₦airaland Forum

LegallyBlunt:
Boss wetin my 10k go do for you?

Good question. Cos 700k a month? From a single skill? What's the need for this side hustle of mentorship whatever. Lol

ghettochild:
Come n update oooo

Working on it

EPISODE 2: New Roommate

Chike sat bare-chested on the couch, his hand inside his joggers--subconsciously handling his balls because, in his words, ‘it relaxes me’--and flicking through his phone with his other free hand. Jude noticed when the compound gate screeched open and Nathaniel strode in with two Gucci bags and a black backpack. Jude had been reading a James Hadley Chase novel.

‘Nathaniel is here,’ Jude announced, pushing up his eyeglasses.

Chike flung his legs down, took his hand out of his joggers. He hesitated, then sniffed it with a shrug.
‘You’re disgusting,’ Jude grimaced.
‘Eh, I hear. I see when you scratch your ass, bro. Don’t judge me,’ Chike retorted.
They both went out to the front.

Number 2. That was their flat. Three flats on the front side of the red-coloured bungalow, thin black rods--protectors, they called it--wedged in front of each flat like prison cells, with a wide corridor graced with old terrazzo floors. A fence went around the compound, rusty barbed wires mingled with red and yellow and green broken bottles.

Very secure, the fast talking caretaker had assured them. It was an old building and no thief had ever broken in; another claim made by oga caretaker. The guy didn’t even stay in this are.

Nathaniel heaved a sigh and dropped both bags, as if he’d just let go of a heavy burden. He wiped his forehead and glanced around the compound. Clothesline, a thin gutter by the side of the fence, a tap dripping water, two bicycles leaning against the wall.

He sighed again. It felt…too familiar.

‘Is that all you came with?’ Chike asked, stepping out. He glared at the dark rain clouds in the distance, almost daring it to rain. I fucking hate rain, he mumbled.

Jude, on the other hand, loved rain. There was something…romantic, almost poetic about the idea of rain. He’d tried to explain it to his brother but it didn’t work.

‘Yeah. I like to travel light,’ Nathaniel said, and then he grinned. ‘I’m a wandering soul.’

He was lanky and tall, with side burns and a thinly shaved moustache. He could have been twenty or twenty-five, it was hard to tell. Gold chain, black lips, even darker skin. He was handsome but in a rugged way.

Plus, it was hard to feel uneasy around him when he smiled. The twins looked at each other and nodded, communicating telepathically. Yeah, they made the right choice.

‘I still have one thing outside sha,’ Nathaniel said, turning to the gate.
‘What’s that?’ Jude asked.

‘My 32-inch TV.’

‘You carry a TV everywhere you go, bro?’ Chike laughed.
Nathaniel shrugged. ‘What am I supposed to play my PS4 on?’

**
The twins played tour guide.

Their apartment had three rooms.
‘It’s big sha,’ Chike said.
‘Yeah,’ Jude agreed in his usual soft voice. ‘You’ll take the other empty room. We all have a space. One small living room and a kitchen. The bathroom is at the back sha.’

‘No wahala. It’s a nice place. What about light?’ Nathaniel asked, looking around. The walls were painted yellow, and the floors covered in grey tiles.

‘You’re in Nigerian, bro,’ Chike said, searching for a shirt when he saw he was the only one shirtless. ‘We have a generator.’

Nathaniel tossed his bags in his new room, carefully carried his TV to the living room and hooked it up. Jude grabbed the PS4 and hooked it up.

An hour later, all three were seated on the floor, taking turns playing FIFA, when Nathaniel brought out the weed.

‘This one is hard o,’ he announced, holding a joint. ‘I don’t want to be a bad influence sha. This is just day one. You two look like good guys.’

The twins smirked. ‘We’re good-bad guys,’ they echoed.
So they smoked, all three of them. It was the reason they left home anyway, the twins. It was an escape.

The world is vast and crazy and they were all in their twenties; why not enjoy it now?

Nathaniel stretched his arms and scratched his ribs, puffing smoke. Outside, it’d begun to rain and the cold, wet smell drifted in through the window.

‘Let’s order food,’ Jude suggested.
‘You read my mind,’ Chike said.
Nathaniel began to reach for his wallet. ‘I’ll pay.’
Jude shook his head and sniffed the air when a cold breeze blew in. He smiled. ‘It’s our treat this time. Day one, like you said.’

Nathaniel sat up, frowning. ‘Look guys, I appreciate this. But we’re flatmates now. I’m not leeching off you people. I will pay my due, same way I’m paying rent.’

‘Fine. Let’s share it three-ways, then,’ Chike suggested.

They agreed and then Nathaniel said jokingly, ‘if na girl deliver that food, I fit drag her inside and smash her. It’s so cold.’

But he said it jokingly, not in a weird way. They laughed. He was that easy.

The food was dropped off by a delivery rider wearing a light-green water-proof material over his clothes. No girl.

Chike and Nathaniel had Jollof rice and turkey; Jude ordered swallow and vegetable soup.
‘He’s a local man,’ Chike teased when Jude spread his legs and began to unwrap the fufu.

Midway into their meal, the game paused on the flickering screen--Jude was thrashing Chike 6-2, Manchester United vs. Chelsea--Nathaniel remembered something.
His eyes were red and sleepy and he had an excited smile on his face.

'Guys, have you ever met a spirit girl before?'
Chike's lips were oily as he slurped on the turkey bone and tore the flesh like a wild animal. Jude licked his fingers, now rolling another ball of fufu.

They both paused and looked up.
'Spirit girl?' Chike asked.

'You mean like a witch?' Jude added.
Nathaniel shook his head impatiently. 'No. No. As in, a real spirit girl.'

'See, that's the thing: using real and spirit in the same sentence doesn't make sense,' Jude pointed out, dipping the fufu into his bowl of soup.
Nathaniel drew closer to them, his face serious. He pulled from his weed, whistled and puffed smoke, coughed a little.

'I met this girl one time, 2 years ago. She was a spirit girl, I swear.'

They waited for the story but Nathaniel sort of zoned out, so Jude said, “Maybe tell us about this spirit girl another time. Lemme finish trashing this guy first.”

Chike hissed. “Wash your hand first before you have the controller smelling like fufu.”

Nathaniel chuckled. Yeah, maybe another time with that tale of the spirit girl.

EPISODE 1: A Wild Party

Nathaniel gulped down the whisky and shook his eyes. Yeah, that girl was looking at him for sure. It was time to play the game. He caught her gaze, smiled at her and walked over.

**

Twenty minutes later, she was sucking his dick. No long talk, nothing like that. And it wasn’t like he turned on his charm or anything. No. The girl was Hot and in the mood, and she wanted him and she got him. Simple.

Girls have that power, you know: they want a guy, they wink at him, shake their bum-bum, and they got him. Not hard.

Nathaniel didn’t mind.

The music dulled in the background as he arched his head back, closed his eyes, and groaned. The girl’s mouth was warm, and she made that loud gawk-gawk sound.

This one na expert, he thought blissfully. The last time he got head was a year ago with his ex and that girl nearly chewed his prick off. But not this one; she used her lips and tongue, moaning softly as she licked around the head and gulped down the entire length of his hardness.

**

What was her name again? He hadn’t caught it.
She wore a short red dress, sleeveless. Her cleavage was on full display--her boobs were jiggling now as she sucked him off--and the tightness of the dress accentuated her curves. He had an instant erection when he went to meet her.

The thing happened fast. He said hi and she smiled and winked at him. She had a half-smoked cigarette between her fingers, and a red plastic cup of whatever the heck she was drinking. He knew she was high and he could tell from that sleepy look in her eyes that she wanted to get wild; wanted to do bad things.
She leaned close, her breasts touching him, and whispered ‘let’s go to one of the empty rooms’.

Ah, okay o. who am I to say no, he almost blurted out. Instead, he gulped, grinned and said ‘yeah, cool. Let’s do that.’

Nathaniel knew he was a fine guy. He had a thing for the ladies, and the ladies had a thing for him. When he arrived at this house party an hour ago, he knew he’d get laid. He didn’t think he wouldn’t have to do all the work himself.

He followed the sway of her big ass like someone hypnotized. They climbed the stairs, the loud music fading behind them, sometimes bumping into couple making out or a guy with his hand deep under a girl’s skirt fingering her like mad while she writhed like a worm and moaned and clawed his hair and whatever.

It was that crazy.

She shut the door as soon as they entered the room. It was lit up by soft white light. Then she went down to business. She grabbed his crotch and squeezed, probably checking the size of his penis. Nathaniel pulled up his sunglasses and smirked. He was also a little high, the room spinning just a little and the dark room having a sparkly buzz. But who gives a damn? She was impressed and he knew it.

‘Big boy,’ she cooed at him and got his dick out in no time. Nathaniel grinned and his eyes swept across the room. Tidy, expensive. King-sized bed, fancy. He caught a trail of red roses leading to the bed but he didn’t think much about it. All he knew was that he’d have this girl on that bed and smash the heck out of her in no time.

**

So there he was, having his dick sucked by this girl. She smacked her lips and gagged down on it like it was the end of the world. Slubbering and wet, head moving back and forth. That kind of thing.

Nathaniel groaned and pulled out. He took her hand. Time to get in control.

He led her to the bed and tossed her on it--this guy has seen too many porn shit; plus, he’d banged a lot of girls. They like it rough, he thought with a sly smile.

He lifted the short dress and she twerked her ass for him. His dick throbbed at the sight of her ass clapping for him.

Damn! I will die for nyash, I swear to God.

She wore those tiny pink lacy butterfly panties, the ones with a slit where the pussy is. All the more to make sliding in easy, I guess.
He spanked her ass and she squealed delightfully.

They really didn’t say much. There was no need.

Another spank and squeeze, watching the ass jiggle, then he slid his dick inside her pussy.

His mind went to those roses again--a part of him wondered why the roses led to the bed; why there were some sprinkled on the bed itself, and were those scented candles by the dresser?

But she arched her hips and threw her ass back, smashing her wet pussy into his dick. His mind reset, his thoughts erased, and he grabbed her ass and banged her like a wild animal.

Here’s the thing: it’s hard to tell what’s happening around you when you’re deep inside this world of smashing genitals. Everything just sort of dulls out and you find yourself floating through a whole new world, one with fireworks and colours and moans and screams and animal grunts.

The musty smell of sex filled the air, the sounds filtered out.

There was no way for Nathaniel to know when someone opened the door.

The girl was a mad scream, like a siren. Calling out to God and whatever, asking him to kill her and all that.

So when a cold hand landed on Nathaniel’s shoulder, he just thought he was about to come.
Then, a voice followed.

“Guy, what the Fu-ck? You say na my babe you dey smash so?”

He was just about to come, you know; but the iciness of that voice made him pause. He turned around and a heavy, black fist met his jaw.

Dick plopped out of pussy, a stringy wet mess, and he fell to the ground. The sounds came rushing back--angry voices, the thumping of feet, and more angry voices.

The other guy was shouting something angrily. He wore tight black jean trousers and a yellow shirt and a yelloe beret (the beret part rang bells in Nathaniel’s head because the other two to three guys blocking the door also wore yellow berets, and one even had a yellow bandana tied around his arm).

I don’t enter today, Nathaniel thought as he shoved up his trousers, his dick already limp. See eh, he wanted to fight back but those guys were probably cultists--especially the hulk whose girl he’d been smashing that time.

Someone would die and that someone would probably be him.

The guys marched into the room, nostrils flaring, eyes red, smoke puffing from between their lips. The commotion was crazy and the angry voices hammered even louder, but Nathaniel heard nothing but the massive drumming in his chest.

‘Eh, and so what if I let him Bleep me? He’s a real man and he has a big prick,’ the girl blurted out boldly, then she looked at Nathaniel. ‘Show him your prick.’

This bitch is crazy.

‘Show him what?!’ he shouted and darted for the door. One of the guys made to grab him but tugged on his shirt inside.
He heard a ripping sound but didn’t care as he tumbled downstairs. Two of the yellow and black pursued.

‘Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!’ he kept muttering as he ran. He bumped into someone and crashed outside through the front door. The night was cold…very cold, and wet. Raining just a little. But he felt hot.

Two hands suddenly grabbed him and pulled him up.

‘Please, abeg. I won’t do it again!’ he pleaded blindly.
The guys dragged him and led him behind a car, where they crouched and hid.

‘Quiet,’ the one by his left whispered.
They watched the brutes stand outside the front door and look around. And yes, one of them hand his hand inside his black jacket, probably fingering a gun or a dagger.
One of them hissed loudly and tapped the other one, and the two brutes turnd and went back inside.

Nathaniel heaved a sigh of relief and melted to the ground.

‘Which kind wahala be that sef? The girl came on to me!’ he said in his defence.
‘Yeah, we saw when you went to her,’ the guy on the left said.

‘We knew it was a bad idea,’ the one on the right said.
‘Yeah,’ they chorused in the same voice. ‘Razor’s girl. Bad idea.’

Nathaniel looked at the two guys now. Twins. Almost completely identical--hard to tell apart under the dim light--but one seemed darker.

They all got up and quietly left the party.
With shaky hands, Nathaniel took out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. The smoke helped calm his nerves, then he began to see the humor in the whole thing.

‘You smoke?’ he asked, waving the packing at the twins.
They exchanged looks, shrugged and took a piece each.

The three smoked and walked under the rain, down the quiet street lined with flickering street lights.
‘I didn’t even finish sef,’ Nathaniel chuckled at some point, smoke puffing out of his mouth.
The twins also chuckled.

He looked at them. ‘Thanks. I’m Nathaniel.’
They both held out their hands. ‘I’m Chike,’ the darker, muscular one said. ‘That’s my bro, Jude.’
Jude had a lighter complexion, not as muscular as Chike but around the same height. They were both bearded and on afro.

‘We’re twins,’ they chorused in the same voice…again.
‘Cool,’ Nathaniel said and nodded. He shook their hands.
'so?' Chike asked with a grin as they walked on. They didn't mind the rain or the cold breezes. It felt nice anyway.
Nathaniel looked at him. 'What?'

'So how was it?' Chike's grin almost tore his face. 'The girl.'
'The girl was bad, damn!' Nathaniel laughed and smacked hands with Chike. The two laughed anyhow.

He went on the tell them about the head he got about how crazy it was and how, now he thought about it, it felt exciting when they got caught.
Jude shook his head slowly. He flicked away his half-smoked cigarette.

'I guess it would have been worth it then, if they killed you back there.'
Nathaniel and Chike paused and looked at him, then they both shrugged.

'It will be fair,' Nathaniel muttered.
They spent the rest of that night aimlessly moving around under the rain and gisting like old friends.
'So where to now? We won reach house abeg,' Chike said. Jude nodded.

'I don't have a place yet. Staying at one hotel like that. Africana.'
Jude whistled. '15k short time, 30k overnight.'
Chike glanced inquiringly.
'Don't ask me how I know,' Jude said defensively.

'Okay o.'
Nathaniel lit another cigarette, water dripping down his hair as the rain poured.
'Yes. 30k. I've stayed two nights already. I'm finding a place sha.'

The twins exchanged looks and nodded.
'You people are doing that twin telepathy thing abi?' Nathaniel asked, puffing smoke.
'We have an extra space in our apartment. You can rent it, no wahala.'

Nathaniel inhaled smoke and grinded his teeth as if trying to chew the smoke. He looked at the twins, and then he smiled.
Yeah, sounds good. Here's my phone number, he said. Buzz me. We'll see.

And he turned around and walked off into the dark.

After he was gone, Chike looked at Jude.
'Wait o, isn't he the one that's supposed to collect our number?'

Twenty-something

This episodic tale follows the lives of three young men in their twenties determined to live it to the fullest--even if that means having as much sex as possible.

The episodes explore their lives and past, their relationships and some really, really bizarre shit.

Enjoy. And please drop your comments. One of the best things about telling these stories is getting feedback from my readers

Written by Chuks Obinna, the RainBird

THE DOOR

See, the thing is, there’s that door.

It was one of the main things they emphasized on when you moved in. Don’t open that door, on no condition. You remembered this clearly because the room had become quiet and cold when you jokingly asked if this was like those old Nigerian films where the man was in a secret cult and had a special room in the house full of fetish things and all that.

Straight faces all around.

The silence had shocked you, and your chuckle slowly faded. Your uncle looked at you deeply, his brown eyes suddenly intense and warning, then he broke the fierce gaze and laughed. No, nothing like that. The room belongs to Junior and he’s not around, so don’t go in there. We don’t like it when people go in there when he’s no around.

Junior. You haven’t seen him in many years. The last time you saw him you were both ten and you played a lot of Mortal Kombat 3 on his Sega Mega Drive. You really liked the blood and the way your cousin always bit his lips in frustration because you were always button-mashing but still somehow winning all the time.

You’d stick your tongue out and laugh at him, and he’d run away crying and sulk for hours. It was his room but somehow, he’d leave you in there.

Boys, you’d always think. But that was a long time ago. You were twenty-one now and estranged from your parents—something about dropping out in your third year ‘because of ordinary drawing’. Your uncle had been supportive enough to let you come stay with them till you figured things out.

The door thing was a bit strange but Junior had always been quiet and antisocial, so you could understand that. Maybe. Besides, you planned on spending all day indoors painting and applying for jobs.

Your room was down the corridor on the same floor with Junior’s room. It was small but neat, and better than anything you could afford at the moment.

You settled in quickly, made it your place. Which meant that the bed was always unmade and piles of laundry would be heaped on it. You’d lie on the clothes like that, ears stuffed with your earphones, while you sketched on your old tablet.

No one ever disturbed you or entered your room, so that was nice. They sure were serious about privacy in this house, unlike back home when your mother would randomly barge into your room, look around, yell at you for being untidy, and storm out leaving a cloud of hate and bad mood.

While doing your thing one night—exactly three weeks after you moved in—something strange happened. It was dark outside and for the past hour lightning had been flashing in the sky, the air chilling ever so slowly until a downpour began.

You left your window open because you liked the rain and the wet smell in the air. There was no light and your reading lamp was bad, so you held your small phone between your lips and shone the beam of light at the notebook you were sketching on.

You’d just grunted and angrily cancelled what you were sketching—unsatisfied, as usual—when you heard the keys jangling. It came from outside. You paused and listened. No one usually came up here by this time, especially because Junior’s room was always locked, the other room was yours and the last one was storage packed-full with old stuff no one ever needed.

The jangling continued, then a soft creak and the wincing of a door being slowly opened.
Is Junior back? It seems like I’ve been inside this house for too long.

You hastily got up and went out. You walked to his room. The light was on in there, which was strange because there wasn’t light in the house.

It doesn’t even look like candlelight.

Your eyes caught a shadow moving underneath the door, pacing back and forth. Someone mumbled inside there. You touched the door and knocked softly.

The shadow stopped moving, standing in the centre. You knew the person in there was staring at you.

Heavy thunder cracked outside and a cold blast of air whooshed from under the door. You shivered and goosebumps filled your arms.

The light went off and the shadow was gone.
The next day, during breakfast, you asked your uncle if Junior was back. Plates stopped clanking as everyone dropped their spoons and faced you--again, you could almost hear that swoosh when everyone turned their heads.

He froze and stared at you. What do you mean? He asked.

You told him you heard someone in his room. Your uncle’s eyes flashed. I told you not to go there!

I know, you said and tried to explain that you thought someone was in there, but his eyes silenced you.

Sorry, you muttered and ate in silence. The food became tasteless and dry but you couldn’t just stand up and leave a full plate of rice and beans on the table. That would make your uncle's wife angry.

When you walked past the room later that day, when the house was empty and everyone had gone out, you stopped and looked at the door. It was brown and old, unlike the other doors in the house—all polished and shiny. It still had the blue sticker with Junior’s name on it, now faded.

You stood there for a long time, baffled by the presence of the padlock outside the door. It hadn’t been there before.

Biting your fingernails and wondering if you’d been imagining things, you suddenly felt the urge to clean your room. You’re not sure why, but you felt irritated and hollow. It worsened when you got to your room.

The bed was unmade, the blanket draping at the edge, and the pillows were on the floor. You had crumpled papers all over the room, and stacks of white sheets of papers, and pencils and pens littered on your bed. The small desk in the room was unusable, clearly: that one had books covering the entire surface, and you were sure your old laptop was buried there somewhere.

It’s so untidy, a voice said. It came from inside your head, like a thought. Except it wasn’t your tiny, almost too feminine voice; this one sounded like a guy.

A rush of cold wind chilled you... again.
You glanced over your shoulder expecting to see someone standing there, folding their arms and shaking their head.

No one.

You’ve always been so untidy; the voice went on. Come first, let me show you something.
The voice trailed off in your mind and then you heard the jangling of keys again. It came from down the corridor, just like last night.

You closed your eyes and shook your head. Yes, you could still hear yourself think now but that voice, it had been so intrusive…swirling around in there, dominating in how it pushed aside and suppressed your voice. Like someone invading a room and talking loudly.

The door creaked and footsteps came down the corridor. A boy appeared outside your door. A small boy. You recognized the boy. A ten-year-old Junior. He was still skinny and light-skinned, and he still had that small black mole on his upper lip, the one that always made him look weird when he sulked.

Follow me, Junior said. His mouth did not move and his voice was that guy’s voice you heard earlier. The voice of a guy in his twenties.

You followed.

The room door was open. The padlock hung on the hook, a bunch of silver keys dangling underneath. Junior walked in before you. He stopped and looked at you. Don’t touch anything, he said. I like it like this.

It was dark at first when you stepped in. Then the door groaned and closed behind you.
A click! And the silver beam of a torchlight arced across the room. The windows were shut tight, glass louvers with rusted hinges, but the odd thing were the thick metal rods fixed against the window. You didn’t remember that being there.

You looked around without moving an inch. The air was thick with the smell of camphor and moisture. Everything was neatly arranged. The small bed was made perfectly unlike the one in your room, not even a wrinkle on the sheets.

The carpet on the floor was old and dark blue, the same one that used to be in this room all those years ago.

There was that small cupboard with old schoolbooks and novels and dictionaries and a bulky atlas. You remembered those clearly because you always rifled through the books looking for novels. But Junior hated novels and his parents always thought it was a waste of time. Perhaps the whole hatred of art ran in the family, you thought at that moment.

After all, your parents threatened to disown you all because of drawing. What would happen if you announced an intention to write a book?

Daddy will have a heart attack and mama will say I need deliverance, that my mates are doctors and whatever. Abeg.

A whistling sound interrupted your angry thoughts. It sounded like the rush of wind, but the door was closed and the windows barred. The wind hit your face and you grimaced and coughed loudly, almost choking.

You slapped your hand over your face, the best thing to do to stop from vomiting.

What is that smell? You wanted to ask.
You turned around and saw Junior staring up at a hole in the ceiling. A dark brown map of moisture formed around the faded white, stretching unevenly through the middle.

Junior’s eyes remained on that hole.

His shadow was of a tall, slim young man also staring up at the ceiling.

You moved closer to him.

‘They came in through there,’ Junior said. The ten-year-old boy kept looking up, but the shadow turned and faced you as the voice spoke.

‘Who?’ you asked.

The shadow stretched and grew taller as it walked across the wall. The boy made no move at all.

‘You’ve changed,’ he said. ‘You’re a big girl now.’
Silence, and then the whistling sound, and then that decaying smell again. You gasped and shuddered, your stomach churning.

The shadow looked at you. ‘Sorry about the smell. It’s not as bad as all those times you’ll just be farting anyhow in this room after eating beans and eggs. I don’t even know why you liked beans.’

You slowly lowered your hand and looked at the shadow.

‘Beans was my best food. I wrote an essay about it in JSS1 back then.’

He laughed and you relaxed. ‘Yes, yes. I remember that. My essay was on what I want to be when I grow up. And you, madam, wrote an essay about beans. Haha.’

He sighed and the lights flickered. The smell again. But this time you didn’t grimace or cover your nose.

‘Junior,’ you called softly when you noticed the shadow pacing back and forth. He stopped and looked at you.

‘Yes?’

‘The last time I heard from you, you entered school. UniBen.’

‘Oh, yes. Yes.’

He went back to his original position by the small boy and looked up at the ceiling again.
‘I entered school. Best time of my life, but I made mistakes. I did bad things…stupid things. They came in through that hole.’

You stood beside the small boy now, also staring up at the hole in the ceiling.

‘Some guys. Members of a rival cult. I was here for the weekend. My parents weren’t around when I entered, so I just stayed in my room. The truth is, I didn’t even want them to know I came back. School was hot and I just needed to lay low. Somehow those guys knew where I was.’

He told you the story; how he just came upstairs from the kitchen after collecting bread from the fridge, and how he was still chewing a slice when he entered the room and locked the door. He told you that he had a bad feeling ‘but nothing bad ever happens when I’m home’. His mother always said that.

Then the ceiling crashed and the guys jumped down. Two shots to the chest, and an axe to the head.

The shadow turned and faced you, voice somber, the lights waning.
‘I was dead for two weeks before they even noticed.’

The light flickered again, on and off, and then finally went off. Only the voice remained.
A soft chuckle after the wind blew again. ‘Sorry about the smell. I can’t do anything about it anymore.’

IkeIgboNiile:
Wow....really interesting. Please keep it coming.

Thanks 🙏 please share and invite people to read

2. Locked In


They locked her in a room and she freaked out.

It was only a joke, they’d tell her later and she’d laugh at herself for freaking out so bad, and they’d also laugh at her—with her, she assumed—but there was no way they could understand what happened at that moment, when sounds went dead and darkness took over. It happened at a stupid house party.

**
It rained on the night of the party. Amanda shivered when a cold breeze circled around her room. She stood by the window and looked outside, her eyes on the drops of water increasing by the minute. Nothing good ever happens when it rains and these girls want me to go to a party.

She exhaled deeply and dragged her mind back to the issue at hand: what to wear to the party. If it was up to her, she would have worn a regular polo shirt and jeans and that was it. But no; you have to dress like a girl and be sexy, her friends always said. Skimpy, tight gowns and heels weren’t comfortable. You couldn’t walk properly, and bending down was out of the question.

‘Just be happy and have fun tonight, Amanda,’ she said to herself and took deep breaths. She smiled and nodded. Yes, just be happy and have fun. Besides, she won’t be alone.

Her friends would all be there and there would be fine boys sef—her friends had echoed this part enough for it to excite her. Rich, fine boys, they said.

She stood in front of the full-length mirror in her room, naked except for her undies, and pouted her lips. Yes, she was beautiful. Finer than most of her friends even. She tugged on the tip of her dreadlocks, smiling at how long they’d gotten.

Two years since that stupid incident and the hair had grown nicely.

Her phone buzzed and she peeped at it. Whatsapp messages popped up in their friends group—Bffs[heart emoji, heart emoji, kissy face, fingernails with nail polish]. It wasn’t even her idea. The messages pinged on.

Simi: ‘We’re coming o. Jesse’s boyfriend gave us a lift.’

Jesse: ‘Always getting that princess treatment. You know how it is.’

Simi: ‘Lol. As if you won’t still find one guy tonight to do bad thing.’

Amanda smiled and typed.

‘Are you two seriously chatting while in the same car?’

Jesse: ‘Ehen na. but it’s codedly.’

Simi: ‘Bad girl. You should see Jesse. She’s dressed like a slut.’

Jesse: ‘Am not. Says the one dressed like an ashawo. You’ll get pregnant tonight.’

Amanda’s smile waned, her fingers hovering over the keypad on her phone screen. What am I even supposed to say to all this?

Simi: ‘Mandy, re u there?’

Amanda: ‘Yes. I’m getting dressed. Brb.’

She tugged on her locs and sighed, tossing the phone on her bed. Dressed like a slut…like an ashawo. I guess I’ll have to match that, she thought to herself, pulling out a skimpy dress.

**

The party was a wild one. It was in one of those swanky upscale apartments on the Island, with shiny lights, large TVs, crisp white couches, a pool table in one corner. That sort of thing. It was very easy to tell how wild a party was by the booming music and the guys smoking weed. And the alcohol...lots and lots of it.

Everyone had a red cup in their hand, and everyone dressed to show off. Amanda walked in with Simi and Jesse by her side. Whatever happened, she told herself, I’m sticking with this two.

They left her barely five minutes later, her friends breaking away to hug some guy or answer the call of someone eyeing them, all the while giggling and whining their waste.

AN angry thunder cracked outside and it startled a gasp out of her. It was almost as if no one else heard it. She turned around and stared at the silver drops lashing outside.

The more she stared, the quieter the room became, and the pattering of rain grew louder.
Then she saw the man. An old man standing under the rain, his white shirt soaked, his face wet and with a grim expression on it. Peeking from behind the man, a white paw clutching his right leg, were the glowing green eyes of a cat.

‘You don’t want to be here,’ the old man said, but it was strange because his mouth didn’t move.

Amanda was certain it was his voice intruding in her head, clawing at her mind, trying to break in. A deep, raspy voice. Almost fatherly. Despite the sound of heavy rain and the loud music shaking the house, she was able to hear the old man speak to her. The cat shifted and stood by the man’s side, standing on its hind legs, its eyes fixed intrusively at her.

Amanda shuddered.

‘You don’t want to be here,’ the old man repeated, his mouth still sealed but his voice so loud in her head.

‘I know,’ Amanda whispered.

‘You should leave.’

‘My friends are here.’

‘Not this party. You know what I’m talking about. You should leave.’

The cat stretched out its left paw and beckoned on her. Amanda’s heart thumped and her breathing slowed. She was about to take a step forward when someone grabbed her arm and shook her.

‘Hey!’ the person said, laughing.

Amanda blinked and shook her head. She turned around and saw Jesse.

‘Ah, are you okay? You’re sweating,’ Jesse said, eyes probing.

‘Oh, uh. Yes, I’m okay. It’s hot inside here na.
Can’t you see all this people,’ Amanda responded and tried to put up her best ‘please believe that I’m okay’ face.

Jesse nodded, then her face became animated, eyes lighting up and all that. ‘Let’s go upstairs. There is someone I want you to meet.’

‘What are you drinking?’ Amanda asked, looking at the yellow liquid inside Jesse’s cup. ‘It looks like pee.’

Jesse rolled her eyes. She was shorter than Amanda, chubbier. She tugged on her hand. ‘Come jor. Let’s go upstairs.’
Thunder rumbled outside. Amanda glanced over her shoulders. The old man and the cat were both gone.
‘Amanda, move already!’ Jesse said impatiently. She let go and adjusted her crop top. Her breasts are almost spilling out, Amanda thought as her friend sipped from her cup and shook her head to the music. Jesse shut her eyes and gulped whatever that thing was. She offered it to Amanda.
On a regular day she would have accepted and gulped it down. She would have even smoked something, but a voice kept echoing inside her head.
You don’t want to be here.
‘I don’t want to be here,’ she said aloud, but she wasn’t talking to Jesse.
‘What was that?’ Jesse asked, straightening herself up. She had been twerking a moment ago, one arm raised in the air.
‘Nothing. Who did you say is upstairs?’
Jesse took her hand again and they moved through the dancing bodies. Jesse was talking but her voice was barely loud enough; either that, or the music was just amped up too much. Or I’m getting deaf, Amanda thought.
They began to climb the steps leading upstairs when Amanda pried her hand away. Jesse turned around.

‘What?’

‘I said who is upstairs?’

‘One guy.’

‘One guy. Upstairs, really? Why upstairs,’ Amanda asked. She touched her forehead, feeling a nagging throb as if someone stood by her side constantly whispering into her ears.
Jesse hissed. ‘Don’t be stiff. Let’s go jor. You’re not a small child.’

Amanda didn’t move. Her arms itched. She tugged on the tip of her locs and bit her lip. Dark images flashed in her head. A shadow crept over her and held her down, its eyes blazing red, tongue dripping saliva on her face. You’re not a small child. Now lie down and don’t make any sound. If you wake your mother up I’ll kill you.

She shuddered and shook her head.
‘Jesse, I’m not sleeping with anybody, if that’s what you’re saying. I feel like going home.’
‘Just come with me and stop saying rubbish,’ Jesse hissed again, her fat bum-bum already wiggling up the stairs.

Amanda sighed and followed.
In five minutes, they would lock her in a room and she would freak out.

**
The last thing Amanda saw before the door shut was Jesse's mischievous grin and Simi holding her phone up, camera flash on, probably recording everything. The room was dark.

Amanda froze as soon as the door slammed shut. She snapped out of it a few seconds later and reached for the door handle with both hands. It rattled as she desperately tugged and twisted and turned. The door remained shut.

‘Okay. Stop. This is not funny. Open the door now!’ she said, her voice low but shaky. Her heart paced faster and her breathing quickened.

‘Simi! Jesse!’ she suddenly screamed and hammered her fists into to door. ‘Please open the door.’

She didn’t try to look back, for it was dark all around her. She continued knocking on the door until her hands began to ache. She suspected she’d bruised her knuckles but it was hard to tell because of how dark it was.

She shut her eyes and tried to breathe, but that was the thing: she was breathing too much. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale; at a rapid pace, it felt like falling off a tall building.

Something clicked behind her, like the snap of a finger or the strike of a match. She froze, still pressed against the door.

A muffled song came up, first the striking of drums and then a familiar trumpet melody. Girl Of My Dreams by Cornell Campbell.

She gasped when she heard the song. It grew louder, filtering into the room like smoke hissing through the slit beneath the door, slowly circling around and choking her. She turned around sharply.

The sound played on, the melodies scratching a veil of sadness into her. She didn’t realize when she tightened her left arm over her breasts and locked her right arm between her legs, clasping them shut. The song looped over and over, dying down into a few seconds of silence and then starting back up again.

So familiar.

A bright light beamed in her mind and she remembered it again, the thing that used to happen all those years ago. She didn’t want to remember, but this song.

It usually happened at night, and almost always to this song. From a black VCD player sitting on a black shelf, connected to two big speakers. If not this one, then some other 70’s reggae music. But the monster preferred this particular song. The monster sang it to her, because it adored her.

Amanda was frozen, her eyes wide open, her arms still locked in those defensive positions. She watched as the monster appeared. It was a massive shadow filling the room. It stood over a little girl, bobbing its head slowly to the beat of the music and waving its hand it the air as if trying to literally pluck out the notes.
Amanda shivered and slowly shook her head. Tears streamed down her eyes, her body cold and stiff.

‘No,’ she whispered but the words were suppressed, only echoing in her head.
The monster danced, weaving its body left and right, as it stretched its hand over the little girl and grabbed her face.
‘No!’ Amanda screamed, this time in a thundering voice.

The monster paused in shock and craned its head to the side, looking at her. Its eyes flickered red. It turned and faced her and the room began to shrink.

The walls closed it, shifting with a loud screech. Pushing away from the door, heart thumping at a massive rate, Amanda looked around. It was hard to see with the darkness, but she felt the air getting sucked out of the room; the walls closing in, ready to crush her.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a door creaked and groaned and opened slowly, letting in a sliver of white light. There was wrinkled hand on the door handle.

‘You don’t want to be here,’ a familiar voice said and the door opened wider.

The screeching of the walls went on, scraping the ground every few seconds, the walls just a few inches apart.

Without thinking, Amanda rushed to the door and went through it.

IkeIgboNiile:
I love this story 💛. It's very interesting.

Thanks! Hopefully it gets more traction. I'll probably post a few more short stories in addition to it

1. Hard Guy

What does death even feel like sef? As in, what does it feel like to die?

The boys stopped and gave Wale a weird stare. The question had come out just when the music blaring from his JBL speaker stopped, making the words even louder than he planned. In truth, the question was for himself, not the boys. But it was out there now and they had questioning looks on their faces.
He sat on a cement black outside his hostel, back against the wall. Their favourite smoking spot. The boys were Osas—tall and lanky, bleached skin, always sagging, messy dreadlocks—and Michael—white-framed glasses due to some sort of astigmatism, short and muscular, dark skin, a spaced-out expression on his face because he was always high.

The speaker boomed as the next music played, leaving no time for the boys to ask Wale what he meant by that thing he just said. They wouldn’t understand sef, so what’s the point?

The question of death always came to him, and the reason for this was one he hated to dwell on. Wale narrowed his eyes and frowned at his dead blunt.

‘Guy, abeg give me lighter,’ he said to Michael. That one was moving in slow motion, clouds of smoke surrounding him, his red eyes enlarged by his glasses.

‘That one don go,’ Osas laughed and tossed a lighter at Wale. He nodded his head to the music playing, chasing the lyrics while he lit his smoke. He made conscious efforts to latch onto the sounds booming from the speaker; the best way for him to forget about the stray thoughts.

Closing his eyes, he sucked in the smoke and whistled as he exhaled. Much better, he thought. It wants to rain again. He opened his eyes and watched the dark clouds spreading over the sky.

The hostel faced the road which was now a shimmering glaze as a steady drizzle began. The rain carried the smell of wet earth with it, the winds blowing the overgrown bushes across the road.
Wale kept his eyes on the road, his blunt stuck between his lips, the smoke making his eyes water. Every few minutes a car would whoosh by in a blur, carrying a curtain of water on either side. High above in the clouds it felt like a war raged on. Lightning flashed relentlessly and thunder shook the earth. Wale scratched his right arm and shivered. Goosebumps, he thought when he looked at it. The raised bumps made the faded ink of his ‘Hard Guy’ tattoo look like the stamp of a branding iron.
He remained vaguely aware of the music playing around him and the sound of rain, and the dull conversation between Osas and Michael—Osas did most of the talking; Michael’s grunts showed that he was still in the zone.

Looking at the sky once again, at the dark clouds now settling over what had once been a pleasant evening, Wale felt overwhelmed with a fear deep in his heart. It was getting dark, which means night was coming and night was never a good time to be inside.

He took a long pull from his blunt, the end crackling as it glowed red, and held the smoke for a while. His eyes remained focused in front of him, the smoke still swirling around in his mouth. The rain drops danced and weaved from left to right like strands of white thread hanging down from heaven.

His eyes were squinted, and in that moment the raindrops looked like a white curtain. In that moment, the green bushes around and the tarred road melted away, the curtain still weaving and dancing. A blue house appeared. Parked outside the house, leaning against the cracked wall, was an old motorcycle. Thick, black oil dripped from the engine and formed a small pool under it.

The curtains suddenly shifted and a shadow appeared. Its eyes were blood-red, or more like flaming coals, and they were fixed on Wale. The shadow looked far away but its presence grew like plums of smoke, and it suddenly rushed towards him.

‘Jesus!’ Wale gasped and closed his eyes.
Michael looked at him. Osas, who had been eyeing one girl’s swaying buttocks as she rushed into the hostel, paused and frowned at Wale.

‘Guy, what’s up?’ Michael asked, cracking his neck. His eyes were wide and alive, which meant he was now out of the first phase of his highness; and that always meant he would be talking too much.

Wale felt raindrops on his head. He looked up and it fell on his eyes. He blinked it away, aware of the coming darkness of nightfall.
‘Let’s hit town,’ Wale said.

Osas chuckled. ‘You go just dey switch to Englishian anyhow. Let’s hit town.’

‘He means let’s go out, bro,’ Michael said and jumped down. Wale stood up and cracked both knuckles. He’d been chewing on the end of his blunt for a few minutes without any idea of it. The bitter taste hit him now so he spat it away and stepped into the light shower.

‘Okay na,’ Osas said, picking up the JBL speaker by the strap. ‘Let me keep this thing inside.’
Wale was aware of Michael’s searching look. Cold winds blew around them, the light rain more soothing than disturbing. Good, at least we can still move out.

‘Stop looking at me like that abeg,’ Wale hissed at Michael.
‘What’s up with you, man. You’re acting weird.’
‘I’m ok.’

Michael opened his mouth to say something again when Osas barged out, adjusting a jean jacket over his body. He smelled like cologne.
‘Wale, where we going?’

‘Ovis,’ Wale responded and Osas grinned. He took the lead, walking with a swagger up to the road. Wale looked at Michael, caught the frown and ignored it.

‘Let’s go, Mike. At least you’ll get to see that Sarah girl,’ Wale said. He looked across the road when all three stood by it. The shadow wasn’t there anymore but with nightfall coming, and the streetlights not even any good, what was to say it wasn’t there?

**

Something strange happened on their way to Ovis. For one, they weren’t able to get any okada because of the rain so they had to leg it. But that wasn’t the strange thing.

Five minutes away from Ovis—a new hotel, which was basically just a brothel mashed up with a lounge and bar—the lights and loud music already drifting across to the trio, Wale spotted a small boy by the road. He sat on a wet block by the unpaved road leading to the lustful reds of Ovis hotel. A metal tray lay flat by his feet, three bunches of ripe bananas on them. Bunched up on the boy’s knee was a wad of cloth. The boy’s head was bent low and his shoulders shook, his eyes wet and red as he sobbed.

Neither Michael nor Osas noticed the boy at first. Osas was hissing and cussing aloud, frantically rubbing his phone on his shirt. ‘Ordinary rain and this phone is already touching,’ he grumbled.

Michael was busy with keeping his eyeglasses dry, squinting with his mouth open before putting them back on. He almost bumped into Wale, who’d been standing and staring at the sobbing boy. That was when they saw him too.
‘What do you think is the problem?’ Wale asked.

‘You know, it’s always funny when this guy just switch to English sometimes,’ Osas chuckled and placed a hand on Michael’s shoulder.
‘It is funny sha,’ Michael agreed.

They both stared at Wale, their weird look of confusion on their faces when he walked to the boy. They were speechless and curious, Wale’s face was a dark mask of pain and fear, Michael thought. Osas just thought Wale just dey waste time. He could hear the music calling him from Ovis. Still, he waited to see what the heck was happening.

‘Why are you crying?’ Wale asked the small boy.

The boy sniffled and looked up. He rubbed his eyes, his body trembling like a leaf under the whim of the harmattan breeze.

He waited patiently as the boy heaved and breathed, coughed and sniffled. His clothes were soaked and tattered, and he had a few open sores on his arms. Wale narrowed his eyes and shuddered when he noticed two fresh slashes on the boys left hand. Cane marks; signatures of a relentless, merciless discipline. He remembered the blue house again and the shadow.

‘My father kill me if I cannot sell everything,’ the small boy said and pointed at the tray of bananas. It was almost dark. The boy should be going home now, Wale thought.

‘Oga, what’s happening na? let’s go,’ Osas called out impatiently.

‘Yeah, Wale. I’m starting to get wet standing out here,’ Michael said.

Osas laughed. ‘Jesus. Don’t say it like that na, it’s sounds so…’

‘Shut up abeg,’ Michael snapped, his pidgin sounding diluted.

Their voices trailed in the background, almost muted to him. He looked at the small boy rubbing the marks on his arm, trembling and whimpering. Angry voices hammered inside Wale’s head, loud and commanding. Cries and screams followed, heavy footsteps and the painful slash of wood on flesh.

He sucked in a deep breath and shut his eyes. His friends continued arguing behind me and the boy’s whimpers droned on. But the sound that was the loudest was the beating in his chest. He opened his eyes and looked at the boy.

‘How much?’

Osas and Michael paused and looked up when they heard that. The small boy also looked up, eyes wide with surprise.

‘Sir?’ the boy asked.

‘The bananas, how much?’ Wale repeated and tapped his back pocket for his wallet. Nothing.
‘Abeg, help me with 2k,’ he said to Osas.

‘2k? for banana?’ Osas gasped and folded his arms, shaking his head slowly.

Michael dipped his right hand in his pocket and gave Wale the cash.

‘It’s one thousand five hundred Naira, sir,’ the boy said, when Wale gave him the money.
‘Then use the remaining 500. It’s for you.’

The boy hesitated at first, perhaps thinking it was some kind of joke, then he took the money and folded it in his hand as if to say ‘it’s mine now’. When he saw that Wale wasn’t joking, the boy jumped up and threw his thin arms around Wale’s legs. He was crying louder now. He then knelt by the tray and quickly packaged the bananas, all of them, and handed the bag to Wale with a bright smile.
Wale took the bag. It pulled his hand down slightly.

‘No groundnut sef,’ Osas grumbled.
‘I can’t believe this sha,’ Michael said. ‘But it’s interesting.’

Osas rolled his eyes. ‘Is it because tomorrow is Sunday?’

Wale didn’t say a word until the boy, still muttering thanks, carried the empty tray and ran off. He finally turned to his friends.
‘Remind me to give you the 2k back,’ he said, tapping his jeans with his left hand. He felt the bulge of his wallet in the front right pocket.
‘Why did you buy everything?’ Michael asked. They’d turned down the road now, shifting into stride, the trio walking side by side. Wale was in the middle.

He thought about that question. How was he to answer it? He wasn’t sure why he did that…not completely, but he had an idea why and it was something he wasn’t going to tell them.
Osas grumbled something and Wale stopped and faced him.

‘Wetin sef!’ he said angrily. ‘It’s two thousand. You go blow more than that inside Ovis. So what the Bleep?’

Michael’s jaw dropped and Osas stepped back a bit, hands raised.

‘Sorry o. Okay, do your thing,’ Osas said. ‘No vex. Let’s go have fun.’

Wale nodded. ‘Okay.’ He looked at the bag in his hand and sighed. I fucking hate bananas.
The gates were wide open, the compound lit up with strings of red lights. Plastered on the walls on the outside were large posters of Beer. And greeting them, as they walked in, was the elaborate ‘No smoking of Igbo aka Indian hemp here’. Everyone smoked the stuff.

It was almost 7:30p.m when they got there. Most of the plastic chairs leaned against empty round tables, all covered with drops of water.
The trio pulled into one of their favorite spots, by the bar, close to the snooker table. The girls had started coming out small small, skimpy outfits and bare skin on display. Osas had a big grin on his face—he was at home, as far as they were concerned—Wale was content that the place was well lit and the dark of the night was hidden in the background, and Michael just wanted to vibe with his pals.

Over the next hour they had drinks and smoked, joked and laughed at themselves all while pausing sometimes to watch the curves of a girl’s ass cheeks squeezed inside tight bum shorts, or teasingly short skirts.

Those moments were always the punctuation between their conversations. The bag of bananas rested by Wale’s leg. He shifted his feet and mistakenly kicked it. That was when he remembered the boy, probably home safe by now and not getting a beating; and also, when he noticed the man staring at him from across the table.

An old man seated alone two tables away by the wall, a circular ‘Gulder’ sign glowing red above him. He sat upright as if waiting for someone, both palms flat on the table. His fingers guarded the unopened bottle on the table and an empty glass stood by its side. All the while the old man stared at Wale. It was a bit unsettling; he didn’t blink. Meanwhile, Osas and Michael gisted on.

Wale couldn’t take his eyes away from the old man. Everything spun around in one quick, blurry motion and he found himself sitting opposite the old man on the same table. The old man smiled and relaxed.

A soft meow made Wale look down. He followed a white cat with his eyes as it hopped on the table, moved back a step or two, and then stood on its hind legs. The cat looked at Wale for a few seconds, green eyes assessing, then it open the beer bottle and poured some into the empty glass. The bottle looked twice as big in those tiny paws but the cat made it work.

The beer frothed at the tip but the cat kept pouring. The glass overflowed and foam ran down the side and pooled around the table. It only stopped when the old man lifted his hand. The cat nodded, regarded Wale again, and then hopped away.

Wale looked around to see if anyone had just witnessed that shit. He shook his head and blinked his eyes a few times. It’s time to stop smoking weed.

‘The weed is not your problem, Wale,’ the old man said.

Wale looked up. He’s still here.

They both sat in silence and watched the froth on the overfilled glass settle into a gold, bubbly liquid. The old man’s dark hands clasped around the glass. He gulped down the beer messily and sighed when he placed the empty glass back on the table.

‘There are some things we cannot escape,’ he went on. ‘Yes, we can run away for as long as we can but in the end it will meet us. Think about that.’

The old man stood up, adjusted his wrinkled white shirt and walked towards the gate, the white cat following by its side, tail wagging, still on its hind legs. When they got to the gate, the cat turned around and its eyes caught Wale’s.
A shiver rushed up Wale’s spine. He looked to his side and saw Osas and Michael looking eagerly at him.

‘Answer na,’ Michael said impatiently, flustered, slurring his words.
‘Answer what?’

Osas shifted his chair closer, lowered his voice. ‘Look at those two girls there, the thick one and that thin one with long pink hair. Who is finer? Michael said the thin one but look at that chest, there’s nothing there and…’
The voice trailed away as Wale looked all around him. He glanced at that table and saw the empty glass and the beer bottle, even caught the glisten of the spilled beer.

‘Yes,’ he muttered without listening or paying attention, and then he stood up. ‘I dey go smash,’ he announced to them.

‘My guy!’ Osas hyped him up, laughing as they shook hands.

‘After you, I’m next,’ Michael mumbled.
‘Oh boy, you’re free to go do your thing, don’t wait for me,’ Wale said, forcing a chuckle.

His mind was heavy with the words that old man had said. He blinked and found himself in a cramped room, the lights a deep blue.

Clothes hung on the cardboard dividers that served as walls. Drifting from the other side of the ‘wall’ were the clear sounds of moans and the aggressive squeaking of a flimsy bed.

‘Oya na,’ the woman sitting on the bed before him said after she tore open a condom and started at his crotch. Wale took off his jeans. It was a bit awkward, having to pull the legs and even sit on the bed while dragging the jeans off. Always wear shorts, he always told himself but he’d forgotten tonight.

He stood before the woman again. He couldn’t even make out her features—or even remember how he walked into this room.
Her hand was cold when she grabbed his penis. She squeezed and tugged. No response. Wale glanced down and frowned. The big boy should have been up by now. Two minutes went by and the woman hissed and sighed, switching hands. She reached for his shirt and was about to slid her hand under it when he jumped back and slapped her hand away.

‘Wetin you dey do?’

Bewildered, the woman said, ‘your thing no gree stand na! commot the shirt make I play with you well.’

He looked at his floppy penis. No response, not even a twitch. He bent over and picked his jeans. Pulling out two 1,000 naira notes, he handed it to the woman and quietly put on his jeans.

She mumbled something at him, probably an insult, but he didn’t care. He stepped out of the room and looked left and right. The narrow corridor was lit with red bulbs, and the place smelled of cheap perfumes. Wale began to walk. He ignored the whistles and calls of ‘hey, fine boy’ and ‘come na, I go do you well’.

They were all tired-eyed prostitutes, most of them spent and aging. The fresh ones hardly had to stand outside their rooms. He got to the end of the corridor and stared down a slopping ditch.
It led to a garbage dump and a large flowing rush of water under a small bridge. He’d gone the wrong way. He looked left and then right, but something caught his eyes when he looked left again. Glowing green eyes, thick white fur.

The cat.

P.S: This is supposed to be an intertwined series but I pulled out this short to get a response and see if that gingers me to take you guys down this dark road.

Have you ever thought about being something else? She asked suddenly.

Yes, a goat. My response came without a second thought.

She turned sharply. ‘Wait, I didn’t mean…a goat? How na? I meant like another career or something. What do you mean a goat?’
I shrugged. I mean, if I have the chance, I’ll like to be a goat.
She shifted back and looked at me weird, a bewildered smile on her face.
‘Okay, why would anyone want to be a goat?’
‘They have an easy life, don’t you think? You just sit and do nothing but eat and just be a goat.’

‘Goats don’t live long, shebi you know that?’
I shrugged again. ‘Some humans don’t live longer than goats. The number of years is not the point. I just feel like goats have a better quality of life for animals. You don’t have to think about debts or work, and you can go anywhere.’

She thought for a moment and chuckled.
‘There’s the probability of getting killed and used for Ileya or maybe turned into nkwobi.’
I looked at her. ‘I thought they used to make nkwobi with cow meat?’

‘I don’t know. I think it’s goat. Goat meat will be sweeter. I like goat meat.’

I nodded. ‘Hmm, me too. I like goat meat. I could go for some nkwobi now sef.’

Her eyes lit up. ‘Or goat meat pepper soup.’
I snapped my fingers. ‘You get the idea. Hot and spicy.’

We paused for a moment as if the delicacy would magically appear right in front of us, or as if we were somehow expecting to perceive the aroma of goat meat.

She broke the silence.

‘We could eat you. Well, I’ll eat you,’ she said to me, smiling mischievously. ‘When you become a goat.’

‘Won’t that count as cannibalism?’

She shook her head. ‘Not when I’m a human being and you’re the goat.’

I leaned back and my chest cracked. I nodded. ‘Okay. It will be weird sha, because I have a feeling, I’ll still be human on the inside. Like, in my mind and all that.’

‘That ruins the whole purpose of living the soft life of a goat, doesn’t it?’

I nodded and looked down at the goat writhing on the floor, blood spurting out of the fresh cut in its neck, a suppressed bleat coming off like a dead whisper.

‘Maybe this goat was once a person.’

The day she left you--when your world lost its colour--you were drunk. And it wasn’t the good kind of drunk (the kind of high you enjoyed, when a pleasant heat boiled in your stomach and everything had a shiny sparkle to it and the world felt right). No, it was the stupid, pointless ‘feel nauseous and vomit everywhere’ kind of drunk; the kind from drinking for the sake of drinking.
You don’t even remember much of what happened that day--it was all a blur, but you remember seeing her standing like a shadow by the door, angry and yelling something.
You were naked on the cold floor--thank God there was no vomit this time--and there was that pounding headache keeping you bolted down. You knew you should have jumped up and rushed to the door to stop her from going, but you were stuck in a strange paralysis. You could only see and hear her--and by God, you could see and hear her disappointment.
Then she turned around and left. Just before you closed your eyes and passed out, you watched the colours drain from your world. The yellow paint of the walls faded into black. The worn blue rug became bleached and thin, and soon, without any colour. The colours floated in the air, strings and particles of blue and yellow and brown and black and green, and they rushed out of the door with her.
**
Waking up means hating yourself, and this thought terrifies you. A part of you never wants to wake up again, maybe just pass through and go forever. But you wake up. And yes, you hate yourself.
Everything is in black and white…everything. Even the portrait she made for you, the one with the vibrant colours depicting a you that looked like a stranger now, a you that had a happy smile on his face.
You walk to the mirror on the other side of the room, and the you that stares back is tired and lean and frowning; a different kind of stranger, a bad kind.
You drink whenever you hate yourself, and you feel better, but then the effects wear off, and you feel even worse, so you drink again.
When she explained this cycle to you (she used terms like dopamine and noradrenaline), you only laughed and said she was overanalyzing everything, 'being a BioChem student and all'.
Thinking about it, as you reach for a bottle--it had no colour now, just some kind of ashy black--you sigh aloud.
‘I am so stupid.’
You want to call her, but you can’t find your phone. Your brain is melting, and your mind is clouded with fog; thinking right now is a big no-no. So, you take a sip.
First thing in the morning, after a breakup, still with an unwashed mouth?
You hear the voice in your head judging you.
‘Abeg shut up,’ you hiss.
Your chest heaves, and you feel a deep warmth inside you. The fog slowly lifts, and you smile, but the smile lasts only a few seconds. She’s gone now.
Her voice comes back, carrying some of her pained words.
‘I don’t even understand you anymore! You would rather hide and escape than face real life and the pain that comes with it!’
You manage to get up and put on a pair of shorts. But that’s the point, you think to yourself as you sniff through the heap of shirts on your bed, trying to find one that was ‘clean enough’. You settle for the Arsenal jersey from last night, even though it had a faint smell of cigarette and beer (the cigarette itself was not from you; at least I don’t smoke,' you console yourself like an idiot).
‘Escaping the pain is the whole point,’ you tell yourself and open the front door. The handle is stiff at first, as if someone is holding it from the other side. It takes a few grunts and pulls before the handle loosens and the door swings open.
More black and white. It is more like a depressing, grey colour splashed all around.
You stand in front of a long corridor. A glance behind you confirms that your room is right there, and this strange corridor is right in front of you.
You walk in, bottle in hand. The sound of the liquid sloshing around gives you some kind of elation, like you have a companion walking by your side.
The door slams shut behind you, and for a minute or so, darkness crawls around you. You feel a rush of cold air, and it carries the smell of vomit. Spit pools in your mouth, and your throat becomes bitter, and your stomach churns. You shut your eyes and try not to think of throwing up. It works.
In order to escape the smell, you walk.
There are doors along the corridor, like you’d see in the hallway of a hotel--left and right, all identical and with random numbers.
You stop at the first door on your left because you hear the sound of someone vomiting violently, and the harsh scolding of another voice. A familiar voice.
The door creaks when you turn the handle.
The first thing you notice is the yellow-green glow of a digital watch strapped to the young man's hand as he retched and vomited on the bathroom floor. He's you, the young man.
4:05 a.m.
A rechargeable lamp glows above him as his mother pours cold water over his head and speaks to him. Her words are harsh and comforting at the same time.
You're 19.
'I don't care if you drink there, it was your birthday. But this is what I don't want. Know how to control yourself. Don't get drunk!'
The 'don't get drunk' comes as a sharp whip.
You move back and slowly close the door. You take two or three steps down and open another door. A bright yellow sun burns your eyes for a second, then you blink and get used to the sharp colours.
Blue clouds, a green field stretching as far as you can see; boys playing football far away, sweating and screaming. You're sitting on the grass, and a girl is beside you. She's narrating a story with so much enthusiasm, you can only watch and smile and laugh--the you that's out there, not the you standing by the door; that one has forgotten how to smile.
The girl has long hair. Really long black hair. As in, the kind of thin braids that drapes down to the butt like a curtain. And she's beautiful, her round brown eyes sparkling as she tells her story.
The you out there pauses and looks over his shoulder, at you. He frowns for a second when your eyes meet. He's seeing a stranger, you know.
The girl touches his hand and says, 'What is it?'
'Oh, uhm, nothing,' you say and slowly look away.
He looks happy, you think as you close the door.
Standing still, your feet heavy, the weight of the bottle even heavier, you become terrified by the idea of checking the other doors.
But you have to. You know you have to.
The liquid sloshes again... another sip, another rush of fire down your throat. Except this time, there's no comfort or relief. Just... nothing but a bitter taste in your mouth.
Lights suddenly flicker above each door like glowing white dots floating in space. Someone is laughing--a soft, carefree laugh, and another voice is speaking the way you'd speak when you're saying something funny and the other person is enjoying it immensely--so you walk down the corridor until the laughter is loud enough for you to know the door it's coming from.
The light stops flickering and just glows steadily as if eagerly waiting for you to open it.
You do, because you haven't heard that laugh in a long time. You don't make her laugh anymore, not when you always complain about how you feel depressed and how life is dull and... everything.
The door opens silently. It's your room, but not in black and white. And it's neat, the bed made and the clothes folded in a corner, and your shirts hanging from a hanger.
You're in there and you're 23.
There are two packs of jollof rice on the floor, one is still almost full, while the other one is half-eaten. On a flat plate is a wide green leaf with a triangular piece of moin-moin on it.
'You're a bush man, shebi you know that?' she says, laughing as you pick the moin-moin with your left hand and drop it in the full plate of jollof.
'I don't care,' you say and begin to walk around the room. She's sitting on the bed.
'And you shouldn't use your left hand to pick up food,' she also says, and you scoff at this.
'Nobody will beat me,' you chuckle and look at her. There's this way she always looks at you; this intensity in her eyes, like someone admiring something sparkling and amazing. It always made you feel sparkling and amazing.
'Besides, you like you me like that,' you add, and she does that soft laugh again and eats two spoons of rice. She keeps looking at you.
'Love you,' she says.
'Love you too,' you respond with a knowing smirk.
'Shut up, jor! I mean, I love you like that. Not like,' she says with the most beautiful smile on her face.
You go and sit by her on the bed and put an arm around her. There's a quiet moment between them, a tender moment.
Music plays from the laptop sitting on the plastic reading table. You're not sure what music it is, but you know it feels good and nostalgic.
They kiss. She laughs and says, 'You taste like moin-moin.'
You also laugh. 'And you taste like pepper. Jesus, I feel like my lips are burning. You too like pepper.'
They are both laughing when they suddenly stop and look at the door, at you. There's sadness on your face--the other you--and you're sure you can see the cracks forming. After all, everything went downhill from 24.
You close the door, again feeling the weight of your growing sadness.
The next door is just three steps ahead, and it is a quiet one. It's also in a weird rainbow colour, like a badly tuned CRT Television.
You're alone in there. It's your birthday. You're sitting on the bed, massaging your temple. Yeah, you just woke up with a hangover. You remember.
And the bottles are there.
You're 24 and miserable.
The front door opens, and she comes in, the most beautiful girl in the world, the girl with the long, black hair. As soon as she steps in, the room brightens up and colour spreads all around.
The voices are muted so you can't tell what they're saying, but she kneels before the sad you in there and holds his face with both hands and says something tenderly, shaking her head, speaking slowly.
You nod, and then she points at the bottles and shakes her head in disapproval. You say something and she smiles.
You promise to stop, that you won't let it consume you. She believes you.
You shut the door, afraid they will look up and see you; afraid you will see the cracks more clearly.
There are two doors left. You have a strong feeling you know what's inside them.
The gust of wind blows in again, rushing down the corridor, swirling around you. You vaguely feel the bottle in your hand, and the more you think about it, the more your fingers feel light and your grip loosens.
You open the door. One more to go, right?
Unlike the others, you step in this time. This room is a shattered mirror. The walls are cracked and peeling into a hundred parts, and the shards of the mirror shift between black-and-white and colour.
You watch your other self stumble into the room, peel off his clothes, and crash on the bed naked. But he misses the bed and just hits the floor, too tired and drunk to care.
The window shifts from black, as the night winds on, to bright when the sun comes up. Then there's the knock on the front door. The you on the floor doesn't even flinch.
You walk to the front door, and you're about to open it when the handle turns and she steps in.
You've never seen her so heartbroken when she stares down at the naked body.
She balls her fists, marches up to you, and kicks you.
'I'm tired, Ama,' the you on the floor says in a dry voice, barely opening his eyes.
Ama takes in a shaky breath, tears streaming down her face. 'I'm also tired. Tired of trying to make you stay alive; tired of seeing you happy today and sad by nightfall; tired of this...' she kicks the bottles. 'The drinking!'
You try to step in since the idiot on the floor isn't even moving or saying anything.
You want to hold her and tell her how sorry you are, how stupid you are, how much you want to stay happy, and how she always makes you happy. But you have no voice. You try--opening your mouth, moving your lips and all that--but no words come out.
‘I don’t even understand you anymore! You would rather hide and escape than face real life and the pain that comes with it!’
Everything after that is a blur. You want this all to end. You're exhausted.
You stomp down the corridor and kick open the last door. The door is almost like cardboard, and you nearly fly inside after that kick.
You watch yourself put on that Arsenal jersey and stagger to the front door. You follow behind, this time gripping the bottle hard, a deadly grimace on your face.
You stand behind the other you, just as he struggles with the door and finally opens it, but he pauses and stares deeply outside. He looks at the bottle in his hand. His shoulders sag, and he sighs. He opens it and slowly empties it.
The bottle slowly becomes green, and the liquid remains a faded grey, pooling and foaming on the ground.
He tosses the bottle and gazes up at the sky. It's still all black and white, but a sharp ray of yellow and blue pierces
through it all.
You smile as the other you closes the door, then you turn around and leave.