Creative Essays

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Toxic Ghost by Peace Habila-Okwoli

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When it happened, I didn’t have the courage to lift my head for fear of becoming the meat on bloggers’ tables on social media. Picturing myself on each blogger’s page with captions like ‘Proposal Gone South’ and how they would add what didn’t happen to spice things up as well as attract the gullible kept me still. I would rather remain in this position: one knee down, eyes fixed on the ground and tears flowing like a river till the mockery-induced laughter and smirks fade away. I blame myself more than I blame Adunni who propelled me into this mess. I was too foolish to forget how she had jinxed great opportunities for me in the past. I hate her guts yet enjoy her company. She is my only friend and because we function like the negative and positive forces of the universe, I had held onto our friendship like life. On the day she got engaged, she couldn’t hide her displeasure over my inability to get Dayo to man up and put a ring on my finger. I recall how we sat on the floor like two hopeless birds mourning the death of the wind before she snatched us back to reality with “What if you propose to Dayo? It is the 21st century, girl” “Come on, my ancestors will disown me’’, I added as quickly as I could before her words settled in my bones. Days turned to weeks and I began to rationalize her suggestion. Dayo was beginning to act sweet. He was the sweetest shade of himself. Then the demon possessed me. ”Hello Dayo, do you have a minute to spare?”, I asked over the phone with the words quaking through my vocal cords due to fear. ”Sure, shoot babe’’, he replied swiftly. ”I want us to do dinner tonight’’, I added almost immediately. “Ok, I will pick you up after work. Our usual spot, right?”, He asked. “No! Dayo, I will send the address to you and I will find my way there, don’t worry”, I replied. ”Ok”, he said before dropping the call. Fear welled up from my tummy racing for my throat to choke life out of me. I wondered why he didn’t add the usual “I love you” closing. It got me anxious but the thought of wasting 10 years of my life and the possibility of another 10 gave me faint hope. I rushed to the makeup studio to fix myself. The red gown was perfect for the day because it was Valentine. When I was ready to step out, I loved what I saw in the mirror- I was intimidating to the eyes yet soft on the heart. Dinner was beautiful but the thought of what was ahead made me uneasy. Thankfully, he didn’t notice it. ”Dayo, I love you so much’’, I said as I let my feet enjoy the freedom of stretching. Like a robot, I walked to his side and knelt on one knee. ”Please, marry me’’, I said. ”Get up, you are embarrassing me”, he said. I asked again and again till my voice lost discretion and got people around clapping. Guess he really couldn’t take it as he hurried out, leaving me to my fate. I felt empty yet determined to salvage what was left of my self esteem. I stayed there for a while, enduring the arrows of shame and mockery that were directed at me. When my romance with fear was over, I started counting the feet of people leaving the restaurant. The restaurant was almost quiet when someone tapped my shoulders. I lifted my head to a cute young man urging me to get up. ”You have punished yourself enough’’, he said. He wondered why I allowed them to take pictures of me. His indirect speech confirmed my fears. The only available consolation was the hope that none of them got my face. I am Samson but you can call me Sam, he said as he disrupted the silence that had engulfed the table we sat at. One thing led to another and I found myself in love with Sam barely six weeks after meeting him. He wasn’t the conventional Abuja guy. I enjoyed his pranks and the air of mystery around him; it kept me longing for more. My mum was excited the day I told her about Sam’s proposal. I was over 40. That explained the over 1000 congratulatory messages that glazed my social media timeline. However, the low key wedding was disappointing to a lot of people. They expected us to throw a big party. My mother concluded that I was overprotective of Sam. “E no easy to see husband”‘was all I had the courage to say in response to her question. She had so many issues with Sam and how he couldn’t get his people to show up for the wedding but what doused her fears was that he was working on his papers to relocate to Canada. It was only decent to rush the wedding and process our documents as a couple. That explanation calmed a lot of wagging tongues. After the wedding, he moved in with me. I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of joining him in a hotel where he had spent about 5 months plus. Like they say, marriage is an eye opener but in my case, it opened my eyes to the beauty of love. I enjoyed waking up to his bright eyes jealously watching over me. I felt so much in love and wished Dayo could get to see this in addition to knowing that I got married two months after he walked out on me. He was my world and I threw myself helplessly into his net of love. All was going well until this same Adunni called to register her concerns. ”I think your husband is a narcissist’’, she exclaimed. ”You are in his web o!” “Do you feel fulfilled?” “Are you truly happy?” “Can’t you see he has

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In Search of My Better Half: A short fiction by Chukwuemeka Oluka

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Photo credit: freepik How the Durex Mutual Climax found its way to the ground in the full glare of introspective eyes is what beats my wildest imagination. Using his Instagram page, Aproko Doctor would preach against putting condoms inside wallets. He also discourages men from putting their wallets in their back pockets and then sitting on it. However, I would just laugh over his sermons and consider it all cruise. I love to put stuff in my back pocket notwithstanding. Especially my handkerchief. Though this would teach me a lesson I would never forget in a hurry. The moment I dragged the handkerchief’s tip to clean the sweat bubbles having a swell time on my face, the condom pack followed through immediately, like a child who would give the dad close marking to monitor when he goes out. I was still spreading the hanky generously on my face when an instinct beckoned on me to take a pause. I saw pairs of eyes locked on the condom. Their jaws dropped freely and their mouths went ajar. If I did not die that day in the mall, I might never die again. Shocking! I melted. I wish I could disappear. Many weird situations I have witnessed in life, but none came close to this. The other day, it was bedbugs. Yes, bedbugs! That day, I donned an immaculate white shirt with its crimson red buttons opened to the chest level. My pants looked sharp; razor sharp. The belt gripping my waist matched with the pair of shoes I wore. I also wore the costliest cologne in my wardrobe. I was giving fine boy vibes. However, all these meant nothing to bedbugs. Did I tell you I was heading for a date? She was already seated at the reservation. I joined her, ready to wear my heart on my sleeves. “Nothing will make this date go the path of the previous ones,” I said to myself. I was ready to hold this relationship so gently and tightly. It wasn’t going to slip off my fingers. The previous relationship before this didn’t last longer than an orgasm. It came crashing like a pack of cards because of the weirdest of reasons. She accused me of pressing the toothpaste from the middle and not from the bottom. Well, as we sat holding down discussions and waiting for our orders to be served, her eyes spotted two tiny creatures crawling out from under my collar. It was a white shirt, and this meant that spotting their movement was effortless. They moved haphazardly like male and female in a frenzy. They looked like tiny cockroaches. You would reckon the male was giving the female a last-minute chase for a mating session. The female stretches the companion to the limit to ensure the mating right is earned. Her attention was divided, but her eyes focused on something. We lost eye contact. I became worried. “Baby, what is it? You look so troubled.” “Oh… It’s fine” she responded. At that moment, Romeo and Juliet had found their way back under the collar. They were having a swell time with their relationship. Unknown to them, they were the village people sent to destroy mine. She wore red lipstick and the heart shape her mouth took while she sipped her drink kept me gazing at her with relish. Her face was moisturized and bright. I was making some mental pictures of how beautiful my children would look. One of her palms was placed on the table. I put mine over them and ran quick massages. Then I stretched my neck, ready to sink a kiss on her forehead, when she exclaimed; “Again? What are those things that keep crawling from under your shirt?” This time, they were three. There is no telling me it wasn’t kpakpangolo game they were playing. “Bedbug! Jesus! How come?” The moment she heard ‘bedbug,’ she froze. The glass wine she held, found its way joyously to the ground. “You nurse bedbugs?” “Babe, I don’t understand what you mean. Don’t say that,” I responded. She got up, dabbed her mouth with tissue paper to ensure the red colour on her lips was still within circumference and then she took a walk. I was gobsmacked. I couldn’t muster the ounce of energy to beg her to stay. It was our first outing and it ended in an embarrassment, not just for me, but also for her. As soon as I found my senses again, I dashed to the restroom, took off my shirt and closely observed it. I found a red coloured stain on the back of the neck. I had also seen a similar stain on the headrest of the bolt ride I booked. However, it didn’t catch my attention, as I was consumed by the wild thoughts of how the date would go. It dawned on me that the padded cushions of the bolt ride were infested with bedbugs. I might have snuffed life out of one of them when I rested my head on the seat. The shock and shame the incident caused me will never leave my subconscious mind. That was why when the Durex condom fell to the ground, it felt like a déjàvu. Another embarrassment. I felt like speaking to the ground to let it swallow me. Did I tell you I was carrying a bible? Maybe I should have rejected the condoms. Valentine’s Day celebration was counting down to hours, and that day, the NGO distributed free condoms as part of their enlightenment campaign for safe sex. After the 4:00 pm fellowship, I was heading for the mall when they foisted one pack on me; the way some kingdom preachers would foist gospel pamphlets on passersby. *** I resumed cleaning my face with the hanky, confused about the next step to take. Then, someone touched me gently on the back. “Have it” she encouraged me. I ran a quick scan of the faces of onlookers and summoned the courage. Everyone burst into laughter — hysteric

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Husband Ghost by Daniel Ogba

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image credit: Unsplash Try as I might to deny it, some part of me knew Tobi was not real. It was a strong knowledge, couldn’t shake it off, no matter how many times I coaxed my mind with pep talks about not allowing the trauma of my past relationships ruin the one good thing I had going for me. No matter how many times I confronted him about it — how little I knew about him despite how long we’d been together, about how I feared that one morning I would awake to find straightened sheets in place of the slender, solid weight of his frame, and his palms would no longer slide into mine as it had every morning for the past nine months. He had laughed when I told him. His laughter, carried as if from a hollow, came to my ears, encircled them, slithered down the corridors with warmth so intense, powerful and complete with an assurance I could almost touch when he said in his sing-song baritone: “I will never abandon you, Ifem. You have nothing to worry about.” My previous partner had said the exact phrase to me. I will never abandon you, my light. I’d be directionless like the wind. But he’d carried his big head to go and die in a road accident while traveling from Enugu to Lagos, for what he said was a business trip. And at his requiem in his hometown(one of his coworkers, a friend, had taken me), I was bone-shocked to discover that the woman sitting behind the condolence table, garbed in white all-through was his wife, and that the three young boys surrounding her like soldiers, were his children. The trip he’d died making was in return to his real family for his wife’s PhD convocation at the university of Lagos. I had been enraged then, walked stiffly behind my friend in a queue leading up to the table. I contemplated telling the woman as I shook her hand that her husband was a cheat, and that he deserved to have died in such horrible manner. The line proceeded slowly, I fiddled the promise ring he’d fitted on my middle finger after a wild round in my house, the one he paid for in full with his money, finally taking it off, slipping it inside my purse before my friend left the table and it was my turn to offer condolence. I told her I knew her husband well, that we worked very closely. “I don’t recognize you. What’s your name?” A hint of suspicion danced in her tired, tear-reddened eyes. “Ifechukwu.” “Richard never spoke about you. I know all his close associates.” I wanted to say maybe it was because her husband thought telling her about me was like delivering arsenal into the enemy’s camp. He thought it best to leave me out of their conversations, smart, big-headed man that he was. He also never mentioned his family to me. He’d been good to me. It would’ve been senseless to ignite chaos. “I am deeply sorry for your loss, ma. Your husband was a seasoned professional at his job.” I discarded the ring as our vehicle sped past the undulating hills of Nike, folded up all the promises he’d taught my heart to believe. In my room that night, in the bed that had bore his weight, I thrashed madly about mourning something that wasn’t mine to mourn. * Tobi’s words buoyed me out of the morass I’d been wallowing in since he appeared in my life, held my arms and led me over the ledge, as I crossed from a world of skepticism into one where he was possible, where his presence was real as real can be — like the black mole on the arch beneath his right eye which I caressed on Saturday mornings that I usually woke up before he did, when he lay asleep undisturbed, as if in death, until it was noon. He was as real as the sweat that poured in rivulets down his back, denying me a firm grip of skin while he worked his weight above me; like the grunts and hot breaths that clung to my wet throat while we kissed, as my thighs vibrated from the ecstasy his hardness harnessed from my body. That, too, was real, in fact, I don’t think anything can be realer than an orgasm. Yet, the knowledge of his un-realness was a ghost that retreated into the shadows, because I commanded it to, never rearing its head for the longest time. But its presence was still apparent, lurking about. He owned only three shirts, three jeans trousers, a black tux, and a pair of canvas. When he moved in finally, two weeks after I asked him to, a month after we met at Ballroom, he came with just a carry-on slung over his shoulder. Nothing else. I thought he wanted to make it easier for himself to be able to leave me. Less load, quicker disappearance. I kept expecting to find more of his luggage occupying space in the wardrobe we shared. I kept expecting to wake up one morning, or return home from work one evening and not find the carry-on in the corner where he’d securely fit it on the top wardrobe shelf. But that never happened. And even now, I can see the bag, black and new, unmoved from its position. He’s no longer here, yet what belongs to him still is. I realize he’d taken to owning little not for himself, not because he was cunning and calculative of his plan to disappear after he tired of me. It was for me, to make it easier to forget him, to get rid of any physical memory that he was ever here. More bags, clothes, shoes, meant it’d be tasking to move him out of my space after he was gone. He’d left a note tucked in the side pocket of the carry-on, the white edge of the

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Commentary On My Digital Product by Oluwaseun Osanyinro

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1. Journey in the Media Unit: As time marched on, I discovered something big — more significant than just crafting digital stuff. It’s the power of being there, doing your thing, day in and day out. The power of consistency. This realization hit home when I joined the Media Unit at Living Faith Church, Total Garden. Being consistent in creating digital products for all sorts of church happenings helped me grow big time in content creation, social media vibes, and even a bit of graphic design. The once naïve content writer could finally create digital products worthy of commendation. What can I say helped? Time and consistency. Thinking back to my first week in the unit, I was no digital wizard. Writing was my comfort zone. A safe place, a hiding place. But, you know what? Curiosity kicked in, and I couldn’t resist diving into the world of graphic design. Maybe the creativity pulled me in or the play with colors and shapes that produced captivating designs. My environment, the Media Unit, encouraged my new-found passion. There was always something to create. A design to invite members and newcomers to church, a design to summarize the service, a design to invite members to concerts or children’s parties etc. Every task I embarked on brought me closer to competence. Fast forward a few months, and I was not just jotting down sentences during sermons; I was diving headfirst into creating cool graphic designs, empowered to create compelling digital products. Last Sunday was like a highlight reel of how far I’ve come. Two assignments, limited time. But my time management skills, which I’ve been polishing up, kicked in. First, I soaked in the Pastor’s words, capturing those moments that hit deep. After a bit of proofreading, which I did meticulously, I worked my magic with Adobe Photoshop, turning those phrases into eye-catching sermon notes. Posted them on social media with a short caption, and to top it off, a reel on Facebook. Our church activities never looked so vibrant. The likes and comments were testaments. https://web.facebook.com/reel/367643412612744 For the other service bits, CapCut was my go-to for editing videos, throwing in some tunes, and sharing them online. My digital creations became the life of the party for our church happenings. Nowadays, I use CapCut to create birthday shoutouts for members of my church and to celebrate notable milestones. 2. The 21-Day Writing Challenge: Ever heard that you can make or break a habit in three weeks? Well, that is what Cmonionline’s 21-day writing challenge was all about. It happened at a time when my phone decided to go on vacation, whether I liked it or not. At the start, I had no clue what I was getting into. Balancing work, writing, and keeping up with online posts was a bit like juggling flaming torches. My writing prowess was taking a hit. I have had my fair share of disappearing acts — sometimes for a month or a few weeks — usually when life gets a bit too crazy. But this challenge was different. It was a learning rollercoaster, all thanks to the writing community. In our second meeting, we dug into Hal Elrod’s “The Miracle Morning.” It struck a chord with me. Taking charge of the day in the first 60 minutes — meditating, exercising, jotting down thoughts before the world wakes up. A way of staying consistent as a writer before the crazy day kicks in. It’s become my secret sauce, making me better at tackling the day. Now, what happens after the 21-day challenge? Can I vanish into thin air forever? That was the ponder as we ended the challenge. Buffer — the secret weapon our convener dropped on us answered my question. It’s a game-changer, linking all my social media, scheduling posts, keeping tabs on engagement. It’s like having a reliable sidekick, making sure I don’t ghost the online world for too long. I usually say What you don’t know is your older brother. I was elated and tried my hands on it and within an hour, I made my first post simultaneously to my Facebook, Instagram, and LinkedIn pages. On improvement, I would say I am already on my way. Having a faulty phone has helped me realize I could do well without a mobile phone on me at every minute of the day. I would love to cut down more of my social media activity to certain hours of the day and spend my time on productive activities such as getting a certification in creative writing and plot. In all, I would always thank Cmonionline for his passion for building a writing community not after prize money only but becoming better writers daily. It was three weeks I would not forget in a hurry.

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A Commentary On: Dear Netizens by Victor Oladejo

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Victor Oladejo has written an e-book and you can read the pdf version of DEAR NETIZENS here. Enjoy his commentary below. The best part of being a writer is not the writing itself, but the people you meet along the way.~ Stephen King. The Cmonionline community has been a home for me since I published my first work and whenever I think about my journey as a writer so far, this quote at the entrance of this essay beams with more meaning. In this community aside from giving my work a home on the website, the leadership has presented different opportunities in terms of cash rewards, workshops, and great seminars. I could recall that sometime this year, we had a meeting with a ghostwriter on how to ghostwrite. The opportunities here, I must say, are tremendous. The last community program we had this year, 2023, was the 21-day challenge. Here we had live sessions that I benefited from, also we were taught how to organize days in routines. For me, during the 21 days of the challenge, I participated in, I learned many things that inspired my digital product. One of which is time management. During one of the life sessions, I explained my social media life and everything about it. During the live session the coordinator, the founder of the community, Odogwu Cmoni helped break down what I should know in terms of time management and what I should stay occupied with online. Surprisingly, the need for the experience came in handy for my digital product. In the digital product I used my experience online and the lessons from the 21-day journey to weave a guild of three suggestions, however, other processes were involved in its creation. Aside from burrowing from the experience garnered into the process in the course of the 21-day challenge, I developed my ideas using research that involved other cultures like the Japanese work ethic, and the Latin wise sayings. The Japanese lifestyle intrigues me because of the discipline associated with it, if you read Tony Robbins’s book: Awaken the Giant Within, you’ll have come across the word: Japanese miracle and how kaizen a concept that translates as continuous improvement helped them, hence the reason I included Kanban in my product, I believe this would spark a light of curiosity into this amazing culture in the reader. As for the Latin words, I have a personal liking for words that originate from this place. I believe in the process of studying an important concept in two different languages, the understanding would slip in on its own. The writing process of the product was the bulk of the Job. The target title of the book was the first thing that woke my muse. At first, I thought the Netizen was a Nigerian slang until Mirriam-Webster shocked me. The writing process involved creating the drafts, fleshing them out, and with the help of Bard Ai, I corrected some sentences and punctuated the words in the digital product. Also while I was writing, I was careful to ensure the digital product covered social media life and time management with the three suggestions to the best of my ability at the time of production. As for the book cover, I applied my knowledge of Graphic Design to the Book cover design by adding the image of a lady lost in her thought with some social media icons floating about, this message here is that we have people who use social media and they spend most of their time in it as they shuttle from one platform to another in pursuit of trends. I also added links to related websites to the digital product to ensure the readers can have further knowledge on the central topic of the guide. I believe this digital product: DEAR NETIZEN, will help the readers manage their time on social media and see changes in their lives just like I have seen changes in my social media life, especially my timeline on Twitter and the 21-day challenge has improved my online presence as I now control my online presence. However, I still have to work on routine and time management as it is a continuous process. Also, least it slips away, in the challenge I explored the book creation and I discovered a new approach to it before I conclude this write-up, I would like to implore the readers to go through the ebook and put it to great use, also feedback is appreciated as they encourage me to write more.

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Commentary on my Digital Product : Immigrants of the Turbulent Waters by Becky Oludayo Peleowo

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                                                                                                            I  I recall that the first time I became fully conscious of illegal migration was when I heard a first-hand story from a victim at an Illegal migration awareness conference, where I had accompanied some secondary school students to listen to the dangers of this shady business. The stories I heard that day tormented me for months and strengthened my resolve never to be desperate about leaving Nigeria. It was even more a resolve not to seek permanent residency in any country outside the coasts of Africa. You can say I was traumatised by the stories I heard and you would be right. Who would not be after hearing such gory tales?  That resolve waned with time but I would still vehemently discourage illegal migration. Many Nigerians are unaware of the peril that lies ahead of going through unauthorised paths to a foreign land. Many lack an international passport but will fall victim to agents who promise to take them abroad with seamless efforts. My commentary centres on this persistent challenge as the Japa Syndrome due to the financial crisis and insecurity in Nigeria is on the rise.  The 21-day self-evaluation exercise organised by the Cmoni group required us to do away with bad habits that were affecting our productivity and build new and better ones. Luckily I was taking a digital marketing course and the time I used to chitchat on social media was channelled into this course and also on writing in a platform, (Nircle community), where we had to write on different prompts monthly – For instance, December’s prompt is water. What could I write about water?  First I had to complete my Capstone Project for the Digital Women Boot Camp, then to make this commentary and finally to submit my entry on the prompt in Nircle Community. Merging this task was herculean for me but since one of the skills I tried to improve on during the 21-day retreat was time management, I decided to work on a vocalised poem as my digital product. The poem was my entry for the Nircle Community. I recorded the poem as a voice-over track, then used some stock and personal images to create content that emotionally appeals to the public. I used the Capcut app to achieve this and the experience of creating and editing my design was an exhilarating one for me.  The topic, “Immigrants of the Turbulent Waters” was chosen because I had to write on water and secondly because of a distant relative who was reported to have left Nigeria through one of these illegal means and her immediate family had no information on her whereabouts. A neighbour also shared his brother’s pathetic story on the same topic. Drawing my inspiration from these situations, I linked water to illegal immigration by sea and then I wrote a poem for the Nircle Community and made a vocalised poem in video form for my Cmoni Project, using the skills I had acquired from the Digital Boot Camp. Now I have one theme presented in different forms. You must be thinking of the cliche, “Killing two birds with one stone.” That’s just what it is!                                                       II  During the 21-day disengagement exercise, I acquired digital skills. I learnt Search Engine Optimisation, Google Analytics, Social media analytics, and web analytics amongst others.  Currently, I have confirmed my Google website and am already taking measures to increase the visibility of my business in search rankings.  Just like I mentioned earlier, my time management skill has improved. This makes me more productive and gives me a sense of fulfilment. The above-mentioned skill could not have been achieved without the Pomodoro app – Focus and Google tasks.  Regular writing on the Nircle app and reading from other writers expanded my knowledge, especially in poetry and non-fiction writing. Writing more often is one of the target skills I had to improve and I achieved this and got rewarded for my effort. I was able to read often too but this time my focus was on the resources for the Digital Marketing Course. I am glad to say I completed the course and I am looking forward to my certificate, a document that will propel me into the digital jobs sphere.  On improvement, I would love to spend less time using my mobile phone. I noticed that my daily dealings revolve around it. I’m already using my laptop for journaling but then the portability of the mobile phone makes it a better option. The time away from this device will be spent on family bonding. 

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Meeting The Mysterious: A Tale Of Fear by Victor Akintomide

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“Some truths are best left in the dark”, John silently reminisced. The night was pitch black, and a heavy mist hung in the air as John made his way through the dense forest. Being a seasoned adventurer, he was well-acquainted with the wild, however, this forest felt different. It carried an aura of dread that clung to every tree and rock. “Must be because of the rumours that surround the forest”, he thought to himself. In his subconscious, he knew he ought to turn back, however, his curiosity got the better of him and despite the chill that ran down his spine, he pressed on, determined to uncover the truth. As he ventured deeper, the tall trees seemed to close in around him, their branches forming grotesque shapes in the moonlight, as though the forest was conspiring to keep its secrets hidden. His footsteps were muffled by the thick carpet of fallen leaves, and the only sound that broke the silence was the distant hoot of an owl. John’s heart raced, and he wondered if he was making a grave mistake. Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something extraordinary awaited him. After what seemed like an eternity, John reached a small clearing bathed in an eerie, bluish light, and there it was — an ancient stone altar, covered in moss and vines, with a peculiar, glowing symbol carved on its surface. His breath got caught in his throat as he realized that he had stumbled upon the heart of the mystery, so while approaching the altar, his senses were on high alert. As he got closer to the symbol, he felt a strange warmth radiating from it. It was both inviting and foreboding, like a siren’s song drawing him closer. He couldn’t resist the urge to touch it. The moment his fingers made contact with the symbol, a surge of energy coursed through him, and he felt a connection to something beyond his comprehension. It was as if he had awakened a dormant force within the forest. Panic and awe warred within him as he struggled to comprehend what was happening. At that moment, a soft, melodious voice echoed in his mind, soothing his fear. “Welcome, Seeker of Truth”, it whispered. “You have unlocked the gateway to the unknown.” John’s heart pounded in his chest as he tried to respond, but his voice failed him. He could only think, “Who are you? What is this place?” The voice in his mind replied softly, “I am the guardian of these woods, the keeper of its secrets. This place is a bridge between your world and the realm of the mysterious, and you have been chosen to witness the truth that others fear, you must first face your deepest fears”. As the words faded, the forest seemed to come alive around him, the trees swaying in a rhythm that matched his racing heart, the ground trembled beneath his feet, and the air crackled with energy. Suddenly, the mist thickened, shrouding John in a swirling, suffocating haze. Shapes moved in the fog, indistinct and menacing. Although the voice had warned him that he would have to confront his fears, he hadn’t expected it to be immediate and so terrifying. Out of the mist emerged the figures of his past, twisted and grotesque versions of people he had known and loved. His mother, who had passed away when he was a child, appeared with hollow eyes and a skeletal grin. His former best friend, who had betrayed him, stalked towards him with a malevolent sneer. Tears welled in John’s eyes as he faced these phantoms of his past. They accused him, taunted him, and reminded him of his failures and regrets. He wanted to run, to escape their accusing gaze, but he knew that he had to confront them if he wanted to unlock the truth. With every step he took towards his fears, he realized that they were mere shadows of the past, twisted by his own insecurities and guilt. As he confronted them head-on, their forms wavered and dissolved into the mist, leaving him feeling strangely lighter. He felt changed, as if he had shed a layer of his old self. After a while, the mist receded, and the forest returned to its eerie calm. John stood at the altar, still tingling with the residual energy of his encounter with his fears. “Well done, John”, the voice said gently. “You have faced your fears and emerged stronger. But your journey is far from over.” “What more must I do?” he asked the voice, his voice steadier now. “To uncover the truth, you must journey deeper into the heart of the forest”, the voice replied. “But beware, for the path ahead is treacherous, and the mysteries that await you are both wondrous and terrifying. You will need courage, wisdom, and an open heart to proceed.” With renewed determination, John set forth once more, guided by the glowing symbol on the ancient altar. He noticed that he could hear the forest whisper its secrets to him, and so he listened with rapt attention. He encountered strange creatures that seemed to be guardians of the forest, each testing his resolve and offering cryptic advice. Days turned into weeks as John delved deeper into the forest. He faced trials that pushed him to his limits, confronting his deepest fears and doubts at every turn. Yet, with each challenge, he grew stronger, and more attuned to the mysteries of the forest. One night, as he camped beneath the star-studded sky, the voice in his mind spoke again. “John, you have come far, and have been found worthy. The time has come to reveal the ultimate truth.” John’s heart quickened with anticipation, for he had journeyed so far, faced so much, and he hungered for the answers he sought. In a flash, the forest transformed into a breathtaking spectacle of colours and shapes. It was as though he had stepped into a realm beyond reality, a place where

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Who Is Buchi’s Father by Becky Peleowo

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  Ndidi leaned on the steel parapet railing of the Third Mainland Bridge. The chilly breeze that waved across her made her feel lightweight. Suddenly she felt a compelling force beckon her to the vast water below. She did not drive to the bridge but had walked from her home to this renowned spot on the Island, where many lost souls have given up their minds and bodies to the open arms of the Lagoon. “ Madam, are you okay?” a well-meaning pedestrian stopped to ask. The muscular, towering man looked like one who was ready to bundle any insane pedestrian away. There had been a series of suicides and suicide attempts on that bridge so, people were on the lookout for any depressed individual choosing to jump into the Lagoon as a suicidal option. Ndidi nodded slowly in response and the man reluctantly walked away. The man had not seen her bloodshot eyes that had reddened from too many tears. Looking to the left, then to the right to make sure that there was no one close by, she placed her left leg on the first line of the railing, and almost immediately, the tyres of an SUV came screeching close by. A woman in a hijab jumped out of the car and yanked her off the railing. “What are you doing, Madam?” “I don’t know… I don’t know…just let me die. “ Ndidi wailed. The woman held onto Ndidi. Some other people had joined them. One plantain chips hawker brought out his phone to make a video recording. The woman in a hijab who seemed experienced with cases like this, consoled Ndidi. The onlookers were already making conjectures as to the possible reason for her suicide attempt. “Na so one man jump de oda day.” A woman from a public bus whispered to another passenger in pidgin. “Ehn, I heard about it too. They said he owed someone a million naira and he couldn’t pay back.” “Chai! Na wa o! That was how one man jumped in last week when the girl he had sent to school with his hard-earned money refused to marry him.” The woman from the public bus seems to have read too many suicidal stories. The woman in a hijab kept rocking Ndidi in her arms as she sat on the floor of the bridge close to the railing and some kind passers-by joined in encouraging the depressed woman. “Aunty, who is Buchi’s father?” Ndidi asked trying to speak for the first time since she was rescued. “I don’t know who is Buchi’s father. I know I slept with Donald but he isn’t Buchi’s father. Uzor thinks I’m lying. He thinks Donald is Buchi’s father. The DNA test said Uzor is not Buchi’s father and I’m sure Donald is not Buchi’s father but no one believes me. Everyone says I’m a prostitute. Aunty, I am not a prostitute.” The woman in a hijab assisted Ndidi to stand so she could take her in her SUV to a safe place. Some onlookers started protesting about who she might be. “I am an officer of the Rapid Response Squad here in Lagos. I was going to have lunch when I noticed that she was about to jump. She will be fine with us.” The doubts of fear erased, she sped off ensuring that she used the child lock so that the poor woman would not attempt to jump off her car. Ndidi cared less. Her shoulders were drooped, her head was bowed in dejection and her once beautiful face and lips were swollen from excessive crying. Her feet were bare and some of her long nails were broken. Mucus dripped constantly from her nose. It’s been two days since Ndidi’s suicidal attempt. Looking through the window, she wondered what day it was. The sun seeped in as she opened the curtains and she shielded her eyes from its rays. The bed she was lying on was very comfortable but she did not feel comfortable. Her head ached badly as she tried to recall where she was and what she was doing there. The events that happened in the past few days all kept coming back to her. She could see the images on the immaculate walls of the Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit they admitted her to. All the events were like passing images projected on the walls. On the wall was the image of Uzor asking her to be his wife. Another image showed how they got married traditionally and in the church. Yet another one showed the day she stormed into the hotel room where Uzor was having a nice time with his ex. It was the same month they had married. Ndidi and Uzor had the same AS genotype and had decided they would conceive through In-Vitro fertilisation to help them choose a child who had the AA genotype. Ndidi saw the image of how the elders in the family begged her not to leave Uzor and to return from her mother’s house to his home. Another image showed how she had cried in the arms of Donald, her childhood friend, and how he had sweetly made love to her. Donald had liked her a lot but it was Uzor who sponsored her university education. She knew that picture was out of place because she was still married to Uzor when this event happened. Her kinsmen had said she should not have slept with another man even when she was separated from Uzor. They said she should have forgiven him and returned to his house. Ndidi could not but think of Nneoma Wokemba’s “Our husbands died, but not our libidos.” She was not a widow but society often justifies a man’s adultery over that of a woman. Women do have libidos and they can become weak too. But she forgave him. That was why she had cut ties with Donald and returned to their home. She had even told Uzor about the incident

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My Past Life by Emmanuel Enaku

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The full moon blazed down on us at its highest intensity as we strode through the forest, our feet making occasional rustling sounds when they crushed down on dried leaves, seeds and twigs, accentuating the thudding sounds of hard soles — that carried weary bodies — matching down on the dry, craggy and coarse track of the evil forest. As we sauntered on, manoeuvring our way through thick forest bushes, each of us had a hand fastened on the handle of a sheathed sword tied to the waist while the other hand held firmly to a blazing local torch, our lips were clamped down hard on the fresh palm blades between them and our eyes darted around, shining with grim alertness as we scanned the spaces around us with pinpoint accuracy. We were warriors and we were trained to remain calm and alert even in unbearable discomfort. There was a sudden wind that blew harshly in the forest, swaying trees and shedding semi-dried leaves and then, a sharp sound pierced briefly into the night. The chirping, buzzing, humming and whirring noises of forest insects that accompanied us all through the journey stopped abruptly. We froze and our muscles tensed and our eyes bulged, assessing the area to catch even the faintest movement or anything that was out of the ordinary. Iyankpor, who was in front leading us, raised his right fist up and we did not move another body part except for our eyes which got even more alert and darted wildly. Everyone’s bodies were shredded of its weariness reflexively and in its place, to enormous levels, was pure and total adrenaline. We stood hard and still like rocks as Iyankpor strained his eyes and ears, marking the position where some strange sounds only he seemed to have heard came from. He turned suddenly, impaling us with hard glistening eyes that reflected the fiery burning torch in his right hand. He threw the torch on the dry ground a distance away from him and it began to burn the leaves around. In the sudden illumination, due to the effect of the burning leaves, we could see him clearly. His shoulders that were always proud had sagged, sweat poured out of his face and muscular body which still had traces of our local tattoo, made with cam wood and white chalk and oh, his eyes! Those eyes — which were always confident, daring and hard, lacked all these qualities now. As he took his palm blades from between his lips and faced us, his expression spewed nothing but unadulterated dread that threw us all into confusion. “Run! Save yourselves! The quest — you must deliver it to the king!” he hissed in an agitated manner. The leadership of Iyankpor was never questioned. He was an efficient brute, clever and powerful with amazing sixth sense and reflexes that made him undefeatable. His feats in the village wrestling arena and combat skills in war were things that almost made us think him a supernatural being but our brute of a leader was not looking anything like what we knew him to be. He looked more like a weak and lost boy in the midst of the blazing, burning fire. The initial rush of adrenaline through our bloodstreams subsided rapidly and we stared at each other with incomprehension. The cloud of fear that showed in our leader’s eyes — now doubled — was reflected in everyone’s eyes as we tried to communicate wordlessly and perhaps, read the other man’s mind because we could not take the palm blades from our lips; the mere evil essence of the terrain we found ourselves creepily dared us to. Iyankpor took out his sword and crutched in one fluid movement. His sharpened sword shone ominously under the dull light of the moon that was partially covered by black clouds and the topaz glow of our torches which burned dimly. His right knee was pinned to the ground and his body was doubled over the left knee. His arms were astride and his face bent to face the ground. There was another strong wind and then, repeated whoosh sounds as the flames of our torches were snuffed out. We flung the extinguished wooden poles away and frantically reached for our swords, our hearts palpitating wildly, loudly enough for the other man to hear. Holding our breath, we strained our ears to pick up any further sound as we returned fully into destruct mode. We could taste the adrenaline on our tongue and our bodies vibrated with anticipation. We heard it, then — a low growl that emanated from somewhere in the shadows. It grew louder until it began to vibrate the ground where we stood and then, it was joined by a deep rasping chuckle that sent shivers down our spines. Suddenly, out of the shadows stepped a hulking figure that was as terrifying as it was strange. It, definitely, wasn’t something fit for the eyes of men and our fear was complete. Iyankpor stood up then and began to approach the beast, his glistening sword trailing a path behind him. His face was screwed with intense hatred and he once again looked every bit of the fearsome warrior whom we accepted and recognized over the years as our leader. We stood disoriented and watched what was happening. However, that creature did not break strides in its approach. Its eyes glowed red and its long claws glinted in the moonlight as it moved confidently giving total disregard to the counter approach of our leader. Instantaneously, it gave a horrible snarl and lunged at its assailant, its unpredictable movement taking us all — with the exception of Iyankpor, of course — totally aback. Quickly, Iyankpor ducked and tumbled, gaining his feet as his legendary reflexes — which made us refer to him as “the cat” — came to the fore. He barely escaped the sharp claws of the horrible creature and the creature crashed to the ground with the effect of its own momentum. That beastly creature did not stay down, though. It gained its feet quickly with an agility that

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Weapons Of Defence by Oluwaseun Osanyinro

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  I woke up drenched in sweat, sure that something serious had jarred me from my dreams. I was about to displace my worry when I heard the shuffle and quiet. It was impossible to blame imagination even amid darkness. I was accommodating a thief! I made little movement on my bed while calculating my risks and tactics to subdue the idiot in my house. Only God knows what he came to steal. The myth that one’s senses heighten in darkness is true, as I could hear my breathing. The shuffle sounded again, and I almost chuckled. The idiot was stealing my biscuits also. I held down the hyperventilation threatening my lungs, channelling my thoughts to the best place to pick up a weapon of defense and offense. Knife? No. The thief was in my kitchen. Shoe? It would probably knock him down, but not senseless. Umbrella? It was at the door. It was impossible to reach the door of my little room and parlor home without alerting the thief. My line of action was to stretch my hands to my nightstand and pick up my phone to switch on its torch, but it did not respond. The battery was flat. I almost screamed in frustration and did not want to give the thief a heads-up about my action. My breathing had stabilized, yet there was no way I could get to the offender without light. I faced the consequence of watching that YouTube video until my phone was 4%. Joe had married Kate, and I was in trouble with no means of defense. I closed my eyes and visualized my room with my mind. I was on the bed with a pink floral pattern bedspread, two pillows, and the left side of the head of my mahogany bedstand, a nightstand. My best friend thought my sheet was too girly. Who cared? I am a girl, right? Yes! I am a girl much more vulnerable to the intruder. The hyperventilation crept up my throat once more as I imagined different scenarios this could end. None was good, and there was no way I could pretend all was well till morning. He could harm me in my bed. The next sound was a smashing, and I almost shrieked. He was an angry intruder. No way was I going to allow him to meet me in bed. Too tempting for an angry man. I sat up and dragged my wrapper to my chest. “Jesus”, I called seven times before closing my eyes and letting my mind do the work. My brown fan hung in the middle of my room with a white bulb hanging to its left from a white ceiling. All walls had sky blue paint with floral designs on opposite walls. I had only one window at the head of my bed, a reason my room got too hot this season. On the wall opposite my bed hung my wardrobe. It was ajar. Getting down from the bed that way would alert the intruder. The left was also out of the question. I arranged my shoes there and a few of my cosmetics. The right side of the bed was my escape route then. I turned to my right, wiped the sweat dripping out of heat and fear, and dropped my legs to the floor. I had not heard any sound for some seconds but knew the intruder had not left. I could not calm the racing thoughts telling me he was coming my way. My eyes shone, and though I could not see in the darkness, it was not difficult to locate my door. Then I remembered I had not gotten a weapon. Tracing the smooth wall beside the door, I sat on the floor and began feeling for any sharp object I could find. Something must paralyze him. Pinpoint heel would do something before I pick up a knife and scream. Of course, I would shriek. That was my only way to call for help. The next sound was more of a scratch that raised goosebumps on my skin. I doubted my false bravery this time. With one pair of heels at hand, feeling for the door again, I opened the door without a creek. My instincts told me the intruder was still in my kitchen. Walking with my imagination, I tiptoed into my corridor. At the end of the short walkway was my favorite black loveseat. I tiptoed the cream-colored walkway till I reached its end. I stepped into the room painted cream also. The three black cushions formed a semi-circle to face my mini television. There was a silver center table I moved beside the mini television last night while I ironed my Sunday gown. I remember I did not return it to its original position. A frame of me in my convocation gown sat on the right side of the television. It was a gift from my best friend, Sharon. The coldness of the sitting room greeted me, a sign I had left the two windows open again last night. The kitchen was to the left of the room. With quickened heartbeat, I approached the kitchen. I needed help. So, I prayed. The first miracle was the flickering of the electricity. The sitting room was flooded with light for some seconds, giving me a view of the room with clothes draped on each cushion. I almost yelled in relief when darkness took over. The light flickered again, and my eyes found the umbrella close to the door before darkness prevailed again. I came down on all fours, wiped the stray sweat that had almost entered my eyes, and crawled to the door. I came back shivering out of fear yet armed with an umbrella. Another flickering before it became fixed. Had I been in my room, I would have plugged my phone. There was more crashing and scratching. I was almost in tears, my stomach threatening to lose its contents. All these should not

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Eternal Echoes: Breaking the Curse of the Mysterious Mansion by Stephen Ayilegbe

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In the heart of a sleepy, fog-covered town nestled deep within the woods, a curious young woman named Amelia resided. She was known far and wide for her adventurous spirit and her insatiable desire to uncover the secrets hidden within the dense forest that encircled her home. It was on a particularly gloomy autumn morning that her journey into the unknown would take a haunting turn. Amelia had always been intrigued by the stories whispered among the townsfolk about a hidden, ancient mansion deep within the woods. Its dark history and the mysterious disappearance of those who ventured near it fueled her determination to uncover the truth. Armed with only her lantern and her courage, she embarked on her journey. The forest was eerily silent, except for the occasional rustling of leaves underfoot. The fog hung like a shroud, obscuring the path ahead. Amelia’s heart pounded with both excitement and trepidation as she moved further into the unknown. Hours passed, and the forest seemed to close in around her. The rustling leaves grew louder, the shadows more menacing. She stumbled upon a long-forgotten path, overgrown with thorny vines and twisted roots, leading her deeper into the woods. The mansion’s legend had long since become a macabre warning among the townsfolk, but Amelia’s curiosity was unyielding. As the sun dipped below the horizon, Amelia’s lantern cast eerie, dancing shadows upon the gnarled trees. She finally caught sight of the mansion in the distance. Its silhouette rose like a dark sentinel, its windows gazing like empty eyes. The stories she had heard described it as an embodiment of fear, and now, she was standing before it. The mansion’s facade was adorned with intricate, faded carvings, and its ornate gates swung open with a rusty creak as if welcoming her. As Amelia stepped onto the cobblestone path leading to the entrance, a bone-chilling breeze swept through the overgrown garden, causing her to shiver. She felt as though unseen eyes were watching her every move. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, she entered the mansion. The air inside was thick with dust, and her lantern revealed long-abandoned grandeur. The once-opulent furniture was draped in dusty sheets, and the walls were adorned with dark and foreboding paintings. Amelia’s steps echoed through the empty halls as she explored room after room. It was as though time had stood still in this place. Her heart raced as she came upon a grand ballroom. A hauntingly beautiful melody filled the air, and she followed it, her curiosity overpowering her fear. In the dimly lit ballroom, she saw a grand piano, its keys moving as if played by an invisible hand. The room was illuminated by ghostly figures waltzing to the eerie music. They seemed unaware of her presence, lost in their eternal dance. Amelia, unable to resist the allure of the spectral dancers, cautiously stepped onto the ballroom floor. As she joined the dance, she felt an otherworldly chill and a sense of dread wash over her. The figures’ faces were distorted, their eyes empty, and their laughter filled with sorrow. It became clear that these were the lost souls of those who had ventured into the mansion before her. With each twirl and step, the room seemed to close in around her, and she struggled to break free from the haunting waltz. Desperation took hold, and she cried out for release. Suddenly, the music stopped, and the spectral dancers faded away like mist. Gasping for breath, Amelia stumbled out of the ballroom and fled the mansion. The fog had lifted, and the moonlight bathed the forest in an eerie glow. She could feel the weight of the mansion’s history and the torment of the lost souls she had encountered. Amelia returned to her town, forever changed by her encounter with the mysterious mansion. She would never forget the haunting dance or the fear that had gripped her heart. The mansion remained an enigmatic and terrifying presence in the depths of the woods, a testament to the perils of curiosity and the fear of the unknown. And so, the legend of the mansion continued to haunt the town, a chilling reminder of the consequences of meeting the mysterious. Amelia’s tale of fear served as a warning to all who dared to venture into the depths of the forest, for in that darkness, something sinister and unexplainable awaited those who sought to uncover its secrets. In the days that followed, Amelia couldn’t shake the feeling that the mansion’s spectral dancers had left a mark on her, that they had somehow bound her to their tragic fate. She found it difficult to concentrate on her daily routines, her thoughts continually drifting back to the mansion and the disturbing dance. One evening, unable to resist the pull of the mansion’s mysteries, Amelia returned to the forest, her lantern once again in hand. She retraced her steps, moving deeper into the woods with a sense of determination that bordered on obsession. As she approached the mansion, the fog descended once more, wrapping the place in an ominous embrace. Amelia cautiously entered the mansion, her heart pounding louder than the creaking floorboards beneath her feet. This time, she felt compelled to explore the upper floors, guided by a strange intuition. She ascended a grand staircase, its wooden steps groaning with each ascent, and reached a long, dimly lit corridor. The walls of this corridor were adorned with countless portraits, each capturing a different moment in time. As she moved closer to examine them, she realized that these portraits depicted the very same people who had danced in the ballroom. Their faces remained hauntingly distorted, trapped in a never-ending cycle of despair. As Amelia continued down the corridor, she encountered a door at the far end. It was ajar, revealing a room bathed in an eerie, bluish light. She pushed it open and entered what appeared to be a library, its shelves lined with ancient, weathered books. The source of the ghostly illumination

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Meeting The Mysterious ( A Night With The Deities) by Faith Oyadiran

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The crescent moon cast its orange glow on the alley of trees beside Ife-Ibadan Road. As Sophia traversed to the other side, she sought refuge beneath the canopies of the Iroko trees. Sophia donned her headset. The pulsating beats of Spyro’s “Who’s Your Guy” blared in her ears. She hears the rustling of wings and the squeaking of the bats. The feces-smeared ground nauseated her. She holds her breath to ward off the putrid odor. She observed a sudden agitation among the birds. Their shrill squeaks unnerved her. In a flash, a shadow swooped on the tree. The birds dispersed. Darkness enveloped the surrounding. A spooky breeze accompanied the shadow sending shivers through her body. The shadow passed in a twinkling. She heard dogs barking from a distance. The fractured neon lights that bordered the road flickered before going off. She scurried down the crimson-earth road that winds into Ogangi. The barks and squeaks grew frenetic. She perceived something sinister lurking in the shadows. Sophia accelerated her pace. Her heart raced as rustling erupted from the enveloping foliage. She burst into a sprint, panting and casting anxious glances over her shoulder. The sound of boots clattered with the undergrowth. “Who could be out to get her, and why?” She asked herself. She halted and sprinted behind a nearby mango tree. She melded into the shadows. The sound of the boots slowed a short distance from her pause. This convinced her that the horrors in the shadows were out for her. She stowed her eyeglass in it’s case and stashed it in her bag. She rolled her trousers up to her knees and cinched her shoelaces. As she readied herself to bolt, an eerie cry pierced the night. The sound came from the tree. Two bulbous eyes pierced her. Driven by instinct, she raised her arms as a shield and recoiled. From a distance, she spotted the silhouette of the creature. She could identify the tufted ears flanking those prominent eyes. Its lengthy, feathery tail executes a sinuous dance. Myth casts the bush baby (galago) as an enigma. Its piercing cry is alleged to lure people to abduct or kill them. The bush baby sprang at her, landing on her tousled locks. She hurled her bag aside and engaged in a scuffle with the bush baby. Following the scuffle, she dislodged it from her hair and cast the creature deep into the thicket. The galago emitted another plaintive cry. Sophia skittered off, pausing only to regain her breath. She scanned her surroundings before breaking into another sprint. Her pursuers detected her motion, and the thud of boots resumed. They concealed themselves within the thick vegetation. This got Sophia perplexed. Their determination to hunt her by stealth terrified her. She figured her assailants were either aliens or skilled trackers. None of the options comforted her. She contemplated the absurdity of her thoughts. But she couldn’t dismiss the mystery that surrounds her dilemma. She puffs and pants. Exhaustion was etched across her face. She pressed on, aware that her life hung in the balance. Glancing upward, Sophia noticed the crescent moon had evolved into a full circle. She recalls that a dead body lingered around the Lakeside Hotel some days ago. The lady’s body was mutilated, and her head was scraped clean. Rumours portended the murder as one in a series of ritual killings. Could she be about to meet the same fate? She feels the breeze again. The intensity increased, gathering debris in its wake. She suddenly recalled the prior night’s haunting memory. She’d laid on a mat at the heart of a plaza. Tall wooden poles flanked the plaza, forming a loose U shape around it. Vultures, ravens, and hawks perched on the poles, poised for a feast. Masks hung on the remaining poles. Through the aperture of one mask, two large green eyes blinked. “The haunted grounds would suit this creepy plaza.” She mumbled to herself. Lost in thought, a sudden gust of wind swirled, lifted, and suspended her in mid-air. Slow, synchronized drumbeats resonate. The eyes burst forth from the mask, turning from green to a fierce crimson. She jolted awake, trembling and drenched in sweat. After she woke up, the mystery lingered. Fear pervaded her room. Darkness enveloped every corner. The candle she’d ignited before retiring had been extinguished. An ominous presence loomed. An instinct to scream and flee surged within her. As she scampered from the room, an eerie laughter and jingle of cowries reverberated. She’d lost her biological parents to a mysterious fire incident at age eight. This forced her to live with her grandparents in Akama-Oghe, Enugu. She burst into Grandpa’s bedroom. Grandpa jolted awake, hastily switching on his lamp. Sophia’s complexion had paled. “You resemble someone who’s encountered a ghost,” Grandpa remarked. Without a word, she leaped into his embrace. She clung to him. Grandpa consoled her until she could articulate her experience. The nightmare and its occurrence left him intrigued. The next morning, he took her to Pastor Philip of the Agape Life Christian Center on 9th Mile Avenue. After the pastor’s prayer, he turned to Grandpa with a question: “Are you her father?” Grandpa shook his head and said, “I’m her mother’s father.” The pastor exhaled. “This girl is tormented by a deity.” “Her father may hold the answers.” Grandpa’s shoulders slumped. “I have some clues,” he admitted. “My daughter mentioned that her husband joined the Vikings two years before their mysterious deaths.” “That explains the nightmares,” the pastor concluded. “Please help me; I don’t want to lose another daughter.” “The Lord would help us.” Pastor Philip prescribed a three-day fast and prayer for her. She followed the prescription, but the nightmare continued. Grandpa Edafe taught her a simple prayer to combat the nightmares. She’d recited the prayer every night for the past eighteen years. She’d prayed the same prayer that morning before leaving her hostel. Maybe the prayer had become another religious clichê, she pondered. A sudden whoosh! jerked her

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Gone by Kenneth Nwabuisi

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James sits by the river bank and listens. He hears the seagulls cawing. The birds, whistling. The waters dancing to the surface of the seashores. He shuts his eyes so his soul can know peace, his upper eyelids tight against his lower eyelids. His chest is vibrating, trembling. He wants to listen to the water, to the gurgling sound it makes. He wants to hear, once more, the cacophony of Ify’s laughter, but he is troubled by the shuffling sounds the water makes. Ify was his younger sister, and it annoys him that he’s remembering his one and only sister in this way — in a sordid, past tense. He opens his his eyes again and watches as the water trundles, pushing against a huge white stone. This white stone is familiar to him. He can remember it vividly now. The memory of that beautiful, sunny day comes to him like an uninvited guest. It is the surface of this stone that once bore traces of lines from Ify’s tiny fingers. Now, with his eyes closed, he hears from a distance, amid the caterwauling of the waves, a loud scream; that extended piece of cry that had made him bolt from the seashore where he crouched. They visited the water in that morning. Their father, Mr. David, a tall man with bulgy eyes had driven them from their tall bungalow in independence layout Enugu to Akwuke beach. It was supposed to be a fun-filled day. Mr. David had bought the idea of driving them to the water park so he could take the kids away from the boredom and melancholy that was bequeathed on them by the sudden demise of his wife. It was a holiday, and the vacation was a relief from the children’s overwhelming curricular activities. On that afternoon, Ify and James were seated in the back seat, Mr. David riding ahead. It was a slow, bumpy ride. There were moments when James would shout heavily after Mr. David’s car hit a hard surface of the ruddy, tarred road, or when a trailer glided past them. James would close his eyes and clutch his father’s headrest. “Daddy!” he would shout, his head slanted to his father’s bosom. The sun was a ball in the sky as they wallowed into the water. Shadows of strangers who were also on tour trickled around as the scene bustled. Crickets chirped from far and near. At first, the water was tranquil. Mr David pulled down his long trousers to his feet. James did the same. Ify dragged her gown above her head so that what remained of her chest were her pair of brown breasts like mould clay. “Ify, don’t enter inside the water o. You’re not strong enough for it yet,” Mr. David warned. Ify tightened her jaw. James regarded Ify with supercilious eyes before he stretched his hands and took a dive inside the water. Mr. David climbed a huge tree a few feet away, plucking some dogonyaro leaves for some herbal medicine. Soon, the water was crowded with many people that James never knew. Their figure perched around the surface of the water like fireflies. Ify, out of defiance, dived into the water. She swam and swam until the water carried her, pulling her slender body. Water was Ify’s enemy. Mr. David’s early warning was owing to the fact that Ify was sickler. A sick child who came to the world with a body filled with sickness. Mr. David and James knew she could die at any moment. They both carried the awareness of that fact like a heavy sack. Even Ify, herself, bore the same fear. Two years before, Ify had slumped by the staircase leading to Mr. David’s living room. James had screamed loudly. As usual, Mr. David gathered her into his Toyota Camry and drove them to the hospital. On the way, James told his father how Ify had complained that her hands were burning. Later at the hospital ward that reeked heavily of antiseptics, the doctor, a tall, bald man, confirmed that Ify had been swarmed with many activities and that her sickly condition was approaching its terminal stage. Ify lay on the bed, tears dripping from the corners of her eyes. She fought the tears by dabbing them with the hem of folded sheets. “Ify, did you hear what the doctor said? He said you’re going to die soon. You’ll leave your brother and me, the way your mother did.” Mr. David let his fears echo, his words falling like shattered glassware on the tiled floor, moving in circles until they encompassed Ify’s fears. Since that incident, Ify had often been left out in every activity at home. Many times, she had bemoaned her burgeoning feeling of worthlessness. One morning, after Mr. David had disembarked them at their school gate. Mr. Okafor, their school principal, stopped them both and inquired why they came late. And, knowing she was sick, he punished James alone and ordered Ify inside the classroom. “But, I can help my brother. We both came late, didn’t we?” Ify cried. Diving into the water was a getaway for all the numbness Ify had often felt. Even though she had feared her death, she also knew that that single act of letting herself be carried by water would forever bring her peace. At least, in all her feelings of worthlessness and inconsequential, she was glad to find solace in something so free and cold, like water, like the kind of life she was impelled to live — cold and silent. In school, James was her mouth, her hand, her legs. James fought for her when her bones were too frail to move. James spoke for her when silence was all that her gagged lips produced. Even in her inability to walk, James lent her his shoulder. James didn’t believe his eyes when he looked at the exact point Ify stood and saw emptiness. He didn’t scream. He thought a wayfarer might have carted away with

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Fresher Dilemma- The Adventures Of Techo by Emmanuel Enaku

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It was a Wednesday morning. It drizzled earlier that day and as a result, the hall where we sat waiting for the teacher was chilly. However, it wasn’t just the weather that caused us to shiver, oh, no.. not that at all! The date was the 11th of November — notoriously known as 11–11 in secondary schools and recognized to mean the tail cutting and feather trimming day. We, the junior students of ST 1, sat there, in that hall wondering, fearfully, what our fate would be as the cold continued to buffet our frail bodies. Then, there was a flurry of activities outside the hall. We could hear voices — deep voices filled with hatred, anger, and the intention to inflict pain — screaming and chanting in a war-like, rhythmic manner. In no time, the hall was surrounded by the ST 2 boys. Huge boys, barrel-chested and tall. They were fine specimens of manhood as they stood there staring hotly at us. Everywhere was quiet but for the whimperings of the timid boys among us. Then, one of the big boys moved forward and stood in front of us. He was broad and big with a muscular neck and sinewy arms. His face was gruesome, twisted with hate and acute anger. “Old students, separate yourself from the freshers!” He commanded crisply in a voice that gave no room for questions. There was a quick rustle as the old students scurried to the back of the hall. The other boys flexed the branches of Gmelina trees they held in their hands and watched the separation balefully with reddened eyes. “Now, new ST1 students!” The big boy in front continued. “Do you know that your names are written with a pencil and not a pen in this school?!” He asked authoritatively. As he spoke, he carried himself like an angry bull, pacing to and fro like an army general performing an inspection. “Do you know that you are freshers — toads, so to say — and there is, therefore the need to cut your tails and make you qualified to be addressed and known as bonafide members of Techo?!” We stood there staring, the blood getting cold within our veins as we imagined what was to follow and what cutting of tails entailed. The big boy was not smiling. He gesticulated wildly, thrusting his powerful arms with unbelievable and brutal force. “Do you know that your baptism is eminent — not that of water and the Holy Ghost but of fire and discipline?!” The big boy asked in a voice that boomed like thunder. “Answer, ST 1 students!” “Yes, senior!” We chorused shakily, filled with fright and then, there was silence, so thick that it became uncomfortable but this silence was soon broken. “But senior, what does tail cutting mean?” There were collective gasps in the hall. Nwafor, one of the old ST1 students, and a few other old boys rose their hands to their heads in terrible shock their eyes showing evidence of doom. The voice that spoke was shaky and surely, it didn’t belong to any of the big boys. We all turned to stare at Chidera with horror in our eyes. Chidera was not a small boy, anyway. He was big too with well-toned muscles. We knew his parents managed a rubber and palm plantation and that was where he spent his time working before getting admission to Community Technical College. Many of us were afraid to cross Chidera because he was built like an ox and smelt of latex but in comparison, Chidera was no match for the big boy in front of us. I looked around and noticed the look of disbelief on the faces of every occupant in the room and even though I was a new student, I knew, oh yes, I knew that Chidera had crossed a line. A very terrible line. The big boy walked to where Chidera was standing, his eyes so intense that for a moment, we thought they would release sparks. “My… my…”, he said very calmly with incredulity, his red eyes appraising Chidera from head to toe with palpable dislike. His voice was filled with disgust. We remained standing and watched him look at Chidera with the disapproving look of an elder who saw something that was placed where it wasn’t supposed to be. “How can a toad have the temerity, the effrontery and the audacity to talk when I am talking?” He asked severely. His voice came out like puffs of hot air — low — and his words were measured but it carried a dangerous quality and we all shivered when he spoke. Chidera stood there under the blaze of the senior’s latent glare. His body shook alarmingly and for a moment I could see his teeth clattering. “Scorpion, teach him a lesson!” One of the big ST 2 boys called out to the one before Chidera. “Imagine this bombastic element, this piece of a rotten menstrual clot!” Scorpion said wickedly, spewing saliva from his mouth, his lips vibrating with anger such that it seemed he was stammering, and without further ado, Scorpion lifted Chidera off the floor from behind the desk where he stood. We all gasped with palpable shock as we witnessed Chidera — our ox-like built colleague — being lifted by the senior boy with solid ease. He was the biggest boy in our department and could easily have been the biggest in ST1 but the senior boy had lifted him like a light tuber of yam. “I’ll teach you never to do that again!” Scorpion breathed hotly. He grabbed Chidera by his shoulders and flung him to the side of the hall like a piece of rag. The big fresher crashed, rather sickeningly, to the wall, head first, and fell limply to the floor. There were hoots from every angle in the hall. Scorpion took off his shirt and began to advance toward the fallen fresher. His body was well-chiseled. His abs were ten in number and bulged out of a tight belly. They shone intimidatingly with the effect of the

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“Shap Shap” by Faith Oyadiran

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I know a very bright young man. He lacked proficiency in the English language. He is very diligent (I’m not giving out his details so people won’t come for me). He was asked to give another word that could replace “hurriedly.” In his innocence, he wrote “shap shap.” One of my girls saw it and burst into laughter. I had a good laugh as well. I must reiterate that the young man did it innocently. I will assume that the song “Oluwa, answer me sharp, sharp, answer me sharp, sharp” from Funke Akindele’s epic Blockbuster “Battle on Buka Street” will naturally pop up in your head like it did in mine. After that event, I headed to my office. I needed to be alone. I adjusted my chair, drew my table close and blanked out of my immediate environment. I mulled over that particular incident. It was hilarious but the paradox didn’t elude me. It is a representation of how rationality has been rationed over the years. We have transcended the vistas of logic. “Sharp sharp” has morphed into “shap shap” At that moment, I realized the importance of “deep work” which stood in stark contrast to “shap shap” I joined a writing group (A Book in a Year, hosted by @cmonionline) in May, and I can remember two different sessions where the resource personnel emphasized the importance of “deep work.” It lent more depth to my contemplations. “We are the generation that is quick to put everything on display including our folly” I concluded. Process, depth, and diligence often eroded in a whiff. Hotness and parsimony have been awarded prominence over posterity. “Balloons and balloons,” my friend and I once joked. An occasion without them is criticized as not colourful. A church service without them is bland and unorganized. Gifts and flowers without them are watered down. Pastries without them are regarded as a “mountain of flours” and so on. My friend further mimicked a scenario from the Bible in the old KJV’s voice: “O ye generation of balloons, who has bewitched you into the blow fast and ‘poof’ in a swift doctrine? The essence of the joke was to foreground how deep we have sunk into shallowness. We quest for everything like fast food but neglect the transcendence that comes from meticulous efforts. This is why the gaps in many success stories will forever remain unarticulated. The process can never be cheated. I reminisce on Ralph Ellison’s ‘Invisible Man.’ My intent is not to draw attention to the shenanigans surrounding the settings of the literary work. Neither do I seek to draw away the sympathy the protagonist has garnered across ages. I’m intrigued by the unnamed guy’s demise into oblivion. He embarked on adventures to gain a voice. Every measure of visibility he attains makes him more obscure. The irony of the story comes to the fore when the unnamed hero cements his invisibility by ending up in a manhole buried forever in oblivion. In isolation, we discover that he has been given a rare opportunity in the form of time, obscurity, and a perfect atmosphere to do an appraisal. We have the tools for lasting success at our disposal, so why not give due diligence to careful observation? Pay attention to details. Ponder and rummage. Study and gather facts. Then give yourself time to grow. Investing in the wind guarantees that you will be swept away by the formidable momentum it yields. Oyadiran Faith is a graduate of English Language and Literary Studies from Obafemi Awolowo University Osun State, Nigeria. He is an avid reader and a passionate writer. He currently works as a Diction instructor. He is on Instagram as @Op_bolu and can be reached @oyadiranfaithopeyemi@gmail.com

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