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Short Story: This One Shall Stay | By: Oluwafunminiyi Omojola

We walk as three to the neighbouring village, every third month. Me. Mama. Papa.  In that order. 

Papa always takes the rear, walking at a little distance behind us, as if he does not want to be associated with mama and me. Or as if he was on his way to someplace in his mind.
I walk in front, and as to everything I do, I put a rhythm to my walk. One, two, three…pam. One, two, three…pam. Like that. 

I have no idea why I count in threes. I have no idea how many threes I end up counting. I have no idea why I do the counting. I have no idea about many things. 
For instance, I do not know why I feel older than twelve. I feel as if I have been here before. Mama and papa, they look familiar.  I often cock my head to one side and consider them, especially mama. 

I feel as if I have seen her before, in another place and in another time. There were no deeply etched furrows of worry on her forehead then, and her ebony skin gleamed in the sun.
******
She sold Uli at the market. The cosmetics she made from the leaves were the best amongst all others. It did not wash from the skin by chance. Everyone who passed by stopped to buy or to see. 
For the women, I could understand. But it is a difficult thing, telling what the men wanted since men do not wear Uli. 
Of all the young men that hovered around mama, one stood out like a sole horn. Papa.
Young, strong, and handsome in an ethereal manner, he bestrode the heart of many women like a colossus.
The tales of his conquests were sweet on every one’s lips, like casks of fresh palm wine. From village to village, women flocked after him. Yet he would hurry on to the market, and head for mama’s cosmetic stand, snubbing the other traders who had no equal wares. 
Aggrieved and jealous, they would hiss and pass snide comments, like “He has come again”. That they do not know which he wants to buy, the piper or the tune. And mama, not one whose mouth had been taken to the washerman would quickly respond, that both were for sale, the piper and the tune.
Rain fell the day that they were joined. Heavy, stinging pellets from the bright skies. The sun watched from a haughty distance, with a bland old smile that said its hands were tied. And they say that it is a bad omen, when the rain falls on one’s wedding day, and the sun smiles as if its hands were tied. The ceremony had been a colourful one. Drummers and flutists rented the air with their stock in trade. Food was plentiful and so was drink. Mama looked most beautiful on her day. Her skin was decorated with the dark residue from crushed Uli leaves, her own handiwork. Her long hair was sheathed in a crown of red iyun beads. Her wrists and ankles and waist were bedecked with white beads.  
As she danced, the men watched the sensual gyration of her supple body with minds inebriated with liquor and eyes filled with longing.  They looked at preening papa, with sheer admiration and naked envy. 
Everyone cheered when papa accepted the small palm wine gourd from his bride, and drank every little bit of the white juice. Green, intrepid jealousy, from the myriads who had competed with mama for papa’s attention. And lost.
And mama spared none of them. She simply reveled in her day.
******
They say my ilk come in a myriad of ways. Sometimes the Iroko hands us out. At other times, we take advantage when a pregnant woman is out at midday in the hot blazing sun. We scare the baby in her womb away, and take its place if she ventured out at midnight. Some of us are gifts from the river goddess.  

They say I am one of these- a gift from the river goddess. That I came in the small pools of water that gathered in the compound during the rain, and refused to leave when my mates flowed away. For, nine months after their day, mama had a pink little daughter- the first me.

They say I cried and cried and cried. It was a wonder I survived six days. On the seventh day, I packed my load, and went back to the river goddess. 
I returned twelve moons later.
This time, I did not cry at all. They said I was the mutest baby they ever saw. That my mouth was like a slit in my face, and I had a wicked glint in my eye. That when they named me Ajojo – replacement –  I let out a yelp. I suffered the name for a few minutes, and then my body began to grow hot. It grew so hot it scalded mama’s palms. The swelling with water within it is there till tomorrow. 

They bathed me with all the herbs they could find. I only broke out in severe rashes with pus at their tips. My eyes turned yellow, and my tongue was deathly white. 

They said I laid limp, watching their antics to keep me alive through the deathly glint in my eye. And that was how I grew up, a sickly child, with sparse, kinky hair. I had spindly limbs, and I creaked when I walked.
I didn’t play with the other children. Not as if they wanted my company. While they cooked with the sand, and screamed in delight, I sit under the frangipani trees, and speak with the wind.  

I walked through the warm motherly forests, and inhaled the tangy scents of the neem trees. I loved to get lost in the wilds. It was fun searching for and finding myself afterwards, among the sharp, towering elephant grasses.  
The plants were my only friends, and I sang with the birds. They said I was a wicked child. That I had silted up mama’s womb with sawdust, so that after me, she could not have another.  
My illnesses got worse the older I grew. I got out of bed perhaps, once in three days. And afterward, I paid dearly, writhing in pains. 
My wrists would ache and ache and ache. My ankles would get so heavy I felt like cutting them off. My head would throb till I felt there was a mortar in it. It felt like someone was pounding in it. Someone was always grinding pepper in my chest too. Alujonu were always preparing for a festival in my body. The preparations go on for far too long. Alujonu scream and quarrel and dance too much.
****** 
My parents began to change. 
Dark shadows of mama’s beauty remained etched on her face. She no longer went to sell Uli as much as she once did. She no longer walked with the spritely gait of the village beauty. Her pompous breasts had begun to sag and her raging hips begun to flag. Her voice gained a hoarse quality, one that grated in the ear, like Wana’s rogue motorcycle. 
She no longer responded to the side talk and snide remarks. She said nothing when they gossiped, telling her to take solace was in papa’s ethereal good looks and in his barns filled with stacks of yam, tied to bamboo poles in columns, erect like a crowd of tall, huge men. She did not respond to all the talk, because she said that I, Ajojo, had given her mouth to the washer-man to wash. 
Papa was no different. He no longer came away to the house.
He went from the farm to the gin parlour, where he drank gin dispensed in dirty little glass tubes, and played a game with the other men. I never could understand the game: grown men sitting on a bench, facing each other and distributing seeds into spherical holes dug in the centre of a wooden cylinder that laid on both players knees.  
In their drunken states, they laughed at everything. They even said someone had won, and another had lost.  
“How can anyone fail in putting seeds into a hole?’ I had asked papa one night when mama had sent me to the gin parlour to warn him that his food was getting cold. 
He had repeated my question to the other men and the resultant laughter had carried far into the starry night. I returned home and when mama asked where the papa she asked me to fetch was, I had slapped the back of one palm into the other in turns.  
A little of the feisty mama I once knew had resurfaced that night. Papa could not believe his eyes when he saw mama, with me trailing behind, marching towards the gin parlour with trays of eba, onugbu and washing hands water. 
Amidst jeers and taunts and laughter, Papa had quietly got up, and returned with us.
****** 
You see, my parents love each other.  
I was the one key that spoilt the teeth of the dog. I listen on my mat as papa and mama argue and raise their voices. I begin to count in threes. I never had to count for long. She, mama, was a crier. She would blame her chi for all her misfortune. Papa would belch and curse his luck. He said the most murderous thing one night as they quarrelled and I prepared for bed; that had he known that what mama carried underneath all her beauty were children meant for the likes of Ikori, he would not have bothered with her.  
Ikori is the imbecile who sleeps at the village square. His neck is long like a spring and he catches insects in his mouth with a flick he had long perfected.

Mama had burst into fresh tears. Papa had apologized profusely and tried to pacify his wife. It was that night that mama’s beauty had walked away from her face, leaving only its shadow.
I had counted my threes and fallen asleep.

******
Eventually, I was seven. 
It was time to go. I went to the frangipani trees to say goodbye. I sat under them and spoke with the wind. I followed its course to the warm motherly forests. I said good-bye to the neem trees. I lost myself in the wilds, and found myself among the elephant grasses I had come to love.
I laughed and I cried. The birds came and sang me a lonely dirge. My friends wished me safe journey back home. I went back to the house, singing the bird’s songs on top of my voice. Strangers packed themselves to one side of the road to give this mad little girl room. I was as blind as a bat to their consternation. I felt as free as a bird in my emancipation. The road was my own and death was in my pocket. 

“Ajojo, you are full of life today…” the villagers commented.  
The sun was shining in my eyes and there was sweat in my brownish, kinky hair. The air wrapped itself around me in a smug knowing hug. I had a good taste in my belly, like someone who had just swallowed Alali. 
Rain fell that evening and I bathed in it. Even the other children did not run away from me. We ran together and I ran faster than some of them, on my spindly legs. I didn’t creak as I ran. I laughed and I cried in the rain but they could not see my tears. They were children, too naive, too little to understand.
******
To ease the cold, mama wrapped me in a woolen blanket that night. She sat with me as I shivered by the fire. She fed me hot peppery soup, so that I could find some warmth, and my eyes watered. I felt as if my tongue was on fire. Papa played his flute in front of his hut.

“Why did you do it Ajojo?” mama asked.
“I don’t know mama…”
“Answer me Ajojo.”
Silence.
“I want to be like the other children…”
“What are the other children like?” she asked. She turned her head away from me, to stoke the fire, and to hide the tears. But I had already seen them on her cheeks. The orange fire lit up her face.
“They play together. They bathe in the rain.”
“Ajojo, you are not as strong as… Wait until you can…”
“Why am I different?”
“It is the will of your creator, my daughter. And till your grip on the machete is firm, do not ask who raped your mother.”

We had stayed huddle like that beside the fire, mother and daughter, in utter silence. She wrapped her arms around me. The only sounds were the cackles of the fire, the chirps of the insects and papa’s flute. 
There was a lot to say, but we stayed silent for many different reasons. I knew my questions would not be answered. Mama clearly craved only peace and quiet. 
So, I did not wake up the following day.
******
Now, this is my third coming.  
And it had been prepared for me. They said when I left, I had removed the sawdust I had used to silt mama’s womb. So when mama got pregnant again, the medicine man had called papa aside. He had told papa that because some were skilled in the silent passing of gas, others had also grown skilled in the hearing of every sound. He said he had perceived a foul smell from miles away, that I was coming again.  

“Abiku! Abiku!!” he raged. He said however that he knew what to do when I arrived.
I was born, a most beautiful child. My hair was dense and dark and woolly. And unlike the one before me, I cried.
There was no colourful celebration of my arrival. Papa said that the traveller who arrives from a journey and does not acknowledge those he meets at home, also loses the warmth of welcoming greetings. He said that he had lost faith in my arrivals.
I sucked mama’s breast in copious quantities, like it was hunger that chased me down from heaven. They named me ‘this one shall stay’ – Durotimi.
I grew up, as beautiful as my mother. I loved my parents very much and watched them crawl out of their shell, reluctantly, slowly, cautiously, opening themselves up to me like the wary, fascinating, plant that opened up itself to the sun, and closed itself up promptly at the slightest touch. 
My head throbs sometimes and my chest still aches. 
So papa takes me and mama, and we walk, three of us, to the neighbouring village. Every three months. The medicine man makes propitiations, and gives me concoctions to drink. And he says I will be fine, till the next treatment.
I feel they are tying up my soul to this world.
******
I still sit underneath the frangipani trees. I still speak to the wind. I still go to the warm motherly forests and sing with the birds. I still love the neem trees, and I inhale their tangy scent. I still lose myself in the wilds, knowing each time I find myself, this coming is for keeps.
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Oluwafunminiyi Omojola is a writer. Follow him on twitter @ooluwafunminiyi

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Short Story: Caught | By: Tolu Daniel


I have heard about the stars that encircle around a dazed man’s face after receiving a knock on the head or a brutal blow to the face, but I never thought any of it was real. My unbelief could have stemmed from the fact that I saw so many cartoons while I was growing up. Those yellow suspended birds that hover around the cartoon characters always seemed mythical to me; I never imagined that they could ever become so reachable, almost touchable. But there I was, standing in front of the igbo trader with the enormous sausages that were supposed to be his hands, as he dazed me with the biggest slap that my face had ever encountered. It felt as though I had run into a moving train, for a split second, I was in a universe that was neither here nor there, it was though all was on a merry go round. The birds danced, they even sang, so was the glory of Chibuzor’s slap on my face.
I would have cried a fountain, I would have shed buckets of tears there and then, because the sight of Chibuzor’s beefy hands should have been enough to make any child cry, but I was not a child or was I? A scrawny looking and witty nine years old with what many described as a bad habit would describe me. I didn’t feel any pain after the slap; however my head suddenly felt lighter, the world appeared as a shade of many colors with my brain suspended for a little while in a sepia configuration; the little birdies were still dancing around my head.

I knew what I did was termed as wrong by the society but I had issues with societal stereotypes and what everybody defined as wrong or right. I couldn’t help myself, I felt as though I had a responsibility, like superman’s was to save the world, mine was to defy the generational belief system that certain things were wrong and certain others were right; I had questions that nobody was willing to give me answer to. So I developed theories for myself and ensured that I live by these theories, these seems a little too impossible for a child of nine, right? But I was not just any child.

For as long as I could remember, I had developed an affinity for seeing movies; I loved seeing movies, in whatever genre the movie was, I would watch. I remembered once when my mother needed to send me on an errand and after she had yelled my name over six to seven times, she had decided to come looking for me and found me sprawled carelessly on the rug, body facing down and my two arms holding my head firm, mouth slightly opened in reckless abandon as a long slimy salivary rope connected the floor and my mouth as I paid raft attention to the movie that I was seeing. My love for movies was never derailed by the fact that I lived in a town that could not boast of a single cinema, the best we could do was to buy these movies from the movie store at whatever price.
So whenever I went to Chibuzor’s store to buy movies, I always picked one extra without his knowledge. I was subscribed to the school of thought that stated that Chibuzor was cheating me, that the movies that he was selling to me were a lot cheaper than the amount that he was selling them and that I needed to ensure that I did my own back, a tit for tat philosophy from a nine year old could never go wrong, but I was mistaken, the music of the birdies still lingered in my head and was an unsubstantial proof.

Today Chibuzor un-customarily asked to check the backpack that I had brought into his store. As a witty nine year old, I tried to get myself out of the mess, I stalled, insulted him in Yoruba but unfortunately Chibuzor insisted that he had to see the contents of my bag. So, reluctantly I allowed him to check and the expression on his face was one that would remain with me even in my adult years.


“Ewo….oooo!!!” Chibuzor exclaimed, his eyes bulging like a ripe volcano ready to explode, I should have made a dash for the door at that instance, but I didn’t want to, I thought that I could talk myself out of it like most of my usual escapades. I was certain that he would understand once he heard my opinion and the reason why I was doing what I was doing, but like many of the things that happened that fateful day, I could not have been more wrong.


“You skinny little thief” He screamed as he threw my bag at me and followed it with a thunderous slap. I would have replied him like I normally do to my older siblings when they accuse me of testing out my theories on them, ‘what sort of nonsense was that? How dare he insult me like that? Who does he think he is? Who does he think I am? Just a mere road side trader’: but the slap was so resounding, that it drowned every thought from my head, Mr. Kokosari my Elementary School teacher whose palms my face had grown accustomed to would have been proud of Chibuzor.
I was still in my dazed state when I realized that our little squabble had attracted several on-lookers and interested participants and there was a crowd gathering slowly at the store and somewhere in my head, in the deepest of my recess, I could hear some diabolical chants or maybe it was my mind that was playing games on me.


“Ti owo ba te ole, Pipa ni e pa, ka roun jeba lola”
(If a thief is caught, he must be killed to make an example for the rest)

For a child that grew up in a very superstitious environment, who watched tales by moonlight without missing an episode, who was subjected to listening to ‘Nkan nbe’ by Kola Olawuyi on the radio every Friday night and who never missed a chance to sit by grandpa who was a major exporter of unrated and scary tales, I was certain that I was going to die; that song was always accompanied with bloodshed in all of grandpa’s tales and those crappy Yoruba movies that we saw at home, and yes, there were no age restrictions to most of them.
Chibuzor dragged me with the back of my shirt and dragged me outside to the main-street, and rained down another set of slaps on me, I didn’t wince once, neither did I pretend nor behave as though I felt any tinge of pain but I didn’t miss the chirping birds that hung over my head. The scene was so overwhelming; I could not bring myself to look up, by now I was feeling ashamed that I got caught. I still felt that I was supposed to get a chance to defend myself, because my unfortunate theory still lurked somewhere in my mind.
Among the several persons that were gathered watching the seeming movie that was unfolding, was a rather strange woman; she was strange because of the fact that she was strangely attired. Garbed in a traditional white attire, the blouse was hanging loosely to her lean shape and the Iro was held tightly too, she was jeweled in cowries and shells, and fairness of her skin made her all the more attractive. Chibuzor and his slap seemed to become the last thing on my mind as the woman got nearer.
There was a longing in me to know more about her and the longing consumed me: She reminded me of the Yoruba mythical character called Yeye Osun , the first wife of Sango, the one whom a river in South-western Nigeria was also named after, she moved nearer to the scene where I was being manhandled and said something that I could not really understand to the orderlies that were with her and the next thing that I could remember was the manner in which the orderlies yanked me out of the clutches of Chibuzor and his cohorts.


“Don’t you know that this boy is the son of the soil?” the weird looking lady screamed at the angry igbo traders from whom I was just yanked off. “Do you want to take the law into your own hands?” I wondered what she meant by ‘the son of the soil’, I wondered if my crime was made any easier by the fact that I was an indigene of the town or the fact that I was a Yoruba and Chibuzor was Igbo. And why ethnicity was always a tool so easily used during the smallest of squabbles.

“Madam, I no send law o, do you know wetin my oga don do me because of this brat?” Chibuzor barked back at her. “Where law dey that time?”

“So you think beating him to death because of a few Nairas won’t cause you wahala? Abi?”
Chibuzor was angry and for good reasons too, the woman seemed as though she was not trying to understand at all. Ignoring Chibuzor she just snapped her fingers, a rather strange act that seemed overtly dramatic but which he orderlies understood only tool well as they came to drag me inside an ancient looking white 505 Peugeot.


“Madam, make I no disrespect you o, where you dey carry that pikin dey go? Me I wan collect my money…you think say I dey crase?” as he was uttering those words, the crowd was slowly thinning out, some of the onlookers were slowly losing interest, that was how such matters were solved these days, when the intertribal sword was drawn, nobody dares tackle it without having a better weapon in the fight.

And without uttering another word back to Chibuzor, the lady checked her white handbag and removed a minty whole one thousand naira note and handed it over to Chibuzor. Despite myself, my eyes twitched with rage, I struggled to get free of my captors but they were a lot stronger than I was.


“But ma’m, he does not deserve the money”

“Did you deserve to get beaten?” she asked looking at me with face like an eagle, as though she could follow it up with a scarier version of Chibuzor’s slap. I had to change the direction of my gaze, her hawk face seemed to have had some sort of Kraken effect on me.

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Tolu Daniel is Short Story writer and a brand strategist. His short stories have appeared in several blogs and magazines over the years. He blogs at toluojuola.wordpress.com.

He can be reached via [email protected]
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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: 'I Do' | By: Debbie Iorliam

* * *
I rehearsed the words over and over in
my spare time at night. I rehearsed really hard so that when the time came, I
would say them out like a proud lady getting married to a man of her dreams. Now,
staring into Marvin’s eyes made me realize I would be getting married but with
a dark secret. I panicked. Marrying Marvin meant too many things. It meant;
marrying his bad breath in the morning, marrying his bushy arm pits, marrying
his stinking shoes, marrying his snoring! My head felt woozy and I almost ran
out of the church but I willed myself to be strong. I knew I could live with
all these.
When it got to the point I had to say my
vows, the words came out like a mewing sound. My heart froze, that couldn’t
have been me! I looked at Marvin. He was smiling so sweetly at me that I cursed
myself silently for trying to ruin our day. With a firm voice this time I said
‘I do’ with more emotion and with a deeper sense of commitment.
I enjoyed my day like every woman should
and I knew that Marvin would love me till the end of time.  It was easy to love him, but for a long time
I held onto the walls I built around myself. But gradually like a miner he
brought them down with much affection, care and shoulders I have refused to cry
on, not because they never looked capable. I was afraid for myself and afraid I
might drown his shoulders with my unending tears.
I chided myself for trying to reminisce
at the wrong moment and as a way of trying to reassure myself that all would be
right, I rushed forward and gave my man a fierce hug that I knew would convey
my unspoken feelings. He understood and held me tightly the way I liked to be
held.
‘I love you Marvin, now and forever’. I
whispered into his ears. I felt him hold me a bit tighter but I loved it.
I wore the thickest of the new night
gowns Marvin and I picked up at the shopping mall a fortnight ago. He wasn’t
satisfied with my choice for the night:
‘Honey, pink favors you most. Why not
try that?’
‘Really? You’ve never told me. Love, do
we really have to do anything this night?’ I sweetly asked, stalling even as
the end was inevitable.
‘Of course dear. Wedding nights are
magical’.
My heart beat fast and it felt like
Marvin could hear me from where he laid on the bed waiting impatiently for me
to join him.
‘Let me put off the light dear’ I said
walking towards the switch on the wall. I never made it there because half way through
Marvin sprang out of the bed and made a grab for my buttocks, which he got a
hand full. He snaked his hands up to my waist and then to my chest to help
himself to my melon. But half way through his hands froze. He searched further
to be certain his hands weren’t playing tricks on him. Though I was backing
him, I could describe the look on his face and the whirling emotions in his
heart. It was the height of betrayal and selfishness. But I felt total relief
wash over me and for the first time since we started dating I felt calm.
‘How could you? How could you do this to
me?’ He asked turning me around with a manly force. I lacked the courage to
look into his eyes and I couldn’t bear to see the hurt in them. I merely cried
as the tears came down from the well of my soul.
Marvin screamed like a wounded warrior.
He turned and grabbed the flower vase sitting next to the television and
smashed it on the wall. His light skin looked red from hurt. He began to sob
uncontrollably. Something I had never seen him do. He sat on the floor and I
moved to where he was, on my knees.
‘I can’t take this Boma. I have loved
you like no other woman and this is what I get in return? Half… half…’ He
trailed off there. ‘It’s too early to get divorce papers! The next time you see
me, it would be about time.’
BANG!
***
I have been married for thirteen hours
and separated. How worse can life be? I wasn’t meant to fall in love. I wasn’t
meant to feel. For a long time I told myself I wasn’t destined to love and be
loved. I was just meant to love so my heart would be smashed into smithereens.
I have had my heart broken fifteen times and by different men whom I felt could
love me if they knew everything about me, but I was wrong.
I have gone through a lot but I have
come out stronger. Not confiding in Marvin was a desperate attempt to salvage
my bitter life.  I don’t regret my
actions, not now or ever. I have been a cancer victim since I was
twenty three years. I was told it was hereditary. The lump had grown large and
spread to delicate areas. The only option was to do away with the bad breast
which was the left one to save my life.
The journey from cancer was a long and
trying one and the idea of ending it seemed very appealing. All the men in my
life had rejected me. For a long time I felt rejected and vowed I would never
let any man come close until Marvin came and something in me changed. And I
made up my mind to keep him, no matter what.
On my wedding night, Marvin found out
while trying to make love to me that he was married to a single breasted woman.
Such an ugly imperfection that would stare him in the face forever… That day he
not only married me, he married my single breast, he married the ugly scar on
the left side of my chest, where a breast once rested. He married my deceit, he
married my nightmares. Two weeks later, here I am still. In my
wedding dress, perhaps waiting for my wedding again. But how far do wishes go? I
know that when next there is a bang on my door and Marvin’s baritone soars in,
they wouldn’t be bringing glad tidings. It would be to have our divorce papers
signed. Still, my nights are colder than what they use to be and the nightmares
have found their way back…
***
Knock! Knock!
Finally, the dreaded knock. I knew who
it was before his voice called out: ‘Boma!’
For the first time in forever, I rushed
to the mirror and looked at who I had become: a scarecrow. I had emaciated, had
my hair haggard, stringy like dreads. Marvin couldn’t see me like this!
Instinctively, I moved towards the bathroom then mid-step remembered: ‘What was
the need? Who did I need to be clean for?’
‘Boma! Boma!’
Was that anxiety in his voice? No.
Probably the residue of what he had taken with him.  I walked to the door calmly and opened it.
Marvin stood there, a near direct male reflection of what I had seen in the
mirror a little earlier. He was in his suit still. His eyes were to the ground,
his voice really low now…
‘Boma, do you think we can continue from
that night once more…?’
I wondered what to say. It was our
wedding all over again. I wasn’t sure I would go on this second time. 
What if
he did the same thing again…? I closed my mind and allowed my heart talk:
‘I do…’
The next moment, I felt myself lifted…
and I was in that lovely grasp that had formed my dreams once upon a time… I
hugged him back hard as if my life depended on it. It did.
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Debbie Iorliam (poet and short story writer) is an Editorial Assistant with SEVHAGE Publishers. She can be reached at [email protected]
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Email: ololade.olatunji@yahoo/gmail.com
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Short Story: Diary of a fat battered housewife. (Part 2) | By: Damore Ali





( click here to read the Part 1 of this story)

I had thought the following months would see a better light. The writing course I applied for while we were dating was finally approved in a mail sent to me one day. Awaiting his arrival in delight that day, I prepared his favourite meal. I was delighted for two reasons, my writing career which I would finally have the opportunity to continue pursuing and the fact that it was ‘pay day’ so he would have no financial excuses to give me. On getting home, he ate the food hungrily, and as usual, the very next thing was sex. He didn’t even notice my new outlook, and the little too much make up I applied. Who was I to resist? On nights when I tried to, he would leave the house and not come back for days. That night, I just wasn’t in the mood for that.

When he was done exciting himself, I informed him about the mail I received from the university. Without much of a thought, he replied ‘you can’t go!’ What? Why? His reasons untold, safe for saying that there would be no one to take care of him. Seriously? Could he have been any more selfish?

A month after, his father died of a heart attack. That was when things worsened, as his mother decided that since the father of the house was gone, the only son of the house had to come back to the house to keep the family together. That was the most disgusting thing I had ever heard! Having no choice than to accept, if I wasn’t to be tagged a ‘witch’, we moved in with his mum and the rest of his family in September. Ever since, I have lost my fair share of sleep. Mama would feign the mourning mood, and so would her children, while I would be made to cook breakfast, lunch and dinner. The tedious part of it was they never requested for simple meals.

The first day I made ‘poundo- yam’ for mama, she ordered me never in my life to bring such to her again. She had said ‘where we come from in Ekiti, we pound Yam. You these children of nowadays are just so useless! Always looking for quick service! Tscheew’. Each time I made stew, she would have one complaint or the other. Her words always reached deep into my bone marrow, and then I would remember home. On the few times when I was on good terms with my parents, dad would tease saying I was a better cook than my mum, and my mum would proudly say that means she taught me well. With mama and her girls however, it seemed they had a different taste bud.

On some days, everyone would ask to eat different things. Simisola the youngest would ask for moin- moin, Tope the older one would request for rice, and Mama would say ‘if you can make pounded yam, me and my son will manage it’.

Anytime she saw me sleeping, she would wake me up with a loud tap on my butt saying her house was not for lazy lots. ‘Don’t you sleep at night?’ She would ask. Who was I to say her sons requests never gave me time for that?

You know I made up my mind to cope with all of this before, especially when I got pregnant with Raymond’s son in January, the event of this years February 14th however changed my mind completely. That day, I made up my mind to be happy, because for as long as I could remember my face hadn’t known the curve of a smile. I needed to feel some love, or at least get out of the bondage I had put myself in. I prepared the various meals mama and her children would eat, stored them in the warmer and made to dress myself up in anything that could fit as all my clothes seemed to be way off my new size. I intended to tell mama I would be going out but she was asleep so I left a note and set out. I had intended to visit my parents as I hadn’t seen them in a long while but I first stopped at a store to shop for some baby clothes and valentine gifts with the little cash I had in hand.

Feeling the baby form in my stomach as I picked out one cloth after the other brought me my first smile in a long while. While shopping for the gifts I needed, I met Victor, an upcoming actor and one of my old time boyfriends whom I loved but couldn’t date for too long. He asked to take me to lunch but I refused so as not to ignite any unnecessary feelings. Even though I didn’t love Fisayo, I respected the vows we took on our wedding day. I however exchanged digits with Victor and from there I made to my parents house with some gifts for them too. I had purposely switched off my phones because I wasn’t ready to let mama and her son, or any of her children for that matter get in my way. That day was fulfilling, but not for too long.

Leaving my parents house for mama’s place around five, I got home by six in good time to prepare dinner. On getting home, mama and her children pounced on me like three witches starved of human blood. Mama started ‘where on earth did you go, looking so colourful like a masquerade?!’ She grabbed the bags I had in my hand and poured them on the ground. On seeing the clothes and gifts, she lamented ‘Jesu! This child has killed me! So Fisayo brought home an harlot for a wife?!’ quickly concluding I had gone to see another man who bought all those things for me, as she didn’t think I could have enough cash to shop since I wasn’t working. Immediately Raymond arrived, she told the tale to him in perfectly chosen words, painting a picture even myself had not painted as a writer in any one story before. As my husband, what did he do? His insecurity and insensitivity got the best of him and he hit me so hard against the wall that I crashed on the ground. That night, I lost my baby.

Tell me, have I not tried? What you think doesn’t even matter. ‘Another child’s mother cannot come and kill another mother’s child!’. Enough is enough biko! I have done my best. I no longer have a reason to stay. I have to find happiness on my own. I need to go back HOME. I have issued him the divorce papers, but he has refused to sign, pleading with me to come back. For what? So he can kill me? I never signed a contract of death. I signed a contract of marriage, and where I come from, as against the usual ‘for better, for worse’ vows; we would say ‘for better for stay; for worse, le walk away’. Maybe I’ll find love again, maybe not.. But this, is certainly over. Dear diary, I’m done.


Signed,
A fat battered housewife.


My phone rings as I close my diary. I pick it up with a smile even as a tear strolls down my eye. Less pained, a tad happier, I speak into the mouth piece. It’s Victor.

Maybe I’ll find love again, maybe not. If I don’t give myself a chance, how will I know?




THE END.






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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 http://dr2103.wordpress.com.
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Email: ololade.olatunji@yahoo/gmail.com

























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Short Story: Diary of a fat battered housewife. (Part 1) | By: Damore Ali



Dear diary,



I got married last year June to Adigun Olufisayo Raymond, my supposed dream man. I have been married for just 10 months, and I already want a divorce. I miss HOME. I have tried to condone everything he and his family have been putting me through, but for the sake of my health and condition, I think it is just best to put things to an end. For better for stay; for worse, le walk away.


Let me take you to the very beginning.

I was a student of banking, and an aspiring writer at the time. You know how people just go to school for the sake of certificates, but have greater plans to put their lives into. Guess I am just one of such people.

I met Raymond on Facebook. He had sent me a friend request, which was followed by an in box asking to know more about me. He complimented my writings, and pictures; and claimed to be one of my very many teeming fans. Seeing as he kept up with my writing career and made me feel good about what I was doing, though my parents thought it was a total waste of time, I took particular liking to him; and with time, I let us take things a little further.

We became friends on BlackBerry, and all other social network sites that I was on. He would use my pictures every now and then, and post prayer messages for me whenever I was in a contest. After about a month of playing the loyal fan, and supportive friend, he asked me out and I accepted. Thinking back now, I think I accepted him for all the wrong reasons. I didn’t love him, I couldn’t.

I had loved too many people that my parents wouldn’t let me be with, so I settled for ‘like’. That was the farthest my heart could go after numerous heartbreaks. Raymond was not particularly handsome, or breathtakingly gorgeous but I liked him because he supported me like no one plus he was a banker, so I was sure my parents would like him too. At that time, there was too much pressure on me from the home front. My parents were not happy with my lifestyle. They would say my clothes
were not religious and this, and that.

They hated my hair, the company I kept, my passion for fashion, and flair for writing.. To worsen things, they never approved of all the guys I introduced to them as my friend, and ‘potential’ boyfriends. All they wanted from, and saw in me, was for me to be a banker. Both my parents are first class students of banking and finance from the same university, and they graduated during the same year. That was what they wanted for me too. They wanted me to introduce bankers, accountants, engineers, doctors, and the likes to them.

That was the main reason why I felt Raymond was just the way out of the hell they put me through. Now I know I thought wrong. There’s never a place like home. No one would give you the kind of love, and comfort your parents would give you. I never knew that, but now I know better.

We dated for three months, and all through the time, he never asked me for sex. That also impressed me. Rather than talk about sex, he would talk about marriage. He claimed to be a virgin, and a devout christian. He looked it too, so it was hard to believe otherwise. He had encouraged me to apply for a writing course in the University of Bedfordshire, and promised to sponsor me if it worked through. Sadly, He isn’t much of a giver but I was too distracted to notice.

His seeming support was my happiness, and whilst he made me happy, I did my best to make him happy too and never asked too much of him. At 28, Raymond still lived with his parents and two younger female siblings. You see, Raymond was a lot of things. He was insensitive, insecure, and most importantly, a mummy’s boy. All of these never mattered because I was too in a haste to leave where I was for somewhere new.

After my graduation, my parents secured a job for me in the banks where each of them worked, using their influences to pave the way for me. I refused the offer, and for that they wouldn’t let me be. I told them I had done my best sacrificing four golden years of my life doing what they want, and I couldn’t afford spending the rest of my life doing something I didn’t like.

They would persist that it’s either I accept their offer, or leave their house as they couldn’t bear my stay in the house like someone whose credentials were not good enough to get a job. I told them I needed some time. As an upcoming writer, you know, it takes a while to get established, and start earning money. To cut the story short, Raymond’s proposal came in good time, and I jumped at it instantly; not without cajoling him to get an apartment for us first. In my mind, I was in for bliss.

Preparations began, and in no time, I changed from ‘that 23 year old beautiful aspiring writer,’ to ‘that new full housewife.’ Two months into the marriage, I was as fat as the word itself. Each night, he would turn to me like a sex- starved maniac. And every morning, after he is off to work, worn- off totally, I would hit my bed and sleep through the day. I was too tired to even get inspired to write. I became unhappy because he had shifted attention from me to himself. He didn’t even consider us as a couple in the decisions he made.

Soon enough, my fans and readers from Facebook started contacting me to know what went wrong and like a cue, Raymonds insecurity got the hell over him. He started keeping tab of my calls, social network accounts, and wouldn’t let me keep in touch with my fans, most of whom were male. When it got somewhat unbearable, I discussed with him telling him how unhappy I was at how he had been treating me, he apologised, and I accepted. I thought it was over. But, I thought wrong.
(To be Continued)




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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 http://dr2103.wordpress.com.




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Email: ololade.olatunji@yahoo/gmail.com
































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Short Story: Boom | By: Ogechi Nwobia

Saturday night, I’d planned it perfectly. Nothing could go wrong. My life had taken on an all new direction and I was happy; that budding happiness that would grow and grow into a bundle of immeasurable joy.
I sat in the restaurant and waited for Deji. My precious Deji. Deji whose smile lit up my world. Oloworimi. The one who had my heart, my love and my life. I was a lost cause where he was concerned. I didn’t listen to anyone or think of anything else. Mum said I was jazzed. My friends said they would pray for me. I could not be bothered. Deji was my world and they had to accept it.
He walked in, smiling as always. That smile that gripped my heart and caused it to do several back flips. That smile that left pretty butterflies dancing about in my tummy. I had known that smile for two years. Yes, we had been together that long. And he was everything. The kind of man I’d always dreamt of. Only he was frequently out of town on business so I did not get to see him as often as I wanted. But I was content. He made me content.

“Iyawo mi”
I blushed. He always called me that. All his friends did too. How could anyone not envy my life?
I got up and kissed him. He took his seat directly opposite me and smiled as he spoke.
“How are you darling?”
“I’m doing great. Long day at the office, but I feel alright now, I’m with you.”
I really did feel alright being with him and my insides were just about bursting with my good news. I watched him uncap the bottle of wine and pour some into our glasses then I signalled to the waiter, my partner in crime. He knew what to do and in less than five minutes, he returned, placed a dish in front of Deji, smiled, bowed and walked away. Deji looked at me in amusement.
“What is this love?”
I had a big grin on my face as I replied
“Just open it.”
He did and for a couple of seconds, just stared at the grilled fish in front of him. The chef had taken his time to carefully inscribe the word “DADDY” on the fish.
He looked at me with a nervous smile and asked
“What’s the meaning of this?”
I looked at him smiling brightly, bursting at my seams with excitement.

“You’re gonna be a daddy! Baby, we’re pregnant!”
I looked at him expectantly. He was shocked and I began to laugh expecting him to laugh with me and take me in his arms any second. Instead, he broke into a cold sweat and all the warmth disappeared from his eyes.

“We’re not pregnant, you are. I have a wife and four kids. I don’t need any more…”
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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: Moving | By: Su'eddie Agema

Dad’s Mercedes wagon appeared from nowhere. We squeezed our two bedroom apartment into the car. Soon, its stomach was touching the ground from the load it carried. By the time the entire luggage had found space, we discovered we couldn’t find any for ourselves. Terngu and I exchanged glances.
The car looked overfed.
Makurdi was our destination. Mummy said it was better there. There were fruits and water which we only bought here – or used to buy. Eating and going out had become a luxury since Dad lost his job. No one visited anymore. The Landlord had also become harsh and said we should go away. We were leaving.
I took a quick run to find my friends. They followed me back. Mummy says that people go to burials to make sure the dead people wouldn’t come back to finish our food and water. I wondered if they came to make sure I wouldn’t do same.
I met Dad and Mummy looking for me. After a little scolding, they pointed to the place where I was to sit. I stood, looking at it. I knew my buttocks would hardly fit in. Terngu was sulking in the corner, load all around. I looked at my sweaty body and pitied myself.

“Go in!” Dad growled. He was waiting to close the door. I squeezed myself into the space. The car was stuffy and I could hardly breathe.

“Make sure you send us fruits!” It was Uche and Babu, my friends. They had come to my side of the car.

“I will. I will bring when I am coming!!”

Dad gave them Five Naits and they ran off, excited. I wished I was Uche or Babu. I imagined the candy they would buy. Ouch! My legs were hurting.
I removed my shoes as a horrible stench hit my nose.
“Hmmm!! Dad, there is garlic in the car!”
Dad’s frown deepened as Mummy burst out laughing:
“There is no garlic.” Okay. Excluding garlic there could only be one explanation:
“Mummy, Terngu farted!”
Terngu punched me. I hit back as Dad’s voice commanded us to stop. My nostrils were not liars. Terngu’s buttocks had overdone it this time.

“Daddy, Terngu’s fart doesn’t want to go.”
“Terngu, why won’t you allow my child rest?”
Terngu said nothing but carried one of my shoes and stuck it to my nose. The stench hit me worse than the shalanga, pit toilet we used to share in our compound.

“Hmmmmmmmm” was the only sound I could make in disgust.
“What is that?”

“Unde’s shoe.”

“Would you apologise or not?”
I grudgingly did. The journey was already too tiresome. I wished I was back home making toys. Or playing with Babu and Uche, or buying something with the money Dad gave them! I wondered if Makurdi was worth it after all.

“Mummy, I don’t want to go to Makurdi again.”
“What?!!” Dad asked and I had to stammer a reply I can’t remember now.

“You don’t want those fruits or to see the River?” Mummy asked.
I remembered these but was too tired. I wanted to go back home. I had decided. After all, I was a big boy now. Mummy had said so severally. I closed my eyes to Dad and opened my mouth to state my stance when Mummy gave me some biscuits from her bag. Biscuits!! My favourite! It had been months. I could hold my peace for a while.
As I munched, I set my eyes on the road. I hoped that the sight of passing objects would be enough to make me forget my aching buttocks. The discomfort was getting unbearable. Then, I slept…
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Su’eddie Vershima AGEMA is a poet, short story writer and publisher. He is the Chairman of the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA Benue Chapter) and author of Bring our casket home: tales one shouldn’t tell. He blogs at http://suddie.wordpress.com, @sueddieagema on Twitter and can be reached at [email protected]




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Short Story: A Flight Diversion | By: Chimamanda Adichie

I was woken by the pilot’s voice. In the drowsy hum of the airplane, his words crackled, and I thought I heard something about preparing to land. Could I have slept so long? I looked at the time. It was only three hours into the Lagos-to-Atlanta flight. The flight attendants were hurrying back and forth. The pilot was still speaking.

“We have an emergency onboard and we have had to divert the flight to Dakar.” I could feel the plane descending. It seemed too fast. A sweeping hollowness. My fog of sleep cleared instantly. Something was wrong, the pilot was too cryptic, the flight attendants too blank-faced, snatching up cups, urging seats straight. I thought: If I die, I hope it’s quick and I don’t know. The woman beside me crossed herself. Then the pilot’s voice came back on. It was a medical emergency, he said; a pregnant passenger went into early labor and had just had a baby. I sensed, around me, a collective hush of relief and wonder. A baby delivered on the plane! We landed in Dakar. It was 2 a.m. Medical personnel in orange vests hurried in, a man carrying a black box, a lanky woman dragging an IV stand, their eyes heavy with sleep. I wondered what the baby would need, and if they had what the baby would need.
Soon, the lanky woman left, cradling a bundle wrapped in cloth. The baby. I strained to see better, hoped I would hear it cry. Then the new mother emerged, a young woman with a tube dangling from her arm, and behind her came the other medical worker, trying to support her. But she didn’t need him. She strode past, straight and steady, so quick that I caught only a glimpse of her face. She looked stunned and frustrated. It seemed even more of a wonder to me, not only that she had just had a baby in midair but that there she was on her feet, normal and capable. The pilot came out of his cabin. A tall man with an easy air, he told us it was a baby boy, and both mother and baby were fine.
His American humor emerged. “Been flying a long time and this is a first for me!”. We, the Nigerian passengers, laughed with a shared sense of delight, as though by being present we had  somehow shared in bringing this baby into the world. The American flight attendants were baffled.
“The mother said she was 24 weeks gone, but that baby looked full-term. Why would anybody take the risk?” one asked. We did not ask why. The new mother was travelling alone, nobody knew her, and yet we felt as if we did. We speculated about her circumstances. She probably had visa problems, got her visa later that she’d planned, or perhaps she had not planned it early enough, or maybe the chance to go to America emerged late in her pregnancy, and she’d chosen to do what she had to do because the sparkling worthwhile end was an American-born baby.  I thought of her expression as she exited the plane, more frustration than worry, a lament for the American passport that now would not be. Some passengers joked about her poor luck.

“Now she has a Senegalese baby, ah, this is bad market for the baby!” one said. “A Senegalese passport is still better than a Nigerian,” another countered.

“They will give a Senegalese person a visa before giving a Nigerian.” “Good that the baby waited for the flight to take off, do we even have the right emergency services in Lagos airport?” someone else asked. We chuckled. Good will swirled among us.
Thank God it ended well, many people said, thank God. Risk taking was familiar to us. For too many in our world, this was the norm: the lack of choice and the dependence on chance. Again, the pilot’s voice brought news. A tire had  deflated, and the airline did not have the resources in Senegal to fix it in time. We would have to spend the night in Dakar. As we left the plane and got into buses, we sent text messages and grumbled about the inconvenience of arriving a day later than planned. Still, the complaints were light-footed because what mattered was that the birth had gone well. In the hotel, some passengers posed for pictures by the fountain; why miss a good photo opportunity in a fellow African city they otherwise might never have visited?

“Please, my sister, do you have any sleeping pills?” a stranger asked me.
The next morning, slightly disoriented and starved of sleep, I skipped breakfast. When I finally went down to the lobby, most of the crew and passengers were gathered, waiting for the airport bus, faces dull and unrefreshed, voices a muted murmuring. As I joined the group, a woman asked me if I had heard.

“Heard what?” I asked.

“The baby died.”
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Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie is a renowned novelist, the author of three novels, Purple Hibiscus (2003), Half of a Yellow Sun (2006), and Americanah (2013), of a short story collection, The Thing around Your Neck (2009).  She has received numerous awards and distinctions, including the Orange Broadband Prize for Fiction (2007) and a MacArthur Foundation Fellowship (2008).
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Short Story: Last Card | By: Ololade Olatunji

Yetunde placed her palms across her face and wiped the tears down. She wailed, scattered her bedsheet and flung everything on it. She had just called her father for the balance of her school fees, his reply still echoed in her ears, “I have tried all my best, nothing is forthcoming. See if you can borrow it somewhere I will pay back”.
Where was she going to get N150, 000 from? Who would borrow her that kind of money knowing it’s just two weeks to the final exams at the State University. She stood up from the bed, sat on the carpeted floor and stared at the large poster of Beyonce occupying one of the walls. Her gaze shifted to her framed Matriculation picture on the reading desk.

“Yetty baby, how far na”. Her only roommate Amarachi entered. She wore a yellow tank top over a three-quarter pair of jeans.

“I’m fine‘ she replied, still looking at the picture
Amarachi dropped her bag on her bed and sat down to unbuckle her wedge sandals. “If you see wetin happen for library today, na so….‘ She stopped after noticing her red eyeballs “What is it again?” Is it your school fees?
She nodded in the affirmative. “Just called my father, he said I should go and borrow. Last week, he confidently told me the money would be ready today. Today it is another story? Where would I get N150k from? She grabbed her bedsheet and cried into it.
“It is going to be well, my dear, all these things happen for a reason. By God’s Grace, you will write your exams” She sat beside her and placed her arms across her shoulders. Yetunde’s phone rang again. She checked the caller, hissed and dropped it on the bed.
“Who is it,” Amarachi picked the phone and checked the missed call.

“It’s Chief Sokoya.” She announced with a smile on her face

‘I know” Yetunde looked away
She had interviewed Chief Sokoya, a wealthy business man and socialite during her IT at a print media organization the previous year. They became friends after he told her that she reminded her of her late daughter. He would call her over the phone, talk about business, her school and advise her to graduate with good grades. She thought it a good idea to see him over her school fees issue.

“It’s absolutely no problem, you are a university lady, you know how these things work. Scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. I’ll make it N200k. Cash! You can’t get that offer anywhere.” She couldn’t believe it was the same Chief that dropped the bombshell.
With tears welled up in her eyes, she cleared her throat and pleaded. “Sir, I’m not like that, I genuinely need this money, it’s for my school fees, I’m not even asking you to give it to me for free, I’ll pay you back as soon as my Dad sends it to me, time is really not on my side, please sir.” If only he could read the sincerity in her speech. Everything she said afterwards didn’t make any iota of sense to him, she picked her bag and left. That was two days ago.

“Pick it now; you don’t know why he’s calling.” Amarachi persuaded, looking into her eyes. Yetunde shoved the phone away, stood up and sat on Amarachi’s bed.

“Lemme help you then.”
Chief had called to know if she had changed her mind. He was ready to make the deal N250. Amarachi jumped up immediately after the call.
“N250k for one night stand? Ewooooooo! See money, Yetunde biko, gree now, if not for anything for your school fees.”

“Forget it Amara, I won’t sleep with anybody for money”. She crossed her hands and nodded. She watched the smile on Amarachi’s face vanish away. Amarachi sat beside her and placed her hand in her palms.

“Let’s just be honest with each other. Yetunde, this is an opportunity you can’t afford to miss. This is your only chance at getting your school fees, no one is asking you to sleep with him forever, just do this once, pay your school fees and get over it. Look at me; do you think I’m happy sleeping with men over money? I am not but what will I do? Lemme tell you a bit of my story. When my parents died when I was 16, my younger ones and I moved to my Uncle’s house thinking he would take care of us. For where? Na so so beating. He starved us at will and molested me for 3 years; I had 3 abortions for him and at the end of the day, he threw us out. Few weeks before I turned 19, my neighbor’s daughter introduced me to prostitution. And that was how it all started. I never planned my life this way, see me now, I’m okay, My younger ones are comfortable, they are going to school, the other day, the two of them asked for N20k, I went to the bank, sent it to them fiam! Where would I have gotten N20k from? Now I’m broke but at least they have something to hold on to. I ga-enyere onwe gi, o dighi onye ozo ekpe. Help yourself, no one else will. Hian! I have said my own o. And it’s not like you have a boyfriend now, shey we would have begged him to help you out.” Amara’s story touched her to the marrow but it did nothing to change her mind. An idea suddenly hit her as she stood up to arrange her bed.

“And I fit help you o”. Yetunde’s face lit like a new torch. Some ray of hope at last.
“Not like I have money, the only thing left in my wallet is N525 naira. What just occurred to me is this, I can sleep with him, shebi it’s just for 1 night, en no wahala but….we will strike a deal. If he pays N250k, your share will be N100. I will borrow you N50K, after exams, you’ll find a way of paying me back. Agreed or not”
Was it ideal to collect that kind of money? She was confused but at the same time had to face reality. “Errm, erm, I don’t even know what to say. It’s ok then.” She replied faintly.
Amara called Chief and they both agreed to meet at Starlight estate the following day, which was Thursday. There was something she didn’t get in all of the deal. Why was Chief interested in her or her roommate, if he was really sex-starved or wanted to sleep with someone urgently, couldn’t he have picked someone else, somewhere, anywhere? N250k for one night stand? That also sounded too good to be true.
She locked the door firmly after Amara left the next day. She placed her hands on her back and rested her body on the door. Amara won’t be coming back that day, she was going to do some shopping and check on her younger ones at school. She promised to see her the next day which was Friday.
She later called to tell her she had already settled in the hotel with Chief. She was going to call her as soon as she leaves the place. Few hours later, she tried to call her to know how the deal had gone, it would be disastrous if Chief had given her less of what they agreed on.
Her phone rang and rang but she didn’t pick it up. She slept off after rounds of attempts. The following day, she made a call to Chief Sokoya to find out whether she was still there, the lady who picked it said he had travelled out of the country and wouldn’t be back until after 6 months. She tried to take her mind off the whole issue, she knew her roommate would have called or sent a text if Chief had fumbled.
She was a little worried again, didn’t she see the over 20 missed calls on her phone? She called again but a miscreant picked the call. Amara must have lost her phone. They were going to see later in the evening anyway.
After doing some laundry, she cooked, ate a little portion, took few books and dashed to the library. She didn’t spend up to an hour before she stood up. She wasn’t going to deceive herself, nothing sank in.
She got home to find the room the way she had left it. Amara was not back still. Wait, had she played a fast one on her? Did she spend almost all she got on shopping? Did she settle her siblings at home? Did she spend all on hospital bills, foodstuff, maintenance and all the possible things that could drain one’s finances in a split second? The questions kept pouring in torrents. She found no answers to them.
The following morning, she awoke to several loud knocks on the door. She yawned and hurried to open it. Amara’s coursemate Aisha rushed in crying. The news she brought didn’t only clear the fog of sleep on her face, it also ripped her heart. Amara’s mutilated body was found beside a bush near Starlight estate.
She was motionless for few seconds. More girls trooped into the room with chants of “Sorry about your roommate o.” Another lady said, “Heard police saw her school I.D card”. She scanned their faces one by one. Reality had begin to dawn on her. Amara was really dead? How? How can she die like that? She was expecting her that morning, with some piece of good news; her school fees, a happy face apologising for not picking her calls or getting across to her yesterday, dragging her to her bed and giving her a break-down of the gist. What happened to the money? Mutilated body? Someone used her for rituals? She felt her world crumble at once, steam saturated her face, she lost her bearing in the room, fell down and passed out.
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Ololade Olatunji is a blogger, budding writer, an award-winning poet and an aspiring Public Relations Executive. She blogs at www.loladeville.com.ng. She can be reached on
Twitter: @loladeville_
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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: Piss of Death |By: Olubunmi Familoni

I imagined my bladder would burst and the piss I had been holding for what seemed like centuries would come pouring up out of my mouth and nose in a huge yellow gush, and that was how I would die, in a pool of my own piss. What a way to die, vomiting piss, accumulated piss, drowned by it . . .

But that didn’t happen.

What happened was, with every jolt of the lorry as it weaved and swayed to dodge potholes in the road, a few drops of urine leaked into my trousers, and I thought that at this rate I should have leaked out my entire bladder before we reached wherever it was we were going.

We didn’t know where we were going. We had been riding for hours, since morning when we were taken from farms, classrooms, workshops; heads shaved and bleeding, and crammed into the back of this lorry. Morning, early morning, when the sheet-whiteness of the skies was stained only by the bright-morning sun’s blinding, hard yellow and the black spots of a few birds flitting back and forth across the empty white space in their typical blitheness . . . A morning like any other.

But inside the back of this lorry, it was night – black, midnight-black; so black you couldn’t see the eyes of the person sitting next to you.

The one sitting next to me, on my left, was whispering something – a Catholic prayer, a traditional chant – something religiously rhythmless like that. The one on my right was as silent as black emptiness. I only knew he was there by the cold feel of his bony arm against me whenever the lorry danced its small dances.

At one point, the lorry stopped. The clamour in my bladder began with renewed urgency, and vigour, as if it could sense the stop, hence a slim of hope of release had ignited a urinary uproar; or, simply, it was just that without the constant distraction of external movement this excruciating discomfort of the fullness of my bladder had been brought to the fore of my consciousness.

There was no space between the knees on my left and right to clap my own knees together the way I usually do on nights when I have to go and piss and I can’t because the latrine is at the back of the house and it is black outside, like inside the lorry here right now.

The curtain that had fallen over the mouth of the lorry, over our faces, was suddenly lifted – it was just as black outside. Night!

A torch’s hard beam of light fell on the face of the boy on my left, the praying one; I looked at him – there was blood and snot coming out of his nose and entering his moving mouth, and there were tears trickling down the sides of his face. . . I felt like joining him in his crying, I had enough grief to, but all the liquid in my body seemed to have congregated in my swollen bladder. My eyes were dry.

The light touched me, pricked my eyes, it blinded me. I closed my eyes.

‘You!’ The voice behind the light was just as sharp as the beam, cutting through the silence and darkness. ‘YOU!’

My eyes flew open.

‘Come hia!’

My bladder leaped for joy. I rose to my feet. There was no blood in my legs, only pins.

‘I say come hia before I faya you!’

The cold blade of his threat sent the blood circulating quickly.

The light and voice picked out two other boys, and we were soon standing on solid ground. Well, not quite solid; the ground was muddy, the earth had drunk too much water from the relentless rains of many months.

The swinging torches around us showed potholes that were as wide as yawning mouths. One of the gaping mouths had seized a tyre in its toothless grip and wouldn’t let go, no matter how furiously the driver revved, spitting mud in every direction.

The three of us, the chosen boys, the biggest, were gathered round the tyre, the front tyre on the left side. The soldiers had ordered us to lift it out. My bladder protested, and its contents tortured my penis with pain, threatening to break free.

‘I wan piss,’ one of the boys said.

‘Piss for bodi,’ a soldier answered, from behind his cigarette. That was the soldier whose light had picked us out. I recognized his large voice.

‘Please sah,’ the boy cried.

‘You dey mad?!’

‘Mousa leaf am make he piss.’ That was another soldier, a gentle one, he was the only one not smoking. He was my man, the one I would ask directly for permission to piss, after this boy had settled his own.

The soldier let the boy go to the side of the road, while we waited by the swallowed tyre. My urine waited for its turn, now a low throb on the tip of my penis.

I began sliding towards the kind soldier.

The pissing boy opened his fly and pointed his thing to the bush, but we did not hear the sound of any pissing. My bladder was getting impatient. ‘Piss!’ I hissed to myself.

Everything was still, quiet. Then, a sudden movement – the boy broke for the bush, in a wild rush of feet and grass.

There was a sharp response from one of the soldiers – BANG! BANG! BANG! – three deafening shots that seemed to come from inside my head.

Then dead silence as before.
‘Mousa, go bring am!’

It was the kind, gentle soldier; his rifle was still raised across his chest as if in readiness to take more shots. His voice had lost its warmth.

Mousa dragged the body out of the bush by the leg, like a big game bird.

The other soldier, my man, shone his light on the boy; the blood had already soaked into his shirt. He was still. The pissing boy was dead.

I had never seen a dead body.
‘Any of una still wan piss?’ the gentle soldier asked us, the two boys left. We shook our heads.

‘Mousa go bring anoda strong one from inside.’

*

As we lifted one side of the lorry and the hole let go of the tyre from its toothless grip, my bladder released from its clutch a flood of urine that warmed my thighs all the way down to my calves; it was a soothing feeling, it was like death, the sweet release . . .
*

It began to drizzle as we heaved and huffed. I liked how the wetness covered me, covered my shame. I just wanted to die out here in this rain, like that boy. Well, I had died my own little piece of death in that sweet moment.

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Bunmi Familoni is a writer from Ibadan, Nigeria. He writes short stories, poems, screenplays and other scribblings. His short stories have been published in Klorofyl, Lesleigh Kenya, Storymoja, Hisia Zangu and many others. 

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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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