Short Story Fridays

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Short Story: Reverie | By: Morountodun

The madness has started today–mum and dad are at it again. One would think they’d have found a way to live together successfully after so many years, but it only seems to get worse by the day.
Lastweek it was about the fair corper down the street, today it’s dad’s new secretary at work. Every fight always has a girl attached to it. Still, mum never learns.
The other day after seeing some old pictures of her when she was younger and slimmer, I asked if she thought losing some weight might make dad happy. All she said was that it isnt my fault, that if she hadn’t had my brother and I, would she have blown up so? I really don’t get how we are to blame for her letting herself go though.
I remember suggesting that she change her usual lowcut hairstyle for a while too and she just shut me up. She never does anything differently, yet she expects different results. 
I’m even starting to think she actually enjoys the bickering. I’m the closest person to dad in this house, and his spitting image too, why won’t she ever take any advice from me? I’m fourteen, not stupid!
Ini never agrees with me either. Somehow mum is perfect in his eyes and dad is just a pathetic womaniser. But what does he know? He’s barely a year older than I am.
At first the fights used to terrify me. My childhood was lived in perpetual fear of either or both of my parents leaving the house. Later I learnt to stay in my room with my earphones plugged in till the yelling subsided. These days however, I have an even more attractive distraction from the drama.
Uncle Dan is our nextdoor neighbour and has taken an interest in me. I don’t remember exactly how we got so close in the past few months, but I love that he listens to me. He even looks at me like I’m a grown woman and not just some awkward, pimply-faced teenager. The first time he kissed me at his place, I felt rather uncomfortable. But he’s so very mature and nice, I know he was only trying to help me feel better. 
We’ve kissed several times since then, and by the urgency in his hands when he held me the last time, I can tell he’s going to want us to try some other things the next time we see. I don’t think I’m ready and I really wish I could talk to mum about everything that’s been going on. But that’ll have to be someday when she isn’t busy cursing dad at the top of her voice.
“Ire, where are you going?”
I roll my eyes at my aunt Clara, mum’s younger cousin that spends her holidays with us . I’m headed next door for some sweet escape but of course I’m not about to tell her that. All my adoration for her vanished lastnight after I caught her on daddy’s laps at the dining table when they thought everyone had gone to sleep. 
It’s one of the things I need to talk to uncle Dan about today. I know he’ll always come up with something nice and reassuring to say. I can only hope today isn’t the day he’ll want to take things further…
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Morountodun is a writer and a microbiology ‎ graduate of University of Ilorin.
Twitter: @Morountosweet
http://morountosweet.wordpress.com
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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
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Short Story: The Slip | By: Victor Olugbemiro

Saturday morning. Tranquil. Me, in bed. Lounging. Music in the background. Inhale. Exhale. This moment should be frozen. Savoured. My neighbour doesn’t think so. I open on the eighth knock. She knows I’m in. I see her lips move, her voice a meaningless echo in my head. It takes a while for some words to register.

I do not belabour my mind to connect them. Her voice drones on. Incessant. I’m getting antsy. Too polite to slam the door in her face, I nod in a way that suggests comprehension. She stops talking. I assume she’s done. As the door slams, the word ‘rude’ filters in. Too bad. I am half-way across the living room already.
Ah, music. Soothing. I drift to sleep. Short-lived though. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, I sense a presence. I open first one eye, then the other. Emem is smiling at me. She has a key. How come? I don’t return the smile.

‘You look cute in your sleep.’ I don’t reply. She wants something, as usual. I close my eyes in a vain attempt to sleep. Her lips touch mine. Soft. Intoxicating. I remember how she got the key.

The end is clear. She will leave with something I don’t want to give. I resign myself to fate. I cannot match her energy today. Physically. Mentally. She knows. Clothes rustle. She is topless now. My eyes remain shut. Images from the last time still linger.
There is a knock on the door. I open my eyes. She grabs my shirt and rushes out. I hear Chidinma’s voice. So much for tranquil. I dress up hurriedly. Grab my wallet. Toss my phone into the wardrobe. The high pitch of their voices has assumed alarming proportions. They don’t hear me slip out.

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Victor Olugbemiro loves literature, music and photography,
among several other interests. He currently teaches in Lagos .
Twitter: @oluvickie

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Short Story: Painless Toothache | By: Bunmi Adegbola

That morning, I was extra glad I wasn’t going to school. Don’t get me wrong o, I’ve always loved school but everyone, including me, needs a break once in a while. I had my much desired break one fateful day and I thought that was a good opportunity to see the world.
I stepped out with my dad and felt like I was about to have the best fun filled day of my life. I waved at my friends when I saw them on the way as we still had to take the same route to my “fun-factory”. My joys and imaginations knew no bounds, I was mightily excited.
I imagined going to an amusement park or somewhere someone was going to give us cake and coke. However, since it didn’t look like we were going visiting, I kept my cool knowing my dad knew best.
 We got to a tall building, entered it and began to fill some papers. I still imagined that we were going to see my dad’s friend who had to have it on record that we came.
 Then, we climbed and climbed dozens of staircases or so it seemed at the time. We finally arrived at the place and my dad talked to his ‘friend’ for a long time while I was eating biscuits and hoping my cake will come.
I was taken to a high chair that rotates, fun enough till we can go to the main place. Then my dad’s friend opened my mouth and started to poke me with a wooden knife, shining small light into it.
I didn’t like all of that but I trusted my dad’s friend was as nice as my dad, so I let him continue without following through with my idea of biting him.
He talked some more with my dad who then came to tell me he was going to leave me with his ‘friend’ for a while and come for me later. I thought the coke was coming. I obliged, with a smile. 
He left without a smile and then someone brought injection. I don’t like injections but I’d pick it over tablets anytime, any day. Only those who have malaria take injections, I’m not hot or vomiting my rice, I don’t have malaria. I cried and shouted and said I want to go home.
Then, the woman promised me more biscuits and sweets and I slowed down a bit. My gum was injected and everything else was a blur. I came back up, feeling soft and empty spaces where four of my teeth used to be. I had been robbed!
Then the tears started. I didn’t cry because the removal was painful. I cried because my teeth had been stolen. I cried because my decayed teeth had been removed and I didn’t have them anymore.
I cried not because my problems had been solved but because a part of my person had been stolen and I made up my mind not to trust anyone who offered me sweets and biscuits again, except maybe cake sha.
You know, there are a lot of people like me out there. People who undermine their ‘private’ problems and pretend all is well. People who go out of their ways to bury their problems for the pleasures of the moment.
My teeth would ache for days and I would cry for nights. Nights when no one slept, including my dad. But the moment the pain subsided, I was back to sweets. When the toothache became less painful, I forgot my problems. I played with my root canal and thought fun (sugar) was good.
I played with fire and hoped it wouldn’t burn me. Stop and think for a while. Are there things you do that wouldn’t cause or make any negative impact now but would cause pains or regrets later?
Have you promised yourself to change several times and you keep doing what you said you wouldn’t do? I’m guilty of this myself. And today, I consciously make up my mind to really follow through with my decision.
Not eating ‘sweets’ might be difficult but it is possible. Not having ‘fun’ might seem unimaginable but it can happen, especially if I remind myself always that it is for the greater good. It won’t come easy and it won’t be as straight as a line but it will be worth it in the end.
Try something different today too. Don’t just read and forget what you read. Who knows who or what might be saved in the process.
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‎The writer, Bunmi Adegbola,  is a scholar of Religious Studies who hails from Osun state.  She is a young writer who has great passion for books and good music. Although she is yet to publish any of her fiction her several short stories are both inspiring and entertaining. She is an innovative writer whose use of words would paint vivid pictures in her readers’ minds. From her works you can’t but notice wit and humour even in rather tragic stories. Bunmi currently resides in Ibadan with her Family. 
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Short Story: Just a glass of Rubis….and the… | By: Ogechi Nwobia

You see, the things that get you in trouble are usually the things you spend your entire life avoiding but somehow, they manage to catch up with you. And then you wonder and ask yourself, how did this even happen? How did I get here?

My name is Bimpe and this is my story.
I’ve been dating Yazid for a little over a year now and it’s been great. We’re practically headed for the altar and I am madly excited about it. He is a fine boy with plenty Dubai Arab money to throw around and no, he does not hit me or bully me.

Yazid is just perfect. He is calm, soft spoken and somewhat reserved. I am the more eccentric and crazy one.
It so happens that Yazid’s dad for some weird reason doesn’t really approve of me. He’s of the opinion that women should be homely and quiet and “responsible” and all that old school kind of thinking. But my darling Yazid always rises to my defense and insists that he cut me some slack.
Yazid says we’re perfect for each other, we balance each other out. I appreciate that he does that because I know how close he is to his dad. They are more like siblings actually. It’s so weird.
Now, because I’m naturally crazy, I never take alcohol. I have always believed my madness would triple if I attempted liquor so alcohol has always been a no-no for me. I can get my groove on without any form of assistance, thank you.
It was Ameera’s ( Yazid’s baby sister) graduation, Yazid had thrown her a party in their family house and of course, I was there to raise the roof.
The party was bubbling and everyone was having a great time. I had danced till my feet hurt and I was really thirsty. I walked over to the table where the drinks were set out and tried to find some water. Ameera walked up beside me and drew me close in a hug.
“Sis! This party is aweesomeee! Thank youuuuuu!”
I laughed and removed strands of her Brazillian weave from her face.
“You’re welcome princess. But this wasn’t me. It was all your brother.”
She snatched up a bottle of red wine and passed it to the guy behind the table.

“Can you help me open it please?”
The guy smiled and nodded then she turned to me and said
“You’re drinking that with me.”
I laughed and shook my head.

“No darling.”
“Hell yeah! It’s my grad party and you’ve got to celebrate with me.”
I shook my head again but Ameera would have none of it. She cajoled and begged and insisted and then I gave in.
“It’s Rubis, it’s really sweet. Just one glass.”
“Alright! Fine! Just one glass.”
Ameera clapped both hands together in glee and giggled like a school girl. I shook my head.
The bottle returned and she poured some for me in a glass. I hadn’t eaten at all that evening and I was really tired from all the dancing so I promised myself it would not be more than one glass.
 As soon as I tasted the wine however, something changed. It was amazing!
Ameera kept chattering on and on and I kept drinking, one glass after another. Soon, I realized I could not stand right. My heels were suddenly uncomfortable. I took them off and held them in my hands. Ameera looked me over
“Feather weight! You okay?”
She laughed really loudly and I even thought I didn’t hear her clearly, whatever it was that she said felt funny so I laughed loudly too. I was a little dizzy and needed to lay my head down.
“I’m going back to dance.” This time, she yelled over the noise of the music and I heard her.
I nodded.
“Where’s Yazid?” I yelled back.
 I was dizzy but I wanted a kiss as well. My head was fuzzy and the signals in my brain were all messed up.
“Room!”
I nodded again and walked away, laughing and shaking my head. Ameera had done the one thing no one had ever been able to do. She’d gotten me drunk. I walked slowly up the stairs. Everything seemed to be moving, including the doors.
I finally located Yazid’s door and just opened it without knocking. My eyes went straight to the bed. He was right there cuddling some other lady.
I was in absolute shock. I froze.
I raised my hand and pointed my index finger at him stuttering and failing at coherence.
“Boo, wha.. what’s this.. that…that..wha…”

He got off the bed swiftly, anger burning in his eyes. The other lady just sat there and stared at me oddly.

I was stunned into silence by the stinging slap that hit my face and the voice that thundered
“What is wrong with you?!”

I blinked several times. There was something wrong with his voice.
The slap seemed to hit my reset button and my eyes opened clearly to see Yazid’s dad staring furiously at me.

Mega mess up.
I chanced a quick side look and realized this wasn’t Yazid’s room.
Shoot.
I opened my mouth to apologize but what came out instead was something that ruined my life.
I threw up. All over Yazid’s dad…

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Ogechi Nwobia writes flash fiction, lifemathics articles and run fiction series on her blog. She’s a people lover and a talkaholic.
Twitter: @Oge_writes

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Short Story: The Music From The Other Room | By: Sueddie Agema

I hear the sound come in. It is one I have heard before. I had danced several times to its many renditions. They hadn’t been mine. They were those of my friends and recently, the very last of my sisters. 
It reminded me of all those days, when we were little. It was like the rain dropping. I have always been fascinated by that too—tap, tap, tap. It is a sound that has kept me company many times.

Music now has come to be like that for me. Music playing, twisting through and through, they define it all: the sol-fa notes on and on punctuating heartbeats through pulsating notes of varying tempos. I am a music connoisseur and I can tell all the sounds individually. I can tell even where voices become mechanised or harmonised with some instrument or machine.

I am that good.
Music has come to define every life experience for me. It is and was always one song or the other—mostly beautiful tunes, especially those from the other sides, the other rooms. They were the blistering songs of the dance rooms where recklessness hit the floor as couples danced at first meets, the ease of casual relationships energising their bones in abandon.
The dances were often but many times, devoted. There grew the different types of music, mainly that of the ballroom, many times of two hearts flowing step by step in many styles—tangos and simple waltz, they were always perfect when it stayed two. Sometimes, it moved differently and seized with the intrusion of one more. Yes, I knew all the songs and I knew the dances. I have been there. I had been there.

You made most of it. I remember your genesis. Of course, I can tell the future from sound. But let us not lose rhythm. You. Yes, you. Your voice was surely the last thing to hold me or anyone. Your behaviour was something out from some savage place.
You were in every sense of the word, unbred—and I didn’t think it would be through to all the meanings of the word. I had placed you in the composition where you belonged—a tuneless song. You were rough and all but it didn’t mean you didn’t have brains. You were one of those silently brilliant ones.
We had come to be acquaintances and I took it you weren’t too bad a person. Rough and gruff but okay. I noticed the moves and started to think of a concert—that of a duo. It was the 12th of February, two days to the toast of Siamese heartbeats.
The lonely winds were all that were going to play for me that time. I steeled myself to watch on as others waltzed their evenings away. Many friends had come to tell me about who their partner would be. I sighed. The classics came to my aid drifting me away. It took me by surprise then when you said those words, out of nowhere:
“What will you say if I asked you out?”
There was noise everywhere but I answered immediately without thinking it over: “Yes. Okay.” In that second, I thought of how to change your chords and make you fall into tune. I looked at you in that second and discovered it would take so much work but I would try. In that very second, I thought all these and a new song started to play. It was one I had heard in the lives of many. It was finally going to be mine. Then, you blurted as immediate as my answer:
“I was joking.”

The song went flat—cut. Reflex? I simply changed the song back to the one playing before. Silence screamed as everyone turned to look at us. A few turned away after a while embarrassed on my behalf, perhaps. I ignored these people who heard you shatter the melody that had started building for me.

Those who would see me in a whole new light of wrong. You couldn’t have known at that time but I had built a concert in that second for you, the concert had started from the time we became acquaintances.
It really was reflex, as you pointed out later but you don’t just cancel a concert in session, or one about to be started, one newly created—ahh! Whatever. You don’t just do that and expect to have everything come back together in one breath! No.

Later, much later, you made more moves, becoming a far better musician than I ever thought. I smiled at the efforts but never let it get to me till the big bangs of graduation came our way. You had taught me in your earlier instant action that one had to be patient to let the other know the right sets of notes to make it work.

In love, there was no one hit wonder. You had to take time. All the way up to the wider world, you never stopped. You kept practicing and it seemed the tunes kept getting better. The thrill finally hit the spot and I knew I could say ‘No’ no more. You had learnt through the plays, teases and all. Even in my refusals, you had located the strings to my heart and now knew the exact chords – the way to play the tunes that were truly mine…
Yet…

I hear the sound now. I close my eyes and let my cardiac drums play the beats to my heart. I hear the music from the other room—I have heard it several times. This time, it plays in this room. I open my eyes and you are standing there, standing here, staring at me, hands proffered up, knees to the ground…

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Su’eddie Vershima Agema blogs at http://sueddie.wordpress.com and can be reached at [email protected], @sueddieagema on Twitter. The author of the short story collection, Bottom of Another Tale, Su’eddie was Joint Winner, Association of Nigerian Authors [National] Poetry Prize 2014.
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Short Story: Red Rage | By: Damore Ali

He came home last night. He had been away for a month, leaving me and the kids without a dime. I didn’t know whether to be angry, or happy as I heard him pull into the compound.

I had been thoroughly worried about him the past days, calling and texting him without response. I feared something might have happened to him. What will I have done? Where will I have gone? He would have made the trouble much bearable if he had told me where he was going in that note he stuck to the Fridge before leaving that Sunday evening… but then, it didn’t matter.

He was home. I hurried to the kitchen to rustle up something for him to eat. That’s a wife’s duty after all, to cater for the husband in good and bad times.

In thirty minutes, the table was set yet he hadn’t come upstairs. I looked through the window by the dinning room to find him seated in his car in a relaxed mood, holding his phone to his ear, laughing so gaily about something only he knew. A laughter I hadn’t heard in a long while. I strained my ears to pick his voice over the generators loud hum…

‘Mama, iyen o ki n se problem na. Ma to pada wa, e ma wori.’

Mama? I felt a tear drop from my weary eyes. He had been with his mother all this while? Yet she gave me no clue all those lonely nights I called to seek her advice? What responsible mother allows her son leave his own home, wife and kids, to suckle from her sagging breasts after every long day at work for a whole month? He had come in now, his presence dusted with whiffs of alcohol. I shook my tears back and played the nice wife… for a few seconds.

‘Ekaabo.’
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‘Ekule o. Where are my kids?’ he settled in the dinning area.

I turned to the wall-clock, it was 11:00pm and he was asking where his kids were? I chose to ignore the question. If he cared, he would have been home the past days instead.

‘I made you Eba and Efo.’ I said in reply, and turned to get him some water to wash his hands with before he asked any other stupid question.

Soon after, he had finished the food and appreciated me with a loud belch and stinking fart which both happened fast, that I wasn’t sure which came first. I swallowed it all and just mused on how a man I loved and adored so much had now turned to the insensitive bastard I could only manage to harbour.

The atmosphere was laden with so much hurt and anger and hunger too. I was hungry, I hadn’t had a proper meal in a long while because he didn’t leave any money and I was saving the remaining soup that I warmed that evening, for his return. I deserved some explanation, I thought, so I broke the ice.

‘Where did you go ‘Laitan?’‎

He stopped fiddling with his phone and spared me an accusatory look.

‘What do you mean by where did I go? Work, of course!’ he spat.

‘Olaitan, you went to work for almost a whole month, from Sunday evening up until this Friday evening. You didn’t call, you didn’t text, you didn’t reply my calls or texts, you didn’t leave any money and you know I don’t have a job to cater to myself and the kids. Olaitan, Olaitan… is this life?’

‘Don’t start o, this woman! Let me breathe please, ‘ve only just returned.’‎
Tears poured down my face and my empty stomach started to wail too. It was too much to take in all at once. That was what I got for worrying over and about him for a month, in his conscious absence.

‘Olaitan, you make me cry everyday and I can’t but wish you the same kind of pain you make me feel. Olaitan, I am hungry. I haven’t had a proper meal all this time, and you know I am a nursing mother. Bolu is just 2 months old, have you forgotten? Olaitan, your children missed you. They cried to sleep every night because you were nowhere close to throw them into the air after a long day. Olaitan…’ I racked in sobs, as my voice trailed off but he just sat there wearing a stone cold face after which he stood up angrily and made to get his car keys. I crawled after him, holding on to his legs.

‘Olaitan Oribogunje, you are not leaving this house without me and my children!’ I screamed a little too loud.

‘Bukunmi! Bukunmi leave my leg. Bukunmi leave me o.’ he dragged himself on, pulling my fragile frame with him but I didn’t let go still. 

Toke had woken up now and was staring in horror. She cried, but I didn’t know if she was mourning her lost sleep or sad for me. Either way, I shared her pain.

‘Do your worst ‘Laitan! Do your bloody worst but you’re not leaving this house without us!’ I yelled. What more pain could he possibly inflict on me? I was numbed by weariness, too tired to feel anything more. Then he started to punch me and drag me by the hair, slapping me everywhere he could lay his palms on. I screamed to the neighbours ‘hhe…elp me! Help me from this bloody bastard I call a husband! Egba miii o!!’

‘Daddddyyyy! Daadddddyyyy!’ Toke’s screams tore at my heart and that seemed to strengthen me because only then did I start to fight back. I ran to the kitchen to grab a knife and threatened him with it. The neighbours had begun to knock on our door now but we were too absorbed in our own little world to care.

‘You’ll either kill me today or come back to your senses!’ I spat breathlessly, burning with red rage pent up from too many past years. He carried a chair and made to fling it at me, while I raised the knife in readiness awaiting his strike. That was when Toke made for the door in one swift movement because her eyes couldn’t take it anymore and like a flash before my very own eyes, she fell to the ground in a pool of blood.

Everything went stark quiet in that second. I dropped the knife quickly, and raced to my child. 


‘Toke! Toke mi! Akanke! Toke!’ she wouldn’t respond. By then, Olaitan had already walked out of the house and started his car downstairs. Afraid, guilty, or ashamed, I couldn’t care why he left. The neighbours poured in now like flood, running here and there trying to revive her. But I knew she was gone, because the instant I held her, I knew she saved that last gaze for me, telling me to be strong. I wailed in my head, but I didn’t have the power to cry out.

That was a second or so ago.

I am too tired now. My soul retires. But before I slump to the ground I note that time has well passed. It is 12:00am and it is Valentines.

_
‘Mama, iyen o ki n se problem na. Ma to pada wa, e ma wori.’ – Mama, that is no problem at all. I will soon be back, don’t worry about it.

‘Egba mi o!’– Please help me!‎

‘Ekaabo’– Welcome

‘Ekule’– Response to welcome.‎

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Damore Ali is a poet, short story writer and blogger. She has
been published on several online forums including Naija
Stories. She is an accountant by training and a lover of good
music. Damore also goes by the name Dr. 2103. She blogs at
https://minisculediary.wordpress.com/

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Are you a writer? Interested in sharing your short stories on this
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Short Story Fridays segment is back!

Hi people
I’m happy to announce to you that The Short Story Fridays (SSF) segment on the blog is back after 7 months of ‘leave’.
Incase you don’t know what the segment is all about. We usually post short stories of writers (budding and veteran) on fridays, our aim is to promote excellence in writing whilst giving you our esteemed readers a worthwhile reading experience. We posted about 20 or more stories last year. You can check the Arts section of the blog to read.
If you’re a writer, or you know short story writers, kindly refer them to us. Interested? Send your short stories and your profile (one paragraph) to ololade.olatunji@yahoo/gmail.com.
The first story of the year would be published tomorrow. 🙂
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