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Short Story: Forty Minutes Out of Town | By: Morountodun

“Can you believe Tony?!” I hissed at Tosin, furious.
It was my twentieth birthday, and my friends, Tosin, Chris and Tony had taken me on a fun day trip. Tosin had been my roommate and bestie for a year before we met the guys. They were cousins and a year ahead of us in school, and somehow we became friends. Tosin and Chris started dating after six months but we all remained really close. Tony’s parents had gifted him with one of their cars on his admission into university, and for my birthday cruise, we visited a zoo out of town. Then we decided to have an early dinner at a cosy restaurant before heading back, and Tony had just ruined it by asking me out in front of the others, right in the middle of the meal.
I had been dumbfounded, till Tosin kicked my feet under the table and told me, “It’s been five minutes, girl you need to say something.”
What I’d said was, “I need to pee.”
She had followed me after the waiter pointed out the ‘restrooms’, and she replied now, “You either want to date him or not. What’s there not to believe? It’s no big deal.”
There was only a room each for the male and female toilets, both sharing a corridor. I was going to knock to see if the females’ was vacant when I heard movement inside so I paused to face her. “No big deal…seriously? Tony’s the last person I’d want to date, I just don’t see him like that. Now think how awkward our friendship will get after tonight. Or am I supposed to see him and act like everything’s normal?”
Tosin said, “Anyway, if you’re turning him down, please do it in the least painful way. That was a really sweet speech he gave.”
“
Exactly why I’m so pissed. I’m going to feel so heartless saying no.” I groaned. “I’m so not liking this.”
“Sure you can look into my eyes and tell me you don’t fancy him one bit? ‘Cause I always thought there was some chemistry between you two.”
I told her, meaning it, “I don’t want him.”
She hit me fast then and motioned towards the toilet. There were two pairs of legs visible from under the door, and muffled voices from within. Tosin giggled mischievously and whispered, “Looks like something’s going down. We might have to come back later. Don’t wet yourself.”
“This is a public toilet. That better not be what I’m guessing.”
I must have made a face, because she winked at me and said, “I tried it once too, the fear of getting discovered is a thrill, trust me.”
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about living in with Chris. Don’t you think…” I froze mid-sentence as the door handle turned and out came a petite, fair woman. She couldn’t have been up to thirty years of age, and was immediately followed by a chortling young man, both holding hands and seemingly oblivious of the rest of the world.
They both looked unashamedly dishevelled, and Tosin muttered as they left, “Newlyweds, most likely.”
I nodded. I had seen the blinding rock on the woman’s finger, though I hadn’t noticed any on the man’s.
Tosin, staring after them, said with longing, “They must be so in love they can’t keep their hands off each other. Awww.”
I told her, “And that’s something for you to look forward to, but not when you’re already staying with Chris. Move back to the hostel, Tosin. It’s been two months.”
She rolled her eyes and mumbled “Such a prude” as I went to pee, but I hoped she’d think about it.
 
 
 
* * *
I went home the following weekend, and mum told me as we made breakfast, “A new colleague of your father’s moved in next block with his wife during the week. We’re hosting them for lunch.”
Hours later, when I heard my ten-year old twin brothers scramble for the door, and mum and dad’s voices, I knew our guests were around before they called out for me. I joined them at the dining table and dad introduced proudly, “Oyin, my princess. Meet Dr and Mrs Davies.”
The pudgy, pleasant-looking man remarked on my striking resemblance with dad, and mum nicely asked, “So how’re you finding the neighbourhood?”
“Actually,” the man replied with a wink, “I’ve been really busy with my new married life and work to notice. I guess I liked it before moving in though.” He laughed. His wife didn’t seem to speak much, but she probably needn’t with such pretty smile.
“How long have you been married?” Dad asked, smiling at them.
“Three months.” He took her hand in his. “Three blissful months, and they’ve been the best of my life.”
The sincerity with which he said those words made me look to see if she was blushing as much as I was on her behalf, and then it struck me. I had seen that face before.
Bored, my brothers started to fidget in their chairs, and mum took it as a cue to start serving the dishes as the man continued saying, “As a matter of fact, it is our third month anniversary. Sophie?”
“Yes, darling.” She looked at him shyly while I mentally browsed my memory to try to recollect where I’d seen her before. She could’ve just reminded me of someone I knew, but I was too sure I’d seen her in particular—the perfect oval face, it’s flawless golden brown colour, the slight curve of the lips in a gentle smile, the child-like innocence in those eyes.
He brought her hand to his lips and said, staring into her eyes, “It’s amazing how I never get tired of telling you much I love you.”
Something else had caught my attention though. That piece of jewellery on her fourth finger, how could I have forgotten! I knew I’d seen her before! I gasped, delighted as it all came back to me—this woman, this man, that toilet, my birthday. I wondered if either of them had noticed me that day and how they’d feel if they knew what I knew. Embarrassed, maybe? Or would the freaks in them still not care? I couldn’t wait to tell Tosin!
“I love you,” he repeated, all his love shining through his eyes.
But…the man I saw the other day was far younger and taller than this. And did this man just say they’d been married for three months? I knew what I saw that day. And that was only a week ago. Gosh!
To my horror, she cooed in reply, “I love you too, darling,” and even accompanied it with a kiss I’d describe as loving if I didn’t know better. No, you don’t love him, I argued inside of me, almost blurting it out and feeling sick. You don’t love someone and cheat on them like that, that’s not what love is!
A tear rolled down my cheek as I watched them, though I wasn’t sure why; pity at the poor, sweet man’s unequalled love, or the sheer brilliance of the Oscar-deserving act she just put up.
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Morountodun is a writer and a microbiology graduate of University of Ilorin.
Twitter: @Morountosweet
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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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Entertainment

Short Story: ONITEMI by Oluwafunminiyi Omojola (Valentine Special)

We kick off our new segment (Short Story Fridays) with this short-story titled Onitemi. 
You became a snail and I its shell on one sunny afternoon when the sun sat in the sky with a radiant smile that seemed to say that Eledumare was happy with all His creatures. I had come to your compound to call on Anike, your sister and my friend, so that we could walk to the river together – to fetch water for our mothers, and share the latest gossips. You Odedele, was seated on a log of wood in a corner of the compound.
“E’kasan o,” I had greeted, but you did not respond. Your attention was riveted on the gun which you held on the ground between your bare thighs, its barrel pointed upwards. You were singing an ijala-ode at the top of your voice while preparing for your nightly hunting expedition. I stood with the huge clay pot on my head waiting patiently as Anike dashed from hut to hut. Suddenly, the ijala-ode ceased. I turned and found that your striking eyes were now far busier than your hands, painting gentle tiro patterns all over my luscious body.
“Anike, I will go o,” I had screamed in mock exasperation when the patterns around my breasts had begun to take on a more intricate design than those on my arms and legs. I did not look back as your sister and I chattered out of the compound, yet I could feel the blossoming patterns on my buttocks; they were of a hue far darker than aro! Later in the evening, Maami found it strange that it was you, and not Anike who had brought the morsel of iru she had begged of your mother.
“Meet me in the grove.” You had whispered to me as you left.
“Why?” I had asked, my heart thumping wildly, my eyes darting around fearfully, but only the walls had heard us.
I stole out and met you at the place where you eventually stole my heart.
It was on a winding path lined with palm trees, a path which you told me was the same as that which your heart was leading you through.
“… Paths I never knew existed,” you had confided.
“Why would your heart do such?” I had queried, faking concern into my voice. “Do our people not say that it is he who owns the bata drum that also decides the beats to be played? You own your heart; you should tell it what to do.”
You had stopped under a palm tree and shaken your head from side to side in mirth. You said you could not control your heart since your head had also joined in the winding journey.
“And, Asabi, you know well who ori is – our head is our creator. Anyone who fights ori does so to his own detriment. Wherever the head directs, that is where the feet goes. Mine has directed me to you, and here I am, Asabi,” you had said with a pleading air of finality.
I had burst into laughter, clapping my hands delightfully.
That laughter was as genuine as the village madman’s prophecy which held that a brood of white skinned men would one day make their way over thousands of hills and valleys to our land, to hold us captive.
Then, I felt your hand on my lap; it sent shivers down my back like sour pap did when it hit the palates. I pushed it away, suddenly angry with you. 
“Let me go, Odedele. My feet will go wherever ori leads it.”
I sang as I traced my way back home. I did not need the full moon sitting in the sky. The light that shone through my eyes lightened the path.
The anger was gone. In its place were memories of your warmth and sweet words.
***
We met under our palm tree at a time when darkness had begun to wrestle daylight to the ground.
You placed your arms on my shoulder and sat me down on a boulder while you squatted on the balls of your feet, agilely, like a cat.
“Is this where ori has led your feet?” you asked, chin in palm, warm smile on your face.
“Odedele, my heart sings a song but I do not understand it,” I replied, anxiously glancing at the rumbling skies.
“Then tell me the words of the song Asabi, I have a practiced ear. I understand such things,” you had rasped.
“You won’t make the best interpreter Odedele. The ears have a habit of hearing only that which it wants to hear.”
“And the mind, would it also deceive?” you asked.
“It interprets only its master’s bid!” I insisted.
“Well, that may be true, but it never leaves the master in the dark about reality.”
So I told you that it was a song with shrouded meaning, an untamed rhythm that threatened to tear in half.
“It says we are like two palm trees, the branches woven together… ” I began, my toe drawing circles in the sand.
“Then, it is the beat of love Asabi!” you screamed with joy.
I laughed out loud and long. Ensconced in your embrace that was as warm as it was strong, I realised that the song was of emotions even more intense…
“Asabi!”
I jerked awake. The lines of laughter still creased my mouth when I met the astonished eyes of Maami.
“What did you dream about my child?” she asked, gently.
“It was nothing, Maami.” I lied.
In our land, when a dream of good tidings is shared too early, it hinders its fruition. So, I kept the warmth of our sunshine to myself as I balanced the basket on my head, glowing to the farm.
At twilight you and I sat under our palm tree waiting for the moon to appear from behind the hills.
It came with a promise in its halo.
On a night like this, two moons to come, you onitemi, shall become my crown

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Oluwafunminiyi Omojola is a writer. Follow him on twitter @ooluwafunminiyi
Interested in sharing your short story? Email: [email protected]
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Arts

SHORT STORY: DIARY OF A PARTY RIDER (PART 2)

We are struggling young boys but that wasn’t how we started. Our mother’s death turned the tide against us. She was a successful cocoa trader, not-too-beautiful but strong, slightly educated but affluent, prayerful and more prosperous than our father.  I wonder why she had to marry that kind of man; lazy, women-fond, selfish and insatiable, lateron we learnt age was not on her side when he met him. She sponsored every single thing that made its way into the house, every single thing, except Bisade, Kemi and I’s making.
 

Ajike was not a troublemaker, she wasn’t the speechy type. She worked in silence and God rewarded her openly. We flaunted the latest gear, we attended the best school in town, she always had our back. Everything changed on that fateful morning she slipped while trying to run away from her father who wanted to beat her. We were just 15, 13 and 10 when she died, it was last year.

Needless to say her death ended so many beautiful things. We knew our father would never continue paying for our lavish school fees but he could have at least enrolled us in a run-of-the mill school. Never! education became a forbidden topic.

 

Succumbing to the idea of apprenticeship was harder than Chinese algebra, we cried River Jordan out of our faces that night. It took Kemi a long while to understand the ropes of hairdressing. Ajike’s Kemi whose lead in class fetched many plaques and more shopping spree had to be stooped that low.

Bisade settled down to tailoring and learnt fast. No steady income but he managed stipends from mending torn shirts, his boss was that magnanimous. My mechanic job provided next to nothing. The only thing i learnt pretty well after months of hard training was identifying equipment, forget the rest, i fumbled at them effortlessly, my mind was never in it and so i had to quit.

 

The money i get daily from carrying pans of mixed cement at the construction site near my street and barrow pushing was more than a life saver. I managed to save some money for Kemi’s school fees, we withdrew her from learning hairdressing after she came back one night with a swollen face. She ill-treated a customer’s hair and got her face stamped.

 

Hunger was no strange tune in the house. Our step-mother who we had looked up to to snuff the deadly tune out of our lives helped in increasing it. Useless woman, she was the first to notify our father of my untimely exit at the workshop. She can’t pull through barreness i swear.

There was mostly nothing to eat at home, our father was never moved by our pale faces. Aunty Yetunde, our step-mother throws her awkward plump body infront of the stove when cooking, when she’s done she takes the whole pot inside and minutes later you hear them laughing like idiots.

She comes out shortly after and dumps plates bearing thoroughly sucked-out bones and stained lumps of eba into the sink for who else but me to wash. May God just judge my father and that childless cargo too. How can a father hate his children that much. Or is he under a spell?

 

When Jibola, Bisade’s apprentice colleague brought what you people call Mogbo moya business to us. It didn’t take long to sink in. As God would have it, we found an event centre close to our house, thankfully it was ever busy on saturdays. That erased the transport fare challenge.

We stroll in as guests of whatever party was going on. We do weddings, strictly weddings because other ceremonies might find us out and we are always smart enough to look out for wedding programmes and cram the name of the couple incase any shit happens. Nobody will even find us out by God’s Grace. And those cheap ankara clothes always help in raising our value.

 

Forget it, we look neat in them even though they never match the regular aso-ebi. But chiefly, the food we eat every saturday sustains us till the following morning, once in a while we manage to get some take-away, and that lasts us for 2days.

I met Aunty Yetunde gobbling the asaro i brought for Kemi one evening. Anger brewed in me. The invectives i didn’t use on her have probably not been coined, it was great joy to see her bow in shame. It wasn’t only the words that made me happiest, but the perfect opportunity it gave me to unleash all the venom she and my father had planted in us.

She dragged her feet away, looking like a forgiven thief. That night, I waited for my father’s roaring voice but it never came, she didn’t have the nerves to report herself. Now you know everything about us.
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Entertainment

Short Story: The Human Resource Manager | By: Folabi Ogundipe

For  fourteen minutes I sat there just staring at the screen. The coffee in my left hand had gone cold. Only just realizing that, I set it down and proceeded to light another cigarette. The fourth in those minutes. Squinting my eyes as the smoke began to swirl and obscure my view of the screen. In that moment, in that dingy room, it came to me. That moment of clarity, the spark of genius. I knew what I was going to write.

As I set my free hand to the keyboard and began to type, the words came rushing as creative and convincing as my brain could conceive. See, I never had a good education and although I showed some promise and intelligence, I dropped out of the community school before the senior certificate exams. 
It wasn’t just because of the finances, but my father knew I was a no-good sonofabitch and figured he should save the money and I join him on the fishing boats. I’ve sure come a long way from being a poor fisherman’s son. I had employed my intelligence by other means .
Yes, I sure have and I have proved my father wrong. Don’t get me wrong, I still am a never-do-well, but I did amount to something more than what he was. Smiling with a goodly amount of personal satisfaction as I recalled this and setting my cigarette down on the saucer that served as my ashtray, I continued to type with both hands this time.
They were eagerly waiting for me in the other room with our new client, a foreigner as usual, waiting for me to finish. This wasn’t the first time I would have to do this. I wasn’t great, but I was the best writer in our line of business. In fact, my style of writing had become somewhat of a signature and was well recognized by those unfortunate enough to have read them as well as those who hadn’t. My colleagues can’t work without me.
I completed the note and crosschecked it with the demands I had jotted down earlier on a crumpled piece of cardboard, I wasn’t confident about the spellings, but I was satisfied. Not that it would make any difference to the untrained, drug dazed eyes in the next room. I picked my cigarette again as I started to print the document and took a few drags.
When the printer was done humming and shuddering, I picked my gun from the side table and slid it into my belt. The reassuring weight of the weapon ensured the coldness pressed against the bare skin on my lower belly. I snatched the already printed ransom note from the printer and walked to meet the rest of the gang who were watching the 9 o’clock news with our newest kidnap victim in the next room. This is the most exciting part of our operation . Wish us luck.

Folabi Ogundipe is a poet and short-story writer!
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