₦airaland Forum

callertune: People seems to take this as a fiction story. This is No Fiction. Its True, i may not have seen it, but its true cos i know. Only Timaya tried to put this out to d public but people got carried away by the beats and named him 'Dem Mama' afterwards. Mister, I'm expecting your mail. Yahoo's got problem with most mobile phone browser too. I guess you switch to gmail, its very okay and less spam. There are more to these happenings and I'm also interested in letting you know some other parts and how you can make it more explanatory and expository. I pray this story wouldn't end here. You said something abt oil been a curse to Nigeria, yes World Bank has named it Dutch Disease. What we have today in Nigeria is Poverty in the Midst of Plenty, Island of poverty in the midst of wealth. Pls i'll still look forward to your email.

I've sent you a mail.

The cover says the book is an "international bestseller". . . For real? I would love to read it, though I don't fancy Romance.

SugaryBelle: This is very good.OP am so impressed and inspired.....

Thanks, dear.

callertune: People seems to take this as a fiction story. This is No Fiction. Its True, i may not have seen it, but its true cos i know. Only Timaya tried to put this out to d public but people got carried away by the beats and named him 'Dem Mama' afterwards. Mister, I'm expecting your mail. Yahoo's got problem with most mobile phone browser too. I guess you switch to gmail, its very okay and less spam. There are more to these happenings and I'm also interested in letting you know some other parts and how you can make it more explanatory and expository. I pray this story wouldn't end here. You said something abt oil been a curse to Nigeria, yes World Bank has named it Dutch Disease. What we have today in Nigeria is Poverty in the Midst of Plenty, Island of poverty in the midst of wealth. Pls i'll still look forward to your email.

Thanks for your interest, bro. I'm using a pretty slow connection for now, I can't access gmail, but you will 'hear' from me before Friday.Thank you.

I agree, 'Americanah' sounds kinda dull and unserious, but she is already established as a writer, so I believe the book will sell.

simplifier: Standing ovation.... William shakespeare of our tym
an excellent work it is, well done.

Thanks. I'm humbled.

dryakson: nice and educative write up.
Pls guy, how can i start to write like this? Am very poor in writing story, abeg motivate me

I can only tell you to be sure that you have the passion and flair for writing.If you do, then write as inspired; don't attempt to write like this or that writer.With practice, I believe you will surely come good. I started when I was around 16 or 17 years. Give it time. Read other writers to improveyourself, and not to compare your abilities with theirs. Goodluck!

MANOSUB: You have done well my brother. I think you should dwell more on "the before you reunited with your brother" i was expecting to see more events unfold before that. I believe u knw wat i mean. If u are interested in publishing this writeup, u will need to give it to someone good in english language to correct few stuffs. Again, i believe since this work is a fiction, SHELL PETROLEUM shud be replaced with another name. Just my humble observation

I agree with you, bro. It's been a while I wrote the story and I didn't bother to edit before posting it here. I plan to diversify the plot and develop it into a full-lenght novel. I will make the relevant changes then, and I hope to start it this year. Thanks a lot.

NOW, THE CONCLUDING PART OF OUR STORY:


‘I’m very sorry I lied to you,’ he said. ‘Mother didn’t survive the bombing.’ He brought the handkerchief to his face again.

‘I knew.’ I had cried for mother so many times at night. Somehow, I knew that she didn’t survive the bombing. I have wept for her, now I’m just annoyed. Why would the government suddenly turn against the people it is supposed to protect?

‘The same people are responsible for father’s death,’ Timi said, reading my thoughts. He is good at that. ‘If we have a responsible government, all these wouldn’t be happening.’

‘Yes.’ Father had died when five ‘Kill and Go’ soldiers beat him up for writing a newspaper article where he documented how Shell Petroleum Development Company, SPDC, maltreated the people of the Niger Delta. He wrote of how Shell refused to fix rusty pipelines, thereby causing oil spill that polluted the farmlands and rivers – the people’s major means of livelihood. He criticized Shell for messing up the community and refusing to clean it up. Instead of cleaning it up, it paid soldiers who harassed and killed innocent villagers when they complained. He explained how Shell paid millions of naira to youth leaders in the community to ensure that they protect it from the villagers’ troubles.

The youth leaders had bought guns with the money and formed militant groups. When they had disagreements over money, a faction of the group would go away, stand on its own and make its own troubles. When their troubles became significant, Shell gave them money to shut them up. He directly accused them of forming and sponsoring militant groups. Then he faced the government and the president. He called on the president to resign, that he has failed. He wrote that the president is a good man and that no country was ever saved by a good man. The president, he wrote, may do well as a church leader , and not the president of a country.

Two days after he wrote the article, he was sacked as the vice principal of the secondary school where he taught. The next day, soldiers came to the house and arrested him. Four days later, we found his body at the market square. We barely recognized him. We carried him home for burial. My uncles petitioned the Inspector General of Police. Nothing happened. They took Shell to court. That was two years ago and the case is still in court. I don’t think anything will come out of it.

‘There are times that I wonder if this oil we have is not a curse,’ Timi said. ‘Without oil, Shell wouldn’t have been here.’

‘Yes, and the ‘Kill and Go soldiers’, too.’ I added.

‘The annoying part is that the government seems to have forgotten us. The only thing it values in our region is oil, not even the people. That was why our youths rose up against the maltreatment and started kidnapping the expatriates and damaging pipelines to steal oil and make a living. What else would they have done? They can’t go to farm and they can’t go fishing. Now they send soldiers to come and bomb us, pretending that they are looking for militants. They just want to wipe us out so that nobody will stand between them and our oil. That’s all.’

Timi was beginning to sound like our government teacher in secondary school. I’ve never seen anybody that hated the government the way he did. He always wrote articles for newspapers where he talks angrily about the how the politicians have neglected their duties and focused on stealing money. He called them ‘politrickcians’ and called the legislative ‘legislathieves’. One rainy night, two years ago, a group of soldiers came to his house and took him away. He has not returned since then.

‘It’s getting late,’ Timi said. ‘Get ready. We have to leave before evening.’ I wanted to protest, to beg him to leave it till the next day, but instead I said, ‘Ok,’ and got up. I went into the camp to say goodbye to my friends. I felt bad that I was leaving them, but some things have to be. My eyes got misty as I left the camp.

Twenty-five minutes later, I sat beside Timi in a bus going to Port Harcourt. My mind went back to my friends in the camp, to the children there who may not see their parents again, and to the women who may never see their children or husbands again. I said a silent prayer for them.


That's all for now. When I have time, I will post another story that I have only in my head for now, I haven't started typing it yet. Thanks for the great responses! LOVE YOU ALL!

callertune: Nice expository write up. Would love to get your contact. Mine is clive4good@gmail.com
thanks.

I have a little problem with my mail, I think it's blocked or something and it looks like Yahoo!'s got a problem. I will send you a mail.

Anabaraonyepete: Plz Is this fiction or real?...

Fiction, but I can bet it happened.

annastacie: i score you 80%

Thanks!

By God's grace, I will post the last part of the story tomorrow.

Myne White: The writing is quite good, I could clearly see the actions, and the characters. Well done!

This really made me feel good, coming from you. . .thanks!

MANOSUB: Interesting and captivating! Makes me wanna read more. Is this a real life story? You must be like 18 years and above, to have remembered the event so vividly, if it was a true life story. But i doubt you were 18 years or older giving the way you said your elder brother pulled you over when you got confused in the kings palace. Man, you are talented. This may earn an award i bet you. Keep more coming please.

Thanks. It's just fiction, for me, but I'm sure that some people passed through a similar -- if not worse -- situation in real life. I'm just trying to give voice and life to their experiences.

Thanks for the replies and suggestions. Let's continue. . .



‘Where are you all? Come out, all of you!’ a soldier barked. We heard the sound of another car, it sounded like a truck. ‘Stop hiding, we are not going to kill you,’ the soldier continued. ‘We brought food for you.’

Three trucks arrived at the camp. I squinted my eyes to get what was written on them: National Emergency Management Agency, NEMA. My fears died down. If these trucks are really from NEMA, then we have little cause to worry. Some young men started offloading cartons from the trucks. About eight men and ten women came into view, dressed like traffic warders. They started walking towards the bush were we hid, calling on us to come out that nothing bad will happen to us. A woman got up from my left and walked towards the camp, she was carrying her little child. A part of her dirty skirt was soaked. I concluded that she was the one that urinated on her dress. Other people joined her. I got up, too.

That morning was our happiest day at the camp. The soldiers and the NEMA officials started offloading things from the trucks: rice, fish, biscuits, canned foods, clothes, blankets, cartons of bottled water, soft drink, etc. That same morning, the Red Cross arrived. Their doctors and nurses started checking us one after another, starting with the children. They treated the injured and gave drugs to the sick. The nurses tried to console us with kind words, telling us that everything will be fine. In the afternoon, the NEMA officials brought tarpaulins and constructed makeshift windows and doors. They could do nothing about the leaking roof, they said. They have already done enough, I think.

A week later, the number of people in the camp started decreasing. Some have gone with the surviving members of their families to another town, some moved to neighbouring villages where they have relations whose houses were still standing, others left to look for their loved ones or to start life afresh. I’ve left the camp twice to look for my brothers and my mother. I searched for a whole day, I didn’t find them. No one has seen them or heard anything about them. I begged people to help me look for them and to tell them that I was at the camp in the community school.

One afternoon, while preparing lunch with other women, we heard voices in front of the camp. Some people were looking for their wives and relatives. We left what we were doing and went to the front of the camp to see if any of them have come for us. Grace, a young mother who lost her child in the bush on the day of the bombing, screamed with joy and ran to her husband. She has not spent a night without crying since we arrived at the camp. We were happy for her. A young boy re-united with his father. That was all. Disappointed, we went back to prepare lunch. I suppressed a tear.

We had just set the big pot on fire when someone shouted my name. Maybe it was one of those annoying journalists who asked you useless questions till you want to spit on their faces. I didn’t want to see anyone now. I heard my name again, and then I decided to go and see who it was. A member of the Red Cross met me half-way and told me that someone was looking for me. A journalist, I’m sure.

He pointed to an orange tree in the middle of the school. A young man was resting on the tree. He was wearing a blue jean trouser, a red shirt, a black shoe and a blue fez cap. I had to shade my eyes in the afternoon sun to see him. I walked towards him. He saw me coming and stepped out from the shade of the tree. He suddenly stopped and spread his arms. I didn’t have to look at his face again to recognize him. I ran to Timi. His hands closed around me and I buried my face in his broad chest and sobbed.

He tapped my back a few times, I knew what he meant. I disengaged from the embrace. When I turned, I saw that some people were staring at us. Their faces were lit up with smiles, they were happy for me. I brought seats from the classroom and we sat under the orange tree. We had things to talk about.

‘Thank God that you’re alive,’ I said. ‘I’ve looked for you!’

‘Yes, thank God.’

‘What happened? Where did you go?’ I was excited. I wanted him to start talking, to tell me everything that has happened to him since the bombing.

‘So many things happened. But I thank God that I’m alive. Pack your things; we’re leaving for Port Harcourt.’
I have always dreamt of the day I will leave this camp to a better place. That day has come, and I’m not so sure that I want to leave again. I just realized how much all the people in the camp meant to me. I now see them as a part of me.

‘Can’t we wait till tomorrow?’ I asked. ‘We can leave early in the morning.’ I wanted time to say goodbye to my friends and to the NEMA and Red Cross people. They have been wonderful.

‘We can wait till tomorrow, but we won’t wait. We are leaving today. Pere is waiting.’

‘Waiting where?’

‘Port Harcourt.’

‘Why didn’t he come with you?’

‘It’s not safe.’

I wasn’t following. ‘It’s not safe? But the borders have been opened and people can now walk around. The soldiers are not disturbing anyone.’

‘Yes. But Pere is wanted by the soldiers.’

‘Wanted? What did he do?’

‘It’s a long story. I will tell you everything when we get to Port Harcourt.’

I didn’t want to press on. ‘What of mother? Is there any news about her?’

‘Yes. She’s alive, but she is in a hospital in Port Harcourt. She is sick.’

I had a feeling that he was lying to me. I looked into his eyes, searching for proof that he was indeed lying to me. He looked sideways,
avoiding my gaze. Yes, he was lying to me. I didn’t want to ask him about mother again, he will eventually tell me the truth. Timi is my twin brother. He came out before me. We have spent the eighteen years of our lives together, so I know him well. I know when he is lying and when he is telling the truth, and he is aware of that. He is the most intelligent person I’ve met. Last year, his WAEC result was the best in the local government. He is smart, but he can never deceive me.

Tears welled up in his eyes. He brought out a handkerchief and wiped it off. Mother did not make it, I concluded. That has to be why he is
crying.


ONE MORE PART TO GO. . .