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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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My Trailing Light: A Poem by Oluwaseun Osanyinro

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I could say a million thanks for being a source of inspiration Your zeal and tenacity towards ensuring you raise a balanced army runs deep You are a light, an awe of creation Many works of yours I wish to forever keep I can remember the first day I met you You entered my world with not-so-subtle words Every word spoken seemed like an arrow shot from a bow Perfectly hitting the target, my heart, and redirecting my world. I faced trials and tribulations I spent days in frustration and tears But you stood beside me, remained steadfast, in concentration With compassion, you lent me your gentle ears There were days I stumbled and fell I had your words as an anchor, a beacon of light There were days I gave up and sat in the well Your encouragement was a light, aiding my sight Many see a lady steadfast They praise who I have gradually become Many say she does so well, with no failure in her past They do not know your impact on the struggles I have overcome So, I dedicate these words to you Letting the world know of a man so blessed A man transforming lives like you A man of caliber yet easily accessed Maybe it was your unwavering belief in me Or it was your words But you took a risk believing in the giant in me And through your gentle leading, I became an envy to my world I became a phoenix under your mentorship Emerging anew despite the ashes of my past We gradually moved through our relationship Much more than the required mentorship cast I would not deny present moments of self-doubt Days I would believe less in my worth I would speak also of days I wanted an out When I could not see the evidence of my worth In prayers, in encouragement You weren’t found lagging In laughter, in acknowledgment You always showed me different ways of engaging Many see the refined me The lady you have worked on Many see the wise me The lady you have invested upon I could speak of your unending love A love so strong, couldn’t be quenched Mirror showed me we need not to be related by blood Our hearts as one had clenched I am honored to know You Your impact cannot be measured It is always a privilege to be associated with you And to speak of your works that are treasured Like a ripple or wave across the sea Is your first achievement in life to me It did not stop at you but grew to become pods in a pea Nourishing many, and especially to me So, dear trailing light, please believe me Your impact on my life has become an indelible mark And to move away from this light, far be it from me For I would keep following till the sands of time testify to my mark An ode I wrote to my trailing light That someday, we would see face-to-face And though I still face self-doubt as a daily fight Your words will always be the strength to run my race.

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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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Tetralogy of Hope Songs by Becky Peleowo

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  I Just a little Joy Hope your day was well spent Even when some roads were bent And when all goals were not met So many lacks, not much to get Hope in your heart you sure can bet That at least some joy was felt Hope you cleared off even a little debt Hope your day was well spent.   Friend, my day was well-spent Though some roads were bent Though not all goals were met Though too many to clear, the debt One thing, one hope, I sure can bet That there was at least some joy I felt And all my best thanks to God, sent Today, dear friend, was well spent.   II Lost A song to the ones who are lost A song to the victims of war A song to the souls that have lost sense of self to canons of war.   Ọlálékan! I remain a married virgin I am the widowed bride That awaits the coming of her groom Will my dusk never cease? Will my night bring no bliss? Olalekan! You are but the dusk The Taurus dusk, That confined me to celibate vows Are you gone or lost? Have you licked the dust? Will my dawn never come? On the once green hills now turned plains Where their chaotic fireballs kissed the dust Their barks stiffened sucklings to death The mournful pleas turned on deaf ears You sought succour for your newlywed But their piercing dart hits the bullseye The conjugal drums played amorous dirge Their destructive tambourines did fireworks See, dancing massacred bodies with their ubiquitous presence But Olalekan did not dance with them Ọlálékan, you disappeared. Where are you, my love? The Virgin cried on her wedding night The Virgin cried for the dawn Is my dawn forever lost? Ọlálékan! You were my dawn. You are my dusk. Would the gong rather not proclaim your demise? Than the wait for a lost one Come, my love! Come be my dawn! I wait in my Chantilly gown Till at long I no longer can.   Hope to the ones who have lost Hope to the victims of war Hope to the loved ones of the lost Who live in anticipation of their return.   III To a Weary Soul As long as the earth is round Know this, my weary friend. Even if the cumbrous globe Rests on your shoulders And on yours alone And the ever-raging waters Turbulently engulfs you You gasp for life, for breath And all around you exhume nothing But despair and melancholy No lever to lift the load No neck to stand the head Keep that head on your shoulders And strut tall, my weary friend For alone, life’s ferry conveyed you in Alone, you truly will be Like the legs in a dirndl You think you were disavowed No, you’ve always been alone From the commencement of the Copernican system To the moment I speak, weary friend Don’t be weary my friend, Save your last breath to acclaim That eclat which my echoic song foresee   IV Life Life’s bed, dear friend Is always not of roses And even if it is Could have a pillow of thorns Or a bed of prickles.   Life’s oven, dear child May not always bake bread And even when it does Could burn the bread so bad That you can’t take a bite.   Life’s success, dear friend May not always be guaranteed And even when it’s not It’s just one of the rainy days The sun will soon shine.    

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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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Don’t Give Up: A Poem by Faith Oyadiran

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Twirling and swirling the rogue waves gathered Like a funnel, they whirled. into a majestic wind A Typhoon! It rides on vicious waves like a horse. It thunders like the roar of a thousand lions. The seafarers sail as sheep to the slaughter. Trapped between the deep blue sea and a furious, murderous monster Their treasures Flew first and their water flasks flew next. with no remedies for their thirst. Life was hell at its best. The king of waves rides high. His fury touches the sky. His mighty feet, a force to see, march through the sea. The typhoon’s eyes widen. It spots a scrawny ship, beneath the waves so deep. The monster lashed its whip. to thrash the little insolent ship The seamen screamed Their ship’s hull keeled. It’s mast-clipped, and it’s Ballast slipped The ship weighs anchor The typhoon lashed again. Chipping splinters off the keel The keel drank from the sea. Tipping the rudders into a stupor The ship dived. like a rock plunging into an abyss The typhoon suckers up the air. round and round their ship twirled. closer and closer to the eyes of the typhoon, All odds are stacked against hope. They saw their lives winding down the slope. A mariner slowly sings Rod Stewart’s “Sailing Song” We are sailing. We are sailing. Home again, ‘cross the sea We are sailing on stormy waters. To be near you is to be free. Courage kissed the captain. He remembers a captain’s honour Save your ship at all costs. Or take a bow, hands in hand. into depths unknown He picks up a little bowl. To scoop out a little water He began plugging little leaks. with broken little splinters. He scooped out more water. and he threw out more craters. The lighter they float, The lighter their trouble Only one thing matters. Survival. He climbed down the keel. He fixed the rudders And raised the mast The Mariner’s song faded. The captain’s anthem rose: We will save the boat. And sail home.

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You Died: A Poem by Kenneth Nwabuisi

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You died You died for my sins committed in the inns of prostrating limbs. & blood spills   from your side like a kite a death in sight & a warrior’s hindsight   The unending grue of a sky, blue preached on a pew– & the screw tight   On the cross of Calvary The knowledge of an apothecary a weight you carry for my sins on a parry.   Your blood, pink, a flowing pint & a sorrowed tint to wash away my stint   You died Now I can have life Because life is a pie Of a sweet nigh To console the cry   A sinner like me Worthy not to stand before thee To make a plea Or awash in glee   I hereby make a recompense a prayer devoid of sense a prayer that pierce through your veil   Here I am, undeterred on the coal tarred ground, head bowed bowed before a guard   Mary, white and bright came in tears that night Your body a blight of many unresolved, wounded fight   You died on a beautiful Friday I came that day to make a pay to seek atonement for the days   I lay in prostrating limbs with many layers of sins uncovered and dotted like pins in stilted mountainous inns   A beautiful sight of a flowing, nostalgic kite wavering and trembling like my plight Those days were tight–   A childhood, reminiscent of my priesthood made prominent in the hood. Days I wasn’t in the mood   to take a look at the pink blood oozing from the silk of the many maidens’ unclothed guilt a sin to be placed in gilt.   You died blood in there in the bare streak in your pair of hands, like the ears of a skittering deer   Like two unconsumated lovers lying under the moonless sky in an inn the sky a cloudless, sprawling blue, a merge of white and pink.   Leave it there by your tomb, here a white veil & the body of a hare I am lying bare   before this tomb, seeking atonement a solemn endearment from the inner circle of my ferment heart, a confluence of penance and abandonment   I am standing, looking at the sky, blue You married to the cross, a grue. A message I– a priest and pastors preach on the pew Of the soon departing clouds and the accompanying dew   You died On the cross is a veil wrapped around your waist, torn at 3, a death mysterious, your hands flail & weak hackneyed to a tight screw unpaired.   Unbarred, unflinching, unmoving; the angels arrived on the tomb stones paved way for your body, unstained unstinted, unencumbered, moved   to heaven. The angers a choir In my heart a raging fire of unquenchable hope & trust on your flight. your departure carrying my prayer high–   answered, lifted off my chest. You are in heaven now to make a request I’m here on earth waiting for a sign, a pest— Something to dot the blue sky, my prayer made by a zestful heart. Has been answered. I am waiting, I’ll wait, I have waited.   Nothing.        

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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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The Blame Game Analysis by Solomon Ekoja

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Before independence from Great Britain, the majority of the blame regarding the turbulence of the country was directed at our Colonial masters. It’s been over sixty years since they left but our turbulence as a nation has continued unabated. Who then should be blamed for the turbulent journey of Nigeria? Bad weather, the citizens or the leaders. As a mathematician, I would like to approach this discussion by appropriating percentages in order to properly highlight the contribution of the players. Leadership In my analysis, forty-five per cent of the blame goes to the leadership cadre of the country. A leader is supposed to be a person who leads a group of people to achieve a common goal but unfortunately, this can’t be said about the crop of leaders in Nigeria. After our independence in 1960, the mantle of leadership was handed over to our founding fathers. Many countries envied our envisaged predicted progress but in a jiffy, the military staged a coup that dislodged the country. The coup happened because of corruption by officials, the Western Nigeria crisis, the intention to install Awolowo as the Head of State, the domino effect from coups outside Nigeria and the personal ambition of the coup plotters. One begins to imagine how corruption found its way into the system to the extent that the army had to conduct a series of massacres to oust their government. This stunted us because sanctions from the Western world limited our progress. When the military assumed office, many thought they would be saints capable of transforming the nation. Unfortunately, they were not. Seven months after the Aguyi Ironsi was installed, northern officers who labelled the previous coup as an Igbo coup coupled with the fear that “the Igbos were getting too big for their boots” staged a counter-coup. General Yakubu Gowon being in power stirred the affairs of the country during a crude oil boom. During this period, Nigeria made a lot of money to the extent the leaders did not know how to spend it. If the leadership was visionary, it should have taken steps to plan for the future like the Arab nations. Agitations from the Eastern region soon resulted in a civil war that claimed millions of lives and properties. This brought the country to a standstill and caused a great setback to our development. Gowon had promised to hand over power to civilian rule but started playing games with the handover. This prompted General Murtala Muhamed who felt cheated for masterminding the counter-coup to stage a bloodless coup. Immediately he took over power, he was regarded as but some power-drunk soldiers who also wanted to taste power, unfortunately, killed the reformer. General Obasanjo took over power and after conducting an election, Alhaji Shehu Shagari became the first democratically elected president of the country. During his tenure, he made agriculture, industry, housing and transportation the major economic goals of his administration. His “green revolution” increased nationwide agricultural productivity but due to staggering corruption, insecurity and indiscipline as claimed by Major General Buhari, his government was toppled. This move truncated the flow of democracy and landed us with sanctions. The military government of Buhari truly reduced the cost of governance, instilled discipline and fought corruption but it was marred by human rights abuses that negatively affected our development trajectory. This contributed to his overthrow by General Babaginda who conducted an annulled election that has continued to haunt the nation. When power was given to the interim government of Ernest Shonekon, General Abacha forcefully received power. His government was characterized by massive corruption, state-sponsored murder and assassinations. Historical records also reveal that there were full-blown cases of corruption during the reign of the military. This implies that only the khaki differentiated them from politicians in Agbada. After our return to democratic rule in government, the country has continued to enjoy trickles of progress accompanied by a windfall of corruption. Money meant for the upkeep of the public continued to be laundered by a select few occupying the corridors of leadership. The leaders who should have been servants have turned the table around to be served. No wonder, billions of naira are spent to cater for the National Assembly while ordinary citizens grapple to feed. When a country borrows money for development, they use the funds judiciously but in our case, our leaders borrow money for laundering purposes that keep generations unborn in perpetual debt. Citizens On the part of the citizens, I wish to apportion thirty per cent of the blame to them. Although these groups of people don’t occupy leadership positions where they can make impactful decisions, their daily activities have continued to hamper the progress of our dear nation. During election periods when credible leaders are supposed to be elected, many citizens join forces with greedy leaders to frustrate the electoral process. Thugs for instance who steal ballot boxes and cause mayhem during elections are from the citizen pool. Their activities continue to deny the country from electing trustworthy leaders with the capacity to stir the country in the right direction. Closely related to this is the issue of corruption among citizens. Many Nigerians engage in corrupt practices daily to the detriment of the country. Citizens for personal gain at the detriment of the nation, illegally mine natural resources like petroleum, gold and coal. This short change reduces our revenue and makes us resort to borrowing. As one flips through the international news headlines, it is not uncommon to hear about Nigerian citizens being arrested for crimes like smuggling, trafficking and cyber-crimes. All these activities give the nation a bad name and often discourage the foreign community from investing in Nigeria. During the last administration, there were reports about the vandalization of rail tracks in order to get peanuts to the detriment of the smooth running of the transport industry. In spite of the security architecture of the country, insecurity has continued to thrive because of the involvement of the citizens. Banditry and Boko

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Nigeria’s Turbulent Journey: Who is to Blame? by Chukwuemeka Oluka

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This journey traces a trajectory from ‘Yesterday,’ through ‘Today,’ with a sneak peek into a destination, ‘Tomorrow.’ It is a journey of the most populous black nation on earth with over 200 million people comprising ethnically diverse nationalities trying to define their existence. This work presents an inflective introspection, appraisal and interrogation of Nigeria’s journey from 1960 since it gained independence. What have been the milestones, the failures, and the lessons learnt? Is there any hope for a better tomorrow? These remain the burning questions the writer seeks to answer. Going down memory lane, Nigeria was formed in 1914 when Lord Frederick Lugard amalgamated the Northern and Southern protectorates. This merger brought together over 250 ethnic divides and tribes into a British colony, and the name, ‘Nigeria’ was birthed. In 1960, Nigeria gained independence from British colonization and in 1966, the country experienced military coups that inadvertently overthrew a democratic government. This led to a civil war between the years 1967 to 1970. The death of over a million people during the Biafran — Nigerian civil war would remain a scar on the country’s history. As we capture this event dotting our memory lane, Nigeria is still battling to maintain its unity, with various ethnic groups. While some seek secession, others call for the restructuring of the country. Another dark side of our history was the annulment of the June 12, 1993 Presidential elections and the takeover of power by General Sanni Abacha’s military junta. Afterwards, advocacies and the national feeling and empathy at the time was for the Yoruba tribe to produce the next president in order to assuage them or smoothen already ruffled feathers for the woes that befell their kinsman, M.K.O Abiola. So, the herald of democracy in 1999 brought on board President Olusegun Obasanjo. Deservedly, the return to civilian rule during Obasanjo’s second tenure brought a noticeable transformation to the economy of Nigeria. There were debt cancellations, the massive transformation of the telecommunications industry and also the banking sector. As a result, the Gross Domestic Product (GDP) of the country stood head and shoulders above the rest in Africa and some analysts attributed the economic successes to the favourable international (crude) oil market at the time. The same economic mileages were recorded during the late President Umar Yar’adua and his successor, Goodluck Jonathan. However, a myriad of problems which include, bad leadership, dwindling oil revenues, extreme poverty, pervasive corruption, insecurity, divisive politics, ethnic strife and feuds continue to threaten our collective journey as a country. Political observers believe there remain North-South tensions foisted from the British colonial era and backed by the allegations of colonial favouritism towards Northern Nigeria. To these observers, the North’s numerical strength and massive landmass advantage mean other regions would continue to cry and wail about marginalization. There is no denying that at no time has the nation been so divided along ethnic and religious lines than today. Economic, ethnic, cultural and religious tensions which were the precursor of the three-year bloodshed during the civil war still stare us in the face. Yet, it appears we are in a hurry not to pick lessons from the war. President Muhammadu Buhari during his inauguration speech following the 2015 presidential election had said, ‘I belong to everybody and I belong to nobody.’ This statement suggested a disposition to foster an inclusive government. The expectation was for Buhari to further unite the country, but to the chagrin of many, the reverse became the case. It’s alleged that since independence, no president has mismanaged Nigeria’s rich ethnic and religious diversity like Buhari. From visible lopsided appointments, which seemingly favoured a particular section of the country, to the treatment of the Fulani herdsmen crisis with kid’s gloves, one cannot but conclude that President Buhari’s government smacked of strong parochial sentiments. Tellingly, there has never been any time the call for a break-up and self-determination has been this rife. While the Yoruba separatist leader, Sunday Igboho champions the course for a Yoruba nation, Nnamdi Kanu the leader of the Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB) has refused to back down on the demand for a Biafra state. Similar agitations can also be identified within the Ijaw Nation down South. Under Buhari’s regime and having risen to power on the campaign to fight endemic corruption and insecurity in Nigeria, this double-edged sword of a problem kept defying the odds and threatening our journey. From the Boko-Haram insurgency in the North-East, to rural banditry in the North-West; from unknown gun-men attacks in the South-East to militancy in the Niger-Delta to herdsmen attacks in the North-Central and South-West regions, the story remains unabated. Security sector corruption has inadvertently led to the rising insecurity facing the country; brought about by the secrecy, bribery and corruption shrouding most Arms deals. How about elections in Nigeria? They are rarely free, fair and credible. This is why there are a lot of post-election litigations to challenge electoral rascalities or to retrieve stolen mandates. One may ask; Are the courts rising to the occasion in this direction? The Presidential Elections Petitions Tribunal that just delivered a ruling on Wednesday 6th September, 2023 readily comes to mind. Our democracy is seemingly threatened if the Judiciary wittingly or unwillingly allows themselves to be used by desperate politicians to legitimise their positions. The processes from which our leaders emerge have therefore become fundamentally flawed. Voters complain of intimidation and suppression, and these are stoked by ethnic tensions. These were the hallmarks of what characterized the 2023 general elections. Against the odds, however, sixty-two (62) years of this turbulent journey means Nigeria can still lay claim to over two (2) decades of uninterrupted democracy from 1999 till date. An opportunity presents itself for the country to go back to the drawing board with a view to forge the future our founding fathers envisaged. The greater responsibility lies with the present government to work towards an inclusive government and participation. The task before President Bola Ahmed Tinubu (if he conquers finally in the

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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

Essays, Writers

The Bad Waiter by Emmanuel Enaku.

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Valentine’s Day meant nothing to me. True, it was seen as a day of love but as far as I was concerned, love did not exist. After a series of heartbreaks by those pretty offspring of Eve, or should I rather say, Delilah, I had made up my mind to play the field without any emotional attachment and no remorse, of course. I had become very proficient in the game of playboys and I had coined a name for myself which I made use of during action –Messidinho. That name, gotten from two of my highly viewed football players, Lionel Messi and Ronaldinho, speaks about my personality and how good I am in the field of players. I had been invited by Remi, one of my niggas, to fill up a vacancy in his boss’ hotel, a remarkably expensive five-star hotel that stood in the centre of the city like a treasure Island and only attracted the big boys of the town who had money to burn. Being a waiter was not much of an exciting accomplishment but I knew my lines well and was determined to make the most of my position, one which offered a good deal of exposure, ‘’new fish’’ and connections on Valentine’s night. I was already dressed and primed up at 6:00PM, in a resplendent black suit,  black trousers and black shoes to match. My white shirt seemed to work with the white fluorescent bulb that hung below my ceiling to illuminate the rather dim room I occupied. staring into the mirror,  I adjusted my red bow tie and waistband and gave a charming smile. Both had some diamond-like scintillating stuffs bonded all over them and with the fluorescent in the room, they sparkled excellently. I had a sinister smile playing on my face, revealing my deep dimples and the creases at the sides of my eyes, as I thought about what I was actually up to that night. Yes,  I was handsome, with the face of a demigod and a well-built body structure,  made even more alluring by my constant workouts and quite religious visits to the gym. I had a smile that could set a lady’s heart pounding and I took great advantage of this. Yet again,  I was smart,  highly intelligent and practical, the perfect man every woman wanted and,  sure,  they fell easily into my net. I adjusted my dark shades again and chuckled as the mirror reflected my action.  My phone buzzed then and I smiled as I identified the caller.  It was Remi. “Hey, Rasta!” I said as I picked the call.  I could hear the music blaring through the home theaters in the background  as Remi laughed. “My night!” Remi said,  I could tell at once that he was at the venue and enjoying himself. “Where are you at,  man?” Remi asked. “Hope you are prepared. I’m having so much fun already.  Just hooked up with a fresh chick here,  uhm… Veronica,  yea, she calls herself that. Man, she’s hot!” I chuckled as Remi blabbed out, not once stopping for a breath. “Get yourself over here quickly!” He said finally and cut the call. “Lousy son-of-a-bitch”, I said smiling as I put the gold-plated Samsung, the latest model in vogue, into my pocket and reached for my body spray on the cupboard. Smelling nice I went out through the door and locked it. “Bad boy”. I said as I spun the key holder with my index finger a few times before putting it in my pocket. The Valentine’s party was going smoothly and although the boss tried to keep us on our toes,  there were still opportunities to catch fun. I had arrived an hour earlier and had very little time to chat with Remi because he kept appearing and disappearing. My duty was to serve drinks round and I had done a great job. I also managed to draw attention to myself and did a little flirting here and there. Oh yeah! I watched as the bar boy poured the drinks into six elegant-looking glasses on a thin gold-plated tray I had dropped on the counter and smiled at him.  A hard-working lad he seemed,  staying behind the counter pouring drinks,  unable to go out and mingle like the rest of us. Just then,  Remi appeared with a contented smile playing on his face. “My paddy eh!” He said looking me over. “Why you just dey stand there dey look?  The river is already full for fishing.  Six already in my net!” Remi said drunkenly. I watched him laugh feeling very happy with himself. “How many you got?” He asked after a fit of laughter. “I don’t fish Sadines, man. I’m waiting for the sharks”, I said and gave a mischievous smile which Remi understood. “Ahh! Messidinho!” Remi hailed. He was just about to say something else when the door to the party hall opened and a silhouetted figure stepped in. Remi had his mouth agape and I watched, captivated as the figure moved gracefully into the gathering. The noisy hall had suddenly become quiet and lifeless as all activities ceased and everyone stared. It was just as if the graceful intruder had cast a potent spell on every individual in the hall. Step by step that heavenly being came in,  dragging all stares in the room. “Ahh, mogbe!” Remi exclaimed in his usual Yoruba fashion as the figure materialized out of the dark section of the hall into the brightly lit part where we stood. He had his hands on his head the way people do when in shock and in the silence of the hall,  I could clearly hear Remi’s heart pumping adrenaline-diluted blood through his veins. That creation of heaven marched towards me in a flamboyant manner.  The most beautiful entity I had ever seen.  My eyes caught the set of diamond earrings and pearl necklace that adorned its structure. A total figure 8. She was a captivating dark lady with bright magical

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