₦airaland Forum

July is already bubbling with writing contests and opportunities!


*The McGraw Fellowship for Business Journalism —$15,000 (https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/07/01/the-mcgraw-fellowship-for-business-journalism/)*

*{Deadline: 17th July, 2020}.*


*2021 PEN/Jean Stein Grant for Literary Oral History — $15,000 (https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/07/01/2021-pen-jean-stein-grant-for-literary-oral-history/)

{Deadline: 1st August, 2020}.*


*2021 PEN/Phyllis Naylor Grant for Children’s and Young Adult Novelists — $5000 (https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/07/01/2021-pen-phyllis-naylor-grant-for-childrens-and-young-adult-novelists/)*

*{Deadline: 1st August, 2020}.*


*Broken River Prize — $250 (https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/07/01/broken-river-prize/)*

*{Deadline: 31st July, 2020}.*


*10 Stories to Make a Difference — $500 (https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/07/01/10-stories-to-make-a-difference-contest/)*

*{Deadline: 30th July, 2020}.*


*Origami Poems Kindness Contest 2020 —$100 (https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/07/01/origami-poems-kindness-contest-2020/)*

*{Deadline: July, 15th, 2020}.*

Have you ever thought of how it would be to lose control or use of any part of your body? Being unable to do things that are normal, easy and fun? Having to rely on people, or machines, or prosthetics to perform ordinary everyday tasks? Well it’s no fun. At all! Another question. When you see someone who is termed ‘disabled’, how do you react? Or feel? Well, I can tell you that your reaction depends on how you see the word ‘disability.’
The beggar you see on the street might be more intelligent than you if given the same opportunity as yours; the blind woman who comes to your class to solicit for alms could be your mother if things turned out differently; so could the child with cerebral palsy be a terrific singer, writer, composer or anything if but given a chance.
You might say: “But no one is taking their opportunities away.” Well, that’s not true! There are a lot of ways to do that. Chief among them is pity. A lot of people don’t like being pitied. “Oh! Look at that boy! Can he be able to cope with the rigors of school?”, “Can that blind girl ever find love? ”These statements kill both their spirit and their zeal to achieve. Not. Everyone among them is strong enough.
Is anyone really disable? That’s my question for you. But I would like to add that for me, it’s not disability but Disability which means Difference In Structural ability. How? That lame man might be more articulate than you, that blind boy is more observant than you are; how can he feel his environment if not so?

Read more ➡️
https://bensomtoo..com/2020/06/hidden-treasures.html?m=1

What kind of [url]stories[/url]https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Short_story#External_links do you publish?

Divepen1:
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Akíntayo Akinjide (Divepen)

Dear Jessica,

It's been three weeks since we last met, three weeks since our last lovemaking. I know you've been trying to reach me, I see your missed calls and numerous messages. I intentionally chose not to reply them. Yes, I did. I am not doing that because I have somehow stopped loving you; I still love you with everything I have. That is not going to change.

I am leaving you, Jessica, that's the truth. And I'm leaving you for a man. Now, I know what you're thinking—what is he giving me that you can't?—but I have made up my mind. Our love can never be; it is an unholy union.

I still remember the first day we met, it will always be etched in my memory. I'd been with a mirror between my legs, looking at the strange fold of flesh that is a part of my body; one that seemed to make many men leer at me. I'd been in awe of the might of such a part of me, and also disgusted that my worth as a woman had been reduced by it.

Without warning you slid your finger into me. I'd cried out in pain because nothing had gone inside me before. I tried to pry your finger out of me, but you'd been insistent, refusing to budge. Then you started going back and forth—pushing your finger in and out of me—while stroking the taut bud of flesh above.

I'd wanted to cry out of pleasure when I got to the peak of the waves of pleasure, but I did not want any of my siblings to barge into my room and see us. So I'd muffled my cries with my pillow, all the while shaking from the wonder of it.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/04/17/an-unholy-union/

Messiah. That was what your citizens were calling you. It started with a lone statement by someone on Facebook—a joyous citizen, one of the many who have benefited from your well-thought-out policies—and within weeks, the name had spread like the pandemic the country just came out from. Messiah. Such a glorious name for the President of Nigeria.

You finished signing the sheaf of documents, shifted it to your right, and reached for the next pile. Just then, your private and secure phone rang. You were surprised because you knew that only three people had your direct line: the Vice President, the Chief of Staff, and your wife, the First Lady of the Republic.

The caller was an unknown person, and it baffled you that such a security breach was possible. You picked the call, transferred it to the speaker, and opened the file of documents.

"Hello Mr. President," a cold, male voice said, "or should I say Miss President?"

Your blood froze instantly; there was only one person in the world who knew the secret of your past. There were only two secrets you would take to your grave: how you came to be the president of the country and who you really are.

"Uh... who is this?" You did not intend to stutter, but your voice betrayed you because you were well aware of who the person on the other end of the line was.

"The tremor in your voice tells me that I should have addressed you with the latter. So let me address you properly: Good afternoon Miss President. I trust you are doing well? I am calling you because I want you fulfill the promise you made before you were turned into the person you are today," he replied. There was a sinister tone in his voice that chilled your blood further.

"Listen Martin—"

"So you still remember my name? Yet you forgot the promise of ten billion dollars you made that would be effected once you became the vice president? It's been two years now. Why have you not fulfilled your promise?" he thundered. You darted a look at the door, hoping that your Chief of Staff would delay the meeting you had with him. No one would know of this.

"All I'm asking is a little more time. It's just been three years since the country came out of the Covid-19 pandemic; there is no way I can bring out such a huge amount of money without raising eyebrows," you pleaded. Yes, the President of Nigeria should not be weak, should not beg anyone, but every rule had an exception.

"That is your headache, madam. By this time tomorrow, I'll send you the address you will bring the money to—in person. If you fail to show up, then your citizens will know the trickster that is in Aso Rock. Good day." He clicked off, leaving you totally cold and scared.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/04/08/your-skeletons-have-come-for-you/

I sat in my underground office, reading the now-trending post on Twitter. A pleasant smile tugged at the corners of my lips; I had to give it to the person: he was right about majority of the things he said, but he was also wildly off the mark about the most important aspect—the reason for the outbreak.

My phone buzzed, I looked at the screen and it was the Chinese President. He was probably calling because of the same post I was reading. I allowed the buzzing to continue, and at the last moment, picked the call.

"Mr. President," I said, transferring the call to the speaker on my desk.

"Hello, Mr. X," he began, "I gather that there's a rather disturbing news making the waves on the Internet."

"By 'disturbing news' you mean the post I am currently reading on Twitter?"

"Yes, I believe it's the same one. We have to find a way to quell the spreading of the information. I do not want the US and the UN to—"

I cut him off. "Do not worry yourself, Mr. President. I have the situation under control. I beg you to trust me."

"But—"

"Have I failed to fulfill the promises I made to you and the Circle of Six?" I asked, anger creeping into my voice.

"No, of course not," he replied. He clicked off instantly, probably mortified by my tone. He was the weakest person in the Six, yet his role was one of the most vital, that was why I kept up with his constant fear. But soon he would be removed, permanently.

I sighed, closed my laptop and reclined on the chair. Without meaning to, I went back to six years ago, to the remote city of Wuhan, where it all started.

[center]********************[/center]

26th November, 2014,

I looked around the table, at the five other people—three men and two women—seated with their gazes fixed on me. I almost felt like God because should these people agree to become part of my team, I would be the most powerful man alive.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you've all been called here because each of you has the opportunity to rule the world with me. I specially chose you because of the positions you hold in your various fields. More importantly, I chose you because of your hate for the godless country, America.

"I have a plan, one that would cripple the US and the rest of the West. But I cannot do it alone. That is where you come in."

I glanced around again, taking my time to look each person in the eyes, establishing a sense of importance in them. They were all expectant, all eager to be part of the future.

"Mr. President," I continued, addressing the Chinese President, "your country has the largest population on the planet. That offers us one major advantage—invisibility. We will be needing your help with a major biotech research, which when successfully completed, will bring the West begging for mercy, and huge profits to our individual pockets.

"Miss McCain, your biolab in Wuhan has been chosen to be the birthplace of our instrument of domination.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/04/01/the-business-of-the-apocalypse/

"Hello, my Cherry. It's me, your old-time lover. I know, I know, you've missed me. I've missed you too. But don't you worry, my pretty Cherry, I'm back to fulfill all your dark fantasies."

Linda could not stop shaking after she read the message; she had woken up to ease herself, and afterwards could not go back to sleep. She'd picked up her phone, wanting to check the time when she noticed the message notification. It was from an unknown number, but she knew who it was immediately she finished reading it.

She looked across the bed at her husband of three years. She forced herself not to let out a whimper of terror as she knew that Dubem her husband would wake up and try to know why she was shaken. He was such a light sleeper and Linda would not be surprised if he was already awake.

Such a good man, she thought. Never for once had he pestered me about having sex since we've been together. She recalled how their relationship started; he'd been her best friend right from her third year in school. Then he was in his final year. But he made his feelings for her known to her when she was on her youth service program. She'd been ambivalent because on one hand she loved him too; and on the other hand, she loathed sex, something people in relationships could not do without.

Yet when she gave him the only condition in which she would date him, he'd readily agreed, as if it was never his intention to bed her. And for the whole time they've been together, they'd never gone beyond the chaste kiss—just a mere touch of their lips. Sometimes she imagined—such as now—that he had a mistress outside, a very beautiful lady, with the curves, big ass and ample breasts she did not have, fulfilling all his sexual needs. And just like every other time she'd thought about it, she discovered that she was fine with him getting some action outside their cold bed. As long as he never falls in love with her (or them, she included), I'm okay with it.

Suddenly her phone rang in the silent room; the familiar voice of Sia piercing the eerie quietness of the room as she began the opening lines of One Million Bullets.

Linda frightfully pressed her volume buttons, silencing the device, and praying that Dubem would not wake up. He stirred, turned, yawned, and finally faced the wall, with his back to her. She let out the breath she did not know she was holding, as she looked at the phone's screen to discover that it was the same person who had sent her the text.

She willed herself to end the call, or to allow it go into voicemail, but she found herself standing up, opening the door of their bedroom and creeping out.
*************

He'd been awake for a while before she went to ease herself. When she returned, he was surprised that she was still awake few minutes later. That was very unusual of Linda who normally slept like a log. He usually teased her that one day she would be sleeping and he would take her outside their bedroom and she wouldn't even budge.

He opened his eyes a bit, saw her with her phone and felt her sharp intake of breath. It was probably what he'd been suspecting all along. Linda, his beautiful and lovely wife was having an affair with another man. It was that simple. Yes, she was the one who told him that they would not have sex while they were dating, and he understood her reasons. She was a well-bred Christian girl who wanted to wait for marriage before getting intimate with anyone. But they've been married for three years, how did she cope without making love with her husband if she was not getting some action outside?

As he thought about it, he knew that he was not angry with his wife for satisfying herself outside their home, but he was in sorrow because he knew that it was life that forced him to be the way he was; it was cruel, sadistic life that made him sick, sick to the point that he would never make love to his wife.

Then her phone rang, and she frightfully silenced the piece of technology. Dubem tossed, yawned and turned to face the wall. He could not bear to watch his wife in such a state of sinful glee that she had to hold her breath.

As she left the room, a single tear dropped on his pillow.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/03/28/the-shadow-of-a-known-past/

"Two girls are in love with me, Charles," I said without preamble immediately I landed on the leather sofa in my best friend's office. It was a tastefully furnished office, with a 42-inch plasma TV, a tall fridge, and a priceless painting on the wall behind him. His desk was meticulously arranged, a testament to the perfectionist that Charles was. He was sitting on the sofa with me, sipping a glass of wine, and calmly looking at me as if I'd commented on the weather.

"Can you imagine that? Me of all people? With all the flaws I'm sporting like huge tentacles," I continued, his gaze making me uncomfortable. He had that ability to make you say more than you wanted to say, he just had to fix you with his cat eyes and your mouth would become loose. Maybe that was the reason I do not go to him for confessions.

"And which two girls this time, Okey?" he asked in his pastoral tone. In situations like this, I usually found it hard to know which part of him I was talking to: the Catholic priest or the best friend I've known for thirteen years.

"My ex-girlfriend, Nkechi and my current girlfriend, Lucy. Both of them are in love with me," I answered. Again, my mouth offered additional information. "But I'm in love with Lucy, although I care very much about Nkechi too."

"Of course," he commented. "Given the way you and Nkechi broke up, I'm not surprised that you're still in love with her and—"

"I'm no longer in love with Nkechi, Charles! I just care—"

"—and I am not surprised that she still loves you. You both were wonderful together," he concluded as if I did not cut him off.

I glared at him, willing myself to calm down and not say what I wanted to say. It was not that he would be hurt by whatever I said, no it was because I would later regret it. As for Charles, he had gotten to the point where nothing anyone said could get to him. It was an uncanny ability I've always wanted to develop.

"You know I'm saying the truth. What you should be worried about is how you would handle this situation so that you do not hurt anyone," Charles said, crossing his right leg over the left.

"The last time I checked, it was Nkechi who hurt me. She literally threw everything we had and shared to the dust. And now I have to consider her feelings? What about mine?"

"Okey, if you weren't bothered about her feelings, you would not be here talking about them. What do you want to do?"

I stared at the painting behind his desk. It was a painting of the crucifixion. As I fixed my attention on the man who loved so much that he had to die for that same love, I felt a sort of kinship with him; I perfectly understood what loving someone to the point of wanting to die meant. Though in my case I'd wanted to die because my ex girlfriend had broken up with me.

That day we'd spent a wonderful evening together, talking, laughing and making love. After she dressed up, in the chilliest voice I've ever heard, she said, "I'm sorry, Okey, I don't want to do this anymore. I don't think this is what I want."

I was shocked, my mouth was open, becoming a temptation for the adventurous fly. I asked her for a reason, but she kept deflecting the question, saying that the problem was from her and not me. When she wanted to leave, I held her hand, telling her that I loved her, and that I couldn't live without her.

"I thought you said you loved me?" I asked, trying hard not to cry.

"I just found out that I did not. I merely had pity for you because your mother died, and I got it confused with love. I love the idea of falling in love with you, but I don't love you. I'm really sorry."

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/03/17/three-hearts-one-valve/

She had intentionally stuck to the end of the line, oftentimes allowing other people who joined the queue to get in front of her. She wanted to be the last to meet with him; she knew that she would take a longer time to finish what she had to say, and she did not want anyone to be waiting for them. She had to tell everything, she had to get it all out of her system.

With the line barely moving, she forced herself to observe the required rituals; she closed her eyes and saw the major events of her life unfold again. It was as if she was watching a horror movie with no way of stopping it until she got to the end. But just as she was about to get to the part that made her to come to this place, someone tapped her shoulder. She turned, and for a fraction of a second, she thought that he was back. She had to blink to regain her composure and waved the man ahead, telling him to step in before her.

With her reflection broken, she muttered a quick "Help me, God," and watched the people on the line as they met the man and left. She tried to guess what they might have told the man in white and it became a fun game trying to guess people's sins. Would any of them be as sinful as I am? she wondered as she one girl of about twenty walked away with an expression of relief.

She scoffed, if only it would be so easy for her to just dump her sins on the ears of a man and be completely free of them. But this was exactly why she came to him, because he was a different kind of man, one with a vow to hold on to.

Thirty minutes later, she sat on the plastic chair behind the man, bent her head and said, "Bless me Father for I have sinned. This is my first confession in five years. And this is my sin, father: I killed my husband."

The priest was visibly shaken; despite his training, he was taken aback by the casual way she confessed to killing her husband. Nothing prepared him for this; in the fifteen years he'd been serving the Lord, the worst sin someone had confessed to was a girl who confesses to aborting a child. The girl had been tearful that he had to calm her down before he counseled her. But this was different, this woman did not sound remorseful.

At that thought, Father Matthew chided himself. Who was he to judge anybody and ascertain whether the person was repentant or not? He sighed and said, "My daughter, this is a very grave sin you've just confessed to. Why did you do it?"

In response, she sighed; she debated on whether to tell him everything or just skim through the details. In the end she decided to tell him everything; she had nothing to lose. He would tell nobody. The Church had already seen to that.

She stood up, picked her chair and went to sit opposite the priest. She stared at him for a full minute before she said anything.

"I was six when my elder brother started raping me. And he continued till I was sixteen. He was seven years older than I was, and had threatened to kill me if I ever told my parents. When I was sixteen I became pregnant for him and he gave me a concoction that terminated the pregnancy but nearly killed me in the process. It was while I was bleeding and writhing in pains that my mother found out.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/03/13/occupational-hazard/

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Shadows. I see them everywhere—around street corners, in the kitchen when I step in to cook, in the bathroom whenever I pull off my clothes to bath. I see them in my mind when I close my eyes to sleep. I also see them whenever someone smiles at me or reaches out to touch me; there are male and female shadows, and while the male ones are stronger, believe me the female ones are scarier.

All these shadows, they're part of me, they're living inside and outside of me; sometimes I do not know when I am dealing with an inside shadow or outside one. This is because they all look alike, and most of them look like my parents—the majority of the male ones look like my father and the rest like the numerous customers of my madam; the majority of the female ones look like my mother and the rest like my madam who treated me like a commodity to be handed to every customer who had N1000 to pay.

I don't blame her though. If my so-called mother hadn't handed me to her, she would not have used me like a sex rag who was used to clean up the lust of fat, drunk men. All my life, I've never really known what the love of a mother felt like; whenever I hear people say such things, I scoff and imagine ways I can return all the favours my mother had given to me.

I am an orphan; my father died in a vehicle accident three years ago, and my mother is dead to me. Over the years, I've tried to explain and rationalize why someone who claimed to have given birth to me would dish out so much evil and hate to me, her first and only child. It was something that even God cannot explain despite claiming that he knew everything.

It all started when I turned twelve, when the tide was of puberty swept me off my feet and carried me to the waiting laps of my father, who used me to slake his lust over and over again. He had squeezed my tangerine of breasts, grabbed my little buttocks, and had taken and taken so much of me that I became bitter to myself. I hated him, but I hated myself the more for being his daughter. I hated him for saying that he would kill me if I ever told my mother, because I knew he would.

It was one day after school when I was hawking pears that I came across a group of people on the road teaching people about domestic violence and the need to speak up. I had been so touched that immediately I came back from my hawking (I did not sell all the goods that day because not many people wanted pears), I had gone into my mother room, and in tear-choked whispers, told her that my father was raping me.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/03/09/spoils-of-motherhood/

You have always loved her, only her. To you, she was everything; despite the fact that you gave birth to her while in your third year in school, and the boy responsible abandoned you, you still loved her more than you loved yourself.

To be honest, she was the reason you started loving yourself. She and the man who you were rushing home to meet. He had been a light in the darkness, someone who showed you that despite the fact that you have scars showing the number of times you've tried to end your life, you still meant the world to him.

His name was James, the love of your life. When you had first met him, you had been surprised by his ordinariness; he had a slight leg injury and as a result walked with a cane. But that did not matter immediately you looked into his eyes. There you'd seen untold stories that were bubbling to be told, you'd seen his locked up pains and fears, and you knew that you were in love with him.

Five months down the road, and you were engaged to be married. As you pulled into the garage, you wondered how he could have accepted you with the tons of flaws you had, flaws which decorated you like leaves do to trees. You did not deserve him, but you were happy you had him.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/03/05/the-love-of-your-life/

We were in a Physics lecture when the news filtered in: our results were out! Immediately my heart jumped into my mouth, and I had to swallow hard to send it back to its cavity. There was a silent commotion in the lecture hall and although the class was still starting, many people crept out of the hall to go and check their results in the department's notice board. Although my heart was thumping hard, I and Loveth, my best friend, decided to wait till the lecture was over before leaving; after all the results were not running away.

Yet I could barely concentrate on what the lecturer was saying; all I cared about was having sterling grades as I used to back in the secondary school. And as that was the results of the first exam I've taken in Unizik, I prayed that they would be good.

It was as if the Physics lecturer noticed that we were just bodily present in the class, while our spirits were long gone to somewhere else. This was because he ended his class early, and we did not wait for him to leave the class before rushing out of the class.

Loveth advised me to wait in front of the Physics class while she would go and check our results; she said that because given my condition, it would take only the slightest shove in the throng of people to send me falling to the ground. I agreed and impatiently waited for her while playing some Nigerian music to calm my spirit down.

About thirty minutes later, she came back, and the first thing she said when I asked her about my results was: "You did good, but I'm sorry." I then took the piece of paper that she wrote down the results on and my eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

As I stared at the singular strange result, I wondered how it was possible for me—me of all people—to get such a score. I knew it was not my result, but the reaction I was getting from my friends was completely discouraging, many people told me that they were sorry, but I had to try harder when I would be rewriting the course. One person, an old friend of mine (who went to the same secondary school with me and knew my academic abilities) said the most hurting thing to me.

He said, "Oga na you get the result. You don go fail, come here dey complain."

As at that time, I hadn't taken his words to heart that much because I was more interested in how my correct grade would be given to me. I looked at the paper again and the score was still there:

MAT 101—13 (F)

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/03/02/jumping-grades/

I wish I had agreed to let this pig of a man to go with Sandy; but with business going slowly over the past few weeks, any client I got was special, I had to guard them jealously. This one was just one of those small fishes who wanted more for lesser money. I surreptitiously checked my ever-present watch: he had just two minutes before he would be done and my money would be in my hands.

He grunted and groaned, all the while muttering unintelligible words that I forced myself not to understand; I closed my eyes and saw my savings finally being enough to pay for Junior's WAEC exams, and also settle the landlord. These thoughts helped me to bear the weight of the man on top of me.

Suddenly he stood up, brought out his manhood out of me and beckoned to me. I raised my eyebrows in surprise, spreading my arms in a gesture of being lost.

"I wan mek you suck am," he said, holding his throbbing dick, with his eyes glazed over with lust.

"Oga, dis no dey our agreement oo," I answered, looking at him like he was a goat.

"I tell you mek you suck my gbola you dey shout? E be like say you no wan collect your money, shey?" He was now shaking with frustration over the fact that his orgasm was being delayed.

"If you wan put am for my mouth, you go pay extra 2K, na so I dey work."

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/02/28/bad-day-at-work/

Chijindu, my love,

When I got your call after six years, I felt my heart stop for a moment; it was both a thing of ecstasy and intense pain to know that you were finally back in the country, as you said you would. You'd asked to see me, and although I was a married woman, I'd readily agreed to meet with you—to catch up on how our lives had turned out.

I was even doubly happy that you chose to meet me in your house and not in a restaurant or hotel room, where I might have been spotted with a strange man. Thank you for that, although you did not know then that I was married.

The day I saw you again after those years was the first day I truly took out my time to look good after getting married. Who would I look good for again? My husband rarely noticed me, and whenever he did, it was to continue his futile efforts at getting me pregnant. So I had taken my time to look good, making up and choosing the most beautiful dress I had.

And when you opened your door later in the day, the look of absolute wonder, adoration, and naked desire in your eyes had left me breathless and pleased with my efforts. We had such a great time together, talking about everything—your time in Poland for studies, your job as a consultant software developer for a big firm, but when the conversation steered towards my life, I'd carefully skimmed through the details, telling you that I had finished youth service without telling you the course I studied. Thankfully you had let it slide.


Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/02/25/embers-of-a-dying-love/

He would die, that was sure. But how? you wondered as you watched the steady rise and fall of his chest as he took heavy, laboured breaths. You thought about disembowling him as he watched, but your sister-in-law who was in the abandoned warehouse with you might be nauseated by the gory act. What about cutting out out his eyes and tongue and forcing them down his throat and then slicing his throat open as he swallowed them?

But none of these means of serving death felt sufficient to quech the blood lust in you; you wanted this man to pay, and to pay in the most painful way possible. The thought of your wife's lifeless and mutilated body was imprinted like a painful tattoo in your mind, and try as you might, you cannot blink without seeing flashes of images of that evening.

That day you'd been tied up with work at the precinct due to the recent series of ritualistic killings happening round the country and most especially your town. And being the head of the homicide department, everyone was on your neck—your boss, the press, the families of the victims—asking for results.

So when Chekwube your wife called you that evening to remind you of your planned dinner date, you'd promised her that you would be at home in the next one hour, and with a speedy efficiency, you'd cleared your desk to a reasonable extent, and as you picked up your car keys, she'd called you again. When you picked up, you wanted to tell her that you were on your way home but the fear in her voice had chilled your blood. She had simply asked you to come home fast and save her from the man who was outside her door.

Immediately she ended the call, you had dashed into your car, all the while fearing and praying that what suspected would not be true. You had driven home in a blur, flouting the traffic rules because all you were thinking about was saving your wife and your unborn child. But you'd been too late.

Immediately you stepped into your house, you knew that all hope was lost; as you gingerly walked to your bedroom, you could feel the presence of death in your house. It had a tangy smell that assaulted your nostrils and left you gasping for air. Just as you twisted the knob of the bedroom door, you saw a flash of movement outside your kitchen window, and with lightning speed, you dashed after the hooded figure only to be stopped dead in your tracks by a sight you would always remember as long as you lived.

There on the marbled floor of your kitchen, the body of your wife lay grotesquely and mutilated, her belly open and her unborn child—your first child—ripped out and placed in her arms. It was a sickening sight, one which was a vile representation of the Madonna that was in your room.

You had crumbled to the floor, sorrow and rage weakening you, blinding you, till all that was in your head was revenge. But revenge against who? Who had so much hate against you that he would go to such extreme means to prove a point? You stood up, wanting to place a call to the station for a forensic unit to come and sweep your house for clues. That was when you saw the note clutched in the child's tiny hand.

You took the tweezers and pried it off. Then you brought out the latex gloves you usually took with you everywhere you went, wore it and opened the note. The gruesome message in it ignited a burning fire of blood lust in you, one which still burned as you watched your wife's killer. The note had read:

"THOSE WHO PLAY THE GAME MUST WIN. UNLESS THEY FACE THE WRATH OF THE BROTHERHOOD OF BLOOD.

SHE DID NOT WIN, SO SHE HAD TO DIE."

After reading the note, you knew immediately who had written it and why your wife had died. She'd been a victim of a sadistic group of people who lured people to their deaths with the promise of $25,000 if they won a certain game. That was the recent menace you were battling at work, but to see the evil you'd tried so hard not to believe staring at you pointedly, daring you to doubt it was just too much.

With numbed feelings, you brought out your Infinix phone, dialed your partner and gave him the information about you wife. He'd be there in fifteen minutes, he'd said. So you waited.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/02/23/win-or-die-or-try-to-survive/

Dear Favour,

The first time I saw you, nine years ago, my heart skipped a beat. It was both painful and shocking, and I couldn't analyze what I was feeling because I was young—barely twelve years old. But I was perfectly sure of one thing: you were special, quite unlike any girl I've met before; I knew that I would forever be hooked to you.

The first time I saw you was in primary five; I was sitting with my best friend, Kene, and as you marched past us (you've always walked in that manner, as if you are always in a hurry), I'd commented on your beauty to him. He had chuckled and said that you were in his class. I'd been thrilled, and a little bit disappointed. I was thrilled because you were in a class I could easily go to anytime to see you, and disappointed because of the same reason: Kene was a good charmer, and I was jealous that he would get your attention.

But strangely though, Kene seemed not to be interested in you, and buoyed by that, I came to your class more often. Did you ever notice that anytime I came to visit Kene, I would always stare at you, barely listening to whatever my friend was saying? Of course not. What was I even thinking? You are a goddess, and mere mortals like us pass without your notice. And how could I have competed with the boys in primary six who were vying for your attention as though you held their destinies in your palms?

I was stuck on how to approach you, to tell you that although I was twelve, I was madly in love with you and would always be. And just when I thought I had no hope, Fate gave me some dose of good luck—in primary six we became classmates, and as if that was not enough, we sat in the same seat, me and you, all alone in one seat.

I will never forget my primary six because it was a class that showed me my future, and helped me realize that I was meant to love you. Only you.

Gradually, we became friends, and it was as if I was living in the Garden of Eden, where everything is good. I, who before I met you, didn't like going to school, was now counting the hours before I would see you again whenever I got home. Monday became my favourite day and Friday my worst. You were the reason I came to school in primary six. Don't tell my parents.

Do you remember the first time I told you that I loved you? I had battled with that decision for days—weeks even—before I finally mustered the courage to let my feelings known to you. And no, my courage wasn't that strong to confess my feelings to your face. So I had written you a note, with the words 'I LOVE YOU, FAVOUR' in bold letters on the sheet of paper. Then I had slotted it inside your bag, where you normally kept your pen. When you came back from break, you saw the note, and when you asked me if I wrote it (although you saw where I signed my name), I was momentarily hit by a fear so great and intense that I had wanted to balk. In that one second it took me to nod my head, I had feared that you would show our class teacher the note. Yet I found my neck jerking my head up and down in affirmation of what you asked.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/02/14/a-good-day-to-love/

You've called him fifteen times this morning, and the network operator has been saying the same scary thing: "Dear customer, the number you are calling does not have the facility to receive calls at the moment. Please try again later. Thank you." You refuse to believe what your mind is telling you; it can't be true. He loved you, he said so himself. And everything he had done for the past three months spoke volumes about his devotion to you. He was your light in the dark hell of your marriage, the reason you have not listened to the demons who whisper to you when you're alone, giving you promises of a beautiful place once you cross over.

Your mind whipped you back to the first time you met Chima, your lover. You'd gone to the chapel close to your house to pray, talking to God and asking him why he allowed you to marry a man who was your father's age mate. But as usual, God was mute; you had come to realize that even if God heard your prayers, he either didn't want to answer them, or he was just mute.

As you stepped out of the chapel, you started to cross the road to where your car was parked, when you bumped into him. He had been distraught, and had barely noticed that he bumped into you. As he made to leave, you had held him back, wanting to dump your frustration on him. But one look into his eyes had you hooked. His eyes had the kind of sorrow that must have been living in your own eyes. You had calmly asked him what the problem was and he had told you that his wife had left him for his best friend due to the fact that he was fired from his job.

You did not know where the courage came from and you took him out to lunch, where he recounted his woes to you. You had listened quietly, trying to quell the spark of attraction you felt towards him. You had watched his lips move, the words barely registering with you as you imagined what those dark full lips would feel like when they locked with yours; you watched his hands as he gesticulated, hoping that they would roam your body and touch you in all the places that needed to be touched.

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https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/02/12/for-better-for-worse/

You open your WhatsApp, wanting to quickly reply the messages that must have come in during the night. The sheer number of messages weakens you instantly; they are mostly your customers who want you to either supply them with wigs or make some for them. As you reply, typing fast and mechanically, a message comes into your class' group chat: there will be a quiz today. You groan loudly; this is not how you want your day to go. But thankfully, you read the lecturer's handouts yesterday, so you are prepared.

Just as you are about to close your WhatsApp and start preparing for school, you see the message from a new number:

YOU ARE MY WOMAN. TODAY, I'LL MAKE YOU MINE. TODAY I'LL MAKE LOVE TO YOU.

You know who the person is—Stanley, your ex boyfriend. Ever since you broke up with him, he has been on your neck, calling you incessantly and pleading for forgiveness, but you do not see yourself being with him. Not after you walked into him and your coursemate banging their brains off.

So you decide to ignore him and went into the bathroom. As you shower, you try to prepare your mind for the quiz, but the annoying message keeps flashing in your mind. What does he take you for? A puppet? you fume. How can see send you such a message, as if he owns you? With deep, even breaths, you calm yourself down, towel your body and get out of the bathroom.

Then you wear your clothes, deciding to appear as inconspicuous as possible today. Maybe if Stanley sees you in class without any makeup or wig, he might see that you are just an ordinary girl. Maybe then he will give up. You doubt it though.

You go into the kitchen to fix yourself a quick breakfast, and as the water is boiling, your phone rings, the familiar tune of Simi's Jericho becoming irritating all of a sudden. You look at the caller ID, but it was a number you do not have on your phone. Was it Stanley again? You think about ignoring the call, but you decide to pick it, and give him a piece of your mind.

"Look, Stanley, if you don't stop disturbing me, I'll—" You do not finish your threat as the person on the other end of the line interrupts you.

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https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/02/11/the-lover-you-never-knew/

Across the table she looked at me from time to time, making me to feel so self conscious that I did not even know what the food tasted like. I tried my best not to look at her often, but each time I risked a glance at her, I found her beautiful honey brown eyes fixed on me. I finally resolved to focus on the fufu and egusi I had before me, but I couldn’t still enjoy the food the way I wanted to.

Maybe it was because I still did not know why she had treated me—of all people—to lunch. Did she think that I was unable to feed myself? Yes, I've been sent out of exam halls a couple of times since our first year in school because I didn't pay the school fees on time, but that was not enough for her to assume that she was Jesus and I was the five thousand. I decided that that reason was too off the mark and tried to entertain another thought.

Did she need my help in her academics? I had to stem a bubble of laughter at that particular thought. If anyone needed my help with academics, it sure wasn't her. Chikwado Machie was one of the most brilliant girls I've ever come across. It was a given that if I ever missed a step in my academic race, she would be the best graduating student, a title I fought for with everything I had.

Why then did she take me out? I knew for a fact that she would never give anything for free. Rich people never did that. For people who had more money than God, nothing would always go for nothing. What could she possibly want from me?

"Don't you like your food?" she asked suddenly, "it's getting cold."

"Huh—I... uh... the food is wonderful. Thank you," I managed to say. I couldn't understand why I was so self conscious around her. Yes, we hardly talked in class, but I've always been able to talk to anyone regardless of his or her status. Anyone except her. She had the easy grace and confidence that only wealth could bring. It also didn't help that I was madly in love with her.

That last part was a source of constant pain and confusion for me. One one hand, I disliked her pompous and high-handed attitude; she was always going around in class, poking into people's businesses, asking for those who had financial problems and things like that. She was the perfect pretender—always acting as if she cared for her classmates, but I knew that she was secretly enjoying the pedestal life had placed her on.

Then on the other hand, I couldn't stop thinking about her oval face, her deep eyes that held untold secrets; I stared at her lips as she ate: they were sensual with the upper one slightly bigger than the lower one. I never thought I'd fancy a dark girl, but she was different; she seemed to glow and exude barely acknowledged sexuality. I guess part of my dislike of her was that I was way below her league, there was no way she could see me that way.

"I want you to marry me," from the heights of my reverie, I heard her say.


Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/02/10/marriage-in-a-flash/

The old man held my hand with surprising strength. I wanted to pry my hand of his, but he didn't budge. I did not want to create a further scene on the highway, but as he dragged me to a corner of the road, I fought the urge to push him and bolt. He was dressed in a dirty green cloak that covered most of his small, wiry frame. He had small, beady eyes that bored at you as if they had no other preoccupation. His full lips were cracked and dark. Most annoying of all was that he reeked of cigarette smoke and booze.

I did not want to regret saving him from that vehicle, but I guess I didn't think before jumping into the road and pushing him away from death. Somehow I guess I was daring death to take me in his place. At the thought of dying, the events of the evening came rushing back. My heart constricted in such unimaginable anguish, and I had to resist the impulse to howl in pain.

I worked with my best friend, Uju, in an ad agency, and after work she had invited me to a round of drinks. I had wanted to decline, thinking that she was on another of her drinking games, in which the person who finished the seven shots of the drink fastest got to be treated to lunch the next day. I had lost to her on three consecutive occasions and I wasn't in the mood to lose again. Uju was a special breed of woman; she drank like alcohol was water and she was a fish, and smoked like she was a chimney; yet she was amazingly clear-headed. When it came to adverts, she was the best. And I was madly in love with her.

When we got to the bar, she had just ordered for a fruit drink and then she had flashed a diamond ring in my face, gushing on and on about how her boyfriend, Mark, had proposed to her in front of her parents. I had mechanically done my duty as her best friend: saying the right things and congratulating her, while my heart shriveled and writhed in agony.

When we parted ways, she had told me that she was going to her boyfriend's—no, fiancé's house—and might come to work late. I had trudged home with a bitter heart and heavy feet. I had been in love with her since our university days, and I had always known that I was not her type; she preferred sporty and outdoorsy men with strong muscles and stronger personalities. I was the exact opposite: barely five feet two inches of fat and sluggishness. I had witnessed four of her relationships go up in flames, and after the second one (the boy had taken her virginity), I had decided to man up and told her how I felt about her.

She had not been surprised as I had expected, neither had she told me off; instead, she had cupped by chubby face, gave me a kiss full on the lips, and had told me that she knew that I was love with her, but she simply didn't fancy me.

"I really love you, no doubt," she'd said, "but as a friend. I cannot date you."

I had wanted to correct her that I never asked her to date me (I'd just confessed my feelings to her), but I guess she was trying to make the message clear—I wasn't her type. Period.

So it was that as I wanted to cross the road and head into my street, I saw an old man wobbling in the path of an oncoming vehicle. I did not think about the consequences as I dived into the road and had pushed him to the other side. He had thanked me endlessly and as I made to leave, he still held my hand and dragged me to a secluded corner of the street.

I opened my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, but he placed one skeletal finger on my lips and said, "Open your palms." His English was refined and I was surprised by that too.

I obliged him (anything to make him leave me alone), and as he placed his hand on mind, I felt like a thousand volts of electricity was channeled into my body. I shook and felt my brain shutting down. I thought that the man had chosen to repay my kindness by killing me with supernatural means. But at the last moment, he removed his hands and I gasped as I took in lungfuls of air.

When I got the ability to speak back, I asked him, "W–what... did you just do to me?"

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/02/08/the-will-to-love/

She was the first to wake up. She propped herself on her elbow, and stared at the god that was sleeping so beautifully beside her. As she looked at him, she marveled at the series of events that had brought them to the point they were in their lives. Her mind went back to the literary festival of the previous evening; they had barely followed the proceedings, and when their hunger for their bodies threatened to consume them, they had quietly crept out of the hall and within five minutes, they were in his hotel room, with the furniture witnessing a firework of clothes and a festival of lovemaking.

Without meaning to, she trailed her index finger on his hard torso, starting from his neck, down to his six-pack stomach. She then touched his muscled arm and gulped down the sudden surge of desire that rose from her belly. He is beautiful, she thought, and I love—

Immediately she was hit by a tornado of guilt that came on and on these days. She knew that she was betraying her husband, but she could not help it. She still loved Ikemefuna, her husband of thirty years, but what she felt for the man in front of her was exciting as it was real; she could almost feel her love for him hanging in the air, the guardian angel of their union.

Her lover stirred, then opened his eyes, a sexy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. She remembered what that mouth had done to her, the way he had kissed, tasted and taken her to heights of pleasure she never thought she would experience again. At fifty-three she'd thought that the fire of her sexual passion had been long extinguished. But Andrew was a sex god as she had found out, he was capable of unlocking vaults that she thought closed forever.

He sat up, cupped her face in both his hands, and planted a kiss on her forehead. Then he went into the bathroom. As she stared at his sexy, hard ass, her thoughts went back to her husband. It had been twelve years since he died in that ghastly fire, yet she still loved him like he was still part of her. He's still part of my life, she chided herself. She knew that she would always love him till her last breath; he had been everything she had wanted and more, and when he had died, she had been plunged into an abyss of pain and sorrow.

Till Andrew came along. First, he had become her friend—her best friend—and had pulled her out of her misery. He had been preparing to write his fourth novel then, but he had had time for her. He was also the one who encouraged her to start writing; according to him, writing was both an occupation and a drug that was capable of healing a great many things, most especially heartbreaks. She had been unsure of her ability to weave stories out of her mind, so she had decided to write about herself and her life.

Andrew had been there throughout the time she wrote her first book, and with his contacts in the literary world, she had published her first memoir. It had been an instant success, garnering acclaims from all corners of the world. That was how she had turned her pain into her passion. But she knew that despite her writing about the excruciating pain of her husband's death, it had not really stopped her from the moments when she was most vulnerable, when she would be awake at night, her tear glands wanting to empty themselves.

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https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/02/07/a-time-for-love/

I sat in front of the TV, full of food and boredom. I flicked through the channels: football games, fashion shows, reality shows, talent shows, various news channels. Nothing was interesting. I decided to go back again, maybe the talent shows would be interesting. Unlike most boys, I did not fancy football; I preferred reality TV shows, fashion shows, and talent shows, most especially The Voice. I don't understand why you would spend time watching a bunch of men chase a ball around; the most annoying aspect of football was the incessant arguments that the fans had over people that didn't even know they existed.

My dislike of football was not welcomed by many of the boys in my school, though. It had made me to be subject to many jests and ridiculous statements. Of course it didn't help that I preferred to be among girls in school than with the guys; and despite the fact that I did not not in any way look effeminate, it had not stopped the guys from referring to me as a pussy. Especially John Maduka.

At the thought of one person who was always making my days in school such terrible experiences, I was filled with such a venomous hate that I could feel my blood boiling. He was always finding ways to get me into a fight with him, and the only time I fell into his trap in my SS1, I had gotten a beating that had sent me to the school's clinic. When I got home that day, mom had asked me what happened, and I had told her that I fell while playing in school. I'm not sure she believed me, though.

As I quickly went past AIT News Channel, heading for a talent show, a headline caught my eye. I flicked back and stared in horror at the video footage being played. A tiger was attacking one of the students from my school. The person looked familiar and as the news continued, I discovered that it was John the Bully. He was later rescued, but by then, he was barely recognizable and I feared that he might be dead.

I felt such a chill that I had to rub my hands on my arms to dispel the imagined cold. This could easily have been me, I thought, or anyone else that I like. Our school had gone for an excursion to the local zoo, but I had decided not to go with them. I have a terrible phobia for almost all animals and I couldn't imagine seeing them at such a close range. But I just couldn't watch this from the sideline. It was just a few minutes walk to the zoo from my house, and I knew I had to see things for myself.

I rushed to my room, threw on some clothes and dashed to my mom's room to inform her that I was going out. But she was not there. I went into the kitchen, but she wasn't there either. I stepped outside, maybe she was doing something outside; but she was nowhere to be found. I headed back to her room, maybe she was in her bathroom. But as I stepped into the room, I saw two dolls on her bed: one a tiger and the other looked like John Maduka.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/02/05/the-secret-mother-never-told-me/

Immediately the lecturer finished his three-hour lecturer, I was the third person to leave the classroom. I wanted to rush home and be on my way to the romantic weekend I'd been waiting for. I'd hardly even listened to the Philosophy lecturer as he prattled on and on about various Greek philosophers; my mind was on the person I wanted to meet—my sugar mummy.

I was at the door of our faculty building when Obinna, my roommate caught up with me. He knew that I had somewhere to go to, but he didn't know where. I was not going to tell him either. Obinna was one of those sanctimonious people who believed that every single thing would lead him to sin, and he pointedly avoided many things. Not that I am the worst sinner, but there are lifestyles that I see as living in bondage, and he was the ambassador of such a lifestyle.

"Okey, why are you in such a hurry?" he asked, holding my hand. "Have you forgotten they we have a group reading by 2pm today?"

I made a show of looking at my watch; there was no way I could afford not to see her today. Not after missing her for two months. And I'd totally forgotten about the group reading till I was leaving the classroom.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, man. I can't make it today. Remember I told you that I'll be going home this weekend?"

He looked betrayed but managed to nod. He then wished me a safe journey and headed towards the boys' hostel. That was another thing with Obinna—he had a way of making you feel guilty of almost everything you did. But I quickly removed him from my mind and jogged home.

Despite the fiery sun, I got home under three minutes, took the bag I'd packed in the morning and left. I called her once I was inside the bus and the sound of her soft, deep and silky voice sent my blood on fire; I instantly became hard and expertly used my bag to cover it, trying to think of other things—like how it all began with her.

She was my my mother's best friend; they went to the same secondary school and later were roommates in the university. Later she had gone to South Africa for her Masters degree and had lived there for twenty four years. I'd seen her once or twice when I was in primary and secondary school, but she was mostly over there with her husband. It was during the wave of the xenophobic attacks on Nigerians that she came back; she had lost her husband and barely escaped with her life.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/02/04/just-a-number/

The two burly guards carried the short, squat man between them, and I watched with interest as his legs dangled in the air. It was a comic show, the man twisted and writhed, trying to break free from the hold of guards, but he might as well have been trying to move two mountains. The guards didn't as much as twitch in cognisance of his efforts. When they got to the building where I was holding a meeting with my advisors, they tossed him like a rag on the floor.

"Greetings, my king," Achala, the chief border guard of my kingdom said. He was a mountain of a man; well over six feet with arms and calves the size of tree trunks. He had hard, piercing eyes and was the strongest man in all the lands of the Seven Rivers.

"Achala, the great warrior! Who is this man?" I asked. The other chiefs were visibly incensed at the way our deliberations had been interrupted. That was the way of Achala; it was as if the only authority he acknowledged and respected was mine. I had thought of sanctioning him many times, but I would remember his battle exploits and the fact that my kingdom had enjoyed five years without any form of outside trouble. Other kingdoms feared the Lion of Obodoako kingdom.

"My king," he began, "we found this man at the border with Ichere kingdom. We questioned him, but has refused to talk, saying that he would talk to only you. But I have the feeling that he is an Ichere spy."

After his reply, there was a collective murmuring amongst the chiefs. They were instantly agitated, and had every right to be. The people of Ichere have always been our enemies and were looking for ways to infiltrate our kingdom. The recent information we had was that they had accepted the strange men that have landed from the sky; those men whose skin were white, and who spoke through their noses.

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https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/02/03/kingdom-without-borders/

Chief Inspector Yemi Adedeji sat in her office, wishing that the time would go faster. She resisted the temptation to look at her watch again and forced herself to think about other things. Like what she would do with her husband after work.

At the thought of him, she sighed with longing. Anyone who didn't know her would think that she was in the throes of teenage love; little would the person know that she had been married for thirteen years. She smiled at that; she was lucky, she mused, not many people got to marry their first love. But theirs had been a love affair that had spanned the duration of their teenage years and finally when she was twenty-two and he was twenty-six, they'd gotten married.

Finally, she couldn't resist the temptation and took a glance at her watch; 1.50pm. Ten more minutes and she would be out of the drab office and on her way home, to her source of joy.

Her phone beeped, she picked it up, and read the message. It was her sister Bola. She had informed her that she had gone home to prepare their dinner. Yemi had not bothered to inform her that she and Mike would not eat at home that night. Let her suffer a bit, she thought as memories of what her sister had done to her filled her with barely contained hate. She fought the memories, fighting for control, trying not to let her past ruin her present mood. But she was as helpless as a goat being led to the slaughter; like an ant being crushed by a boulder, she was crushed by the weight of the painful memories that made her fight for her breath.

Instantly she was flung back eight years ago, to the day her elder sister, Bola had shown her that family could be evil too; Bola had shown her that it took more than blood relations for people to be family.

She and Mike had been a successful couple; and although she was a policewoman and he a businessman at Alaba International Market, their marriage never suffered because of her absence. Mike was a very understanding man, he took care of the house whenever he was chanced and he never saw it as odd. Especially when she was pregnant.

At this juncture, she tried to come back, to block out the events that followed; she knew that if she went down the road her thoughts directed her to, she probably might be in a sour mood for her date with her husband. But like a terrifying horror movie, she found out that she was unable to stop her mind from dredging up the worst period of her life; she felt like she was strapped to a chair and was forced to watch her life being
played in front of her. And try as she might, she was unable to move or in the least close her eyes.

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https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/02/02/sisterhood/

I stared into the depths of her soul through her eyes; they were the colour of her luscious lips—black, with a tinge of brown at the edges. She held my right hand with her left, and with her right hand, she touched my face, running her finger along my cheek down to my jaw, then going upwards and stopping at my lower lip. She bit her lips in sorrow, but the action sent shivers of desire through me; her touches sent little darts of pleasure throughout my entire body.

The atmosphere was tense; she bent her head and a lone tear landed on my hand which now covered hers. I was at loss for words. As a man, I should be the one to console her, to tell her that everything would work out. I should be the one to tell her that our love story had been written in the pages of time even before time began. But I was tongue-tied. Because I knew that I could not bring myself to utter those words, not when I knew that my life and that of my family was at stake because we had found love in ourselves.

She drew a long breathe and said, "Obi m, do not worry yourself too much. I will find a way to make my father see reasons with us. He has to understand that our love was ordained by the gods. And no body, not even him the king can change that."

She was the optimistic one, while I've always been negatively realistic (some would say pessimistic). She saw silver linings even before the rain had finished. For me, what I saw was a storm that would sweep me and my family in its wake.

"Ojiugo, my sweetness, I do not blame your father for standing in the way of our love. It has been our tradition right from the time of our forefathers that a freeborn and an apịtị would have nothing in common. They had labeled us an abomination, separating us from the rest of the people of Umunkwo. We belong to Ajouwa, the goddess of death. Why won't your father object to our union?"

Her face darkened, and she looked at me with a mixture of scorn and indignation that I was tempted to giggle. I knew that if the situation had been another one, she would have hit her forehead with her palm in an expression of frustration and incredulity. Instead, she cupped my face with both her hands, and planted a soft wet kiss on my lips.

"You are everything beautiful I've always longed for; you are my future, my hope and my world. Most importantly, you are human—that is what my father fails to see. That is what we have to make him see," she replied.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/02/01/looking-beyond-the-tags/

Finally what you have always feared has happened; the one thing you have always tried to prevent has befallen you. Despite all your efforts, all your careful plans, everything has come to ruin. You crumbled to the floor, held your husband, your man, your world, and prayed that he would be fine, asking God to save him. Even if it meant taking the person that just stabbed your husband away. He was still as standing there, the bloody knife clasped in his murderous hand, face aghast, as the full impact of what he had done dawned on him.

You managed to look up at Chidalu, your son, and the most unimaginable of hate and anger enveloped you, threatening to crush your heart, blinding you with rage. You wanted to take the knife from his hand and slice him up with it, you wanted him to pay for this. But first of all, you had to help your husband. You had to save him first—he was more important than your son. So you sprang up like an automaton and rushed your handbag. Quickly and with shaking fingers, you picked your phone and called the emergency ambulance service.

"We will be there in ten minutes," the operator said, promising you that your man would be fine. You thanked him profusely and rushed back to be with him. Your son was nowhere in sight, but you did not concern yourself with him; the paramount thing was saving your husband, who was the centre of your existence. You knelt beside him, held his hand and whispered words of sustenance to him, you told him to live for you, that he should tap off your life force and be alive.

The wait for the ambulance became the longest wait of your entire life. You've never trusted any service providing agency in Nigeria. And this was the reason: the very moment you needed them, they would suddenly become unavailable. Why had the operator told you that they would be in your home in ten minutes when they knew that Christ would come again before they arrived?

As you stared at Danny, your heartthrob, you willed yourself to go back in time to how it all began, how he had changed your life. You did not want to leave him, whether physically or mentally, but you could not just sit there and do nothing. You had to do something, even if it was reliving the past. Maybe you could channel your positive thoughts to him and keep him alive till the damn ambulance came.

So off you went. Truthfully, you cannot really recall most events before you met Danny; it was as if all the events in your life had been some sort of preparation for him, as you could not clearly remember anything before meeting him. Except for one thing though.

The day you met him would always be clear and fresh and early morning dew; like a tattoo to your heart, the day you met him would certainly be there forever—indelible.

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/01/31/how-to-be-a-mother-and-a-good-wife/

198800Mam:
NICE ONE KIP IT COMING

Thanks. Do you write?