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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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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.’
‎
‘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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Short Story: Moving | By: Victor Olugbemiro

… Daddy had been living in Lagos for the past four years and he felt it was time for his family to be with him. The journey was to be a road trip and the excitement in the air was almost tangible. The whole family shifted into preparation mode but with distinct concerns.

Daddy was constantly at the mechanic workshop to ensure that the car was in good condition for the journey. Mummy had more important things on her mind, like deciding what will be taken or left behind, and stocking the store with enough food to last a few weeks before we (more like Daddy) will send money to Aunty and Sina who were not going with us. 
Sina wasn’t going because he had to sit for his Senior Secondary Certificate Examination, and Aunty wasn’t going because she wasn’t going.

Olamide was concerned with what only she knew, and me? I was concerned with what everyone was concerned about.

Sometimes I went with Daddy to the mechanic, and sometimes I stayed at home to help Mummy. At other times, I simply went out to play and enjoy the attention of my friends. We had discussions on what Lagos was like and sometimes this degenerated into arguments over ridiculous things such as the sizes of buildings, the number of cars and all such irrelevancies that would fascinate only 10 year olds. 
Naturally, they turned to me for answers. Of course, it didn’t seem to matter that I had never been to Lagos and was as ignorant as my friends. What mattered was that I was going to Lagos and they were not. I guess that was supposed to make me know better.

At night as I lay in bed, I thought of the new friends I’d make and how everything was going to change. It scared me a little, but the prospect of a new town, new house, new school, new church, and new friends allayed my fears but kept me from sleeping most nights.

And so it was that though the days seemed long, and the nights longer still, d-day eventually came. The tears, laughter, and goodbyes of that day remain crystal clear in my memory. 
Our Peugeot 305 was packed full. Bags and boxes were in the boot, a table fan and various kitchen utensils were piled high in the backseat with just enough space for Olamide and I to sit.

We drove out of the compound at exactly 4pm amidst the cheers and waving of neighbours and friends. Anyone seeing us would have only seen four people in a car, loaded with all sorts, but deep within our hearts we carried much more than the eye could see, we carried hope.


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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: Obim | By: Ajoke Ilori

I have been defiled many times by this person. I had to keep it to myself for fear of death. Mama would never even believe me and Papa is never around to listen.

My name is Obim and this is my story.

I am thirteen years old, the first child of my parents with three siblings all boys aged eleven, nine and six respectively. I’m in grade 2 in the Community Secondary School I attend. We hail from and live in Ogidi, Idemili North LGA of Anambra State. Papa is a farmer and Mama runs a local canteen.

My Tormentor

His is a regular face: dark, scary, intimidating and hateful face I see anytime I close my eyes to sleep. He goes around like a saint during the day, all smiles to the aged, the ‘dream-man’ of the village maidens, the able and congenial mate to the young men and finally ‘uncle-do-good’ to the little children, always bearing gifts of sweets and biscuits. But at night, he’s the horrible monster that I dread in the confines of my room.

Like every other girl in my peer group, I used to dream of a beautiful future; the day I’d finish from Secondary school, go to the University in the city (Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka), graduate, get a good job and marry the man of my dreams (or the other way round; not go to the University, learn a trade like sewing, still get married, have kids and take care of my parents and siblings with my earnings).
All these dreams came to an abrupt end that night….. Mama and Papa had left for the neighbouring village in preparation for the forthcoming festival and were not due back till the next day. I was about to sleep in my little room carved out from the kitchen because I was the only girl and needed some privacy when I heard the creak of the door.
It was Uncle Ejiofor, papa’s younger brother, a man I’d known and liked all my life. I wasn’t surprised to see him in my room at that time of the night because he lived with us. He came nearer, put his arms around me and started kissing me all over the face. I stood frozen not knowing what was happening or what to do. I tried to resist but he forcefully threw me on the hard burnt-mud bed I slept on. I tried screaming but he had a sharp, glistening knife which he threatened to slit my throat with if I made a sound. He forcefully had his way with me and swore me to secrecy else he’d kill me and throw my corpse in the bushes.

It went on like every other night for about six months, he’d come to my room to defile me with the same threat of killing me if I told anyone about it.

It’s been three months now and I’ve not seen ‘my visitor’. I’m so scared and can’t imagine what’s happening. I’ve been sent home from school since our teachers noticed pregnancy symptoms.
The proverbial cat is out of the bag. Uncle Ejiofor fled the village the night I told him about the pregnancy; Mama is on my neck on who is responsible, Papa has threatened to disown me. What do i tell them? How do I tell them? Will they believe me? All these questions burden me.
My heart is heavy, I cry myself to sleep every night, I look for vengeance for this man who has ruined my life.

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Ajoke is a mother of two. She enjoys writing, reading and interacting with people. She blogs at Ajokesogo.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: Twinge | By: Morountodun

Alex stared coldly at the other side of the bed. Two years ago, the very same spot had brought him absolute joy. Even though suspicion and fear had crept in a few months later, soon to be followed by the deep sorrow and hurt that had hit him the past two months, he still hadn’t ever thought the day would come when the only emotion he would feel for his matrimonial bed and anything–anyone–it represented would be this mere numbness.
H

e picked up his phone and did what he had been contemplating for some days. The automated response after a few seconds confirmed he had dialled the right number as he didn’t have it saved on his phone.  The customer care line had its digits corresponding to the letters that formed the company name on a keyboard–smart move for ‘living in customers’ hearts’, as Helen often put it whenever she was advocating for her new-found passion. She had needed to get shopping stress off her mind so she could ‘focus more on work’, hence what had led to her obsession with online shopping. And focus on work she had, mused Alex emotionlessly.

A female customer care representative soon came on the line, and Alex told her briefly after she introduced herself, “I need a vacation. What travel packages do you have for next weekend?”

“May I know your name, please?” The CCR asked politely.

“Alex.”

“Thank you for calling, Mr Alex, but travel deals aren’t part of our services here at Nudot.com. We’re a retail company specializing in clothing items, household appliances, gadgets and books. May I suggest that you contact any of the travel agencies for that, please?” She said, cheery.

“Can you get me a number?”
Slight pause. “Sir, I wouldn’t have any of their numbers at the moment as we don’t render such services.”
Alex sighed and told her, exasperated, “You work at an online company, I would think you could just search the web and get me an address or a number to call. I can’t access the internet at the moment and I really need this!”
He had to mentally caution himself after he had spoken. She had done nothing but her job. Helen was the reason why he felt so bitter, so angry with the world. Deep inside of him, he had known her boss couldn’t just have been that extremely generous to her, like she had claimed. And of course, she never told him the Abuja trip was a getaway for two. Unfortunately for all, the plane returning them home had crashed, and out came the roll call. And the truth.
If the CCR was any less friendlier than she’d been before, he didn’t notice it in her voice as she calmly replied, “Alright, Mr Alex, while I’m checking for some travel agency contacts for you, may I let you know about some fantastic buys you cn get from us this weekend?”

“Ok.”

“If you’re interested in household appliances, there’s an excellent, affordable toaster going for just two thousand naira. Also, with the World Cup just around the corner, there are good quality jerseys available at low prices. So if you’re a fan, you could just order a…twin set, for you and your wife, if you’re married, or–“
“My wife’s dead. Please just text me the numbers.”

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“I’m so sorry about your loss, Mr Alex–“ Lola began, before she noticed he had hung up. She swallowed and quickly looked around to see if anyone had heard her conversation with the customer. 
The Quality Assurance (QA) team would have, of course. They got paid for snooping in on calls,  and one of them would soon show up to tell her how she could’ve better handled the call.
“Did I hear you mention travel deal now?” Bolaji, her older colleague sitting next to her, asked.
Lola nodded, updating her report on the monitor.
Bolaji hissed and said in her usual loud voice, “Some customers can be so funny. Does this look like a travel agency? And he cut the line on you, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, but I guess I upset him. He probably just lost his wife and I was going on about the set of jerseys–“
“Well, you’re not a fucking psychic now, are you? You were only doing your job!”
Lola wished she’d tone it down abit, but after three weeks on the job, she was getting used to the fact that quiet wasn’t exactly the word to define her mentor on the job with. She reached for her phone in her bag.
“What are you doing?” Bolaji asked, watching her every move with narrowed eyes.
Lola shrugged. “I feel like I owe him an apology. I want to text him the numbers he asked for too. It’s not really official, so I can’t text him using the company account, right?”
She cringed as Bolaji laughed a little too loudly and said, causing everyone in the room to look their way, “Well, you’re still new at this. Soon enough, you’ll learn to not let customers get to you. By the time you sell on credit out of pity and get into trouble with the management, oh you’ll definitely learn!”
Victor from QA walked into the room then, just in time to see catch Lola typing away on her S4. “Tell me you’re not texting that Alex guy on your phone,” he said, standing behind her with this hands at the back of her chair.
She turned and gave him an apologetic smile. It was against company policy to give out personal information, she knew that.
“You’re giving him a free, direct access to your mobile number for speaking to you like that, and you still won’t let a nice guy like me buy you lunch?” He told her, feigning annoyance.
Bolaji, who had been talking to another customer, muted the call she was on and told Lola in a mock-whisper, “That is to say, you’re still on his to-do list, so help you God. Amen.”
The call centre erupted into laughter, as loud as could get without being heard by the customers, and Lola smiled. Victor had been on her case sine her very first day at work, but she had been quick to learn of his reputation as office playboy.
She thought about Mr Alex again before the next call on the queue came in. How had he lost his wife? Did he wake up crying in the middle of the night because the pain was almost unbearable? Did his chest tighten and his heart threaten to stop beating like hers still did two months after losing Lolu in that ill-fated FT 719? Did he notice how she almost didn’t want to say the word ‘twin’  because it brought back memories that almost brought tears to her eyes?
“Helloooo!” came the voice of the baffled customer, who was wondering why her call had been picked and no one was speaking.

Lolu would always live in her heart, she only had a few more hours’ work for the day–she might as well make it count. Momentarily discarding the grieving thoughts, she injected a full dose of smile in her voice and spoke sweetly, softly into the phone, “Welcome to Nudot.com, your favourite online marketplace. I’m Omolola, how may I help you..?

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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 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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