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Reading Chukwudum Okeke’s “The Embers of Tradition”, evokes pure nostalgia on every Igbo person, except of course the millennials; people who were born after the tribe lost most of its traditions to westernisation and Christianity.


The reminiscences, though fascinating, are not for the purpose of unearthing and reintegrating some of the retrogressive lost heritage into their present way of life, but, to prevent the tribe from going into oblivion.

Okeke’s debut fiction, published by Atmosphere Press, which is presented in twenty-six chapters and 299 pages, accounts for activities of the colonialists and early missionaries as well as events, cultures, and traditions that defined the Igbos.

The book therefore, transcends mere work of fiction; it is a compendium of historical facts that offer the millenials and non-natives, a peek into the true Igbo Identity.

The author, a Nigerian-American Education Consultant, helps readers to understand fundamental truths about the Igbos, especially as brave and hard working people that believe in self-reliance, to become successful. For the Igbos as portrayed in the book, it is usually a thing of pride when people struggle and become successful; the reason Igbos are scattered all over the world in search of opportunities lacking in their country.

The author presents the Igbos as people rich in manifold cultures that unite communities as one family. This is an important aspect his tale emphasises. He brings back memories of the perfect community life style enjoyed before Africans became ‘modernised’. This calls to mind, the words of late Prof. Chinua Achebe, in the classic, “Things Fall Apart”- “When we gather together under the moonlit village ground, it is not because of the moon. Every man can see it in his own compound. We come together because it is good for kinsmen to do so…A man who calls his kinsmen to feast does not do so to redeem them from starving. They all have food in their houses”.

Through narrative on Nweke’s friendship with Akilika, as well as Ebuka, a native of Okwe who lives in Akpu with a teacher- Mr Osondu, readers experience firsthand, love and harmonious living. These days, no parent will permit his children to accept gifts like Ebuka’s classmates do, to avoid being bewitched. Everyone is unconsciously imbibing the attitude of the West- live and die alone.

The Embers of Tradition’s plot revolves around Nweke and his family and is patterned in the similitude of “Things Fall Apart”, particularly as regards the sub-themes; religion, masculinity and cultural evolution. And by chronicling the life and acts of Nweke, a respected, ill-tempered and stubborn titled chief, the novel explores the importance of tradition in checkmating people’s conducts. Nweke, who is also a traditional worshipper and member of the masquerade cult, lives a life crammed with so much turmoil. His first casualty is Anayo, Ebuka’s brother. Anayo follows his younger brother, Ebuka back to Akpu after holiday, oblivious that it is a night of the ancestral spirits which is a period people are forbidden from staying out because the masquerades come out at night especially to mourn a great ‘Ozo’ titled man. Anayo kills a sacred python- Akpu’s god but a choice meat in Okwe, and is apprehended on his way back to his village. He unites immediately with his ancestors, as he loses his head to Nweke who is among the ancestral sprits that night; an action that hunts him throughout his life.

It’s laughable that in all of his display of extremism, Nweke is angry that his god the python allowed himself to be killed by a mere mortal. He puts up a justifiable argument that a god incapable of protecting itself, cannot protect him- its worshipper. His next move is to murder his god. That’s quite ridiculous!

Nweke’s hard working nature, manifest in his expanse yam barn, further portrays the industrious nature of an average Igbo person; excellence being the yardstick for success, recognition and nobility. He is regarded as one of the most successful and wealthy farmers in Akpu community such that one of his wives believes that if he gives his family half of the attention he extends to his yams, his family will become the envy of all.

Nweke is not the only successful man in the story! The Igbos’ ability to turn anything into lucrative business which resonates in the novel, has been of old, just as expressed in the book under review. Their innovativeness is unrivalled! And this is evident in Nwaforcha’s ingenuity in turning chicken, into a big business in Burutu where he is taken to start a new life with the missionaries. He returns with some level of modernisation and becomes the envy of all in Akpu; here is a man bound and cast out to the evil forest for admiring the Christian God.

Nweke’s plan to have his son Ekigwe initiated into the masquerade cult and perhaps, take his place as a dedicated Ikenga worshiper is destined to shatter. This is because Ekigwe lacks interest in his father’s god but hides it to avoid his wrath, hence, his constant questioning about their potency. The attitude of both father and son towards each other is a reflection of the generational gap still rocking homes in the present day.

“The Embers of Tradition” makes an interesting read with corresponding proverbs which the Igbos describe as the palm oil with which words are eaten. Characters bearing ancient Igbo names derived mostly from names of market days- Eke, Orie, Afor, Nkwo and, the gods, also gives authenticity to the plot.

The novel also documents some Igbo festivals such as Opoto- “celebrated to thank the gods of all the surrounding villages for ushering them into the New Year. There is also ‘Iri ji’ or ‘Awanji’- new yam festival, designed according to the author, to thank their ancestors for sparing their lives to see another harvest. It is also “to allow the ancestors to eat first before humans ate”.

In Igboland, important visitors are welcomed not only with kola nuts, alligator pepper and palm wine, but with chickens and goats. The author also lectures readers on Igbo people’s traditional marriage, mode of greetings, salutation to gods while breaking kola nut, and mandatory offering of kola nut to visitors before the subject of any visit is made known.

He revisits sweet memories of life back in the days when moonlight nights tales, masquerade festivals, and some other festivals were held to initiate boys and girls into relevant age grade societies.

As a twin who was almost a victim of devilish culture, Chukwudum Okeke’s debut fiction vividly confronts readers with stark realities of how, many of those ancient cultures such as killing of twins impacted peoples’ lives. Great destinies were cut short in those days. Commendable therefore is the role Odera, one of the discarded twins plays in his home town as the first parish priest and, in his people’s liberation.

The book further examines the battle between tradition and early Christianity, juxtaposing the war with the crucial role Christianity played in the emancipation of the people from cultures and traditions that undermined their development.

This is apparent in the life of Umeh, Nweke’s second son who from the outset, is as fanatical as his father when it comes to Akpu traditions. Yet, that did not bring him any form of progress; he couldn’t even pay his wife’s bride price which is a shame in Igboland.

Also, if not for the missionaries, Ekigwe wouldn’t have become the governor of his state.

And at the end, Nweke accepts the truth that ‘out of the embers of Akpu tradition, had risen a new hope for him in the persons of his sons- Odera and Ekigwe.

Salute to the author for his eyes for details though slightly missing out on deftness in description. Irrespective of how unsophisticated most of the ancient tradition of Igbos captured in “The Embers of Tradition” is, Chukwudum Okeke has succeeded in weaving a glowing and detailed narrative on the peoples of the South East of Nigeria that will outlive many generations.

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Anderson is an ex US Marine who was dismissed alongside several other soldiers. After he was dismissed, things weren't going too well for him, and as he had no money, he wanted to do all he could to make a lot of money, at least to take care of his girlfriend who supported him.

He then reconnected with some of his former colleagues, the dismissed soldiers and planned a heist. With the help of the time machine a friend of his invented, they'd travel back in time, to the 1300s.

They'd travel back to the Mali Empire, to the time of Mansa Musa who is said to be the richest man ever lived and carry out the biggest heist in history!

Download and Read ➡️ https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/12/31/heist-in-the-1300s-a-novel-by-oladimeji-abubakar/

“Throughout my life as a Nigerian, I’ve never felt the way I did these past weeks. We as a nation have become so used to suffering and oppression in every system that the mere thought of fighting it was deemed foolhardy, till SARS stepped on many, if not on all toes. A surge of rage swept throughout the nation; everyone felt it. It was then that we came to the realization that beyond tribe, religion or gender, we are all Nigerians.” (Agboanike, Ezinwanne).

This is an excerpt from the introductory part of this much-anticipated anthology.

The '(We Arose) At Sixty' anthology is one that contains the anger, sorrow, pain and disappointment of Nigerians regarding the oppression of Nigerians at the hands of the Nigerian government. It is a book that should be read by all because of the message it sends to all—Nigerians have woken up.

Download the anthology below.

https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/12/04/we-arose-at-sixty-an-endsars-anthology/

To tell you the truth, if she didn't jilt me seven years ago, I wouldn't be where I was today. It was when she finally showed me that my life had no direction that I started making adjustments, and today, I'm the youngest billionaire in Nigeria. Funny how the winds of Fate blows our lives.

I shouldn't be thinking of all these; I shouldn't be dwelling on the past. At least, not now; I had something very vital to do today. But as my driver parked my car in the underground garage at my company's headquarters, I told myself that in the end, the pains of those years had metamorphosed into gains of today. I came out of my car, arranged my pinstripe suit, and headed into the elevator.

At the reception, I returned the greetings of the few of my workers I met, and when I reached the receptionist, I instructed her to start ushering in the applicants for the job in the next five minutes. Today, I would be hiring a new secretary. The former one, Mrs. Nwali, had relocated to the US. Her departure had left a huge gap in both my business and personal lives as she was not just my secretary but also a substitute mother. So, it would be hard to find a replacement; that was exactly the reason I was personally conducting the interview—to find someone who would be competent enough. This wasn't a job to be relegated to the HR.

After taking a quick breakfast, I sat in my chair, called the receptionist, gave her the signal; the interview for the post of the personal secretary to the CEO of JusTech Enterprises commenced.


***************************************


Two hours later, and I had still not found a person who fitted what I wanted. I was increasingly getting irritated after having interviewed over thirty people without any of them coming close to what I wanted. I instructed my receptionist that after the next five people, I would stop for the day. The rest would have to return in two day's time.

But the next applicant that stepped into my office was someone I had never met before, yet didn't want to see. It was a girl with a face similar to a ghost from my past. Without asking her, I knew who she was, but I had to maintain the decorum, so I asked.

Read more ➡️ https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/02/10/bridge-between-hearts-a-flash-fiction-by-somtoochukwu-benedict-ezioha/

When I was young, I watched a lot of American police movies; I used to sit with my eyes glued to the telly, watching how the good guys always caught the criminals, making them pay for their crimes. My parents could never understand my passion for such movies, and they tried all they could to quell my interests in such movies. They even banned me from watching the television whenever they were not around; I was the only child, so this wasn’t hard to enforce.

What they forgot was that we had neighbours who had a televisions and a plethora of action movies. Soon, I was almost always at the house of one of the neighbours, doing the exact thing I was restricted from doing at home.

So, it wasn’t surprising that twenty-five years later, I was a police inspector, in charge of the homicide department. The past years had taught me a lot about people: at their very core, humans are evil, the difference between a criminal and a lawful citizen being that one hasn’t had a reason to commit crime. I’d seen husbands who killed their wives because they suddenly looked more beautiful; I’d seen wives who murdered their husbands because they looked a second longer at a waiter; I’ve met mothers who strangled their babies because they cried too much; simply put, I’ve seen it all.

That was why I wasn’t much excited when I was rousted from my two-hour long sleep, and informed that my attention was needed at an address downtown. The reason, a peculiar murder case. I got to the scene of the crime, flashed my badge and went past the crime scene tape. Luckily, there were a few people around the body, and the strong putrid stench of formaldehyde assaulted my nostrils. I greeted my partner, Nkem Okeke. She was a woman with the physique of a super model; she had an hourglass figure with a face that would shame Beyoncé. During her early days at the precinct, she had been the object of ridicule and sexual attention. Until she had given a deputy an uppercut when he had groped her in the parking lot. Since then, she earned their respect.

After the pleasantries, I knelt beside the body, and uncovered it. It was a man in his mid-forties, with a pouch of a belly, and thin legs. He had the beginnings of grey hairs and was what you would term an average man.

“Who found him?” I asked. I touched his hands, and they were still warm.

“An anonymous caller alerted us at 12.45am. When an officer showed up and sized up the situation, he then informed the homicide department.” That was Charles, the chief forensic guy. He was my best friend and confidant.

“Luke, there’s something else about his death. The exact reason you were called,” Nkem said, looking very distraught.

Read more ➡️ https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/02/01/public-enemy-no-1-a-flash-fiction-by-somtoochukwu-benedict-ezioha/

I have always seen myself as the most observant person I knew; and in a way, you wouldn’t blame me, I notice and see things others don’t. So how could I have missed what was so obvious? How could I not have noticed when she changed? Her sombre looks, and bloodshot eyes should have been glaring to me, but they weren’t. In all honesty, I simply overlooked the fact that one of my closest friends was going through a lot.

I guess I could say that we were all busy with our final exams in school, with all the stress of preparing for the exams and working on our projects, I could say that I was too distracted to notice; but then, what kind of friend does that make me? Then before we knew it, project defense came and went, and we were finally graduates. And she went through all these while carrying the burden alone, without telling a single soul.

Somehow, I noticed she wasn’t her usual boisterous self when I saw her again at the burial of another close friend’s father’s burial, but I pegged it down to the sadness of the occasion, and never went further to ask her if she was all right. I just assumed she was. What a friend I was!

So when I came back to school for clearance and met our friend (the one we went for her father’s burial), her first question after the normal pleasantries was,

“When was the last time you saw Chisom?”

“Either last November or December,” I replied, oblivious that a bombshell was to be dropped. We were in January.

“Did you notice that she is pregnant?” she said.

I stared open-mouthed at her, using my index fingers, I cleaned my ears and blurted out, “What did you just say?”

“I was more shocked when I realized it.”

“How did you get to find out?”

“I visited her yesterday, and noticed how she had grown fatter, and her sluggish movements. At first, I didn’t want to believe it, even when I saw her slightly bulging tummy, so I jokingly asked her if she was pregnant. Her widened eyes, and shocked expression confirmed it before she then told me everything.”

“Jeez, how old is the pregnancy?”

“Seven. She’s to give birth in March.”

“You don’t mean it! That must have been around June or July, during the time we were running about for our final exams.” It was incredibly difficult to fathom. I had seen Chisom so often then, and nothing had clued me in at all.

“Yes. I had asked her why she didn’t tell anybody, and she replied that she didn’t want anyone judging her.”

“I can understand her reasons. Still, I’m surprised that she could hide it that well, and none of us her friends knew.”

“My dear oo. I’m still shocked. Just go and see her. She needs our support, especially during this period,” she said, and finally added, “I need not to tell you that you should not let any other person know about this. I only told you because we are very close.”

“Of course, I’m not telling anyone,” I replied, a tad annoyed that she would think I would disclose this anyhow. But isn’t it exactly what I’m doing by telling this story?

And so I planned how to visit her as I mulled over the whole thing in my room. I picked up my phone, and dialed her number; she picked up on the fifth ring.

“My sweetheart!” I exclaimed, trying hard not to disclose the fact that I knew about her.

Read more ➡️ https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/01/29/silence-within-echoes-a-short-story-by-somtoochukwu-benedict-ezioha/

When I was given Crop Science to study in the university, the only reason I accepted the admission—though it was never my dream course—was because my parents were farmers. And they had wanted me to gain a good education before coming back to improve the family business. I had groaned and complained that time, murmuring that I wanted to be a sketch artist.

But when you have people who had sacrificed everything they had to see you become somebody in the future, studying their course of choice would be the least way you can say “Thank you.” And that was exactly the reason I accepted the admission, they were my world.

Some critics might say that you shouldn’t sacrifice your dreams for your parents’, but without them, where would I be? I remember when I got out of secondary school, many of my fathers friends in the village had advised him not to allow me go to the university.

“Let him work on the farms like his father and forefathers,” one had said, during a meeting I attended with my father.

“Onyemaechi,” another called to my father, “the state of the economy of this country is bad as it is, not to talk of sending a fully grown man away to study.”

“Doesn’t this their education ever end?” That was my uncle. He had given birth to six girls, and despite pleas from all and sundry, was adamant in sending them to school.

“Since my wife deemed it fit to give me only female children, I’ll just wait for them to be ripe, then I’ll marry them off. The money would be useful in acquiring more farmlands,” he would say. He was a misogynist of the highest order. Though I am a boy, I usually get pissed off whenever he makes such annoying comments.

But in all these opinions about my future, my father would always say, “Afamefuna my son will go to the university. That is what I want for him.” It always warmed my heart to hear such words coming from him. It filled me with inexplicable confidence, and hope.

So you see, there was no way I could have refused to study Crop Science. At least I could make some improvements in the farms. Who knows, maybe I could even find a way to integrate my dreams with theirs.

All these thoughts coursed through my mind as I collected my NYSC certificate, I was finally done with school and serving the fatherland. I flagged down a bike, and gave him directions to the place where I was to have drinks with my friends; it was a joyous occasion for us, also a period to see one another for, perhaps, the final time.

As I dropped at the restaurant, the boisterous faces of my guys immediately lifted my spirits, and thoughts of what I would do with my life were relegated to the back of my mind. I shook hands with them, and we got talking. As we talked, one of us, Bassey, kept us laughing with anecdotes about his experiences at the school where he was posted.

Around 4pm, the normal NTA evening broadcast commenced. I would not have given a second glance to the news, had it not been for the second headline. There was another one of the now-rampant attacks of the Fulani herdsmen; this one occurred at Ebonyi State, and that was what got me worried. The attacks happened in my home state.

Read more ➡️ https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/01/25/petals-in-blood-a-flash-fiction-by-somtoochukwu-benedict-ezioha/

I applied the last touch of my makeup—a dab of lip-gloss, and anxiously waited for his call. This would be the first time we would be meeting, though we’ve been chatting online for two and half years. From the pictures he sent me, it was obvious that he was the kind of man that would make the heart of girls to jump about in frenzy. I looked at myself again in the mirror, and wondered what he would say when he really saw me.

Of course, he had seen pictures of me (even the ones I took immediately I woke up), but the life of social media is light years apart from real life. Maybe he wouldn’t like my voice? Or my step? Get a grip Bianca, this isn’t your first crush. But it’s the first time I’m falling in love with someone in seven years! And with someone I have never seen before!

The chime of the door bell brought me out of my reverie, it’s got to be him. I hurriedly opened the door and looked at the broadest chest in the universe. This wasn’t Jeremy, no, it was a total stranger. With deflated spirits, I sullenly asked him,

“Who are you looking for?”

“You, Miss Bianca Ofor,” he said. He had a low, husky voice that I would have considered sexy, had I not been expecting another person entirely.

“Who are you? And how did you know my name?”

“The real question is: who are you? And why are you so important to the person you were expecting?” That got me. How in the world did he know I was expecting Jeremy? As I was about to fire another question at him, I saw a very flashy and sleek Bugatti drive in. It had to be him. I brushed past the ghastly intruder and flew into the arms of Jeremy as he came out of his car.

He was surprised by my effusive show of affection, but still, he held onto me and laughed softly, the laughter emanating from his chest and filling my head. When I finally detached myself from him, I looked towards my door to dismiss the unruly stranger, but he was nowhere to be found. He had just vanished; and I didn’t even notice his departure. Good riddance!

We went inside, with him holding me by the waist, and whispering how I looked even more beautiful in real life. I took him to the kitchen, and served him the prepared dish—fried rice and a lumpy, well fried chicken. I brought out the bottle of wine I had gotten at ShopRite. He seemed pleased with the food, and I was convinced of that when he finished eating.

“You’re the best cook I know. With the exception of my mom,” he commented, and winked at me. The compliment felt like a hot shower, it coursed from my head down to my belly, making me blush. He looked lovingly at me, and a shadow passed over his face.

“Any problem?” I asked.

In response, he did what I had never thought any man would do for me, he knelt down in front of me. He brought out a sparkling diamond ring, and said, “I don’t know how to make perfect speeches, and now more than ever, I want to say something that would show the wealth of the love I have for you. But all I can say is, make me the happiest man alive by becoming my wife.”

I was more enthralled by the look in his eyes more than his words; his eyes were full of immeasurable love, as if the sun rose and set with me. But, I knew I couldn’t accept his proposal, not now.

“Jeremy, this is the most beautiful thing to have ever happened to me. But I can’t accept this proposal, not yet. We’ve only just met for the first time. Let’s give ourselves time to adjust.”

“What other adjustments do we need? We’ve known each other for almost three years.”

“Yes, but online. Let’s know if we can survive each other first.” He was looking at me as if I was an alien. I could see the wheels turning in his head; he was thinking maybe I had someone else; but I knew why I was hesitant.

“What is it Bianca? Is there someone else?”

“No!”

“Then what?”

“It’s just… I just need time Jeremy.”

He stared longingly at me for a full minute, before returning to his phone. An awkward silence ensued, which I tried breaking with attempts at conversation. He sulked for a while, and then suddenly, he brightened up. We chatted animatedly for the rest of the day.

At night, we made love—it was reckless—but I needed to feel him, to show him how much he meant to me. The only glitch was the moment before he thrust in, we had no condoms, and I had to throw caution to the wind. I guided his throbbing manhood into me, and prayed that it was worth it.

That was the best lovemaking of my life, and it left us totally spent.

Read more ➡️ https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/01/21/my-unknown-lover-a-flash-fiction-by-somtoochukwu-benedict-ezioha/

It was my identity—my badge of shame. Some would call it a badge of honour; that is what they choose to call it. It’s a matter of choice, and perspective. Nothing they said would change my mind. How could it? When early enough, I’ve been told that I was not a normal child, that it would have been better if I wasn’t born.

“I don’t know why you stuck around. After three attempts to abort you, yet you refused to be rid of.” That was what my mother would say back then. I used to get sad at her spiteful words, but not anymore. I’d gotten used to the fact that she hated me with passion. I was the constant reminder that she had lost everything, her life, her family, her lover, and most importantly, her future.

When she was sixteen, she had gotten impregnated by her boyfriend, who bolted at the news that she was with child. Her parents had been infuriated by their daughter’s ‘act of shame’. They had wanted to throw her out, but on advice from a relative, they waited until she delivered the baby before sending her out; such callousness, they never even asked to know what she was passing through psychologically and otherwise.

Luckily for my mother, she was taken in by an NGO that deals with young girls. This was where I grew up, with the full knowledge that I was a child born out of wedlock, without a father, and with a mom who only showed love to me when she felt like. I am… what’s the female version of a bastard? Well, I guess you can also call me a bastard. At ten years, no kind of hurtful word can get to me again; I’ve heard them all.

As I sat in the playground, quietly sketching the face of my mother, who I loved beyond comprehension, I was called by Miss Agnes, my favourite teacher at the Center.

“Chizoba,” she called, showering me with an ample smile, “come dear. The Matron wants to see you.”

Read more ➡️ https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/01/16/wedlock-less-a-flash-fiction-by-somtoochukwu-benedict-ezioha/

Grace looked at Dillon as he reached up turning the showerhead. Her new stepson's unprotected rippled with more muscles than she ever imagined. She had watched him grow from age fourteen, and now at 18 he was a strapping man.

Grace had started working for Dillon's father right after his wife died, and as the secretary to a widowed executive, number of family related duties fell to her. Initially it was her who remembered Dillon's fourteenth birthday, and since his father was out of town on a business trip at the time, it was Grace who delivered his present.

When she first saw her soon to be stepson, she was taken back. He had a narrow tanned face with dark blue eyes and sun-lightened brown hair. He was slightly taller than other boys his age, but more striking than that was his old soul. Grace found that Dillon didn't say much, but when he did speak his heart seemed so full of warmth and depth that she couldn't stop staring at him.

“This is from your dad,” Grace said handing him an exquisitely wrapped gift.

Dillon looked back at Grace seeing right through her attempt to make his father look good. Dillon knew who his dad was at this point, and now 14-years-old, he no longer felt the need to pretend. “I thank you for your gift, Miss Evans,” he replied.

Grace considered fighting for his dad's reputation but knew that Dillon was far smarter than that. “You're welcome. But he did pay for it, so you should thank him for that.”



Read full story https://whizstories..com/2020/10/mommys-big-boy.html?m=1

Ten thousand years of years of searching and still no sign of her.

And it’s not like I haven’t made any attempts at finding her; I mean, where else would I look? It’s as if she completely vanished from the universe, not just the earth. Because if she were in this world, definitely, I would have seen her. But as things stand now, I just had one more clue to try out; after that, I would give up hope of ever loving someone.

To say the truth, it’s actually been six years, not ten thousand. But believe me, every second of those years had felt like ages; every creeping, grueling second was spent searching for someone who stole my heart six years ago.

You might be guessing why I’m starting this way. Well, I never wanted to tell this story, but I was advised to do so, in hopes that she might come across it. And who knows? Maybe she had also been looking for me. Please, also help me and tell this story; maybe, together, we can find her.

Six years! And not one memory of her blurred or clouded over by events that later happened in my life. I love her very much. She’s my Holy Grail.

I fell in love with her in my Primary Six (yeah, I know, it’s childish. And you might just be tempted to dismiss this as one childish infatuation thingy, but before you conclude, hear me out). We were classmates then; we even sat on the same long seat. Even then, while I was still twelve, she was the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid my eyes on. And she still is. She was very fair, and smallish. She had a tenor voice, but had a soul-thrilling laughter. She had a pointed nose with big nostrils, but her eyes could make you forget you were in this world. She was the girl that my heart flutter for the first and last time.

She was Chinaza.

Read more ➡️ https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/01/13/a-powerful-weakness-a-flash-fiction-by-somtoochukwu-benedict-ezioha/

Candlelight dinner? ✔

Kids at grandma’s? ✔

Perfume? ✔

Sexy lingerie? ✔


It's Valentine’s Day. I’m so excited. I can’t wait for my man to be back home. I start rearranging myself and my home, with a side smile; rehearsing the Kamasutra. My face is blushed and a light giggle runs past my lips as I remember some parts.

I’m rechecking dinner again. Its past 7:30pm and we planned this for 7:00pm. He’s always late, such a hard worker my man is. I adjust my thong, my dress and reapply my red lipstick, just as I’m going to the bedroom for the umpteenth time; I hear the hoots of my husband’s car at the gate.

I run like a small child towards the window and peep. It's him. Nervous chills run down my spine and I take a deep breath and walk towards the door.

All what’s going through my mind is, “Keep the pose, smile, sexy eyes, chest upward outward, butt out.”

The door slides open, and I’m caught unawares with my belly out like I’m 60 minutes pregnant, and my mouth agape like a fish’s gut opening. I quickly go into formation with the biggest smile I can muster. He looks at me with surprise and something akin to bewilderment.

“Welcome baby. How was work?” I ask as I take his work bag. He leans in to kiss me and I sniff something.

I look at him sharply, he stares back at me, with his eyes like that of a child’s. I smile like nothing is wrong and head towards our bedroom.
I’m there in record time and place the bag on the sofa. He gets in too and starts taking his clothes off, I aid him.

“Babe, go take a warm shower. I’ve got plans for us, you can’t imagine,” I whisper while unfastening belt buckles. His sharp intake of breath shows that the message was passed across.

“Okay, okay. Who are you and what did you do to my wife? But whatever it is, I like it,” he says smirking like the filthy pig he is.

I leave the room to the dinning table fuming at the mouth. How dare he? Today? I’m pacing and biting my fingers.

Read more ➡️ https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/01/12/the-four-lettered-lie-a-flash-fiction-by-nkechi-analikwu/

I should never have gone to Amara’s place without informing her, but I had no choice; I needed her opinion on a new apartment I had seen downtown. You see, we would be married in three month’s time, so we were on the hunt for a bigger, comfortable place which we would call home. How excitedly I was looking forward to the day I would finally have her as my wife.

As I turned out, she wasn’t at home, but her roommate and best friend, Ella, was. She had thought I was Amara, so when she opened the door, she had only a towel tied across her midsection. She flushed with embarrassment when she noticed I was the one, and an awkward silence ensued. Which was broken by her.

“Hi Jude!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“Am I not welcome in my fiancée’s house again?”

She said nothing, but went aside for me to enter. I sat on the couch and dialed Amara. But her line wasn’t going through. I decided to give her an hour to come back, then, I would leave. Ella had by then, went into her room and I was left to think about the cost of the new apartment. Before I knew it, I dozed off.

Then I heard a scream. I jolted awake, and ran into Ella’s room. I saw her lying on the floor, her towel still draped over her body, and crying. I went closer to her, and inquired about the cause of her shout, but she kept on weeping.

Believe me, I battled with myself on whether I should hold her while she was barely dressed, or just keep on talking without any form of contact. But what’s comfort without a sense of touch, of feeling?

Read more ➡️ https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/01/11/tangled-emotions-a-flash-fiction-by-somtoochukwu-benedict-ezioha/

The shrill ring of the telephone violently rousted me from my well-deserved sleep. Blindly, I rummaged about for the annoying piece of technology, found it, and said into the receiver. “Hello.” I was still groggy, but the words I heard made me to be fully awake.



“Are you going to be asleep while the greatest scoop of your entire career passes you by?” It was my boss, Samson Lawal. He always had a way of getting your attention, no matter the situation. “Better get your ass into your car and drive up to the address I’ll send you now.” And then he clicked off. Few seconds later, my phone beeped in reception of the address he sent. It was an all-too-familiar address; never in a thousand lifetimes would I have thought that such a thing would be happening there. And I would be the very first person to document it; well, also with the gorgeous beauty lying next to me.


I turned to her, and gently tapped her bare thighs. “Hey sleepy head,” I said, brushing a kiss on her ear. “Duty calls.”


She groaned, stretched, and yawned. “Why can’t we shut off duty for one more hour?”


“Not unless you want to explain to Samson why we lost ‘greatest scoop of our entire careers.’ ”


She sat up, pecked my cheeks and said, “Thanks for last night.”


Before I could comment, she waltzed off into the bathroom, her large buttocks dancing seductively. Thank God I had another bathroom in my apartment; I quickly ran into it and prayed that I would be fast enough.

https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/01/09/the-money-syndrome-a-short-story-by-somtoochukwu-benedict-ezioha/

*Star-crossed*

“You are good at fishing,” she said, startling me.

I didn't hear her approach the stream where I was fishing. She looked like the sun. Fair as a goddess with hair as soft and smooth as silk. She wore one of those clothes the missionaries brought. I heard this one was called a `gown'. The gown was just below her knees but the part of her leg I could see was magnificent. As I stood up, I was enthralled by her face. Oval, with dark brown orbs that seem to penetrate my soul; her nose was just perfect not to small not to big, as if she was measuring the amount of air that enters her nostrils.

“I didn't mean to startle you,” she apologized, “I just heard the noise of someone fishing and decided to see the person. You see, my father rarely allows us to leave the house. Now he went to the Big City. I wanted to steal some moments away from the house before he returns.”

Read more ➡️ https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/01/07/star-crossed-a-short-story-by-somtoochukwu-benedict-ezioha/

I heard a shout coming from my daughter’s bedroom; it was a shrill and bone-chilling cry of terror, which made me to spring up immediately from my four-poster bed. I wore only boxers, but I didn’t give it a second thought as I dashed across the house towards her room. I ran up the staircase, and rammed her door open. What I saw froze me in my tracks.

Her room was ablaze, and so was she! Everything, from the curtains to the bed, to the furniture, and to her wallpapers was on fire. Except her face. She was crying as she came closer to me. Then she said, “You killed her, Dad. You killed mom!” And as I looked, her face was also engulfed by the inferno ravaging her room.

I howled in pain and anger, and the next thing I knew, I woke up. It was another nightmare. I was drenched in cold sweat, and was hyperventilating. This was the second time this month that the nightmare had come. It was either Cheryl, my daughter, or Anna, my wife, but the events were always the same—I was blamed for the death of my wife, which happened ten years ago.

I stood up, went to bathroom and splashed water on my face. I looked at the mirror and couldn’t recognize the person staring back at me; my eyes were bloodshot and hollow, and my face was harried, with my cheeks sunken. I was also sporting a three-day old stubble which added to the look of anguish I had. After that, I went back to the room, opened the mini refrigerator and took out my best friend, a bottle of whiskey. I fetched a glass, poured out a copious amount, and downed it in a single motion. As it went down my body, its warm glow revived me and added small comfort to my world of little comforts.

I looked at the alarm clock by the side stool and sighed. 5.36am; there was no need going back to sleep. I would not sleep again this morning. Moreover, I had some documents I had to go through. It was for an expansion bid by a rival agro tech company. I brought out the files and placed them on the desk, and went to work.

But instead of focusing on the job I had to do, my mind kept on wandering towards my dream, and the events that precipitated it. It was something I’d rather not think about, especially with the precarious nature of this deal. But try as much as I could, my mind remained fixated on that particular day, the day I went to hell and back. Without much fortitude, I let myself relive the horrors of that day.

Read more ➡️ https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/01/06/the-beach-house-a-short-story-by-somtoochukwu-benedict-ezioha/

*ZenPens Writing Tournament*

Category: Flash Fiction

3 winners | 5 Runners-up| 2 stages.

Interested writers should register here: https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/10/01/the-zenpens-fiction-writing-tournament-2020/

Entry fee: ₦500

All entries should be submitted between 1st October, 2020 & 31st October, 2020.

3rd Place: ₦5,000
2nd Place: ₦10,000
1st Place: ₦20,000

• Free book editing for the first three winners.

• Monetary consolation prizes for the 5 runners-up.

• Top 8 contestants get free entrance into the ZenPens Creative Writing Masterclass. (Worth ₦5,000.)

Charity was bone-tired as she lumbered into the library. What a hectic day! She staggered, and almost fell into the seat in front of her best friend Jack Cates. He gave her a perfunctory look and bent over the map he was studying, a gold-rimmed perfectly balanced on his nose.

“What’s up Rit?” He said three minutes later, when he was done poring over the ancient document he was perusing. He had called her Rit the first day they met back in college, and as much as she had tried to stop him from calling her by the diminutive, it just didn’t work. In the end, the name had stuck.

“Can’t you see that I’m bone-tired?” She was mortified by the way he had ignored her when she first came in. But she quickly recovered and apologized. “I’m sorry Jack, those students gave me no breathing space.”

“I understand, love. That’s why I can never enter the walls of a university in the name of teaching. I prefer to quietude of this library and the ecstasy of working on maps. Both of them had studied archaeology at Cambridge, but had taken different routes after school; Charity taught African and Sub-Saharan Archaeology while Jack chose cartography.

“You miss the joy of teaching.”

“Honey, with the way you’re looking, all I see is creaky bones and that’s no joy.” Charity simply smiled and went to the coffeemaker. They had had these arguments for as long as she could remember, but he was unbending; his love for maps and ancient history amazed her. Not that she had no love for what she was doing, but seeing him bent over a particular map for hours trying to decipher its contents was truly remarkable.

“Uhmmm… Jack?” she called and his head went up for a second before bending down again. “What is your opinion on those recently discovered South African stone spheres?”

He gave her no response as both his eyes and hands worked in perfect harmony. Sighing, she left him and went to the section of the library where she would find the book she was looking for. She rounded the corner, went past the shelf that housed the recently discovered Inuit tablets, and headed down the walkway towards where the books were kept. She saw the book and stretched to take it out of the shelf, but she couldn’t just make it. Then she jumped and in the same fluid motion, plucked the book from the shelf.

But in doing so, her pen fell from her breast pocket into a crevice she had never noticed before. As she bent to pick it up, she realized that the floor, instead of being fixed like the rest, was actually movable. This was strange. She gingerly moved the marble piece and beheld a hole a few feet deep. Inside it was a box covered in dust.

Curious, she brought it out and using her pen knife, pried the lid open. What she saw made her jaw drop. At the bottom of the box, there was a perfectly preserved diary. It wasn’t possible to determine how old it was, but she knew that it had been there for years, probably centuries. She gently brought the book out, dusted it, and went to switch on the overhead light of that area of the library.

Then she opened the book and spent the next thirty minutes reading a part of history entirely lost to the world; a story that if it came out, would alter the history of slave trade era in Africa and probably the rest of the world. She flipped pages upon pages, as it became clearer to her why this story was hidden and could only be found in a long-forgotten diary. Suddenly, she discovered something truly shocking and unbelievable. She ran back and dragged Jack to where she was; he was more experienced and intuitive than she was, maybe he could shed some light on the whole situation.

It took him twenty minutes to reach where she was in the diary, and without a word, he read six more pages, before a piece of folded paper fell out of the book. He delicately retrieved it and with utmost care, unfolded it. It was a map!

Read more ➡️ https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/01/03/british-gold-a-short-story-by-somtoochukwu-benedict-ezioha/

Most people thought that being rich was the height of it all; that if you can afford almost whatever you wanted, then you should rest on your laurels. But I’ve found out that such a belief breeds mediocrity—something I despised with passion. Mediocrity didn’t bring me to where I was now, no, it was the idea that I still had many more things to accomplish. Such an idea had pushed me from a penniless graduate to the most respected man in Africa, well, not quite true. But that was by next target.

It had taken me ten years to rise from the shackles of penury and hopelessness into the light of wealth; I’d spent every waking moment of those years in constant battle against the forces of poverty. And I have won. Today, I’m the richest man in Africa. Yes, me, Alfred Chike Duru. But such a positon, while having its perks, was also tenuous, and the table could topple any instant. That was why I needed something more. Power. It was the perfect icing to the wealth I’ve amassed; the golden capstone of the magnificent pyramid of riches I commanded; power was a touchstone, used in confirming the status of a rich man. I didn’t have it, and I craved it.

As I looked out the window of my bedroom nestled atop the most beautiful penthouse in Nigeria, I thought of ways to acquire such power. Was it being a politician? I wasn’t sure but something told me that those politicians weren’t as powerful as I made them to be; they were mere pawns in the great game of power. So what was the solution then?

I switched on the evening broadcast and got a huge shock—the World Bank President, Ibrahim Danladi was dead! He had died of food poisoning alongside two of his daughters. Ibrahim was a close associate of mine, so his death came as a personal shock.

******************************
The large hall was filled to the brim with people from all walks of life. There were bankers, politicians, business moguls, and various world leaders; they all congregated to pay their respects to the dead man. After commiserating with the family of the deceased, I weaved my way through the throng of people into the foyer of the house, wanting to collect my thoughts together.

Read more ➡️ https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/01/01/conquest-club-a-short-story-by-somtoochukwu-benedict-ezioha/

Destiny, for Nelson, was what you wanted it to be. You either had what it took to go to the next level, or you didn’t. Wasn’t there a saying about that… “we choose our own destinies…” So, as he drove into the new building he had just erected for his folks, he beamed smiles. He had achieved his destiny. It now remained the announcement he was to make. He pulled into the custom-made garage with motion sensors and air-conditioning, and parked his latest Mercedes-Benz, and stepped into his magnificent edifice.

As he went past the sliding door into the huge and tastefully furnished living room, his thoughts sauntered towards what he was about to tell his mother. For eight months, he had been ruminating on the best way to let her know; but in the end, it all boiled down to sitting down with her and letting her know that he had finally decided to get married. At age twenty-five. Quite a feat.

“You’re what?” his mother, a strict disciplinarian, questioned minutes later when he informed her about his intentions. She was a retired teacher who had certain unshakable principles, one of them concerning marriage.

“Yes, mother, I’m getting married,” Nelson calmly. He had anticipated this outburst from her, so was well-prepared for her.

“Whatever happened to getting your Masters Degree and getting married at thirty!” she exclaimed, flailing her hands in the air. Nelson was unperturbed; mother was always a dramatic person.

“Mother, I know I promised you that I would get my Masters before settling down, but I have found love. For the first time in my life, mom, I have found the woman of my dreams! I don’t want to lose her, that’s why I’m marrying her. Then, I’ll go back to school.”

“And you think it’s easy as you say? You think you would have the time, or be in the right frame of mind for education?” she queried, her face a mask of sarcasm.

“Well… of course. I have discussed it with her and she’s in total support. She’s not like all these Nigerian girls,” Nelson said remembering his last discussion with Sam.

“ ‘All these Nigerian—’ wait, isn’t she Nigerian?"

Read more ➡️ https://www.thezenpens.com/2018/12/29/his-outrageous-wife-a-short-story-by-somtoochukwu-benedict-ezioha/

“James, I don’t know… but we’re not supposed to be here,” Greg Chandlers commented. He was always the scared one; the one that talked the others out of anything fun and daring we did. And because he was big, they all listened to him. Sissies, all of them.

But try as much as I wanted to ignore it, the sea called to me; and on this our particular trip to Jamaica, I just couldn’t resist it any longer. It was either they joined me or not—I was jumping in. Pulling off my trousers, I flung my shirt to the crispy white sand that filled the beach. Then with a loud caterwaul, I jumped into the warm water. And immediately felt at home. Water was my element, no matter what anyone said, mother included.

Soon after, the others joined me; they weren’t such scaredy-cats after all. We dove in and splashed water on ourselves, perfectly enjoying the cool Jamaican afternoon. I looked at the endless stretch of water, and again, something in the way the waves crested and fell, in the way the water roared, appealed to me. I would definitely follow mom’s footsteps. At sixteen, I was now sure I would go for marine biology. Just like her.

In a flash, Matt Bates started screaming. I turned and saw him sinking into the water, bubbles escaping from his mouth. The others looked about with frightened eyes, none of them could move. With powerful strokes, I reached him in an instant, and hauled him out of the water. He was unconscious and barely breathing.

With an equanimity I didn’t know I possessed, I applied pressure to his chest, while pumping air through my mouth into his. I repeated this five times, then he coughed out some water and looked bleary-eyed at us.

“Didn’t I warn you guys?” Greg shouted. He was visibly shaken by the incident and while we looked, he ran back to the resort. The rest of us helped Matt to his feet and also went back.

Back at the resort, all eyes were on me; many of the kids around shied away from me. Quietly, I handed Matt over to his parents who glared at me as though I had wanted to kill their only son. Then I headed towards my room. I kept on wondering—what had Greg said about me? Why was everyone cold to me? Even Lilly, who I had a crush on never gave me a second glance.

With these thoughts crisscrossing on my mind, I dozed off. I dreamt of the sea/ocean—I couldn’t tell. In the dream, I was swimming deep underwater with no apparatus and I saw all manner of creatures. There were assorted fishes, both small and large, plants with askew positions, and something else—totally incredible.

I had seen it from a hole on huge rock surrounded by corals. It was quick, but I was also fast enough to have seen a bit of it. I dove inside the hole, wanting to sate my curiosity. I reached the opening of the cave and saw what took my breath away. It was a large group of—

“James!” my mother’s shout roused me from my sleep. I sat up, and was, for some moments, disoriented. Did all that really happen in a dream? It had seemed so vivid. She was wearing a light white gown with no footwear. Her hair was braided with an attachment, and she looked so effortlessly beautiful. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me for a long time.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” I asked, feeling very uneasy. She only looked like this whenever I had done something wrong. Had that boy, Greg, said something false about me again?

“Oh James… I thought I’ve warned you against going near the sea. You hardly listen to me, why?” her voice was subdued, making her sound like she was crying.

“But mom, I love the sea. You love the sea. I can’t imagine why you would bar me from going near it. It’s not like I’m in any danger.”

“You—There has to be other things you love. Forget about the sea please,” she pleaded, as she wrapped her hands over mine. She looked into my eyes and there was raw pain in hers.

I had to know why she was adamant in her warning. I pressed her for an answer, and she deftly avoided it. I kept on pushing, until I said that I would not stop going near the sea because I wanted to also study marine biology, her field of research.

At this, a shadow of pure, maniacal terror crept up on her face and then she said, “I don’t want you there because… well because your father is from the sea!”

“Wha—What are you saying?” I asked. This has got to be a joke or another ruse to keep out of the water. She had told me that my father had died with his parents in a plane crash. Which other father was she referring to?

Read more ➡️ https://www.thezenpens.com/2018/12/28/prince-of-an-unknown-land-a-flash-fiction-by-somtoochukwu-benedict-ezioha/