They have drawn the lines
Setting boundaries like
Death and the crossroads
This is evil... the inevitable.

Read more ☛

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/18/i-live-tonight/

How bitter the heart becomes
When it drinks from your cup.
You create enmity among souls and chaos between two brothers.
You are the desecrated river that flowed from the Atlantic tributary into our Niger-Benue banks,
Washing from our feet,

Read more ☛

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/18/ikpo-asi/

A funnel taking the shape of a beast
Molded in form of sculpture to form a cylinder beast
Covered with purities in dark form
A clinical absorption with no solvent of extraction
Extracting the base of the unseen beast

Read more ☛

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/18/the-black-sheep/

I stood there, by the road side. I knew mother would be worried sick as the unusual had happened, which was unlikely of me. All I could think of was how to get home safe; the insecurities of my locality got me highly worried. I glanced at my Apple wristwatch mother bought for me two weeks ago. The time was 10:30pm on the dot. Most vehicles that passed by me where owned by private individuals. The ones meant for mass transit weren’t heading in my direction.

‘‘What have I gotten myself into?’’ I asked myself, knowing that I won’t get an answer.
Out of the blue, a white Bugatti 2016 model stopped right in front of me. A dark, tall, chubby and handsome looking gentleman rolled down the side screens.

‘‘Hello there young lady, are you going in my direction?’’ he asked with a big grin on his face.

I turned to face his inquisitive stare. I was in a state of dilemma for a moment, thoughts floated in my mind. I needed to get home on one hand, and I was too cautious about my safety on the other.

‘‘Don’t worry, I assure you that I won’t kidnap you, okay?’’ he quipped.

That statement from him surprised me. How on earth did he know exactly what I was thinking about? He looked nice and jovial from his appearance. My friend once told me about how her innocent uncle was kidnapped by a group of friendly-looking passengers he was unfortunate to transport; so, my suspicious about this guy was justified for me. Now that he had explicitly noticed my fears, I decided to take the risk—staying out any longer might be catastrophic for me, as thugs occasionally patrolled the streets at midnight.

‘‘Aren’t you going towards CBN?’’ he asked.

‘‘Yes sir, I am,’’ I replied, nodding my head.

‘‘Okay then, hop in, let me drop you off. I'm going towards the place anyway,’’ with amicable tone, he uttered.

I entered the car—my dream car. He drove while I kept mute for minutes, without saying any word. I was undisturbed for a moment, until the unexpected happened.

‘‘So Delilah, how have you been doing?’’ he inquired, smiling while he focused his sight on the road.

‘‘Wait, how did you know my name? I can’t remember introducing myself to you sir,’’ I replied, startled.

The song ‘Run for your life’ by The Beatles was playing on the car's radio from the loudspeakers of his car.

Read more on:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/17/the-spy/

Look at you. Look at us.
We're just existing.
Living. Breathing.
Sinning. Unremorsefully.
Being unapologetic.

If we were created,
then we're God's greatest failure.
If we evolved,
then we're a failed science project.
Freaks of nature.

We all possess the vices known to man.
Some are bold enough to admit it.
Some disguise them as virtue.
There are no virtues,
only vice and disguised vice.

Read more on:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/17/the-dark-con-of-man/

Embracing the emotional
upheavals of anxiety is such a paradox.
It's like being imprisoned
in your own body,
it dictates its own terms.
Every session feels like a futile attempt
to vanquish your demons.
Then it strikes again, relentless,
without warning,
and you succumb to its
deplorable conditions.

Read more on:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/17/paradox-of-anxiety/

Now I'm white
An overcast sky
Lost my blue in a sad cloud
I was turned into a brawler
Fighting to debone this galoot,
Pulling my head high.

Now I'm black
A dark night.
Lost my light,
In a tophet.
I was turned into a coal pit
Hiding my bruises with all kinds of lie.

Read more on:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/17/paled/

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.

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https:///DTsTttHmG3b5v5BNFTncFa

With perfectly silent steps, I crept towards the door of the room. It was wide open, and if someone happened to look carefully towards my direction, I would be spotted. I didn't plan to stay long anyway, I would just watch for like five seconds and be on my way.

But as I saw what was happening inside the room, I let out an unconscious gasp of horror that made both of their heads to snap towards me. With their eyes glazed over with lust, it took them time to recover. It was in those seconds in which they were recovering, that I fled from the building, towards my room, towards safety.

I got to my room and locked myself in. The horror of what I'd just witnessed caused me to empty the food I ate before coming back on the floor.

What kind of monsters were my parents? What kind of twisted pleasure were they...? I couldn't even think of it without feeling nauseated.

Slowly, I gained my bearings and the images kept on flashing in my mind. Both my parents were evil, believe me.



An excerpt from the utterly shocking and twisted story, WEEP CHILD, WEEP.

Read more on:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/16/weep-child-weep/

I beamed smiles as I entered the class. The students were already seated, waiting eagerly for what I was about to reveal to them. I'd warned them that anyone who wasn't in class would lose ten marks in the final exams. Of course, I wouldn't do that, but if you didn't say such things from time to time, Nigerian students wouldn't take you serious.

Just as expected, the stuffy lecture hall was full to the brim, with the majority of the students probably coming to my history class for the first time this semester. I let out a low chuckle, they were going to be dazzled by the information I was going to share.

"Good morning class," I greeted them as I took the podium and set up the microphone I normally used for classes.

"Good morning sir," they echoed. Most of them had already tuned me out. The serious ones, those who were ready to jot down my every word were already fixated on my lips. I smiled again, this wasn't going to be interesting.

"Our class today is going to be on a forgotten Egyptian religion, Atenism. More importantly, I'll tell you how that religion birthed the Igbo tribe," I said, looking at much faces as I tried to ascertain how they would take it.

"But sir—" I expected her to say something. Chiamaka was among the serious ones, the ones who even corrected lecturers when they made mistakes. "—that topic isn't in our syllabus."

"Yes, it isn't. But need I remind you that I am the one who teaches the course, and I can bring a topic that I feel is of relevance to you?"

Read more on:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/09/10/a-history-class/

Bobby came over the following day to inform me that those who wrote the day before us had seen their results. That meant that our results would be published the next day. I was filled with both anticipation and trepidation. What if I flunked it? I had already gotten a JAMB score that was below expectations, what if this one turned out to be the same thing?

The weeks after I saw my JAMB results had been terrible for me. My friends and teachers couldn’t believe that the golden boy of St. Charles, the best in his set had gotten a lowly score of 205. I was down, I knew what I’d written, so what could have happened? Things got worse when I saw that the results of others had been better—way better—than mine. The big question I asked myself was: what if I was an empty vessel making a loud noise?

Bobby also filled me in on how he returned the previous day. After he had relieved himself, he had luckily found a bus that brought him back. I still taunted him a little about it before he finally left.

The next day, I couldn’t eat as worry ate at me. My mom had asked Chidimma to check the results and report back to her and I was waiting for it like a suspect waiting for the jury’s verdict. I’d never repeated any exam. Would I start now?

Read more on:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/07/05/tales-from-my-alma-mater-part-3/

The sun was very close to its setting and the children were all back from gathering woods in the farm. From aside, I watched my seven younger ones move in group of twos and threes into our large compound which houses six huts. Each of them dumped their bundles by the wall ends, separate from the others. The woods were tied with unique coloured ropes for easy identification too. Afterwards, the youngest rushed to notify Daada of their arrival. He would pick his chalk and flat board and inspect the bundles, after which he announces the best firewoods amongst all. The child that fetched them would lead in morning offerings the next day and as well eat from Daada’s plate throughout that day. This was something I longed for as a younger child.

One continues to gather these woods until maturity is reached. It begins by hairs sprouting in the groins. I remembered the day I first saw mine; I ran very fast to show Maami. I pulled before her while I covered my face, ashamed.

She only smiled and took me to Daada.

“Give him the best of meals from today and gorogoro as well. He should not bathe along with the younger ones when the day has broke and darkness elapsed!”

Read more on:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/07/04/mirani/

When I was much younger, mum would take my siblings and I out to attend birthday parties which were mostly parlor parties with a few kids and plenty of ice cream and chips to go around. I remember one of such experience.

My Childhood https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/07/04/my-childhood/

I remember when I first introduced you as a friend
Just a smile,
Just a laugh,
It all started with just a hug
My dad was a just and upright man
So you knew how things were going to end

Petals of the Last Red Rose https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/07/04/petals-of-the-last-red-rose/

I’d been to Awka on different occasions, all of them while representing St. Charles College, my secondary school, in various science competitions. But I’d never gone past Arroma Junction. So there I was in the car we’d hired for the journey, huddled between my brother and Chibuike my friend, with anticipation and anxiety so perfectly blended within me, as I beheld the sea of people at the Ifite School Gate. I wasn’t the type that usually went out, and never been in such traffic jams as experienced by those in Lagos, so I was marveled at the sea of people that were at the gate. There were young people, old people, men, women, boys, girls, tall and short people, in fact, people of all categories. I kept moping like a monkey in a science lab.

We alighted at the gate and my dad promptly started calling Chidimma; she was the daughter of my mom’s friend who was already a student of Unizik. After about ten to fifteen minutes of calls and searching the sea of faces for her, we finally saw her. She was… beautiful. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen my share of beautiful girls, but there was something different about her beauty, she wasn’t like the girls I knew back in Onitsha, who were just normal beautiful girls. She was sophisticated. Yes, that’s the word, I’ve been looking for. Although she wore only a Liverpool jersey and a black jean trouser, with pink sandals, she was so cool.

The confusion at the gate was almost indescribable, we didn’t know where to begin with, and as more people trooped in, the confusion took another turn. Shortly, we were asked to stand in a straight line, and of course, students rushed in a mad frenzy to secure a space in the endless line. My father said, “Nna nọrọ ebe a. Ọ bụrọ gị ka ha ga-azọgbu” (“My son, stay here. It’s not you that they will kill in the stampede”). Of course, he need not to have told me, I knew that there was no way I could last a second in the line with the way they were pushing and cursing at each other.

We waited for an extra hour before it was the turn of those who had applied for Pharmacy to go in. Dad approached one of the people maintaining order and explained my situation to him. He gave me a once-over before beckoning that we should follow him. I bid my brother and friend goodbye while accepting their good wishes, and turned to Chidimma to accept her special good luck wish. When she said, “Good luck, Sommy,” I felt as though I’d passed the exam already and had gotten admission. She was my first in a countless number of Unizik crushes.
Dad and I boarded a keke, the popular name of the tricycle that was a major means of transport within the school. The man dad had met at the gate had told us that Pharmacy applicants were to write at Engineering Faculty. The keke man charged us N400 and we gladly agreed. Then he took us from the gate, through Science Village, to Management Faculty, to Admin, then to Engineering Faculty. All the while, I was amazed at the size of the school.

Read more on:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/07/03/tales-from-my-alma-mater-part-2/

With brisk steps, Mrs. Akoka steered towards the front pew in St. Thomas Church, her cover shoes slamming against the marble floor, the echoes swallowed by the murmuring voices. Her red purse buried under her armpit, with a big red flowery hat sitting on her head and her white flowing gown hugging her to a fit.



Cindy Cries https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/07/03/cindy-cries/

Uncle had brought me from Benue. He is a fan of my writing and he said I should come to Lagos and make my writing useful and
profitable.

It was my first day in Lagos, there were beautiful lights, everywhere looked like a garden, I felt like I was in heaven.

The Hustle https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/07/03/the-hustle/

If you asked me, I would tell you that JAMB is the most frustrating institution in Nigeria. Forget NEPA, PHCN, or whatever their name now is; forget bad roads; forget unemployment; if possible, forget corruption. And let’s focus on JAMB for a moment. Do you know that JAMB can make you study what’s not in your destiny? Or that they can make you look like a dumbass amongst your friends? Check the number of people who haven’t gotten admission into any tertiary institution, or those who are studying courses they don’t know what it’s all about, then you’ll understand my point. If not for JAMB, how would I have known about Applied Biochemistry, the course I studied for four years?

And my story started on 16th December, 2014. Earlier in the year, I’d taken WAEC, and later JAMB like most of my peers. At the time, I’d put Pharmacy, instead of the Medicine and Surgery almost everyone was clamoring for. What’s the hype about Medicine anyway?

“But Somtoo, you’re too brilliant to settle for a lesser course,” a secondary school teacher had opined. Really? What makes any course lesser than the other? Of course, I couldn’t argue with her, as she would have used the earnings of various professionals to rest her case.

Read more on:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/07/01/tales-from-my-alma-mater-part-1/

“Knock, knock, knock, please open the door for me, the rain is very heavy outside, please I beg you. I will never try staying out late again, I promise you, please try and understand me.” That was my cousin Aisha, begging me to open the door for her.
Who would have thought that I would someday become this famous?

Real Life
https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/07/01/real-life/

I’ve always been the centre of attention all my life. It was nothing new; right from primary school, to secondary school and even to university, people always stared at me. And no, I’m not gloriously handsome; I just can’t walk well—I use crutches to aid my walking. My legs are bent at the knees. Anywhere I went, people would stare at me with pity, or disgust, or something else I couldn’t place. Don’t get me wrong, I am not sad about my condition, neither am I looking for pity. I’m merely starting like this so you would understand the story I’m about to tell; the most hilarious day of my entire stay in Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka.

First of all, my stay in Unizik (that’s the popular name of my alma mater) was almost always eventful. But I’m telling this particular story because of the misconceptions people have about disabled people. When I was coming to Awka for the first time, many people expressed their concerns about how I would cope with the rigors of school; they offered a myriad of advices and suggestions about how I would cope. Some even opined that I came from my house in Onitsha (can you believe that?), others advised my parents to find a maid for me, the rest just told me to make friends with those that would help me out.

Suffice it to say that I found a way to survive, I had my tough moments, but I was able to surmount them. I also had a lot of help from friends, most especially, Loveth, my best friend. I mentioned Loveth because she was of great help to me, both academically and physically, often helping me with my oftentimes heavy bag.

Read more on:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/06/30/the-accidental-beggar/

I looked at Uche, his hulky shoulders looked so small as he sat on the stool, his hands on the table folded. I couldn’t believe that the proud boy with loud laughter and animated smile had been reduced to this broken man in front of me, filled with pain and intense passion—it wasn’t the passion that we had shared years ago, in his small dorm room in Nsukka, neither was it the passion we had shared on the night of my traditional wedding. It was another type of passion, a mix of self-blame and anger. What happened to him? I wondered.

I was filled with questions. The body of his wife had just been carried away by the people from the mortuary. I could still remember when his call came—I had been at my office in Ajah, when my phone rang, his name flashed across the screen. I had been filled with surprise, and even though I never deleted his number from my phone, he had never for once called me, and I too hadn’t called him. Why was he calling me? I was filled with a certain sense of trepidation. I had heard stories of ex-boyfriends who had returned to torment women demanding for large amounts of money, or otherwise they would post their nude pictures online.

But in all the years I had known Uche, if there was anything I was sure of, it was the goodness that filled his heart. Moreover, I had never sent him nude pictures that could be used against me. But I remembered the night my traditional marriage, filled with a impeding sense of loss, I had called him in tears. When he arrived. I had gotten into his car and ignoring his questions of concern, I had moved over the car console and engaged him in a passionate kiss. I had expected to hear something about that night, or how he had missed me over the years. And so when I had heard him say, “I killed my wife,” I had been frozen with shock, and when he kept repeating it, as though he himself could not believe it, I hung up, took my bag and rushed out of the office.

I always knew that Uche lived in a two-story building in Ikoyi. So it wasn’t difficult to get a taxi to his home. When I had arrived, the door had been opened and some people were already gathered inside the house. I didn’t get an opportunity to see him until later in the day when everyone had left, and his wife’s body had been carried out. I called my husband to tell him that I had to stay with a friend overnight because she had a miscarriage. I felt guilty as he had been nothing but concerned, and often calling again to ask about the welfare of my ‘friend’.

The night had not been easy. I had held Uche as he cried, loud, choking tears that struck at my heart. In all my life, I had only seen Uche cry once, silently with the tears that ran down his cheeks as evidence of his emotion. But loud cries like this, were foreign to the Uche, I know. He had slept off in my arms, and I had to endure an uncomfortable night’s rest, seated on the floor and a man with his head on my laps. It was this morning that he realized that I had been there the whole time, and I saw a hint of the Uche I knew in the shy apology that he had muttered.

“What happened?” I had asked a number of times, but he had yet to give me an answer. I stood at the door of his study, my hands folded across my chest.

“Won’t you seat down?” he stood up to clear one of the chairs that had been piled up with law books. I allowed him to do so. He looked like he needed a distraction.

After that night in his car, a few meters away from my village house where my mother had been fussing over the preparation of the meals that would be shared at the wedding, I hadn’t seen Uche again. He attended none of my weddings—the traditional marriage or the church wedding. He had simply disappeared from my life. I had seen pictures on Facebook when he married Kikelomo, a rather small but beautiful Yoruba woman. Their wedding had been wonderful, I knew because I had watched the videos one of my friends who had attended the wedding sent to me. That day, I had been filled with nostalgia and I had taken the day off, to lie in my bed and think of the times I and Uche had been together.

Read more on:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/06/30/my-childhood-sweetheart/

What do they say about writers that commit suicide? I have a story.

Amidst the trials of the world, insincerity has become the watchword. If you must eat good food, then tell a good lie or risk being squeezed to nothingness. This little closet of mine was just home, a simple apartment where I created mansions in my writings. You could equally say I was a loner. The career I’d always longed for as a child has put me between just coke and smokes. They soothed more than human company.

This same career had cost me a fortune in the past but rather than breaking, it invigorated me to write till I heard the captives have gotten freedom. That pushed me to stay alive. I loved to live in my loneliness where books were just companions and the sheets were partners that I caressed on a daily basis. The pen was a Love Machine. What was it that folks offered that I couldn’t create with mere objects? I knew I lived just right and we’d rather not judge right? There’s only one merciful creator we all trusted.

Back into the worst day of my life, the fourth day of March 1995. There was an uproar in the city after a story of mine got published in the City’s paper headlines. In the course of life, I’d learnt how much the world despised truths especially those minorities who were being trampled the most. That day, after a closed-door meeting of those top ranked robbers in guise of leaders, I wrote particularly on those who were found wanting, and further leaked secrets other people were afraid to share. The world didn’t appreciate that in anyway.

Read more on:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/06/30/breaking-news/

Where we belong
we’re Christians but we worship
the god of Facebook.
We start our day with logins
reading comments and replying them.
Smiling, happy, satisfied
Our eyes still dim from a blissful sleep.

Where we belong
Children greet their parents on Facebook.
It’s where morning devotion takes place.
Morning logins, heavy eyes, happy spirit.

Where we belong
The truth depends on a share button
People take actions with a Like button
But real justice never prevails.

Where we belong
Everybody wants to trend
so they see real evil and do not stop it
Rather, they take a shot or video it,
Post it and give it a catchy title.
Here comes another bouts of
shares, reactions and comments.
It’s a vicious cycle of inhumanity.

Read more on:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/06/28/where-we-belong/

It has come
I know
It’s here again
Its smell
the feel
the sight
it makes blurry and foggy

It’s crawling
at snail pace
It hits my head
first
then my fingers
Its freezing
teeth clatter beneath my lips
I gasp

Read more on:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/06/28/breathe-again/

If you see my son….
tell him I’m still shrunken
from the bloat of his essence
once wrapped inside of me.

Remind my son
that I still wear the scars
that tore a way into the world
just for him.

If you see my son,
tell him my eyes are still frail
from countless hours
of heating the tripods
just to put food on his table.

If you happen to see my son,
tell him my world once
revolved around him.
Now, it’s still as the night’s air
of a cemetery.

Read more on:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/06/28/if-you-see-my-son/

I looked out through the window of the car, thinking about all the things I was leaving behind.

My friends, my school, and the home I’ve known for the past eighteen years.

Yeah I turned eighteen last year and we were moving because Dad got transferred from his place of work (he is a police detective).

My Silvery Hair (Episode Three) https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/06/28/my-silvery-hair-episode-three/

I woke up as usual by 5am, said a little prayer and climbed down from my bunk-bed. It seemed like a big achievement for me, to be able to climb up and down the iron bed without falling flat on my face. The first day I slept on it, I had been so sure that I would fall off, but somehow in my unconscious state, I had suddenly gained the ability to sleep without moving, I had woken up in the same position that I had slept in.

That day, I could feel my imaginary audience clapping for me as I came down from the bed with a proud smile on my sleepy face. For many people, it was nothing. But when I had told my elder sister, Obiageli, she had jokingly offered to go to the church for thanksgiving. She was the only person that understood how much it meant to me to be able to sleep and wake-up in one position. After-all, she had been at the brunt of the kicks and hand flings at night while we slept together in our room in Asaba. I couldn’t remember the number of times that I had slept and then when I woke up, I was in a totally different situation from that which I had slept in, a number of times, I had woken up on the cold tiled floor, legs tangled in the wrapper I used to cover myself before I went to sleep.

I quietly picked up a bucket from the toilet in the room, rolling my eyes at the stupid rule written on the door “Do not use the toilet inside the rooms.” What was the use of building a toilet in the room and then making a rule telling people not to use it. I carried my towel as well as my soap case and my already pasted tooth-brush and went out of the room, making sure to close the door quietly.

Read more on:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/06/27/tales-of-a-chinese-translator-part-1/

<a href="https://www.thezenpens.com">Read interesting stories on ZenPens</a>

I’m walking along a narrow road, with bushes by each side. It’s a lonely road and I am on my way to the village stream. It’s almost dawn.

I am walking alone, peaceful, carefree, with the clay pot balanced perfectly on my head as I fling my right hand to and fro like a pendulum.

Suddenly, my hand got caught by a weed growing beside the road. A bit of my flesh is slightly torn. It stings a little and I see few drops of blood. I hiss, wipe my hand on my wrapper and continue on my way.

Read more on:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/06/26/addicted-to-you/

He raped her.

At the first thrust, he maintained a stillness which was loud on its own, but he remained that way for some seconds; perhaps thinking of what he was about to do. He soon let it go and started moving.

Plain Yellow https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/06/25/plain-yellow/

The sun shone so brightly at its highest peak. I could feel the hottest even under my bedsheet. The lovely smell of pancakes filled the whole house, I knew it would be no other person than Aunt Mia.

Lover's Lust https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/06/25/lovers-lust/

You want to die?
Go ahead
Tie that rope
Take a swing
Let your neck choke
And your heart gasp for air

You want to exit the world?
Go ahead
Take a stroll to the nearest bridge
In an acrobatics skill
Do the highest jump
Drown
Let the fishes feed on your skin

You still want to stop your existence?
Don’t wait for that dude to shoot you from afar
A sniper will do
Order for two
Just in case one doesn’t quench your taste

Read more on:

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/06/24/inhuman/