a lump of dried meat from her stock.
He was putting it in his mouth when Ada jerked it off and ate it instead.
She was laughing as his face crumpled like he was going to cry.
‘Nnaa, don’t mind her,’ Uchechi told him. ‘There is another.’ She gave him another larger lump of meat.
He put it quickly into his mouth and flashed his tongue at Ada.
Ada stopped laughing.
Obinna started to laugh and she picked a stick from the ground and pursued him.
Uchechi was smiling and shaking her head.
Her family accepted him, and it wasn’t just because he frequently came around to help them with the firewood, or water or cut down their ripe palm fruits.
Or because he never collects money each time he carried Uchechi’s wares at the market, even when she insisted, aggressively so, sometimes forcing the note into this hand, he would still return it.
It was because he was hard working. And his family, though poor, was good.
Papa Adaku had once said to the wife, when the trouble of getting their daughter to see reason why she shouldn’t wait for someone so young for marriage seemed to overpower them, that in any case they should be happy at least that it was him, that ‘at least’ they are sure their daughter won’t die of hunger.
***
After she made jollof rice with the dry fish her mother brought out, they sat together under the shade of the mango tree at the other end of the backyard to eat.
He took a spoonful of the yellow rice, blew at it once and threw it into his mouth. ‘Aw!’ he screamed.’
‘What?!’
‘Oku!’
She frowned at him. She used her spoon and levelled the rice so that it cooled faster.
He picked a lump of fish from the plate and threw into his mouth.
She slapped his arm. ‘Mind yourself, Obinna.’
He liked the way she had called Obinna— quietly, affectionately, the failed attempt of someone who was only pretending to be angry.
There was silence for a while. Now his eyes were on her. She met his gaze and they held briefly, then she turned away. ‘So will you write me?’ she asked him.
‘No,’ he said.
Her eyes came wider. ‘You won’t? Why?’
‘I’m going to be very busy,’ he said.
‘Busy?’
‘Yes!’
‘With what?!’
‘Ha! You’ve not heard? Ahanna said the girls in Lagos never get satisfied. Like dogs, they keep asking for more, more, more and more!’
He looked and saw her expression. He felt amused but did not show it.
‘Ayi!’ He screamed when a glass of cold water splashed over his face.
She dropped the glass back on the table with force and carried the plate of food to herself.
‘Ada! Why did you pour water on me?’
She didn’t say a word, instead she began humming in the way little children do when they want to show they are eating something tasty.
He stared at her. He picked his spoon and tried to eat from the plate. She shifted. ‘Ok, now I can’t even eat?’
More humming. ‘Allow me to eat! Maybe you have not heard, the men in the university never get satisfied too. I must eat before they kill me.’
He was staring at her.
Such jokes got to him easier, she knew.
‘Oya, ndo—sorry!’ he said.
She nodded. ‘Better.’ She dropped the plate back on the table.
‘I will write you every week, inu?’ he said, his voice distorted by chewing.
She laughed instead, a dry ‘he-he-he’ chuckle that surprised him. ‘Who will even have time to read your letters when I will be busy with my studies in the university?’ she said.
Now he laughed, so loudly she stopped to stare at him. ‘What’s so funny?’ she asked.
He wanted to say something and then started on another bout of laughter.
‘Mkpi!’ she called him, her face swollen in a frown.
‘What do you know about the university?’ he came through at last. ‘Eh, Adaku Onochie, answer me?’
She rolled her eyes at him. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Do you know how many times you will even write JAMB before you finally get admission, eh? You think you just write one JAMB and fiam, you get admission, just like that. Look, let me tell you, you have to write JAMB at least four times—’ He put up four fingers in demonstration. ‘Ano! Four times, before you can even talk about getting admission.’
She turned her hand round her head and snapped at him. ‘If it is charm, it will not work for you!’
He laughed. ‘But, Ada, seriously, were you hoping you just write JAMB today and tomorrow you are a university student?’
‘Once I pass, I will get admission,’ she said.
‘Taa! Pass fire! Better go and ask Ukamaka your friend. She has written that JAMB more than five times and yet she is still here with us. I heard she now has her own special locker in the exam hall with her name on it. I’m sure this year, they will register her for free.’
She didn’t want to, but she laughed. Then she turned serious. ‘Am I as dumb as Ukamaka, gbo?’
He didn’t respond.
He was now staring at her.
At that moment it hit him what he was going to miss.
The love.
The friendship.
The laughter.
Tiny sands of fear settled on him.
He began to wonder if his trip would tell badly on their relationship. If it would spoil this wonderful union.
He thought of her in the university, a large compound filled with young boys; disco boys in their saggy jean trousers, broad T-shirts and bandanna, each trying to grab her as she sashayed through their middle, desperate to defile her.
To take away her glow and leave nothing for him.
Her voice jolted him back to life. ‘Obinna!’
He turned suddenly to her, looking lost.
‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked him.
‘Nothing.’ He said nothing quietly.
‘Don’t worry, I will wait,’ she said.
‘Mm, what did you say?’
‘I said I will wait for you.’
He was amazed she understood. No one knew him like she does.
‘I don’t trust university boys,’ he said.
‘I don’t trust Lagos girls either.’
‘Ha, you know I can’t do that.’
‘What if they keep asking for more,

THREE
They brought wine today.
It was meant to be a small occasion, smaller than a normal wine-carrying ceremony. They had come with just two elders; one was Ichie Okwu, an elderly kin and the other Amaechi, Obinna’s uncle.
Ichie Okwu was tall and thin. He walked with a stoop, while Amaechi, short and round in his big polo shirt and broad brown trousers, bounced beside him.
Behind them, Obinna, his mother, his younger brother, Uzochukwu, and Ogechi, Amaechi’s wife, strolled along.
He was carrying the wine— a round gourd with fresh palm leaves stuffed to the mouth. It was said that the leaves would stop the wine from frothing over, but it still frothed anyway.
Bees buzzed around the mouth and once in a while Obinna waved around to drive them off.
‘Faga agba gi—they will sting you,’ his mother said.
He smiled and continued to drive the bees.
He looked at his mother and smiled again, differently now— shyly.
His mother smiled back at him with her lips turned down. ‘Ndi di agaba— husbands are moving,’ she murmured.
Her eyes met with Ogechi’s, and she began to chuckle. She leaned to Mama Obinna’s ear. ‘He should not forget to leave her with child before travelling,’ she whispered.
Mama Obinna laughed—a short he-he-he laugh that made it difficult to tell if she was truly amused at what the tall woman had said or just found it ridiculous.
Obinna heard them and turned away with a smile.
The smile lingered on his face. He was happy.
When his mother had suggested they carry wine to Ada’s parents and pay her bride price before his travel—to secure her fully— he’d felt awkward.
‘She will wait for me, Mama,’ he’d said to his mother. ‘She will, I know.’
Mama Obinna had hissed and told her son he knew nothing.
But now that they were on their way to their in-law’s house, he was happy. An exciting feeling of security swamped over him.
To be tied to her in marriage, the perfect assurance that she’d wait.
That she must.
‘Brother?’ his little brother called. ‘Don’t you think I should have carried my own wine too?’
They turned to look at the boy.
‘Uzochukwu, why do you think you should have carried wine too?’ their mother asked.
‘So that we pay Ugochi’s bride price too.’
Obinna was smiling. ‘You want to marry Ada’s sister?’
‘Not really,’ the boy said. ‘I don’t really like her. She talks too much, but she is the only one I can marry. I asked Ada’s friend, Ujunwa, to marry me and she laughed at me and said that I am still a small boy.’
Ogechi burst into laughter.
Mama Obinna was smiling and shaking her head.
Obinna placed one hand on his little brother’s shoulder. ‘Nnam, don’t worry, when the time comes, you will find a very good girl to marry, inu?’
‘That will be as beautiful as Adaku?’ the boy asked.
Obinna nodded. ‘Even more beautiful.’ He nestled the boy to his side.
***
Onochie and his wife, Uchechi, received their visitors well.
Three long benches were set under the orange tree in the front of their compound.
Four elders came from their side, two with their wives. The women all dressed well, in expensive or expensive-looking wrappers, blouses and matching stiff-fabric scarves.
Clothes that smelt heavily of camphor, indicating how very sparingly they were worn.
Ichie Okwu and Amaechi joined the other elders on the bench. They had all greeted in the way titled men do, slamming the back of their palms together, three times before taking each other’s hand.
The ones with animal skin fans used them.
Mama Obinna and Amaechi’s wife joined Uchechi in the backyard.
The jollof rice was done, hot, spicy and reddish. Uchechi was transferring it into a fat yellow cooler with a stainless steel plate. Another woman beside her was washing cups and plates and another rinsing them.
Mama Ukaa, the lanky woman well famed throughout the entire Iruowelle for her perfect ogiri, was at the fire place, quenching the cinders with water. She would sprinkle some water and the fire would give out a squeal as if in pain, raising a dust of ashes.
Uchechi stood and hugged Obinna’s mother. ‘Nwanne ayoola ogo—a sister has turned an in-law!’ she said, and they laughed.
‘Is the rice not too much?’ Mama Obinna asked.
Uchechi hummed. ‘Just wait till they start coming.’ She sat down to her work again.
Mama Obinna pulled a nearby back chair and sat beside her.
‘If not for the short notice, I’d have prepared ugba. You know na, ugba eji mala nwa Akwaeze [ugba with which they know a daughter of Akwaeze]!’
‘Awuu!’ Mama Obinna inclined her head. ‘Ada mmadu!’ They slapped their palms together.
She looked round. ‘My wife nko?’
Uchechi hummed. ‘That one? She has been in her room all morning with her friends.’ She joined her thumb and index finger together in the air. ‘Ordinary pepper she would not help me grind.’
Mama Obinna was laughing.
Uchechi dropped an open palm on her lap. ‘Hope your son is aware she doesn’t know how to cook?’
The women burst into laughter.
‘That one is no problem, my sister,’ Mama Obinna said. ‘I will gladly teach her.’
Uchechi gave a small, slow nod, as if in pity. ‘Ngwanu, God will be your strength. Even the goats and chickens know that I’ve tried!’
Another bout of laughter.
***
At the front of the house, Papa Adaku brought out a tray of kola and dropped it on the table in front of the men. ‘My brothers, kola has come,’ he said.
In the tray, were five large kola nut seeds beside a mound of garden egg fruits. Ugochi, Adaku’s younger sister, came out with a flat plate, a jar of groundnut butter and spoon. She dropped the items on the table beside the tray.
‘The king’s kola is in his hands,’ an elderly chief said.
The others nodded in support, muttering.
Adaku’s father picked one kola seed from the tray and gave the elderly chief, saying a proverb about the king respecting the presence of an elder too.
The elderly man took the kola from him, leaned forward and cleared his throat. He began to say the prayers and the others chorused ‘Ise!’ at the end of every line.
When he was done, he broke the kola and threw the pieces inside the plate. ‘Ha!’ he exclaimed. ‘Oji udo—the kola of peace! Nwanne ayana nwanne ya—a brother should not move without the brother!’
They nodded and called him his title. ‘Eziokwu-bu-ndu!’
Soon, the women came to join them.
From the louvered window, Ada and her friends peeped at Obinna. He stood now with his best friends, Obiozo, Uche and Ahanna.
He was talking and Ada wondered what he was saying, if it was about her. She was surprised to realize he was different today; he looked different.
She saw him differently. The fact that he was going to become her husband that day created an aura of respect, esteem.
‘You are marrying the best, Ada,’ Nwamaka said, in that tone of voice that showed she was both happy for her and jealous.
Ada turned to look at her. ‘But he doesn’t have money,’ she said, yet not appearing to be sad.
‘Did you say money?’ Ujunwa threw in. ‘Who is talking about money these days again? Haven’t our girls all tried it and saw it led nowhere? Happiness is the main thing, my friend. Obinna will make you happy.’
Nwamaka nodded fully, indicating her full support.
She understood, perfectly, for she had been a victim of ‘money marriage’ herself.
Azuka who had been sitting on the bed all the while they peeped got up. ‘I’m yet to understand how people can be truly happy in marriage without money though,’ she said.
They turned suddenly to her.
She looked unapologetic. ‘Yes,’ she affirmed. ‘You see, marriage is an expensive institution, like a company with workers, it needs money to grow. When there is no money, the workers can only stay a few weeks, months highest, before they revolt.’
They were staring at her.
‘I don’t believe you, Azuka!’ Ujunwa was first to speak. She wanted to continue in the same quick pace, but paused.
It was Azuka that has spoken; she needed to give a very reasonable reply to silence her completely, and also to stop Ada from thinking about it.

Later that night…
‘Papa, I need money for my JAMB form.’
Papa Adaku dropped his ball of yam fufu back into the soup and turned to his daughter. ‘JAMB form?’
Adaku nodded.
Now even Uchechi was staring at Adaku. ‘So what happened to marriage?’ she asked.
Ugochi laughed. ‘Obinna is travelling to the big city and now she suddenly remembers school.’
She was on to another laugh when Adaku’s palm met her cheek with tremendous force. The laughter died prematurely. Slowly, it was replaced by muffled sobbing.
Ekene started to laugh.
Ugochi tweaked his ears.
‘Ayi!’ the little boy groaned.
‘Ugochi, Ekene, go inside,’ Papa Adaku said.
He exchanged glances with his wife, that brief eye contact peculiar to parents that bore deep communication.
As the door banged shut behind Ugochi and her little brother, Adaku knew what must be done. ‘I’m sorry, Papa. I…’
‘Why do you suddenly change your mind?’ her father cut in.
Adaku was not happy. She’d preferred her father talked about it, scolded her or even punished her.
Gone were the days she enjoyed her father’s excessive indulgence.
She was an only child for long. Ugochi arrived when she was already seven, and Ekene two years after.
Even now that she was only some months to nineteen, she knew the connection she had with her father hadn’t changed any bit.
She had remained her father’s favourite.
That had been the reason when she told him that she’d want to get married first and then go to school from her husband’s house, with her husband, Mr. Onochie’s protest lasted only a few days.
He worked at the Local Government; he knew well about the importance of education. But he finally indulged his daughter, like was usual of him.
But now that Obinna has suddenly decided to change the earlier plans, Adaku couldn’t really fathom why she was not furious at him.
Why she had not stored hot water in a flask and then walk to his house and pour it on his head.
‘Adaku,’ her mother called.
‘Mama.’
Uchechi shifted so that she was now closer to her daughter. ‘Something is wrong.Gwam, what is it?’
‘Nothing, Mama.’ She folded her hands together. ‘I just want to go school.’
‘How much is the form?’ her father cut in, as was his quick manner of speech.
‘Four thousand five, Papa.’
‘Remind me tomorrow morning and I will give you the money.’
‘Papa,dalu.’
They finished their meal in silence.
Later that night, Uchechi knocked and entered her room. She tied her wrapper above her breasts and she smelled pleasantly of cream and talc. Her neck was white with it.
Adaku rose and shifted for her to sit.
‘Ada.’ She felt her forehead. ‘O eziokwu— is it true?’
‘What, Mama?’
‘That Obinna is travelling to the big city.’
She inhaled deeply. Her mother’s eyes remained on her. And she finally nodded.
And at that moment, the sadness hit her like a blow. She swallowed hard, but she didn’t push it down. It sprang back up her throat with great force and she began to cry. Her mother clutched her to herself.
‘Kwusi, inu—stop.Ozugo—it’s ok.’
They remained in embrace till her sobbing subsided. Her mother released her.
‘Everything will be fine,’ she told her as she rubbed off her tears. ‘All will be well.’
She kept nodding to each word, as though the more religiously she nodded would mean the more certain that her mother’s words came true; that all became fine.
Obinna would cancel his trip. That it was announced on the radio that Lagos has become too filled it could no longer accept any more people.
When her mother left, she lay back into the soft mattress and cried some more before drifting into the unawareness of sleep.

Ahanna sold clothes at Oshodi market in Lagos.
He told Obinna that all he needed was just N30, 000 to start. He’d be travelling to Cotonou with him to buy the clothes.
‘Clothes are so cheap there [Cotonou] you’d wonder if they were made of sand,’ he said to Obinna. ‘But once you enter Lagos, you must shine your eyes. To survive, you must be as sharp-eyed as a hawk.I ga epu anya ka nkwo!’
Obinna had stayed quiet all the while Ahanna talked about Lagos, with a faint look anticipation on his face, as though afraid to show Ahanna how disturbed the stories about Lagos has made him.
Ahanna told him about Area Boys, ‘ndi nwe obodo’—street owners—as he described them, who sit in clusters all around the place causing mischief and extorting money from people, about the traffic that could hold one for hours, theomoniles’ who came to pull down people’s structures when they did not settle them for the land they bought.
Obinna’s jaw dropped when Ahanna mentioned this. ‘Chelukwa, nwanne—wait, brother, are you telling me that after buying land, you must settle some people before building on it?’
‘Dey there na!’ Ahanna said in pidgin.
Obinna understood his pidgin, but could not speak it. He thought Ahanna had learned it fast; it was barely three years he left Iruowelle for Lagos.
Then he saw Ahanna smile—grin actually— and immediately had the hope of hearing now the good things about Lagos, praying they far outweigh the near horrifying ones he’d already heard.
‘But ashi dey o!’ Ahanna said. He’d lowered his voice and Obinna knew whateverashimeant would be bad.
‘What isashi?’ He too had lowered his voice when he called ashi. They were in his house and although Mama Obinna was in the kitchen at the far end of the backyard, her good hearing was legendary.
‘Ashi na…ashawo dem!’
Finally, the horror slapped Obinna’s cavities open.
He’d heard the sickening tales ofashawosbefore— rotten girls who stood half-naked on the streets at night selling not leather or plastic, but their bodies.
He’d heard their stories from Father Jude during one of his soporific sermons, Mama Ozioma during a gossip about her young cousin who had just returned from Lagos wearing trousers, and then Teacher Nwokolo, and even Principal Eze at the Community Grammar School.
But it wasn’t the mentioning of prostitutes that got Obinna so very shocked, it was the large smile on Ahanna’s face when he said it, the show of great happiness, as thoughashawoswere a rare precious gift God has blessed Lagos with.
And now he began to wonder what Lagos really is, what it does to people.
Four years ago, Ahanna would never had as much as shown a single teeth at the mentioning of prostitutes.
He’d have pitched a long hiss and curse and curse. But now, with that smile, it was obvious, he too may have patronized them, or even be a regular customer.
Mama Obinna appeared with the tray. ‘Ngwa, food is ready,’ she said.
She used her foot to pull a stool nearby to their front. She placed the tray on it. ‘Let me bring water to wash your hands with.’
Ahanna rubbed his hands together. ‘Thank you,nne.’
Two plates sat relaxed on the tray. One, the flatter one, had a mound of fufu on it and the other, sizzlingegwusisoup.
The vapour rising from the round plate steadily watered Ahanna’s mouth and the urge to start eating before Mama Obinna returned with the water nearly overpowered him.
But Obinna was not very much around. His mind bore a different thought, a heavy one.
‘So you have your own house in Lagos now?’ he asked Ahanna.
Ahanna grinned, the proud smile people used to accept praise. ‘It’s God, my brother.’
Obinna smiled and shook his head, impressed.
Ahanna wondered if Mama Obinna has gone to Ama-Oji to fetch the washing water.
Finally, the plump woman returned with a red bowl half filled with water.
Ahanna thrust his hand into the bowl before Mama Obinna could drop it on the table, carrying it from her.
Obinna watched him devour the fufu, one big ball after another.
Ahanna has dug away half of the whitish mound before Obinna finally washed his hands and joined him.
***
Ahanna’s face puckered as he tried to pick his teeth with a broom stick Mama Obinna had brought for him when he demanded for toothpick. ‘Nnaa, mehn, thanks for the food,” he said.
Obinna did not respond this time. This was the third time Ahanna would thank him for the food. Now, with a feeling of near dismay, he wondered if there was food in Lagos at all too.
‘So how big is your house?’ he asked.
‘Mm?’
‘Like how many rooms does it have?’
‘Rooms?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, rooms. You will see when we get there.’
Obinna inhaled deeply.
***
Adaku felt different.
For once in her life, she felt out of control. Emotions whirled up inside her in turbulent currents.
Emotions she hardly recognized, let alone knew how to tackle.
It was her Obinna that was leaving, leaving her to Lagos.
Now, all of Lagos she could picture was an enclosed space, room-size or a little larger, filled with women, women of all ages desperate for men, men like Obinna.
Handsome men. Tall men. Strong men. Men with a nice smile and beautifully-set eyes.
Now the door of the room open slowly and Obinna walked in.
The women screamed, running to him. In a matter of minutes, they had devoured him, leaving him unhealthily thin. Skeletal.
She shuddered and commanded herself to be still, to take charge and be in control. Like always.
But her inner strength obviously failed her, and a moment later she was deep in thought again.
Her mother’s voice jolted her back to life.
‘Ada!’
‘Adaku!’
‘Maa.’
‘So we won’t eat tonight, okwia?’
Even though Uchechi was at the other end of the compound, a sizable distance from the veranda where Adaku was sitting, her voice seemed to cause the ground below Adaku’s feet to vibrate.
Uchechi was a large woman. But because she was tall enough with proportional distribution of flesh, people did not easily call her fat. Adaku had her mother’s curves only shorter.
Uchechi often teased her that whoever was going to marry her would pay double for her bride price.
Whenever Uchechi said that, Adaku would picture herself tying a wrapper above her chest like a married woman, sweeping at Obinna’s compound or preparing his food, while humming gently to ‘Dim o - dim o - dim o!’
Her mother was coming close. ‘This girl, I said, won’t we eat tonight?’
‘Mama, we will.’
‘By sitting there all day holding your chin like someone whose suitors did not come as promised.’
Adaku’s eyes ran up to her mother.
‘The fire is not even up yet.Binie, go and make the fire and let me bring yam.’
She turned and started toward the barn. Adaku got up, untied the wrapper above her blue gown, tied it back firmer and dragged toward the kitchen.
‘Ugochi, bring me matches!’ she called.
‘I’m busy!’ Ugochi’s thin voice came from the sitting room.
‘If I meet you there, eh…if…’ Adaku had turned to head indoors when Ugochi appeared at the doorway with a box of matches, a big frown on her face.
Adaku jerked the matchbox from her. ‘Anu ofia—wild animal!’
Ugochi murmured something before turning back inside.
‘That’s your business! Hope the soup pot is clean otherwise that your pointy mouth will depart from you this evening.’

She turned suddenly to him as if enraged at his pretence of lack of knowledge. ‘That you are leaving for the city, Obinna!’
It wasn’t her intention that much concern showed in her voice. She decided to go on nonetheless. ‘You are not going to Enugu, or Onitsha, or Asaba, you are going to Lagos, Obinna, all the way to Lagos!’
Guilt splashed over his eyes and for once they lost their boldness and dimmed. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Is that what you are going to ask me now?’
He quickly took her arm. ‘Don’t be that way, I am not sure I’m going anywhere yet. Yes, Mama talked to Ahanna, but no agreement has been reached yet.’
She quietly slipped out of his grip. ‘Obinna, your brother sounded so sure so do not lie to me.’
‘Forget that one, he is just over excited.’
‘And you are not?’
‘I can’t be.’
She was quiet.
He took her hand again. ‘How can I be, Ada? How can I even feel normal that I’m leaving you?’
‘So you are really sure that you are going then?’
Feeling caught, he didn’t say another word.
‘Ada, come,’ he finally said. He folded her up in his arms.
She let him.
She always liked that part. Many months of carting away goods at the Nkwo market has gotten his arms bigger, his thighs firmer and his chest, broader, with that embellishing sprinkle of hair. He was what comes to mind when one mentions a strong, sexy man.
‘You must understand why I need to do this. It’s been over four years now since we finished secondary school. I have no hope of writing JAMB, let alone someday going to the university.’
She turned her eyes up at him. ‘Obinna, you are losing hope already?’
He snorted, a faint smile lingering on his face. His excellent dentition afforded him a nice masculine smile. When he smiled broadly, he created the impression of a toothpaste commercial. ‘Those were only childhood dreams, Obim, it was never meant to happen.’
‘Who said?’
‘Me becoming a lawyer?’ He threw out a laugh that meant more than amusement.
She appeared puzzled. ‘Why do you laugh?’
‘Even if miracle happened and I somehow found myself in UNIZIK or UNN, what kind of lawyer do you think I will be when I can’t even speak good English? Eh? Charge and Bail?’
She frowned at him. ‘Didn’t you pass English in your WAEC?’
‘I did. A miracle I still owe you for.’
‘Did I write the essays for you?’
‘You told me what to write.’
‘Then, is that not what the university is there for? The teachers tell you what to do and you do them, is that not it?’
He appeared to consider this for a while.
She stared at him.
‘I heard they are not called teachers in the university though,’ he came through at last.
‘Teachers, lecturers, all the same.’
He smiled at her and hummed. He turned her fully to himself so that they now faced each other. ‘Forget about me. The university was never meant for people like me.’ He brought his face down to hers so that their foreheads met. ‘Don’t you think you can get enough education for the both of us?’
She smiled to that— a sudden smile that seemed automatic. Somehow, the statement settled her. The way he’d used ‘us’.
Then it hit her again—he was leaving. To Lagos! ‘There won’t be any us anymore when you leave for Lagos,’ she told him, shifting.
He did not fake his shocked face—she knew. ‘What do you mean by that?’ he asked.
‘You are going to Lagos to meet those Lagos girls that wear tight trousers and draw scary tattoos on their laps and breasts, who do you think is going to stay here alone and wait for you?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘What I’m saying is that once your bus to Lagos leaves, I’m going to choose any of my numerous suitors and get married.’
His heart started to beat faster.
She seemed aware of his torment. She continued nonetheless. ‘Who is it going to be now sef?’ She narrowed her eyes, pretending to be in thought. ‘Okwudili? No.’ She shook her head. ‘Okwudili lives in Asaba. I don’t trust those boys in Asaba. He must have gone to drink from the mighty breast. Evil money, kpa. Maybe Chuka?’
She shook her head again. ‘Chuka that stays in Onitsha and says Bebe instead of Baby. I think I’ll prefer someone educated. Yes, Mathew. Someone like Mathew, heard he is in the university again, for the second time, studying for his masters—’
‘Stop!’ he gave out. ‘Stop this rubbish, Ada!’
She obeyed at once, obviously been waiting for the reaction.
‘You are not marrying anybody except me!’ he said.
She liked the authority in the words, but she wasn’t done yet. ‘I am not marrying any man from Lagos,’ she said.
‘What is that supposed to mean? Do I come from Lagos?’
‘I mean once you travel to Lagos, consider whatever we have meaningless.’
‘Ada, stop this. Your words are hurting me.’ His voice was now low.
She turned away, a strange feeling of satisfaction clouding over her. She was happy to know he still cared just as much.
He came to her. ‘How can you be saying these things to me, eh?’ She heard him swallow. ‘Why? Have you no mercy for my heart?’
She didn’t say a word.
‘Ada?’ He waited, but still nothing came from her.
‘Ok, fine! I’m no more going to Lagos,’ he said. ‘I will stay here and we get married in this village and start up whatever life we can manage here.’
She turned to him, a look of compassion on her now. ‘You can go to Lagos,’ she told him. She joined her fingers together. ‘I will wait for you here. I’m just afraid, that’s all.’
‘Afraid of what?’ He took her wriggling fingers, separated them and joined them to his. ‘That I may leave you for some Lagos girl who wear same clothes I wear and greet people by joining lips together?’
She nearly smiled. ‘We have never stayed away from each other, you know that. Are you not worried?’
He exhaled deeply. ‘I am, Ada,’ he admitted. ‘I really am, but Ahanna said if I work hard enough, I can get my own place in less than two years.’
‘So?’
‘So? I will come and pay your bride price and carry you to the city.’
She liked the way he said carry. She imagined herself on his strong, muscular back all the way to Lagos. ‘I might be in school by then,’ she said.
‘There are better universities in Lagos. Haven’t you heard of UNILAGOS?’
She smiled. ‘I want to go to UNIZIK.’
‘Why? Is the education there better?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Anyhow, there must be a way.’
There he goes again. She slipped half of her lower lip into her mouth.
She never liked that he was not the one to reason deeply, never considered anything both ways; success and failure. He was always quick to pick the former.
Sometimes, it made her think of him as scared, though most other times brave— the times everyone seemed uncertain and without hope and he would appear the only one still strong in heart.
Like the day he saved Echezona from the well. When the little boy fell in, the echo of his scream disappearing with him into the deep pit, everyone was running helter-skelter, full of confusion.
But he seemed very much in control when he reached for the tall bamboo. Even after the third dip and the stick still came out without the boy, he continued trying, as though he was sure that something was going to happen eventually.
Success would eventually come.
And he finally saved the day.
She drew near and nestled against his chest.
‘All will be well,’ he told her and folded her up.
Please note that your comments will determine if this story will continue or not.

Its not my story buh jez needed to share it for some story lovers, sit
back, relax and read cus u gonna enjoy erry piece (long story doh)
Ada is your sister, Mama Obinna said this to her son often.
‘Take this to your sister,’ she said, handing Obinna the black polyethylene bag that contained Ada’s dress, the one she’d helped her mend. ‘Tell Uchechi my sister that I’ll now see her at the market tomorrow.’
The thing is, Mama Obinna called everyone close to her either brother or sister. It’s usually that way—their real names at first then they become too familiar and she quickly adopts them.
Probably that was why her son, Obinna, never believed Ada was his sister.
When they were little, anytime Ada came around—and it was often that she did—Mama Obinna would give them okpa in one plate.
Then, little Obinna in the influence of that rebellious attitude of growing boys, would grumble in protest.
‘Mechie onu osiso!’ Mama Obinna would snap at her son. ‘Shut up and eat with your sister!’
When Obinna reluctantly dropped back to the floor to join her, Ada would smile at him – as though she had only been entertained by the little boy’s folly— before swallowing her food.
In the smile, she looked like an adult bottled up inside an infant’s body.
Obinna has come to understand that smile now—that feeble bending of her lips with her eyes narrowed, a calculated representation of unknowingness on the outside, yet abundance of knowledge in the inside.
He’d come to understand now, too, many other things she usually did that was not very easy to discern. Hers has always been that of complex expressions.
She was never the easy kind to read, so the feeling of being the only one quite able to, at least, always left him glad.
***
‘Ada,’ Ujunwa murmured beside Ada again. ‘Ada, it’s him.’
Again, Adaku pretended not to have heard anything, not Ujunwa’s whispering, not Obinna’s beckoning whistle.
She ran a finger across her wet forehead to stop the water from her metal bucket from trickling into her eyes.
It was the drier months of the year and the road to the borehole now seemed wider, with the lush vegetation that used to fringe it all gone.
‘Ada, chelu! I was calling you.’ He was with them now.
Running was easy for him. Even so, he walked with so much confidence one could easily assume him a prince, which he was not.
He had slight bowlegs, and Ada had once told her friends; Ujunwa and Ogechi, that that was what gave him his quick gait, like the bowlegs of nwamkpi, her mother’s sprightly odd-legged he-goat.
Anything to make him look less exceptional.
Her friends’ assessment of him has always been that of approval, and many times awe. They talk about what strong arms he’s got, his perfect nose, his well-cut lips and sparkling white teeth—sometimes, too excessively, it made her more jealous than proud.
‘Ogini, what is wrong with you?’ He held her arm now, firm, yet careful not to cause her bucket to fall. ‘Why do you ignore me?’
‘Obinna, hapum aka. Leave me.’ She didn’t stop walking.
He grabbed her bucket. In the season, water has become very precious, so she stopped.
‘Obinna, what is it?’ she said. ‘I said you should leave me alone! Or do you want my bucket to fall?’
Her voice was raised and her face swollen in a frown, but he knew better. Talking in higher voice did not necessarily mean she was angry with him. He never really thought that she was capable of getting truly angry with him anyways.
‘Erm, I think I will be going now,’ Ujunwa muttered. On her face, was that awkward smile of someone who suddenly walked in on a scene of domestic violence.
‘No, Uju stay!’ Ada told her friend.
‘Uju, take your water home. I’m sure Nne will need it now,’ he countered. His eyes were on the girl, the bold eyes that speak only of dominion, dominion most often tempered with gallantry.
‘Yes, yes,’ Ujunwa flung out. ‘Nne had food on fire when I was leaving, I must go now.’
Ada shook her head, aware that her friend has just lied. As Ujunwa walked away, she turned to him with ferocious eyes. ‘Gini, what is it?’
Now he used a voice not even her anger could resist. ‘Obim,’ he called her.
She inhaled deeply and threw away her face.
He carried her bucket from her and lowered it to the ground. He took her hand and drew her gently out of the road.
As she felt the pillar of fury she has spent so much energy to build crumble at the mere sound of his voice, all the hard work gone, she felt like slapping herself, so forcefully she would see stars.
She blamed herself now. She should have run off on sighting him or better still taken the other path that she was sure he wouldn’t follow. Only that she was not so sure of that either; he knew her whole.
It had amazed her the way he easily made her weak. Vulnerable, like a cornered rodent.
She was the strong kind of beautiful girls. The kind that knows how to handle her admirers, no matter in what number, age or size they come. She’d rather confront them than dodge them.
He was the only one capable of crumbling her defences, with things as easy as a single word, or just a calculated stare!
With a bit of regret, she has finally come to accept things as they were. But that does not mean she had given up trying anyway—she is still Adaku, after all.
‘Ada, what is it?’ He was staring at her. ‘Tell me.’
‘I told you to leave me alone,’ she said.
His face changed. ‘You are really angry with me,’ he said.
She took away her face, clucking and blinking hard.
He held her at the shoulders. ‘Gwa m, tell me please. What is it?’
She wanted to speak, but two girls were upon them.
They were carrying plastic jerry cans instead of buckets—tall, slender, yellow cans that once were containers for cooking oil.
Unlike the other people that had to suffer a long queue to fetch, Ada fetched from the tap inside the compound.
Chief Ozua, the short, stocky man that built the borehole, had wanted to marry her at some time.
She had refused, but according to the wealthy chief, she had refused differently—maturely in his own terms— and they became friends afterwards.
‘Dalu kwanu,’ the girls chorused, their eyes gliding past them with feigned disinterest.
Ada was sure they would gossip, but she didn’t care. And neither did him. Their gossip has become too common it has now turned tasteless.
The tale of the two children deceiving themselves with what they did not understand used to be a hot topic everyone in Obeledu was interested in. Some called it infatuation, others mere madness of youth.
But overtime, as more and more mouths continued to taste it, the matter turned flat.
Ada looked back, another woman was trudging up the road with a mighty bowl that screamed greed on her head. The tap has started to run eventually, she could see now. ‘Let’s go,’ she said to him.
He gave an understanding nod and bent to lift her bucket. She placed her aju cloth on his shaved head and he dropped the bucket on it.
That night they met under the avocado tree behind her house.
That was where they first had it, deep knowledge of themselves. He had pestered her about it for months, and that night she came with an extra wrapper. She didn’t say anything to him. She just spread the wrapper on the ground and allowed him.
He had been grateful.
‘So tell me, what got you so upset this evening,’ he asked. She was leaning to the tree while he stood facing her. He smelt of the floral scent of bathing soap.
‘When were you going to tell me?’ she said.
‘Tell you what?’

def111:


where you from copy am from ?

u fit ask google

best2com:


They offered me citizenship but I declined... I am a citizen of 64 countries already and I still have a lot of other Citizenship offers waiting for my acceptance

diz 1 na suffering, garri don make all ur cheek press finish u con boro chain call am swag, buhari neva recognise u sef talkless of being a citizen of multiple countries....our girls don wise sha[color=#000099][/color]

def111:
this one na big lie.

view ma post to see the past stories have dropped

Follow me to read more lovely incoming stories....I got 'em boku, dropping another one tomorrow

Follow me to read more lovely incoming stories....I got 'em boku

Trypa:






Old story dis isn't ur story it's copy and paste from facebook pple and copy and paste claiming story that isn't theirs

I wonder why dis. Post has brought earache for you...all I do is post lovely stories 4 lovely ppl....un-saturated pig

zinolurv:
Lol. Dnt care if its paste n Copy or Copy n paste.. I enjoyed the gist jor. Kudos.

thanks buddy....bump fist

Well done (applause)

I came out of the bathroom still feeling quite uneasy. I watched Raja and Phoenix share another lesbian kiss before Phoenix went on to tell me her actual reason for inviting me over.
There was a lesbian party in town and they needed to attend with a guy. According to her, it’d earn them more class, entering in grand with a tall, fine dude.
She asked if I was okay with it and I nodded. A chance to attend a lesbian party, my curiosity had shot up. And so I agreed, still hoping that Raja would loosen up a bit and talk to me more. It was obvious she is the guy in the relationship, so I wondered if she was a little jealous. Somehow I was scared of him, her.
‘So, Raja, what’s up with you?’ I asked, trying to initiate conversation.
‘Just here, man.’ She was now rolling up weed in white paper. Her manner was soboy.
I watched her wet the wrapping with the tip of her tongue and press down to hold. She lit it and in an instant the heady smell of burning hemp filled the room.
She took another suck on the burning weed and extended it to me.
I shook my head. ‘I don’t smoke,’ I said.
‘Oh.’ She took back the weed in the same slow, silent manner she’d offered it to me.
Phoenix went into the room first. Raja followed after burning down another wrap of weed. The period they were inside, I wondered if they decided to have a quick one before dressing up. I fought the urge to stand and go peep.
They had taken quite a time, but the transformation was well worth it at the end. Phoenix wore this dark blue jacket over white bum shorts. The way her brown, fleshy thighs spread out beneath the shorts, one need not to wonder again why lesbians were raped in South Africa.
Raja didn’t look any bad either in her cropped top and chinos, though that aura of boyishness still hung around somewhere.
Phoenix smiled at me. ‘You ready?’
I nodded. With the way they looked now, I wouldn’t mind some lesbian party myself.
We set out that night in Raja’s car. She drove like a guy she is, never obeying traffic rules and speeding like it was a race.
Just past Glo Headquarters, we got flagged down by the patrol team.
For once Raja acted like a lady. She gave the fat officer this really cute smile that could come off as seductive as she passed her license to him.
The man barely looked at the ID. Raja turned on the interior light and he leaned over and took a glance. The way he smiled at me as he handed Raja’s license back, he must have been feeling how lucky I am. Only if he knew.
About ten minutes later, Raja pulled over in this narrow driveway already filled on both sides with cars, some of them parked so carelessly you could tell just howhighthe people that had drove them were.
I must admit our Naija lesbians have quite an amazing taste in automobiles. All the cars I saw were machines, some of them inexplicable machines.
The sound system boomed as we stepped into the yard, having scaled through two hefty bouncers. They were guys—I hope—two heavy men with faces like the back of an unripe pineapple.
And so we stepped into the party hall, the noise. It was like one entering inside a giant loudspeaker.
We had made quite an entry, the way everyone turned to look at us. But this was only brief and I wondered if it meant something bad, like a flop to the plan. But Phoenix was smiling.
Damn! If there is anything lesbians love more than their forefinger, it must be smoke.
They sat in cliques—it appeared these were formed according to size—three elephant-sized ladies there, four semi elephants at another corner and a group of bony ones at another end.
It didn’t take me long to observe the vibes of competition hanging in the air. My girls didn’t greet all the girls the same. Some they didn’t even behave like they’d seen, some got handshakes of the curtest manner while some, full embraces concluded with kisses and pecks.
Phoenix asked me to a chair and in a moment returned with a tray of Absolut cocktails. In each coned glass, I saw death, but I still swallowed hard and took a glass.
The group beside us smoked from a long metal tube I have never seen before, gushing out this really nasty smelling cloud of smoke after each inhalation. They took the tube in turns, none ever wanting to miss a turn. At that time, as I stared briefly at them, I thought probably that was their substitute for dicks.
Phoenix and I drank while Raja smoked, now as if it was a competition and she wouldn’t want the other girls to outdo her.
Each time I look at her, a great cloud of smoke was concealing her face.
I was on my second glass when Phoenix leaned over and whispered something into my ears. The music was loud and I didn’t grab all of it, but I was able to make out the ‘Enjoy yourself’ part.
She stood and led Raja into the dance floor. She must be really proud of him, her mean-looking, bad-ass boyfriend.
The guy lesbians don’t wear long nails, l later came to notice. I would later come home from school some days after and ask my sister why she kept her nails short.
I had to give her 2K as soon as she mentioned her nails were short because she didn’t have money for manicure. Satan be damned if Jumoke was a lesbian—not that I’m that afraid. Only scared for my mom, and little Miss Patzzy— since she hardly goes out, always at home 24-7, my mom and the dog are the only two available females to quench lesbian flames with.
Steadily, the dance floor filled up. I wanted to ask Phoenix if the few guys I saw dancing with the ladies were gay guys, but she was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they had come as handbags too, just like me.
I had picked another glass of drink when this really cute girl passed. My eyes trailed her till she disappeared behind the bar.
But as luck had it, in a short time she was out again, walking past where I was seated again. And this time she looked at me. She must have seen the desire in my eyes when she stopped and said hi.
‘Hello,’ I responded with that small smile that I knew always highlighted my fine-boyness.
We didn’t talk much before she took my hand and led the way into the dance floor. The lesbians sure can dance. She rocked me to stupor. At one time, Phoenix saw us and nodded with a smile.
We had danced for some time when the girl bent to my ear and whispered we should go inside.
She took my hand and led the way again into a narrow lonely corridor. There and then we made out, one crazy hell of a quickie.
So the lesbian party hadn’t turned out so bad, I thought.
We were on our way out when I asked Phoenix if straight girls attended the party too.
‘No, why?’ she said.
‘The girl I was dancing with seemed very interested in men. Or maybe she was just drunk.’
‘Oh, that’s Sasha. And she is not a girl.’
‘She is not?’
‘Yes. She is a drag queen.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘She is a guy dressed up as a girl!’
I ran to the back of the car and puked so badly my stomach began to hurt.

The next day my phone rang and it was Phoenix. I had just come out of the bathroom. I was wet and my phone was ringing, threatening to stop any minute if I wasn’t fast enough to take the call. And it wasn’t going to ring again, I know. A Naija girl will only call you more than once if you had gotten her pregnant, or failed to send her a promised recharge card.
I picked the phone with a wet hand. As I remembered, it would be my first time of mistreating my Tecno Phantom. Seeing the way I handle it, one would think it was five Iphones bundled into one.
Phoenix said she just wanted to say hi. But I thought better.
Wegistedfor more than an hour. She admitted to having liked my company. I remember sometimes taking my phone out of my ear to check to be really sure she was the one that had called. I made that silly mistake once with a Deeper Life girl.
Phoenix invited me to her house three days after. I had been excited. Very excited.
I thought it was one of those cases of a really lonely girl that needed company, and then a comforting kiss, and from there needing more, and more, till we were both naked on the bed.
When the okada man stopped me in front of Number 12, I had had to ask him again if he was sure this was the street. He nodded and said my money is N200.
'N200, shoo!' For a distance that wouldn’t have taken me more than five minutes to walk—considering my inborn talent in trekking.
Obviously he was judging from my outfit—if I was travelling to London on that day, Istillwould have dressed like that.
It could also be the new house I was visiting, obviously the best in the street, if not in the whole area.
I didn’t argue with the bike man. He was big and every inch mean-looking.
And, too, Phoenix’s room might be close and she might hear our voices and come out to meet me suspended in the air by this big, ugly man.
‘Take jor!’ I threw the two-hundred note at him.
Bike manjejelipicked his money and gave me that slow, concerned look that meant he understood perfectly.
Poverty is a terrible curse.
Inside the compound, I walked through the third-floor corridor, looking for Flat 3C— as I was told.
I saw the door and stopped.
I knocked the first time, and then again. The door opened at the third knock. But the lady I saw looked different— sexier, I must admit, but wilder.
She was in a black bra and blue bum shorts. A lit cigarette was in her hand. She even had tattoos— the two I was able to see—one, something like a butterfly on the upper part of her arm and the other, a Chinese character at the side of her belly. Her belly was flat—relatively, obviously the reason she was bold enough to expose it.
For a moment I thought maybe I was in the wrong house. But I looked at her face again. It was really her, the innocent-looking girl I saw at the bank that afternoon. Perhaps she was playing innocent that day because of her big sister.
In my mind I checked my wallet to be sure I still got a condom in there. I confirmed I did.
Phoenix asked me to sit. She asked what I’d like to take and then went on to list all that were in her fridge.
‘Give me the can Star,’ I said.
I was drinking the beer and she was smoking, a light discussion linking us together.
‘So do you have a boyfriend?’ I asked her after waiting for a long time and she didn’t bring up essential topic.
She was busy asking about school and what being an engineering student was like. We used to have that kind of discussions on the phone, but today I was in her house and she was nearly naked. Business ought to change.
Once in a while, mykid brotherwould rise in protest, but I would bark at him to calm down, that it wasn’t time yet. He would grumble, but would eventually obey.
‘I don’t have a boyfriend,’ Phoenix answered. She sucked on her cigarette and poured out a mass of white smoke.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I don’t date boys.’
Oh, she is a runs girls too.I nodded. Maybe this was a bad idea.Them runs girls don’t do cheap sex, I know, have heard.
But it might also be a blessing—a new thought arose within me. Maybe she really liked me and would want to keep me. Every runs girl has a young boy she gives her soul, while the old, pot-bellied men could have her body all they want.
‘How is your sister?’ I asked after a small silence. I couldn’t think of anything better to say at the time, but I needed to maintain the communication.
The burning cigarette halted halfway to her mouth. ‘Sorry, who?’
‘Your sister that you were with at the bank that day.’
‘Oh.’ She snorted with a smile. Then she pulled out of the chair and flicked the burning cigarette on the edge of the small glass bowl on the centre table to remove embers. ‘That’s not my sister,’ she said. ‘She is just a friend. We used to be very close but not anymore.’
‘Ok. You guys are quarrelling?’
She chuckled. I felt stupid for having asked that question.
‘No,’ she said, ‘we are very cool. She cheated on me so I ended the relationship. That’s been years now though.’
I was still trying to digest this when someone walked out of the adjacent room. Another girl. I never knew Phoenix wasn’t alone.
The new girl was in a mess, her hair at least. Her eyes were all glazed from alcohol and sleep. She was very tall, fair and pretty, but there was something boyish about her— the long blue singlet she wore over boy boxers and her thin square shoulders. Booblistically, she was not so blessed, if at all.
‘James, meet Raja, my boo,’ Phoenix said. ‘Raja, this is the academic I was telling you about.’‘Welcome bro,’ Raja said. He voice was deep, even deeper than mine. Sheextended her hand to me like a fellow boy. I took it like a girl.
She flopped down beside Phoenix and both of them kissed—hot, French kiss. She took a cigarette from the pack and lit it from the one between her girl’s lips.
‘Can I find somewhere to pee?’ I asked.
Phoenix pointed. ‘The door on the left.’
I stood and rushed to the bathroom.

So I met this girl sometime last month. At GT Bank ATM.
She just walked in and met the long queue—like a giant millipede we curved out to the road.
I saw her wilt, that automatic tired face you make when you just want to breeze in and take some cash and then you are greeted with this ugly-looking train of straight-faced people.
Nothing quite more dispiriting.
She came closer and asked if I was the last person. I said yes. I have shifted for her to stand behind me when she said this stupid thing. Had she not been pretty I would have hissed openly at her. But you know that patience afforded by being beautiful, what it does to men. In the attraction, you will smile when you are supposed to frown, burst open in laughter when you only could have just smiled. Quite inexplicable.
She’d said, in pleading voice though, ‘Please can you help me beg the next person to allow me?’
I looked at her.Is she ok?In fact, even on her face I saw this was something she was experienced at doing–getting guys to do chores for her.Fine girls sef.But today her luck had run out because when fine girl jam fine boy, the bed suffers.
Ok, fine, I made that up. And please stop glaring at me, I am a fine boy. Fine-boyish.
‘Madam, see that guy in yellow,’ – I was pointing— ‘he is the next person, go and talk to him yourself,’ I said.
She obviously caught the sarcasm, the way she curled her lips in a small, crooked smile. ‘Okay, please, the issue is that my sister and I are already running late. Where is the next closest bank around here?’
‘You have to bike to Bank Street. All the banks are there.’
‘Oh, no need of biking. We came with a car.’
That was when I looked and saw the shiny black Jeep parked off the road slightly ahead. Had I seen that machine before, I would have been nicer.
‘So can you direct me on how to locate the street?’ she asked.
‘Well, since you are mobile I can go with you in your car.’
‘Oh, better. Thanks a lot.’
She thanked me about twice as we walked to the car. Little did she know that I should be the one thanking her. If not that I had just N60 in my pocket I would have since gone to Bank Street myself and made my withdrawals.
I was surprised when we got to the Jeep and I discovered she wasn’t even the one driving. A large, older lady was behind the steering, dark glasses over her eyes and a pair of wireless headphones above her head. She was nodding rhythmically, obviously to the music from the headphones.
She rolled down her glass when she saw us.
‘Did you succeed?’ she asked.
The girl with me shook her head and told her what had happened.
‘Oh that’s nice of you,’ the big lady said. ‘Hop in please.’
I entered the car. The sudden feel of cool air from the car AC gave me a brief glimpse of what heaven would be like.
‘So, young man, what is your name?’ the big lady asked me. Her eyes did not leave the wheel.
‘James, Ma,’ I said.
I knew if I had mentioned Olatunbosun and satan takes the day she happens not to be Yoruba, I will keep repeating the name till we get to the street. It has happened before.
‘Student?’ she asked.
‘Final year. Chemical Engineering,’ I said.
‘Oh, how very nice,’ she said with a slight smile, a smile that meant she’d heard better.
I guess at that moment I was overtaken by that jubilant feeling of being infinalswhen you feel like you are the most important person in the world.
‘The street is your next turn, Ma,’ I said, as if to mask the complacency in my former words.
‘Ok. Left or right?’
‘Left.’
She stopped the car in front of GT Bank, the more modern-looking GTB on Bank Street.
I was getting down when I heard the big woman say, ‘Sweet heart, won’t you get your friend’s number at least?’
The other girl smiled at me and extended her phone—an Iphone, I couldn’t tell now which model. From the way it felt in my hand, it must have been nothing less than Iphone8.
I pressed in my digits and without seeking her permission dialled it before handing the phone back.
‘Oh you dialled it already,’ she said as she looked at her phone.
‘Yes.’ My yes was not audible. My Tecno has started her signature jazz, drowning out my voice.
‘I will call you,’ I said, rushing out of the car without bothering to hear her response.
The big lady waved at me before her glass slid up, concealing her.
I watched their car go down a bit and then turn into Access Bank.
I turned and walked into the bank space. As common to anything GTB, there was still a small queue. By the time I walked out, their car was gone.
I called Phoenix (that was what she later told me her name was) two days after. It was one of those lazy days you keep scrolling down your contacts while checking MTN Zone rate.
When she answered, I was surprised she called my name, that she remembered me. That means she had actually saved my number. Quite surprising for a Naija girl seen in a Jeep.
We talked for some minutes. I made her laugh. I was quite skilled at making girls laugh. Though some days can be awful—or some girls—and the comedy technique won’t work. Sometimes you only get that patronizing smile that makes you feel more stupid than funny. Our girls are quite all sorts.

misssclassy:


Yes! That's why I quoted everything.

shiza pain in d ass

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afolwalex20:
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