At age 4, Daliyah Marie Arana has read more than 1,000 books and that is no small feat. And this recently earned her the “Librarian of the day” accolade at the Library of Congress.
Washington Post learnt that Daliyah had wanted to do her own reading since she was 2 years and 11 months and her mother revealed that her appetite for reading started from the womb. She said that she read books to her other young children on a daily basis and when Daliyah was an infant, she heard her older brother reading chapters of books out loud in their home. By the time she was about 18 months old, she was identifying the words in the books her mother read her.
“It kind of took off from there. The more words she learned, the more she wanted to read.” She added.
Daliyah’s mother started counting the number of books Daliyah read through the 1,000 Books Before Kindergarten program. After meeting the program’s 1,000-book goal, Daliyah plans to reach 1,500 by the time she enters kindergarten next fall and hopes to help the teacher teach the other kids how to read.
She has been asked to recite the famous “I Have a Dream” speech at an upcoming Martin Luther King Jr. Day celebration in her home town and has also managed to read certain college-level texts, thereby impressing the leader of the nation’s library, Carla Hayden, who allowed her to walk through the world’s largest library.
Short Story: New Perspectives | By: Jerry Chiemeke
“Hey, you want me to formally invite you first, right?
Nike turned her head away from my direction and continued walking towards the bathroom room……not like my eyes were focused on that part of her body anyway. Sure enough, she had nice eyes and her weave was properly fixed, but I was gazing at something else at that moment.
Nike’s butt cheeks bore that aura of perfection, and no, I wasn’t harbouring that opinion simply because I nibbled at it earlier on and watch the juices therefrom grace my jaws. There was that smoothness like none other, and now I was getting that full rear view, I could see how well formed it was. She had told me of her preference for walking around the house unclad, and I blessed the Lord for her fashion choices.
I looked to the table to the right side of this large bed where I was sprawled, totally unaware of where I had flung my briefs. On the table lay a copy of the book “Good Morning Holy Spirit”, but I loved to think that if those leaves had feelings, they would cringe upon feeling my touch, particularly considering where my fingers had been for the greater part of the past few hours. There was also a large frame on the wall containing a picture of Jesus and the twelve at the Last Supper, and while the photo didn’t bear the mystique of the Mona Lisa piece, I could feel Peter and John staring at me, frowning deeply. There would be no communion for me on the following Sunday for sure, unless her skin would serve as bread, and the liquid on my jaws be substituted for wine.
Her phone beeped. I checked out the Caller ID, which bore “Le Boo”. I knew better than to answer the call, so I let it ring and turned over the Infinix Hot Note. I was not about to reflect on the issue of fidelity in modern day (heterosexual) relationships. Then again, Nike had got the shower running, and as I slowly got up to join her at the other end of the door, I grinned as I recalled how different things were more than half a decade ago.
***************************
“Oh God!! This flat sef? Who don use my water again?”
The year was 2010, I was chasing my university degree at the time, and I had rented an apartment away from the main campus, apparently being fed up of sharing hostel bathrooms with rats and having fellow occupants stealthily hijack pots from electric cookers midway through cooking half-decent cuisines. Each habitat had its own peculiarities though, and with this 50,000-a-year apartment, I was faced the burden of fetching water quickly before our landlord locked the tap and access to water would be denied until evening. The widow in the next compound would not hear of “strangers” coming to her water tank since we were not “paying rent to her”, so I was understandably livid at being deprived of a bath; there were mid-morning lectures to catch up on, never mind that a slumberfest was in store.
“It’s Charles. He and his girlfriend are bathing together, as usual”, my roommate said, in response to my inquiry.
I knew the girlfriend in question; Imade, a plus-sized lady who would get battered by Charles by 9am and still come over by 8pm to tickle his pubic hairs with her tongue. She cooked for him, did his laundry, helped him out when his bank account was malnourished, and on some occasions (as this one), scrubbed his body.
Beyond the fact that my hard-earned bucket of water had been the sacrificial lamb for their fantasies, I was a conservative student fellowship leader at the time, and I considered joint baths totally disgusting. I viewed it as a precourse to fornication, and I didn’t mince words in stating my opinion.
“Those ones will just be committing sin in there”, I said.
“Oh, Charles and his babe? That one is a regular thing now. Sorry about your water o, something had to give”, my roommate replied.
“But this neighbour really needs to give his life to Christ sha. I will talk to him one of these days”, I went on.
And in my righteous anger, I prayed for Charles’ conversion, while mulling over the length of time expended in that collaborative shower, and my impending lateness for lectures. I would go online and update my Facebook status thus, with the aid of my Nokia 2690:
“Ladies, just because you bathe with him is no guarantee that he’ll marry you. Please, repent!”
**********************
All that felt like a lifetime ago. Nike was probably the eighth lady I would be taking a joint bath with, and there was nothing to indicate that she would be the last. I had long realized that people had various ways of expressing how they felt about one another, and that it was silly to judge others when one had not been faced with similar situations. My mind had become open to various perspectives over time, and I perfectly understood where Charles had been coming from years ago. I took one last look at the photo on the wall, and I turned the door knob so I could help Nike in her quest to conserve water.
****************************************************
Jerry is a sports enthusiast and future art collector who lives in Lagos. Unofficial brand ambassador for small chops, he lives for some good literature with rock music seeping from the headphones. You can catch up on his thoughts at pensofchi.com
Dora Akunyili's daughter's painting breaks auction record
Njideka Akunyili, the daughter of Nigeria’s former minister and Director General of NAFDAC Dr. Dora Akunyili who won a prestigious art prize last June is in the news again for another awe-inspiring reason.
An intimate self-portrait of her husband, Justin, and her titled ‘Drown’ sold for $1,092,500, more than (N300 million) at the Sotheby’s Contemporary Art Evening Sale. It reportedly broke her auction record in the process.
Short Story: Apparition |By: Victoria Adebileje
Hope was so tired she picked the phone as if in slow motion.
“What did you want?” she said into the mouthpiece of the phone to her twin sister in the other room.
“What did I want?”
“Yeah you just turned my door knob and I heard you go back when you found the door locked.”
“I haven’t stepped out of my room in the last one hour.”
“That’s odd; someone did come to my door” Hope said with a frown. She transferred the phone to her other hand as her eyes strayed to the door.
“Are you sure of that? You were sleeping, and I sure did not hear… someone is in the hallway, I just heard footsteps!” Charity’s voice had made a transition from tired and lazy to frantic.
“Is your door locked?” Hope screamed. She felt a shiver from the core of her being. Something was definitely wrong. If someone was in the house, he must have broken in. She and her twin lived alone in a two bedroom apartment with both rooms on both sides of the house, and she was sure she had locked the main door when came in hours earlier.
“Is your door locked?” She asked again.
“I’m not sure… oh my God the door knob just turned…ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
“Charity, Charity is your door locked, charity is your door locked?!”
Even as she kept screaming the question to a now silent phone, she ran to the door, unlocked it in one beat and began a sprint to her twin sister’s room. She was just a little distance away from Charity’s door when she noticed it open, she stopped abruptly, her heart beating so furiously fast that it was the only sound she heard. She couldn’t have been more scared, and then as if being pushed, she moved like a zombie to Charity’s door. With few more steps to the door, she pulled to a stop again, rushing into her with great force was the feeling she gets when something goes wrong with her twin sister. This time, the feeling was a million times more intense than what she’d ever felt. She never could have believed that it was possible to feel so intensely. Feeling this way could only mean one thing, and in total denial, she started shaking her head vigorously.
“No! Oh God no. it can’t be true. No it can’t be true…”
By the time she got to Hope’s room, she was already sobbing profusely, and to confirm her fears was her sister in a pool of blood on the floor just by the foot of her bed. Still moving like a zombie, she went to the body and knelt beside it and gasped when she saw clearly the horror before her. Hope had been stabbed seven times in the stomach and once at the centre of her heart.
Who could be this vicious? Who could Hope have wronged to have been this angry? A sound from her back made her spring up and turn and then she saw him. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was strongly built. He had a murderous expression on his face and in his raised hand was the knife he had used on her sister still dripping blood.
Fear tore into her like the knife he was holding. The last thing that crossed her mind before the knife came down into her stomach was that her sister must have felt exactly the way she was feeling now before she had died. That thought made her feel happy in a painful sort of way.
Charity woke up with a start and a scream, her throat was so dry that the scream did not quite make it to her lips. Her body was covered in sweat, making her night gown stick to her like a second skin, the bed sheet and her duvet were both on the floor. She must have kicked them off the bed in the course of the dream.
She had never in her life had a nightmare that graphic, her heart was still beating fast, and in an inexplicable way, she still felt that painful happiness. Odd, so odd…
She was thinking of a cold drink of water when her door knob turned.
*************************************************************************************************************
Victoria is an editor and writer. She blogs at mytwocentsnmore.blogspot.com
Calling all Writers& Photographers! Submit your entries for The Ake Review
Do you write? Are you into Photography/Artworks? Here’s a chance to get featured in Ake Review – an annual journal by the Ake Arts and Book Festival. The 2016 edition themed ‘BENEATH THIS SKIN’ revolves on identity, race and individuality. Submission must reflect the theme.
- Poetry – a maximum of three poems
- Prose – a maximum of 1600 words
- Artworks/Photographs – a maximum of 2 works in high-res jpeg
- Please include a bio of no longer than 70 words
Guidelines:
- All entries must be submitted via email to [email protected] as attachments with‘AR Submission’ in the subject line.
- Entries must be original and unpublished
- Only one submission per person
- Deadline for entries is Monday 29 August 2016
- All accepted submissions will be published on www.akereview.org after #AkeFest16
- Successful creatives will receive 2 copies of Ake Review
Please note that registration for #AkeFest16 will begin on 22, August 2016
Goodluck!
Wakaa! The Musical makes history in London.
Wakaa! the Musical has become the first Nigerian play to be performed in London to a sold out audience.
A two-hour stage musical extravaganza of drama, comedy, live music and dance about the trials, successes and experiences of graduates with varied backgrounds. The London edition was a highly successful celebration and exhibition of Nigerian culture. A wager between them after graduation leads to twists and turns when the realities of life and the folly of their choices hit them.
The successful outing had various dignitaries in attendance include Mr. Lai Mohammed the Honorable Minister of Information and Culture; Mr. Segun Awolowo, the CEO of the Nigerian Export Promotion Council; Mrs. Chinelo Amazu-Anohu, the Director General of the Nigerian Pension Commission, Mr. Waheed Olagunju the Managing Director of the Bank of Industry, Mr. Deji Alli the Managing Director MIXTA AFRICA, Baroness Lindsay Northover, member of the House of Lords and Trade Envoy to Angola, and Ms Kate Osamor (MP) – Chair, Nigeria All Parliamentary Party Group
Will Gompertz the BBC Art Editor described Wakaa the musical as “soulful, colorful and dynamic” and having “a spirit and sensibility that is fresh and true”
WAKAA! the Musical was able to break new grounds and transcend the demographic barriers of London’s theatre landscape, prompting Will Gompertz to further say “ the show is a little bit different and so is tonight’s audience, the big subsidized theatres here in the UK say they want to attract a more diverse crowd but struggle to do so, perhaps they should go along and see how it is done”.
see link below
BBC News at Ten, 21/07/2016: www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b07ksbfy
This was further affirmed by Conor Gaffey, Editor of europe’s news week who concluded that “the show has heart, energy and a great sense of humor, and received a standing ovation on the final night when Newsweek was in attendance”
Short Story: Pristine | By : Morountodun (Vol 6)
 |
| Photo Credit: Wikihow |
Read Parts 1,2, 3, 4 and 5 of the Pristine series here, here Here Here and here
Her mum was upset, as expected.
She had yelled over the phone when Dara called to tell her about the posting,
and the yelling continued even after she got back home for the after-camp
break. Her dad was calmer, as usual. His only grouse was why she hadn’t said
anything about not wanting to redeploy in the first place.
She had yelled over the phone when Dara called to tell her about the posting,
and the yelling continued even after she got back home for the after-camp
break. Her dad was calmer, as usual. His only grouse was why she hadn’t said
anything about not wanting to redeploy in the first place.
“Maybe because I knew mum was
going to react this way?” Dara finally had the nerve to answer, on her third
night at home, when they still wouldn’t stop asking why she had done what she
did.
going to react this way?” Dara finally had the nerve to answer, on her third
night at home, when they still wouldn’t stop asking why she had done what she
did.
“How am I reacting?” her mum
retorted. “What sane mother would want her child in a dangerous place like
that?!”
retorted. “What sane mother would want her child in a dangerous place like
that?!”
“Mum, do you know that before I
left for camp, I had never spent a whole day out of this house? I even went to
school from home everyday because you didn’t think the campus was such a great
idea. I don’t want to be this overprotected girl without any exposure. This is
an opportunity for me.”
left for camp, I had never spent a whole day out of this house? I even went to
school from home everyday because you didn’t think the campus was such a great
idea. I don’t want to be this overprotected girl without any exposure. This is
an opportunity for me.”
The older woman tried to explain,
“This isn’t about you living home, it’s about where you chose to stay—“
“This isn’t about you living home, it’s about where you chose to stay—“
“Accidents happen everywhere.
Sickness kills too. Boko Haram isn’t the leading cause of death in Nigeria. And
they aren’t even striking in Gombe, I’ve told you that several times,” Dara
said, exasperated. “I stayed at the Nigerian Christian Corpers Fellowship
family house the two days I spent outside camp, I met several other corpers in
different batches that had been there before me and all they had to share were
testimonies. It seems like a good place, really.”
Sickness kills too. Boko Haram isn’t the leading cause of death in Nigeria. And
they aren’t even striking in Gombe, I’ve told you that several times,” Dara
said, exasperated. “I stayed at the Nigerian Christian Corpers Fellowship
family house the two days I spent outside camp, I met several other corpers in
different batches that had been there before me and all they had to share were
testimonies. It seems like a good place, really.”
“Well, you’ve obviously made up
your mind to stay so it’s too late to argue,” her dad pointed out with a glance
at the two of them.
your mind to stay so it’s too late to argue,” her dad pointed out with a glance
at the two of them.
Her mum shook her head. “I know
it’s too late to argue, but I’m thinking of asking one of the pastors in church
to intervene. Dara is obviously out of hand. She needs to be reminded of the
consequences of disobeying one’s parents!”
it’s too late to argue, but I’m thinking of asking one of the pastors in church
to intervene. Dara is obviously out of hand. She needs to be reminded of the
consequences of disobeying one’s parents!”
Dara smiled. “Really, mum? And you
don’t even believe that God is our protection wherever we find ourselves?”
don’t even believe that God is our protection wherever we find ourselves?”
Later that night, Gideon went to
her room and told her, “You know mum just wants the best for all of us, right?”
her room and told her, “You know mum just wants the best for all of us, right?”
“I know.”
“And you can always still apply
for relocation. People do, even after six months into the service.”
for relocation. People do, even after six months into the service.”
“Yeah, but that would be if I
hated it there. Let’s wait and see.”
hated it there. Let’s wait and see.”
“So…any other camp gist you
haven’t given me yet?” he asked, smiling mischievously.
haven’t given me yet?” he asked, smiling mischievously.
“Well, there was this guy—“
“I knew it.”
“And no, he isn’t my reason for
wanting to stay, you know I decided to before I even went to camp,” she
reminded him. “He relocated anyway.”
wanting to stay, you know I decided to before I even went to camp,” she
reminded him. “He relocated anyway.”
“What happened with him?”
Dara shrugged. “I liked him. He
was my friend. He wanted to be more than friends, but the feeling wasn’t
mutual.”
was my friend. He wanted to be more than friends, but the feeling wasn’t
mutual.”
Gideon sighed. “What on earth do
girls mean when they say stuff like that? This girl at my office told me the
very same thing. Is friend-zoning the good guys like a rule you all follow
these days?”
girls mean when they say stuff like that? This girl at my office told me the
very same thing. Is friend-zoning the good guys like a rule you all follow
these days?”
“You know, now that I think about
it, you and David actually share some qualities.”
it, you and David actually share some qualities.”
“Like?”
“You’re both really sweet and
nice, the type girls love to talk to because you’re such great listeners.”
nice, the type girls love to talk to because you’re such great listeners.”
He looked puzzled. “Isn’t that
what women want?”
what women want?”
“Well, I can only speak for
myself. And I imagine it must get boring. What I’d really like is someone who
makes me laugh, someone I can be spontaneous and have fun with, not just talk
and listen all the time. He must also be able to make me mad sometimes, and
turn it all around almost instantly too. I want a guy who keeps me on my toes.”
myself. And I imagine it must get boring. What I’d really like is someone who
makes me laugh, someone I can be spontaneous and have fun with, not just talk
and listen all the time. He must also be able to make me mad sometimes, and
turn it all around almost instantly too. I want a guy who keeps me on my toes.”
Gideon nodded. “Interesting.” Then
he added, shaking his head, “Girls are just plain crazy and insatiable.”
he added, shaking his head, “Girls are just plain crazy and insatiable.”
**************
December seemed to pass by too
quickly, and Dara found herself staring into a Nigerian map in one of Dan’s
Geography textbooks on Christmas day when she should have been helping her mum
out in the kitchen.
quickly, and Dara found herself staring into a Nigerian map in one of Dan’s
Geography textbooks on Christmas day when she should have been helping her mum
out in the kitchen.
“What have I done?” she groaned,
slamming the book shut.
slamming the book shut.
Dan tried to console her. “At
least you’ve been there before. Now you’re abit familiar with the place. You’ll
be fine.”
least you’ve been there before. Now you’re abit familiar with the place. You’ll
be fine.”
“My ass hurts just thinking of the
trip already,” she said, wincing.
trip already,” she said, wincing.
He grinned. “Yeah, you could use
more flesh in that area.” When she didn’t laugh like she often did when teased
about her derriere size, he added reassuringly, “Don’t worry, sis. You’ll come
home on holidays, right? Easter isn’t so far away.”
more flesh in that area.” When she didn’t laugh like she often did when teased
about her derriere size, he added reassuringly, “Don’t worry, sis. You’ll come
home on holidays, right? Easter isn’t so far away.”
Dara shook her head, dejected. “I
can’t travel that distance for a two-day break, it’s not worth it. And I
already know my punishment’s no money for flight ticket from mum and dad. I’ll
be packing for the whole year when I leave nextweek.”
can’t travel that distance for a two-day break, it’s not worth it. And I
already know my punishment’s no money for flight ticket from mum and dad. I’ll
be packing for the whole year when I leave nextweek.”
Dan sighed. “But you know, you
might get a rich Nomad with plenty cows and never even want to leave Gombe
again.”
might get a rich Nomad with plenty cows and never even want to leave Gombe
again.”
She did laugh at that. The
possibility of finding love with a cattle-rearer was much more attractive than
the deliverance team she imagined her mum would consult if she ever considered
permanent residence in the North.
possibility of finding love with a cattle-rearer was much more attractive than
the deliverance team she imagined her mum would consult if she ever considered
permanent residence in the North.
*********************************************************************************
Morountodun is a writer and a microbiology graduate of University of Ilorin.
Twitter: @Morountosweet
*********************************************************************************
Are you a writer? Interested in sharing your short stories on this
platform? Be our guest on our Short Story Fridays segment. Email: [email protected] or ololade.olatunji@yahoo/ gmail.com
Short Story: Pristine | By: Morountodun (Vol 2)
Read the first part of the Pristine series here
The soldier did
seem to like Dara. Good thing too that Dara shone at marching. People no longer
snickered at her, they admired her instead—her perfectly timed responses to the
slow match, quick match, attention by number and halt commands, the pride with
which the platoon commandant called her to the front to show other corpers how
it was done.
seem to like Dara. Good thing too that Dara shone at marching. People no longer
snickered at her, they admired her instead—her perfectly timed responses to the
slow match, quick match, attention by number and halt commands, the pride with
which the platoon commandant called her to the front to show other corpers how
it was done.
It all felt so good, so much that
she didn’t even consider joining either the Millenium Development Goals (MDGs)
or the Peer Education Training (PET) programmes going on on camp, both of which
would have interested her normally, had she not wanted something different from
what she was used to.
she didn’t even consider joining either the Millenium Development Goals (MDGs)
or the Peer Education Training (PET) programmes going on on camp, both of which
would have interested her normally, had she not wanted something different from
what she was used to.
“Excuse me, I think you dropped
this.”
this.”
Dara turned to find a guy holding
up an orange handband and shook her head. “No, its’s not mine.”
up an orange handband and shook her head. “No, its’s not mine.”
It was the fifth evening on camp,
parade had just ended and she was thinking of stopping over at the room to see
if the twins wanted to eat at the mammy market too. She continued walking and
the guy followed her.
parade had just ended and she was thinking of stopping over at the room to see
if the twins wanted to eat at the mammy market too. She continued walking and
the guy followed her.
“You were great back there. Did
you have some military experience? Or are you just a really fast learner?”
you have some military experience? Or are you just a really fast learner?”
Dara answered, “I had never
marched prior to this.” Then she glanced at him. “You aren’t in my platoon, are
you? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”
marched prior to this.” Then she glanced at him. “You aren’t in my platoon, are
you? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”
“I’m in platoon seven. You were
pretty easy to notice though. Not that I was looking.”
pretty easy to notice though. Not that I was looking.”
Dara smiled. He had obviously been
looking.
looking.
When they got to the front of the
girls’ hostels, he asked her, both hands in his pockets, “Isn’t it rather early
to retire for the night? What are you doing till lights out?”
girls’ hostels, he asked her, both hands in his pockets, “Isn’t it rather early
to retire for the night? What are you doing till lights out?”
“Actually, I just want to see if
my friends are available to go and find something to eat together,” she
replied.
my friends are available to go and find something to eat together,” she
replied.
He shrugged. “I’m available.”
She went into the room to check
Kenny and Taiwo anyway, but soon returned alone shortly after she had left,
Kenny and Taiwo anyway, but soon returned alone shortly after she had left,
He grinned. “How could I not have
asked for your name? What if you hadn’t come back?
asked for your name? What if you hadn’t come back?
Dara smiled and told him.
“What does Dara mean?” he asked,
really wanting to know.
really wanting to know.
“Oluwadarasimi. God is good to
me.”
me.”
He sighed. “Yoruba names are just
so beautiful and meaningful. I’m David.”
so beautiful and meaningful. I’m David.”
She looked over at him, noticing
for the first time how very tall he was.
for the first time how very tall he was.
“So Dara, what would you like to
eat?” he asked as they walked past the auditorium and towards the mammy market.
“Noodles. There’s this Igbo lady
that adds lots of vegetables that I like. What about you?” Then her eyes caught
his wrist and she shook her head, amused, as she said, “I was going to suggest
that you report the handband you found at the OBS, but apparently it was never
lost.”
that adds lots of vegetables that I like. What about you?” Then her eyes caught
his wrist and she shook her head, amused, as she said, “I was going to suggest
that you report the handband you found at the OBS, but apparently it was never
lost.”
“Mmm…yea, noodles…that’s my
joint,” he replied, throwing back his head in mock ecstasy.
joint,” he replied, throwing back his head in mock ecstasy.
*************************
“Oluwadarasimi Ajoke.”
“Yes, mummy,” Dara answered,
holding her phone closer to her ear so she could hear above the loud music
booming all over the camp from the OBS speakers. Her mum called her name,
Oluwadarasimi, in full most times, but whenever she added ‘Ajoke’, her native name,
it meant serious talk.
holding her phone closer to her ear so she could hear above the loud music
booming all over the camp from the OBS speakers. Her mum called her name,
Oluwadarasimi, in full most times, but whenever she added ‘Ajoke’, her native name,
it meant serious talk.
“Has anything been said about
relocation forms over there? I hear it should be out by now. You daddy has been
making some calls to his friends at the NYSC headquarters in Abuja.”
relocation forms over there? I hear it should be out by now. You daddy has been
making some calls to his friends at the NYSC headquarters in Abuja.”
“Yes, mum. But I really want to
stay here,” she really wanted to say, but didn’t have the heart to, so she lied
instead, “No, mum.”
stay here,” she really wanted to say, but didn’t have the heart to, so she lied
instead, “No, mum.”
Her mother sighed. “Please just be
at alert and do everything you’re supposed to do when you get the news, okay?
We’re trying our possible best to get you out of that place as soon as the
three-week camp is over, but you know you have to write a letter and fill
relocation forms over there too.”
at alert and do everything you’re supposed to do when you get the news, okay?
We’re trying our possible best to get you out of that place as soon as the
three-week camp is over, but you know you have to write a letter and fill
relocation forms over there too.”
“Okay.”
When the call ended, Dara slid her
phone into her waist purse, increased her pace and caught up with David. She
had had to reduce her steps while she received the call, leaving him scrolling
through his phone with one hand, the other hand in his pocket. He smiled at her
as she apologized, “Sorry for the break in transmission. That was my mum.”
phone into her waist purse, increased her pace and caught up with David. She
had had to reduce her steps while she received the call, leaving him scrolling
through his phone with one hand, the other hand in his pocket. He smiled at her
as she apologized, “Sorry for the break in transmission. That was my mum.”
“Did you tell her?” he asked. They
had talked about the relocation dilemma, debating on whether staying in Gombe
for the whole year was worth it. His excuse for applying for the relocation was
that he had a job to get back to in the South-South.
had talked about the relocation dilemma, debating on whether staying in Gombe
for the whole year was worth it. His excuse for applying for the relocation was
that he had a job to get back to in the South-South.
“I couldn’t. But I will, sooner or
later.”
“This is like the best evening
I’ve had since I got to camp,” he said, when they got back to the girls’
hostels area.
I’ve had since I got to camp,” he said, when they got back to the girls’
hostels area.
“I told you, that lady makes the
best noodles ever,” Dara replied with a giggle, facing him in front of her
hostel block.
best noodles ever,” Dara replied with a giggle, facing him in front of her
hostel block.
He smiled. “Nah. Well, yeah, it
was a nice meal, but I meant meeting you, getting to talk to you—“
was a nice meal, but I meant meeting you, getting to talk to you—“
“Tricking me into talking to you,
you mean?”
“Well, thankfully, it worked,” he
replied with a grin, then added in a more serious tone, “So I’ll see you
tomorrow.”
replied with a grin, then added in a more serious tone, “So I’ll see you
tomorrow.”
Unsure if it was a question or a
statement, Dara nodded before she turned to make her way into the room.
statement, Dara nodded before she turned to make her way into the room.
To be continued…..
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Morountodun is a writer and a microbiology graduate of University of Ilorin.
Twitter: @Morountosweet
http://morountosweet.wordpress.com
**********************************************************************************************************************************
Are you a writer? Interested in sharing your short stories on this
platform? Be our guest on our Short Story Fridays segment. Email: [email protected] or ololade.olatunji@yahoo/ gmail.com
Short Story: Pristine | By: Morountodun (Series)
The shrill whistling and strong loud voices woke Dara up. For a moment, she wondered where she was, then she checked the time on her mobile phone and sat up on the bed as she remembered.
It was 4am. The room was crowded with about thirty rumpled bunk beds, half-open luggages and brightly coloured buckets of water. Half-dressed girls scampered all around the little available space as the soldiers backed orders outside. Still tired from the 18-hour trip of the day before, Dara reluctantly climbed down from the top bunk and reached for her bucket under the lower bunk.
“Wetin do this one? You no hear say na time for parade? You wan make I pour you water?!”
Dara looked up at the very tall, muscular female soldier standing before her and explained, “Yeah, I want to go and fetch my bathwater.”
The soldier stared back at her disbelievingly, like Dara couldn’t have said what she had, then she shouted, “E be like say you dey mad! Na me go wake you up to do your documentation? You no know say you suppose don ready for parade? If you sabi wetin good for you, make you leave this room now before open my eyes! Otondo!”
Dara grabbed her waist purse under her pillow and quickly joined the other girls excitedly flying out of the room as the soldiers had started spraying water.
The parade ground was a large, open field towards the camp gate (semicolon) bare, but for some sparse, dry grasses. And it was a cold November morning—dawn, rather. Dara had been well-informed about the harsh weather conditions and had gone to camp prepared, but surely the soldier would have slapped the otondo—whatever it meant—out of her had she waited a second longer in the hostel, searching her box for one of the jars of Robb her mum had kindly gifted her with before she left home.
‘Kindly’ because Mrs Adegbite had not been in support of her only daughter going up north alone in the name of National Youth Service Corps (NYSC), a 1-year program in Nigeria designed by the government in 1973 to help tertiary institution graduates appreciate other ethnic groups and learn the culture of the places they were posted to. The North was too full of insecurities, with the recent attacks by the Islamic militants, Boko Haram.
“But mum, Gombe is one of the most peaceful States. I have read all about the place. We should be grateful I wasn’t posted to Borno,” Dara had reassured her the night before she travelled.
“Okay o. Maybe those animals are going to send you a personal letter when they are moving there,” her mum had retorted, still pissed that her own cousin, an NYSC official had failed at ‘working’ Dara’s posting to nearby Ogun State, or at least somewhere no one would have to worry about bombings and killings.
Dara’s dad, the calmer parent, had smiled and told his wife at the dining table that night, “My dear, don’t be so worried. The camp will be sufficiently secured, and Dara only has to be there for just three weeks. She’s redeploying after camp, I’ll see to that.”
Only Gideon and Dan knew about her excitement at the adventure of being far away from home for the first time, and Dara had exchanged knowing glances with them. Their mum would have a fit if she found out. She had a known phobia for letting her kids out of her sight. Dara often wondered if it was because of how late in her marriage it had taken to start having them. Family and friends were welcome in their home for as long as they wanted to stay, as long as she didn’t have to worry about her own children being away. And usually, Gideon would be the rebel, the one strong enough to dare heir mother, being the first child. But even he had served in Oyo, just two hours away from home, like she had wanted.
“Good morning this morning! Gentlemen corps members, I want to once again welcome you to Mallam Sidi camp. This is Gombe State, the jewel in the savannah, and I have no doubt that your stay here will be a good one,” the camp commandant was saying in a calm tone while Dara shivered uncontrollably.
He continued, “However, many of you are horribly dressed for parade this morning. I want to let you know that this is the last time such will be tolerated. Henceforth, on this camp, you shall all be dressed in your white t-shirts and shorts, with appropriate footwear. You were all given your kits upon arrival yesterday, so there shall be no excuses. Is that understood?”
“Yessir!” the corpers chorused groggily, all lined up in 3s.
“Na dis one even bad pass. Otondo.” Another soldier, male this time, said in a loud whisper, roughly nudging Dara forward from where she was trying to hide. It was no longer as dark and people close by could see. As they giggled, Dara developed a sudden hatred for her favourite pair of pink Hello Kitty pyjamas and matching flip flops.
“Oga Jimoh, na my friend be dat o, make you leave am.” The female soldier appeared from nowhere, a hand holding her gun to her side. She told Dara, eyes wide for enphasis, “I just dey pray make God help you make I find you for hostel wey you never ready again. Na then you go know wetin dey. I don mark you!”
The corpers, all numbering close to a thousand, both male and female, were grouped into ten platoons, and an NYSC official a man-o-war officer and a platoon commandant with an assisting soldier assigned to each group. Dara cringed when platoon 8 commandant was called and it was once again, the female soldier walking towards her with a smirk.
“She’s not the only female soldier on camp, but she’s taller than most of the men, and strong too! It’s terrifying. I just pray I don’t get into any more trouble with her,” Dara gisted her brothers over the phone as she walked back to the hostel.
“Just be careful. Those soldiers can be very mean,” Gideon told her from experience.
“I used to sleep in my whites at nights so all I had to do was brush my teeth before parade in the morning and bathe later.”
Dan, who didn’t take anything seriously and the youngest of them, said cheerfully, “If she’s picking on you so much, sis, maybe she likes you. You know how I like to talk to you too when I know you’re not in the mood. It’s all love.”
Dara laughed, and realized she missed home at that moment. It was only the first day and she wondered what a whole year would feel like.
“Changed your mind about redeploying yet?” Gideon asked quietly.
“I can’t say yet,” she answered.
Same redeployment talk was going on in the hostel. Some people had gone to the kitchen to queue for breakfast, others were taking pictures of their first day in the all-white camp uniform outside, but most of those in the room were involved in the discussion, “The North isn’t all bad, at least some of us live here,” a smiley-faced hijabian sister was saying as Dara entered the room.
“It’s easy for you to say because you’re Muslim,” another girl said. “Christians here live in perpetual fear, anything can happen at any time. I even managed to come in the first place, there’s no way I’m staying back after camp.”
“Abi o. let only the Muslims remain in their North before they kill us all,” Dara’s bunkie, an obvious ‘SU’ with virgin, rubber-threaded hair and no earrings added. Dara frowned as she bent down to bring out her whites from the box.
“Their North? I hope you know that not all Northerners are Muslims. I am from Kaduna South, and several other States as well have indigenes that are Christians, like in Biliri Local Government Area of Gombe and many other places. So get your facts right before you say Muslims own the North, ‘cause they don’t. No religion does, the people in it do.” That was from a dark girl who spoke in a distinct Hausa accent at a far corner.
Dara’s bunkie replied, “Alright. My point is still that Muslims are violent. They kill at any little opportunity in the name of religion. You will never see a Christian acting like that and it’s because we know that we serve a living God who fights His own battles.”
The room erupted into angry, offensive words being hurled at one another, and Dara’s first instinct was to leave the room, just in case a fight broke out. Wasn’t it how religious wars started?
She had slipped out of her pyjamas and now had her towel wrapped around her chest, but instead of running off to the bathroom, Dara chose to express her opinion, just in case her silence meant approval of her bunkie’s choice of words. “I don’t think Muslims are bad and Christians are good.” She paused to be sure she had some people’s attention and continued, “However, I do believe there are good people and bad people, regardless of their religion. I have seen terrible behaviour from supposed Christians and I have met really nice Muslims. In fact, I live in Ilorin, a town where both religions co-exist in peace and harmony. And I find it disheartening that this argument is even happening.”
Everyone was quiet now, and the hijabian sister that was smiling before said, looking pained, “Honestly, it’s high time Christians stopped playing the victims. Yes, there are some people hiding under Islam to perpetrate their evil acts, but we aren’t all terrorists and it hurts so much that the religion we hold so dear has become so despicable. It’s sad that we live in a country where everyone looks for who to blame instead of finding solutions to our problems. And if you all must know, I’ve lost two family members to the Boko Haram attacks and they were Muslims like me!”
Dara didn’t bother to get breakfast from the kitchen that morning, the akamu they served was in no way inviting. Thankfully, she had brought two boxes of cornflakes from home, so she launched the first.
Although most of the other girls had taken off their whites to relax in the hostel, Dara dressed up for afternoon parade immediately after having her bath. She’d rather risk spilling milk on her t-shirt than go through another round of humiliation from the soldiers.
She had just finished her cereal when the girl at the lower bunk opposite her said, “Hey, I want to charge my phone.”
There was only one socket between them and Dara’s phone was plugged in, so she asked the girl, “Do you have an adaptor or extension box?”
“No. But you’ve been charging since,” she replied scornfully.
“It’s barely been thirty minutes,” Dara stated.
“I think I brought an extension, Taiwo, check my box,” the girl’s bunkie said from the top.
Taiwo found it, wordlessly motioned to Dara to unplug her charger, then fixed the extension and plugged in her phone before leaving the room.
“Such a drama queen,” the other girl chuckled as Dara bent to fix her charger. “Don’t mind her. I’m Kenny,” she said with a smile.
Dara asked, not quite sure, “You guys are twins?”
Kenny laughed and nodded. “It’s hard to believe at first, I know.”
“Wow,” Dara said, truly amazed. It was indeed hard to believe. Not only did Kenny seem nicer, she looked different…bigger, taller, like she had been at the better receiving end of their mother’s placenta. The strange thought amused Dara and she replied Kenny with a smile, “I’m Dara. It’s nice to meet you.”
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Morountodun is a writer and a microbiology graduate of University of Ilorin.
Twitter: @Morountosweet
http://morountosweet.wordpress.com
****************************************************************************************
Are you a writer? Interested in sharing your short stories on this
platform? Be our guest on our Short Story Fridays segment. Email: ololade.olatunji@yahoo/ gmail.com
Book Review: A Very Good Bad Guy Is A Very Bad 2face Narrative
If like me, you are an age long 2face
fan, you must have received news of the forthcoming “biography” with great
expectations. When the “editor’ now happens to be the astute Adekunle Ayeni,
the excitement must have been palpable. 2face Idibia has long ceased to be
merely a popular artiste; his brand has become the definition of a generation.
His story has been told over and over again, but an official biography of his
life both as an individual and an artiste remained an uncharted course for
neither writers nor the man himself.
fan, you must have received news of the forthcoming “biography” with great
expectations. When the “editor’ now happens to be the astute Adekunle Ayeni,
the excitement must have been palpable. 2face Idibia has long ceased to be
merely a popular artiste; his brand has become the definition of a generation.
His story has been told over and over again, but an official biography of his
life both as an individual and an artiste remained an uncharted course for
neither writers nor the man himself.
Again, I have followed the career of
a certain Ayeni The Great for nearly two decades now. As a young person in the
second tier city of Ibadan, I would faithfully buy copies of HipHop World
Magazine, Encomium, Bubbles (which I would later have the privilege of editing)
and all newspapers that profiled Nigerian entertainment and entertainers.
Ayeni’s life story has inspired me to no end. He was an outsider kid from the
back waters of Okokomaiko who had huge dreams and with lots of hard work, made
himself into a journalist, publicist, public relations consultant and later
himself, a newspaper publisher. Apart from a couple of other individuals whose
name I would mention later on, no other writer qualified as much as Ayeni to
write a book on the iconic 2face. I- and millions of fans waited with baited
breaths for the most anticipated book since Chimamanda Adichie.
a certain Ayeni The Great for nearly two decades now. As a young person in the
second tier city of Ibadan, I would faithfully buy copies of HipHop World
Magazine, Encomium, Bubbles (which I would later have the privilege of editing)
and all newspapers that profiled Nigerian entertainment and entertainers.
Ayeni’s life story has inspired me to no end. He was an outsider kid from the
back waters of Okokomaiko who had huge dreams and with lots of hard work, made
himself into a journalist, publicist, public relations consultant and later
himself, a newspaper publisher. Apart from a couple of other individuals whose
name I would mention later on, no other writer qualified as much as Ayeni to
write a book on the iconic 2face. I- and millions of fans waited with baited
breaths for the most anticipated book since Chimamanda Adichie.
The first time it crossed my mind
that this might be a disappointing book was when the book cover was realeased
by Adekunle Ayeni’s publishing house The NET. I tweeted on September 14 thus: Looking forward to the 2face book. Only wish
that another photo was used on the cover. Wasn’t that the cover art for The Unstoppable
album?
that this might be a disappointing book was when the book cover was realeased
by Adekunle Ayeni’s publishing house The NET. I tweeted on September 14 thus: Looking forward to the 2face book. Only wish
that another photo was used on the cover. Wasn’t that the cover art for The Unstoppable
album?
Indeed it was the same photo used in
2010 for 2face’s third album. When I whispered this concern to some friends the
explanation was that since the title of the book, A Very Good Bad Guy was an oxymoron that juxtaposes 2face’s good
and bad sides, the cover art works well for that purpose.
2010 for 2face’s third album. When I whispered this concern to some friends the
explanation was that since the title of the book, A Very Good Bad Guy was an oxymoron that juxtaposes 2face’s good
and bad sides, the cover art works well for that purpose.
So I ordered the book after the book
launch was over and done with. It arrived in the post yesterday November 4. As
I ripped open the polythene wrapper, a sinking feeling of disappointment struck
me like a punch. From a production stand point; this book was already a mess.
The very first page when you flip the cover open has this badly reproduced
photograph of 2face, ostensibly taken with a camera phone in one corner of The
NET office. Not only is it out of place on the inner sheet of a book, together
with the tackiness of the lamination and the substandard print quality that
persists from start to finish, the book feels like an Alaba CD jacket: cheap
and unworthy of the artiste on it. Alas, my disappointment was just starting.
launch was over and done with. It arrived in the post yesterday November 4. As
I ripped open the polythene wrapper, a sinking feeling of disappointment struck
me like a punch. From a production stand point; this book was already a mess.
The very first page when you flip the cover open has this badly reproduced
photograph of 2face, ostensibly taken with a camera phone in one corner of The
NET office. Not only is it out of place on the inner sheet of a book, together
with the tackiness of the lamination and the substandard print quality that
persists from start to finish, the book feels like an Alaba CD jacket: cheap
and unworthy of the artiste on it. Alas, my disappointment was just starting.
For starters, this is not a story of
2face as sold by the publisher; rather it is a collection of articles about
2face since Ayeni’s own days as a reporter. How dare he now call this a
biography! The prologue proved to be the most interesting part of the whole
book. In it, Ayeni recounts a night in 2007 when he and 2face shared a bed
after an awards show in London. The cheeky double entendre promised much of the
book but soon fell flat as soon as the prologue ended. Even Annie Idibia’s
piece which is neither a dedication nor provides any perspective of her husband
leave much to be desired. It reads like a birthday tribute that was sent to the
editor of this book by BlackBerry Messenger or Whatsapp. How do I know this?
Wrongly placed full stops, unnecessary ellipses and exclamation marks, as well
as a “LOL” tell that much. A 2face book requires an Annie Idibia voice. This
flimsy bit does not provide that.
2face as sold by the publisher; rather it is a collection of articles about
2face since Ayeni’s own days as a reporter. How dare he now call this a
biography! The prologue proved to be the most interesting part of the whole
book. In it, Ayeni recounts a night in 2007 when he and 2face shared a bed
after an awards show in London. The cheeky double entendre promised much of the
book but soon fell flat as soon as the prologue ended. Even Annie Idibia’s
piece which is neither a dedication nor provides any perspective of her husband
leave much to be desired. It reads like a birthday tribute that was sent to the
editor of this book by BlackBerry Messenger or Whatsapp. How do I know this?
Wrongly placed full stops, unnecessary ellipses and exclamation marks, as well
as a “LOL” tell that much. A 2face book requires an Annie Idibia voice. This
flimsy bit does not provide that.
Permit me to digress for a minute:
Adekunle Ayeni has transitioned his journalistic experience into a thriving
public relations practice. Safe to say, he has mastered the dark arts required
of a PR guru and he deploys his craft well in the making of this book. Nowhere
in the book does he directly refer to it as a “biography”. However, press
releases from his organization and reportage of the launch in the media all
describe A Very Good Bad Guy as the
biography of Innocent 2face Idibia. Smart move, Mr Ayeni…
Adekunle Ayeni has transitioned his journalistic experience into a thriving
public relations practice. Safe to say, he has mastered the dark arts required
of a PR guru and he deploys his craft well in the making of this book. Nowhere
in the book does he directly refer to it as a “biography”. However, press
releases from his organization and reportage of the launch in the media all
describe A Very Good Bad Guy as the
biography of Innocent 2face Idibia. Smart move, Mr Ayeni…
Now I’ve read a few music biographies
in my time. Carlos Moore wrote a Fela biography, Fela: This Bitch of a Life and it was based on conversations with
Abami Eda. I Would Die 4 U was
written by Toure, an American journalist and pop culture expert. The book
features several interviews about and with pop legend Prince, and provides readers
an assessment of the enigma’s life. Becoming
Beyonce by J. Randy Taraborelli was recently released as an unofficial
biography of the artiste. It delivers as it tells several unheard stories about
Beyonce. A Very Good Bad Guy does no such thing.
in my time. Carlos Moore wrote a Fela biography, Fela: This Bitch of a Life and it was based on conversations with
Abami Eda. I Would Die 4 U was
written by Toure, an American journalist and pop culture expert. The book
features several interviews about and with pop legend Prince, and provides readers
an assessment of the enigma’s life. Becoming
Beyonce by J. Randy Taraborelli was recently released as an unofficial
biography of the artiste. It delivers as it tells several unheard stories about
Beyonce. A Very Good Bad Guy does no such thing.
A biography should delve into
previously unknown areas and tell an unforgettable story. It should take
readers away from blog posts, rumours and innuendos and research the
backstories that make the subject tick. It should document the subject’s views,
influences, fears, ambition and every facet of his life. A Very Good Bad Guy comes across as a rushed vanity project rather
than the life story of an individual who the publisher rightly describes as
“Nigeria’s greatest pop artiste of all time”.
previously unknown areas and tell an unforgettable story. It should take
readers away from blog posts, rumours and innuendos and research the
backstories that make the subject tick. It should document the subject’s views,
influences, fears, ambition and every facet of his life. A Very Good Bad Guy comes across as a rushed vanity project rather
than the life story of an individual who the publisher rightly describes as
“Nigeria’s greatest pop artiste of all time”.
The travails of Fela Anikulapo Kuti
happened nearly a decade before I was born. Yet Carlos Moore’s book made me
rage at the injustice meted out to the man and his mother. A Very Good Bad Guy does not even come close. Heartbreakingly, it
is not for lack of talent or wherewithal to do a 2face story properly.
Ayeni’s double advantage as an
entertainment journalist and one time publicist for 2face puts him at a vantage
position to pen a biography worth his salt. Over the years, the writer has
proven himself to be a master storyteller. Does anyone remember his exclusive
interview with Dbanj immediately after the Mohits breakup? That was a classic
piece of writing.
entertainment journalist and one time publicist for 2face puts him at a vantage
position to pen a biography worth his salt. Over the years, the writer has
proven himself to be a master storyteller. Does anyone remember his exclusive
interview with Dbanj immediately after the Mohits breakup? That was a classic
piece of writing.
Neither can the shoddiness of A Very Good Bad Guy be blamed on a
lack of curiosity: in page xxvi of the prologue Ayeni himself wonders, “What
kind of guy is this Idibia? What sublime irony to find a man, who does all the
bad things, yet does all the good things…? As an observer I was fascinated
and impressed…” So why did Ayeni neglect to ask these questions and answer them
for the fans?
lack of curiosity: in page xxvi of the prologue Ayeni himself wonders, “What
kind of guy is this Idibia? What sublime irony to find a man, who does all the
bad things, yet does all the good things…? As an observer I was fascinated
and impressed…” So why did Ayeni neglect to ask these questions and answer them
for the fans?
Perhaps it is the hubris that
sometimes plagues heroes and geniuses that convinced the editor/publisher that
he could pass off these 396 pages of nothingness as a biography.
sometimes plagues heroes and geniuses that convinced the editor/publisher that
he could pass off these 396 pages of nothingness as a biography.
A writer has a responsibility to
document times and happenings correctly. He owes it to the reader to either
answer all his questions or allow the reader to deduce answers from his
writing. In 2024, children who were born in the year 2face released his debut
album would be university undergraduates and some of them would study the
defining era of Nigerian music. They would need to understand why it was such a
big deal for 2face to have won the Best African Act at the 2006 MTV EMA’s. They
would need to understand how big a deal it is for a Nigerian to have made the
soundtrack for a Hollywood movie. They would need to find out how a single
artiste swung the door open for a generation of African artistes to reach the
world. They would need an authoritative voice to teach them about the great
2face. A Very Good Bad Guy through Ayeni
Adekunle does not offer that; rather it is a catalogue of past articles, a
gloried scrapbook of The NET Newspaper. Maybe that was why even 2face look less
than enthused at the book launch.
The man 2face could commission a
writer to tag along with him for a couple of months to gather enough material
for a proper biography, if Mr. Ayeni is too busy to. Bayo Omisore and Efe
Omorogbe are the other two individuals who have unique perspectives of the
artiste. (Fortunately both men are also excellent writers with commendable
journalism credentials).
writer to tag along with him for a couple of months to gather enough material
for a proper biography, if Mr. Ayeni is too busy to. Bayo Omisore and Efe
Omorogbe are the other two individuals who have unique perspectives of the
artiste. (Fortunately both men are also excellent writers with commendable
journalism credentials).
A Very Good Bad Guy feels like a scam. Personally I feel defrauded. The hollowness of
Adekunle Ayeni’s book on 2face does a great disservice to the artistry and
accomplishment of the subject. It does greater disservice to the skill and
talent of the two dozen writers whose contributions to The NET Newspaper form
this book. It does the greatest disservice to Mr. Adekunle Ayeni’s two decades
of journalistic excellence and his highly esteemed position as a custodian of
urban Nigerian music. Innocent 2face Idibia requires an official biography.
This book is not it.
Adekunle Ayeni’s book on 2face does a great disservice to the artistry and
accomplishment of the subject. It does greater disservice to the skill and
talent of the two dozen writers whose contributions to The NET Newspaper form
this book. It does the greatest disservice to Mr. Adekunle Ayeni’s two decades
of journalistic excellence and his highly esteemed position as a custodian of
urban Nigerian music. Innocent 2face Idibia requires an official biography.
This book is not it.
Jide Taiwo is a media practitioner based in Lagos. He’s in the process of
finishing his own book, Reflections of a Millennial. He tweets via
@thejidetaiwo.
finishing his own book, Reflections of a Millennial. He tweets via
@thejidetaiwo.