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Momma is the best in the world, you've always thought.

Throughout your childhood, and now you're eighteen, she has always been there for you. She has always supported you, groomed you and trained you to be the best person you can be. Remember the time Emeka broke your heart? You had run to her and she had enveloped you in her arms, kissing your cheeks, wiping the tears off your eyes and she reiterated over and over again that men were not worth your cries?

Do you remember the time you wanted to go into dancing? How your teachers and friends were asking you what was wrong with you? You were a perfect science student, why waste your life dancing?

But Momma understood. She had held your hands that night and had told you to chase your dreams to the ends of the earth; she had made you promise her that nothing would deter you from expressing yourself through dance. Do you remember how you cried with relief that the only person that mattered to you was in support of you?

Simply put, Momma was your best friend, your paddy, your gist mate. But even friends hide things from each other, right? Because you know how many times you've asked her about your father and each time, she had averted her eyes, while telling you that he left you guys for another woman. You had felt that something wasn't right, yet you believed her. And in turn you hated the invisible man that was your father. In her mind, the day you set your eyes on him, he would pay for putting you and your mother through the pains of those years.

But these things were not the main thing that were bothering you as you walked the length of the hallway to Professor Mark's office this hot afternoon. You've always been in awe of him. Why shouldn't you be, when he was the only professor of of dance in Africa? At forty! You've always wanted him to notice you, to take you under his wing as he had with many students, but it was as if he never noticed you for once. Despite the little attention he gave you, you have admitted (although only to yourself) that you have a crush on him.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/11/12/momma-lied-to-you/

What can make you kill someone?

For me it's knowing someone who raped a girl. No matter who the rapist is, I can never allow the person to be alive. I can kill a rapist and I am sure I will never ask God for forgiveness. If that's what will make me go to hell, then...

This has always been my mindset for years now. Ever since my first love killed herself because her aunt's husband defiled her, I've had this blinding hate for rapists. To me, they are the worst thing to have happened to humanity; they need to be wiped off—permanently.

======================

I finally managed to find a seat in the already crowded bus. Thankfully it was a window seat, so I just faced the road, as the stench of all the people inside the bus assaulted me. The bus was filled to the brim with students who had come for their registration and biometric capturing at the university. In the email we received, they had said that the exercise would start by 8:00am. I'd left home as early as 6:30am to be able to start on time, but when I got there by 9:00am, I discovered that the organisers hadn't even arrived at the venue. We had to wait for another three hours before they started.

But thank God I'd finished mine today, as there were many students who were told to come back the next day. Those people are just heartless; many of those students had been there for over twelve hours, yet they couldn't complete their aim of coming, and instead of giving them a little time to rest, they were mandated to be available the next day. Nigeria, every person who manages to get hold of small authority would always use it to torment others.

Suddenly, I felt something crawling on my waist, close to my pocket. I initially decided to ignore it, but as I remembered how I lost my former phone, I immediately slid my hand into my pocket. Only to discover another hand already there, which was on its way out with my phone. I grabbed the hand, turned to give the person a thorough verbal bashing, only to see a very beautiful girl behind me. I immediately dropped her hand, as I became confused. When did girls start being pickpockets too? was it a part of the "what a man can do, a woman can do better?"

I brought out the phone, pressed the power button, and noticed that the phone had gone off. Low battery. I just hope that my dad would agree to get me a new phone before I resumed school. This current phone has frustrated my life to the point that I was willing to sell it for as low as N10,000 if I found a buyer.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/11/09/when-karma-is-not-a-bitch/

How do I contact you?

Hey God,

I know so many people would be angry with me for the way I just addressed you, but truthfully, I don't care. Yes, I don't. And I also know that I shouldn't be talking to you, nor after what you did to me, but I decided to talk to you nonetheless to tell you how much you've hurt me.

God why?

I've heard so many people—Christians most especially—tell me that I shouldn't ask you questions, that you know what is best for us all. But I will still ask you some questions, at least till my questions prick you to the point of providing answers to them.

So I ask again, God why did you chose me of all people to break her heart? Why did you decide to take away the only source of happiness I've ever known? You could have taken anyone else, why did it have to be him?

Maybe the reason you're not giving me answers is because I'm not being specific enough. So let me tell you what he meant to me.

We have been together for six years now, from the first time I came into secondary school, to the time I left, we were together. He was the apple of my eyes, my best friend, my confidant, my protector, my lover. We did everything together, and I knew that we were meant for each other. Even everyone in the school, including the teachers already saw us as a future married couple.

I can still remember the day we were preparing for a tough inter school competition. He had come to my house so we could prepare together. I still remember how we tackled questions upon questions till we were sure that no one amongst all the students that would be there for the competition would be able to challenge us. I'd stared at him for the larger part of our study, wondering what it would be like to touch him and have him touch me, to snuggle into his powerful, muscled arms, to have his lips on mine as he kissed me the way the men kissed in the romance novels I read.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/10/28/god-stole-my-man/

Hello Cynthia,

The past few months have been hell-on-earth for me, I just hope you are faring better than I am. I'm sad, really sad; I think I might be getting depressed, but I don't want to dwell on that, as that might actually bring the dreaded demon to my doorstep.

I think I should start by apologising for everything that happened, and how our beautiful four-year relationship went up in flames. So, I'm so sorry for everything—for letting you down, for not being strong enough to stand my ground, for... letting you go. Most especially, I am sorry for breaking my promise to you. You do remember my promise, right? The one I made to you that night we had a picnic under the stars; it was on that glorious night that you finally said yes to me and became my girlfriend, my woman, my rock. It was also on that night that we made love for the first time; I remember vividly the way we clumsily kissed and undid our clothes, all the while gasping for breath as we drank ourselves in. Do you remember how I'd laboriously climbed atop you? and the subsequent plea in your eyes that I take it slowly? I'd let out a low chuckle, after which I reminded you that it was also my first time.

Gosh, reliving each moment spent with you is a world of torment best described by Dante. You were the pillar that held my life; despite the fact that everyone was against our union, including both our parents, you were proud to call me your own, as was I. Do you still remember that day your course mate had made a snide comment about our relationship, calling us 'misfits'? Your reply to her will always resonate in my mind forever.

You had replied her, "We may be two 'misfits', but we are fit for each other." The resounding applause that followed your reply had made the girl feel so embarrassed that I felt a little pity for her.

I must confess that your sudden travel was a shock to me, because you never told me about travelling to Denmark. A part of me still doesn't believe that you would willingly forgo everything we've built together and run away. Despite the fact that your parents maintain that you left because you'd realised what a fool's errand it was for us to get married. I know that I am the abominable son-in-law to yo parents because of my predicament, but if it's any consolation, you were the abominable daughter-in-law to mine too. You need to have seen their faces on the day I told them that I'd proposed to you.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/10/22/the-abominable-son-in-law/

Let me take you on a journey, do come with me.

Since my childhood, academic excellence has always been something that came naturally to me; I took the top position in class without much effort. So it wasn’t a surprise that those who knew me (especially my parents) believed that I would end up being a medical doctor, or in the least, a pharmacist.

I, on my part, didn’t bother about what the future held, as I was the type that took life one day at a time. The only time I ever thought about what I would be in the future was when I read a children’s story in my Primary Six about aliens visiting the earth from a faraway planet. The story had unlocked my imagination, and since then I went off track.

By that I mean that I started reading more stories. I read all kinds of stories, no matter the genre or age they were meant for. I even read stories in Igbo, my native language. My hunger for stories increased to the point that if I didn’t see any novel to read, I would make do with the multitude of stories in the Bible.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/10/21/door-to-tomorrow/

My father. Everything I have achieved had been because of him; and for him too. That was what he did too, he sacrificed everything for me. He sacrificed the rest of his life so that I can be where I am today. That was why he meant everything to me. And today, I would be meeting him again after twenty years.

I was driving down to the prison where he'd been incarcerated for the past years, when I was assaulted by the memories of those years. Like a movie, the events of that horrible day flashed in my mind...

We sat on the park bench, holding glasses half-filled with the dark brown liquid—whisky. Before us, on the small stool we usually brought whenever we came here (which was like every week), was the bottle of whisky. There was nothing left in it. It was full when we came here, but we've finished it, competing with ourselves to know who would take the last drop.

In the end, he had won, laughing and coughing as he downed the last portion. I laughed too, wishing that the emptiness that would follow after this would wait a bit. But it didn't, it came like a storm, washing over me and drowning me in bitterness.

Then dad spoke, letting me know the depth of his pain, of the pain we shared. "Amobi, she's not coming back again, you know?"

Of course, she wasn't. Mom was dead. Gone. Taken by something we were powerless about. "Yes, dad. Mom is really dead," I said, wiping the sweat mixed with the tears from my cheeks.

"To think that she died when we'd gotten the money for her surgery. I feel like strangling cancer if I can ever see the bastard," he said again, the sorrow in his heart nearly choking him.

I wanted to laugh at the silliness of the statement, but I ended up sobbing. It was so unfair. Mother had uterine cancer and for thirteen months, we fought to keep her alive. We sold everything in order to raise the money needed for her surgery. But we were too late.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/10/20/the-sins-of-the-son/

Two days ago...

He moved silently, making sure that no one noticed him. His target was a few feet away from him, speaking boisterously into the microphone. He knew that the man was spewing out lies again, and the foolish masses were gobbling them down like they were manna from heaven. Well, in a way manna would be made available after his presence here; not really manna... more like peanuts.

He was now so close, he could see the man's guards trying to prevent people from reaching him. Maybe they suspected that he would be dying today, but they would never prevent it.

He got to the front, after slithering through the throng of people like a snake, he looked at his prey with all the hate and anger he had to give. He closed his eyes and saw them, he relived the day his world came crashing down.

He opened his eyes, felt hot tears cascade down his cheeks as he launched the axe he was hiding in his big trench coat. The axe sailed in the air and lodged in the fat man's heart. The man's last words of deceit were stuck in his throat as he slumped.

Bull's eye, he thought, before raising his hands in a form of surrender.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/10/17/you-can-call-me-death/

Even after four years, I still come here. The reason is obvious though. It was here that I met her; it was on a cool evening, and I'd just had a row with my brother who was hell bent on making our father pay for abandoning us when we were young. I was so mad at him that I went to the beach and was angrily stomping away when I crashed into her. She was sitting on the sand, looking at waves as they rose and fell. I'd apologised profusely, and in the end, we became friends. Three months later, we started dating.

That was when everything turned grey, and for the next seven months, I ran from pillar to post trying to save her. But I couldn't. She died on the same day my father died; both of them died as a result of two different reasons. My father died in a car accident; he was drunk and had ran into an oncoming vehicle. The cars had exploded before anyone could get to them.

As for Chekwube, my girlfriend, she died of something else, something very sinister and deadly—leukaemia. I had serious financial problems then, and I went around begging for money, but no one agreed to help me with the twelve million naira needed for her treatment in India. I went to TV stations, radio stations, used the social media and various blogs, but no help came. In the end I had to watch the cold hands of death slowly take her from me.

As I sat on the warm sand of the Lagos beach, I tried hard to stop crying as I continued the only thing that had brought me peace and solace for the past four years—painting.

Don't be wowed, it's not that kind of painting. I just use A4 paper and some crayons to paint the scenery and sometimes I add my own imagination to it.

After two hours of painting, I stood up, and went to the water. I had never been a good swimmer, but I felt a strong pull to dive into the water and allow the coldness to seep into my bones and help me be calm.

And that's what I did. I pulled off my clothes, and waddled into the water, sighing as the cold water touched my skin. I did some weak breast strokes, and finally decided to just float on the water.

Suddenly, I felt the water rising, and I tried to get back to the shore. But as I started off, something with the force of a sledgehammer landed on my head, completely disorienting me. I struggled to regain my bearings, but it was too late. I opened my mouth to take in more air and ended up gulping huge amounts of water. I was drowning, I knew it, but I couldn't help it. I tried fighting it, but the more I fought, the more I my strength waned. Until I finally gave up and allowed the darkness to take me.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/10/14/crashing-waves/

Four years had passed since she left school. And she'd thought that anything she had with him was over. But as she stared at the WhatsApp message from the unknown number, she knew that her past has come back to haunt her. But she knew what she had to do. She wasn't going to allow him to harm her again. Not after... everything.

The message had told her to pick a location and bring the sum of five million naira in five hundreds to the place. This was the second time he was blackmailing her. The first time had been a two years after she had graduated, when she was about to get married to Obiora. They'd met then and he had requested for two million naira and a slice of her body again. She had agreed to his terms because she had seen the video footage he had; he had had the nerve to record one of their sex encounters in his office.

"That man is a disease!" Angela spat out. "He is like cancer. And there's only one way to treat such a disease."

She immediately dialed the number and he picked up on the third ring. "Come to the abandoned warehouse by the outskirts of the city by 6.30pm. Your money will be ready by then," she told the man at the other end of the line.

"Good, good," he gushed, "maybe we could also... eh... catch some fun. You know you wouldn't want your husband to know what we know. It won't—"

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/10/13/the-past-is-not-a-good-place-to-live/

Let me tell you a story. It won't be long, I promise.

I met her—my girlfriend—the day she came for evangelism in my lodge. It was a very hot afternoon, and I'd just had a marathon of lectures. It was exam period, so all the lecturers were in a haste to round up their classes. I wonder why they wouldn't come earlier in the semester; they would always wait till the eleventh hour to start teaching what they should have done in the beginning, making the end of the semester a time of stress and frustration. No wonder people rarely did well in exams.

Anyway, as I was saying... I came back from the school, took my bath, and without bothering to eat, jumped into bed and slept off. I wanted to sleep for at least four hours before I would wake up to read. It was my final year and we were preparing for our our final exams. So I needed all the strength I could get.

I'm sure that it wasn't up to thirty minutes into my sleep when I heard a knock on the door. I was so annoyed that I shouted, "Who the hell is that!"

I didn't hear any reply, and I was about to go back to sleep when the knock came again, this time, a bit louder. I stood up, I had only my boxers on and was bare-chested, but I didn't make an effort to put on anything as I opened the door.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/10/11/how-i-killed-my-girlfriend/

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"Kiss me Ben," you said, "kiss me like you've never kissed any girl before."

We were in my room, staring into each other's eyes, with love and lust mixing so perfectly that we could hardly determine which was at work. NEPA had just taken the light. Perfect mood.

I didn't need another prompting as I took you into my mouth. I kissed, sucked and nibbled at your lips as you let out whimpers of pleasure. These sounds worked like a fuel to my burning desire. I deepened the kiss, using my tongue to explore the deliciousness of your mouth. My hands frantically worked at your clothes, I'd barely gotten your blouse above your head before my hand expertly undid your bra in record time.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/10/06/while-we-were-making-out/

I was drowned in a pool of words that Dikachi had put together to make sentences that grew and extended their tentacles to every part of her page; pages multiplied until they became a beautiful story. She wrote and I read. I was the only one permitted to read her works. That made me feel special.

I preferred reading novels under the ebelebo tree (almond fruit tree). That was what my Benin friends called it. Since I wasn't Benin but Igbo, I pronounced the word as ebele bo, which if translated in Igbo language would mean "mercy bo." I preferred to sit there and perhaps it was because the nerd boy also sat there.

He wasn't just a nerd, he was handsome in an unusual way; he wasn't bald like my step father. Thin lines of hair ran from his chin up to the top side of his face. The remaining hairs that God let him have were sprinkled above his top lips, his long legs and arms. His eyeballs were mystical, I always believed there were pages of stories living in them. It would be delightful to read them over and over again. If his eyes were filled with typed stories, I would want them carefully printed through his red shade lips, and a taste of his lips... what was I thinking?

His eyes always met mine but he constantly looked away into a huge textbook, supposedly a biology textbook.

One day, I decided to do what the youths would call 'shooting shots.' I sat close to him and I felt I was floating through existence.

Read more ➡️

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/29/the-way-i-feel/

ZenPens, the fastest rising literature blog in Nigeria has come with a way to make things easy for you.
We now have a Readers Facebook Group for our fans who want to stay tuned to their favourite stories and poems.
If you love good stories and poems, then join us today and receive daily updates.

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ZenPens, the fastest rising literature blog in Nigeria has come with a way to make things easy for you.
We now have a Readers WhatsApp Group for our fans who want to stay tuned to their favourite stories and poems.
If you love good stories and poems, then join us today and receive daily updates.

Click on the link to join=>

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The dark, burly guard keyed in the access code of the prison room, and as the heavy metal doors binged, I gave a silent prayer and went in with him. The room was square and spacious; about thirty by thirty feet, with white walls. It contained nothing else except a small reading table, a wooden chair, some paperback novels and a single change of clothing hanging on the wall. All these were by the northwest side of the room. And on the bed, sat my quarry. He sat with his face hunched over his body, and was tapping his bare feet lightly on the marble floor.

“Doctor Anthony, how do you do? I am Favour Uwa from the National Mast. I’m here for the interview, are you ready?” I said to the man who had, until that moment, focused on the same immaculate marble on the floor. He looked up at me, and I had the distinct feeling of being bare, that he could see through me. There was nothing in his eyes, they were dead.

After a indeterminable time, he nodded towards the chair. I went across the room, picked it up and sat opposite him, a few inches from his him. As I did this, the guard was obviously perturbed and darted looks from the doctor to me. I merely held out my palms to the guard, signaling that everything was under control.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2018/12/30/the-doctor-a-rapist/

"This place looks lovely."
"The States is always lovely." Maureen smiled at the older woman.
"I love it," the older said again. A broader smile lit Maureen’s face again at the older woman’s attempt in trying to speak English.
"You know… momma, you can speak Igbo."
"No, I wouldn’t." She squeezed her face in disgust.
"Here requires more than that, please," she concluded facing her daughter.
"Momma, you never change," Maureen laughed out. Unoma looked on at her daughter and didn’t respond. The words were already formed, but she couldn’t tell why it wasn’t coordinated out of her buccal cavity. She watched her daughter laugh.
"This way, mum," she heard her daughter’s voice behind and stopped. "This way," Maureen said again closer now. Unoma followed her daughter, and they walked sideways with each other.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/25/tears-are-for-the-living-part-1/

She sat crossing her legs together and clasping her palms together, she hung her head low. Her face held no emotions. Her hair was sticking up and scattered, it looked like she had ran her fingers through it. Her lips were pale and had dried blood on it. She had chewed on her lips till it bled.

On her wrist was the hospital wrist band, her name written boldly on it 'Danielle.' The hospital gown had a badge with the room number on it, 'Patient 220.' Every patient in that hospital had a wrist band and a badge. Everyone's socks was white and with a pair of white canvas to match the socks. There were always fluffy slippers to change into when they were back in their wards. The only difference was that the females wore a blue gown, while the males wore a blue shirt and trouser.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/25/the-cabin-part-1/

The man that has erred without guilt
The strayed innocent soul
He who is drunk on the sea beside the valley of death begging to be redeemed
He is a father, who shall harken to his cry?
The soul whose agony is become the air without which the heart will cease

Behold he that is called a father
The nation rests on his shoulders and the weight of the populace's sin he bears with joy and pain
Call him a father for he has absorbed the fiery darts of the wicked which was meant for whom they said he cares for
He is a father indeed because his creator has cursed him and has taken away his inheritance and serve them to dogs

His cries are real
His wails and agony are far less than the yoke upon his shoulders
He still absorbs them
Whom shall he even tell?
He is a father!

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/24/the-curse-called-father/

You think we are the villains but we aren’t, we are only ridding the earth of the sins, especially those boys and girls that call themselves homosexuals, no matter what, they just seem to increase. I and my boys have succeeded in setting two ablaze, they deserved it; how dare you change the perspective of the Bible? how dare you lay with the same sex and brag about it? how dare you come out with a penis and walk like a lady?

The worst is that idiot called Bobrisky. Oh I wish I’d set my eyes on him just for five minutes, I’ll beat the manliness back into him. You know I follow her page on Instagram? She talked about getting a new pussy and a new boobs, how pitiful and disgusting. Hmm, I do wonder how it’d be enjoying her money with her and also thrusting my rod in her; I wonder how she’d feel, how I’d feel, sucking her boobs. I wonder if it’ll produce milk too; it probably won’t, I mean it’s not real. And I think it’s best, I never liked the ones that spill milk or those vagina that have orgasm, it just made the whole place wet and disgusting. But to screw her, oh it’d be amazing, but I still need to kill the others, those feminine guys, those dudes that even make them feel special by fucking them. God I hate gays, they are disgusting.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/24/abomination/

I forced myself to roll off her, making smacking sounds with my lips as I relived the past five minutes. It was indeed pleasurable. I glanced at her; she lay coiled like a snake, her intermittent whimpers rhyming with my heavy, satisfied breathing. I could tell that she had enjoyed it. You see, when I first did it to her, she had been... well she had been a bit stubborn. She had fought and clawed and scratched at me. But that only made it more enjoyable. I nearly ejaculated just seeing how bravely she fought. In the end, I had crushed her spirit, and when I thrust into her womanly softness, I felt tears of joy and fulfilment slid down my cheeks.

I got up, wanting to leave. I had gotten to the door when I turned and went back and planted a kiss on her swollen and bruised lips. "I enjoyed that round darling. I hope you did?"

Then I left before she could answer. Not that she would anyway; due to my sexual prowess, I usually left her dazed and tired for about an hour or so.

Before you start judging me (as if you're any better than me), let's do the introductions. You can call me Adam. It's not my real name, though. I don't want you to know it yet, till you prove that you're worthy to be my friend. Yeah, I'm strange, but I have to protect myself too.

I'm 'happily' married with two beautiful girls. And today, the bitch of a wife (pardon my French) went out with my girls for a friend's birthday party, leaving me with the succulent and delicious fruit of a maid I just plucked for the... I seriously cannot remember the number of times now.

I've not always been like this... Okay, no need for lies now. I've always loved having rough sex. Right from the first time my uncle forced his manhood into me when I was ten thirty years ago. My parents were dead by then and I was sent to live with him. He had had his way with me so many times that I lost count.


Read more on:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/22/old-habits-die-hard/

"Bumblebee! Breakfast is ready!" I heard my dad's voice behind my bedroom door.

"I'll be right out dad!" I screamed as I wore my last piece of clothing.

"Okay! I'll be waiting Bumblebee!" he said. I ran a comb through my hair quickly and packed it up in a bun.

Bumblebee? Wondering what that means? Well you might find it funny if I tell you. But I will anyways. Bumblebee is a large bee. He likes calling me Bumblebee because he thinks I'm so sweet like a honey from a bee. And he also mentioned something about me bringing peace to our Pack. I don't know too much, but I was born at war times, a time when there had been a Great War between our pack and two other packs. It was a fight for territories and who would be the strongest Pack in the country. But the war ended as soon as I was born, making our own Pack the second strongest werewolf pack in the country. Blah! Blah! Blah! Argh! I hate war stories!

I am Avery Lance, the last child out of four. And I am a werewolf . The voice you heard earlier belonged to Alpha Lance. He is the leader of Moonlight Pack. And he is basically the strongest in the Pack.

I moved out of my room and motioned towards the dining section of our enormous Pack House. I was welcomed by the smell of cinnamon toast in the air.

"Good morning mom." I hugged my mom and she placed a kiss on my hair.

"How was your night?" she asked.

"Fine mom," I said with a bright smile. My mom's name is Elizabeth Lance, the main woman of the house. She is the Luna of Moonlight Pack.

"Good morning family!" I greeted everyone seated at the long table cheerfully.

"What took you so long Avery?!" James growled.

"Don't start on me James. It's pretty early to start fighting and I don't have any strength for that." I rolled my eyes before settling in a chair. The long table was laden with all kinds of food. But I'm gonna settle for the toast.

James is my brother. The third child. He's just three years older than I am. We are always fighting like a cat and mouse. And sometimes I feel he doesn't like me. Why do I have this kind of feeling? James is jealous dad loves and cares for me better than he ever did to him or any of my siblings. He always bullied me and loved to play his silly and scary pranks that would make me freak out.

I was so afraid of James when I was little. But not anymore. I'm old and strong enough to look him straight in his eyes and confront him.

"Don't pay attention to him Bumblebee," my dad said. I stuck out my tongue at James.

"You should learn how to defend yourself Bumblebee," James scoffed.

"I can defend myself James Lance. Remember I beat you up in the fist fight," I said.

He laughed. "That's because I let you win on purpose. I didn't want you to cry in dad's arms just like you did when I defeated you in the hunting game," he reminded me with smirk on his face.

"That's not true!" I gasped.

"What—?" He was interrupted by a Juan.

"Please James let us enjoy our breakfast and head out to our daily activities."

James bit his lowerlips as we exchanged stern glances.

Juan Lance is the first child. He is next in line to lead the Moonlight Pack. My dad already gave him the Alpha title at a tender age of nine. Not because he lost his mate but he gave him the title so no one would try to raid our Pack whenever he was far away from home.

Juan is gentle and cool but strict in some ways. He is overprotective when it concerns his family and Pack affairs. But he loves me the most and that's why I love him too!

Read more:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/21/her-soulmate/

Finally I am home. I walked into the sitting room and saw mum wailing on the ground. Aunty Bisi with two other ladies were consoling her. She got up from the ground immediately she saw me. She ran towards her daughter that had been missing for almost a year. She hugged me not minding my smelly, muddy uniform.

Read more:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/20/gone-2/

My tail is my companion
The moon is my light
My snout raised high
To salute the night
The darkness is welcome
I treasure the shadows
I don’t walk the path
My course is steered by wherever the wind flows

Read more:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/20/omega/

Just like the leaf springs
My soul also springs
To see the sparkle of shinning rings
A pet surprise of overwhelming happiness
A deep wrinkle of excitement
Down the hill of joy
I felt good about my choice
For the day of life's race
A race full of joy

Read more:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/20/my-day/

Like an inestimable African trace
he is highly sought for
Like a bob song with unknown euphonium
he is worth more than four
Like a tad dancing so exuberantly
he is wearing the face of bliss and being gladsome

Read more:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/19/the-face-of-africa/

Mom had not always been a fan of my poems.

Especially the 'step' poem. She said it was too dark for a twelve-year-old, that's what she told dad anyway.

She simply told me in a stern voice, "Tolani, quit reciting that poem, or you'll not go to the mall with your sister today."


Read more ☛

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/18/lawal/