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The Bad Waiter by Emmanuel Enaku.

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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Eat What The Soil Gives You by Becky Peleowo

My first son came out all white when he was born. At first, I was thrilled that I had such a fresh-looking and cute baby but then I realized the cost of maintaining flawless white skin in a hot, mosquito-friendly, and begrimed environment. I had to become extremely maternal in his choice of food, cosmetics, and clothing. Not minding the cost, I bought the best baby food products like Gerber; patronised top recommended body creams like Aveeno and Sebamed and even shopped for fruits that were from the imported list after all, he was “Oyibo”. Soon he started having clusters of boils that looked so red but refused to have an eye. The clutters later became carbuncles and they kept reoccurring. I was the super mom and a neat freak when it came to his hygiene; how then did I go wrong? Private and general hospitals soon became our most visited sites in his first year. We had become regular “customers” and my little Oyibo was the favourite of many nurses and doctors who had a lot of advice to give on how to keep him white, under a hot climate. Motherhood became a herculean task for me. He always wore socks even in the sunniest of weathers just to keep the insects at bay. Some stubborn ones still found their way to his creamy flesh. His carbuncles did not disappear either. Perhaps the beefers had cast a spell on him. Then, I decided to see a family doctor in our locality. It was the only hospital close to our home but Dr Emerson was not as friendly as the previous doctors. He told me the gospel truth that I was feeding my baby mostly junk. His diet used to be full of processed food and I explored only little of local baby foods. He reminded me of one fact I had forgotten — My little one has Nigerian blood running through his veins and he lives in Nigeria. How did I expect him to thrive with the foreign nutrition I had placed him on? He explained that, though highly recommended, some of those foreign products I buy contain allergens and my oyibo could be reacting to them. I smelt beef! Haters, I thought to myself. He was just jealous. As if he had read my mind, the doctor advised that I made my cereal from yellow corn, guinea corn, and millet with a little ginger for flavour. In addition, I should add blended dried unripe plantains, crayfish, soya milk and sometimes peanuts (but in little quantities to ascertain he does not have allergies to them). Then he advised me to discard the foreign baby milk I prided in, to go for locally made milk like Peak or My Boy. For choice of cosmetics, I was urged to try coconut oil or other essential oils mixed with original shea butter. How dare he suggest that for my oyibo? I had little choice anyway because I needed to stop the carbuncles as they were leaving behind freckle-like scars on his skin. Fortunately, I tried the new formula and it worked like magic. My little one reduced weight. (His weight used to worry me a bit! Lol.) The boils stopped appearing, his immune system got stronger and we had fewer visits to the hospital. His skin took on a tougher yet smooth look. The scars from the boils were dispelled into tiny dark spots that looked like birthmarks. Most importantly, the local foods were cheaper, sufficient in quantity and had a richer taste. Eventually, I came out of my superficial world of adulterated education that the best things are foreign while our local products have low quality. One thing I would never compromise anyway was exclusive breastfeeding. I had made a resolve to go through the process through thick and thin with all my kids and it worked for me. I would say nature was designed to meet the needs of each nation with its unique features. My main concern, however, is how so many people have replaced homegrown foods with imported foods some of which have lost their natural value and taste to time, storage and distance. Although it is not widely propagated, homegrown foods are proven to be of more nutritional value than imported foods. As it is popularly said, ‘You can’t cheat nature. ‘ The soil where people originate from was designed to meet the needs of its inhabitants. This does not negate cultural integration or adaptation but I strongly believe there is a connection between the land and its occupants so much that, the best you need for your body system to function well is the soil designed to nourish it. Taking Nigeria as a case study, our weather conditions (rainy and dry seasons) have different foods and fruits attached to them while some are available all year round. Agbalumo, carrots and many citrus fruits, for instance, can be bought in large quantities during the dry season. Everyone knows the dry season comes with its kind of illnesses such as sore throat, coughs and eye infections that require high doses of vitamin C-related foods, so the land produces foods that the body needs mostly. There might not be very strong reasons to consume corn during rainy seasons but the vitamins and antioxidants in corn give the body the immune support it needs during the rainy season. Besides, who would not love hot corn in cold weather? So, when next you go shopping for foodstuffs, try to visit the local markets and stock up your kitchen with those fresh homegrown foods instead of consuming a whole lot of refined, over-processed foods. If not for any other reason, do it to boost our nation’s economy and help the local farmers to grow more food.

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Psalm of Victory by Emmanuel Enaku

I gasped as I woke up with a start. The environment was peach-black and for the life of me, I didn’t know where I was. I gulped hard at a lump of saliva that clung to my gullet and my eyes bulged with shocked trepidation. “This is not my hotel room”, I thought with fearful realization. I could see, through the pale-silvery gleam of the half moon, the outlines of trees — forest trees — and watched with raw fear as the palm branches, Iroko leaves and pine branches swung about in the still, windless, night of the forest. I could feel the fear rising, a raw and sickening push in my guts and that was when I tried to move for the first time but dear Lord, my hands and legs were tightly secured behind my back! This was evil, I knew. I was familiar with the machinations of demons during spiritual warfare but this was the cruellest one I had met yet. I knew that it was going to be a long night and I tried to steel myself in readiness. However, there was something ominous happening in that forest and it was frustrating all my plans to get ready. It had been calm a moment earlier but all of a sudden, the chirping, hissing and croaking sounds came from all around me and grew louder with deafening intensity. In the distance, I could hear the approach of a pale clanging bell and shrill voices spoke with malevolence. I tried to break free, struggling against the tightness of the ropes around me as the thick mist began to rise from the ground. The mist rose with terrifying quality — like a hand reaching out of the damp earth towards me — and in a way, the mist held on. It felt like it was touching me, caressing me sinisterly. Evil! My fear was palpable. So thick that I could cut slices off it. As I observed what was happening, two huge crows flew above the trees lazily and landed on an ominously-white tombstone that I had not noticed earlier, their baleful eyes settling on me but the most fearful thing wasn’t the crows — no! What almost made me pee myself was that those crows — bigger than any I ever saw — each, had three eyes and those eyes, dear Lord, those eyes shone in a bright crimson. As I stared at the crows in shock, I began to feel cold, the temperature in the forest began to recede rapidly and I shivered as the reality of what amount of power the demon commanded dawned on me. “Dear Lord, help me!” I gasped, choking from the cold and feeling the sub-zero temperature permeate my bones. And those birds, they sat calmly on the tombstone, their eyes firmly fixed on me in a malicious, evil stare and from nowhere, an ancient voice spoke. “Puny, sinful human! I shall sift you as wheat!” There was a clap of thunder, lightning raking across the sky aggressively after the intimidating announcement and to my utter consternation, it began to rain terribly! Just like that! “This is evil!” I had thought helplessly. And I had lain there, tired, weak and dying, feeling the harsh pelting of the heavy rain on my bare skin. And then, I began to feel an upbuild of strength as adrenaline seeped through my veins! I was angry — oh, so angry! There was no fear anymore as that hormone spread through my veins! “The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want!” I crooned weakly. “Sinful human!” The voice thundered again, brash, ancient and angry but I was past listening to these demons. “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters,” I screamed, my rage, a fiery flame! “No — no — no!” I could sense the fear in the whimpering voice of the demon as it echoed through the forest. “Be afraid!” It said. “No redemption, no saving, no grace!” And I spared a glance at the crows. They scurried around confused, cawing intensely with fear. “He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake!” My voice was louder this time, angry at the sight of the ominous birds and their three unnatural eyes and all of a sudden, the rain stopped and the choking coldness disappeared. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me!” I screamed and the bands that held me tied up broke and I stood up to my feet and moved towards the birds. They tried to fly away but I pointed my hands towards them. “Burn!” I said and they burst into a terrible flame that licked dangerously around the tombstone. “Vile things! Be gone!” In the flame, I could see what was written on the tombstone and I saw that it was my name. The rage sizzled and I remembered the fifth verse of the Psalm I had been quoting. “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over,” I said with my arms extended and my name was blotted out of the tombstone and a bolt struck the tombstone, breaking it into several pieces. The scratches and my wounds began to heal and I was strong. And so, I knelt and closed my eyes as the words of the last verse settled and I screamed it out loud. “ Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever”. And when I opened my eyes, I was in my hotel room, on my knees just as I had been with my Bible beneath me — turned to Psalm 23. I knew it was a victory and I knew God would always give me the victory in my journey as a soldier of Christ — a gifted intercessor and exorcist.

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Being The Boss by Emmanuel Enaku

I poured myself yet another glass of Brandy and relaxed on the sofa. Life had been good the past few years. I had acquired lots of property and my bank account smiled daily with figures that carried excess zeros. I smiled as I sipped the Brandy. The drink traced a burning path down my throat and I began to feel a bit lightheaded and well, excited. I knew that I wasn’t supposed to get drunk because I’d need all the stamina I could get for the adventure Samantha Dinka — the wild, pretty, sassy and seductive damsel I met about a week — would be bringing but the date was 17th June, the day which, a year ago, the heavens seemed to have smiled down at me and made some editing to my life’s story. Did I say editing? Haha… Oh, dear! You see, I like to think that if there’s some supreme being out there, this being, would be a writer or something along the line. A huge hand wielding a huge pen and body bent over an equally huge desk, scribbling on a huge book, or perhaps, scroll — something like that, yunno, ancient of days with ancient stuff — and a supernatural brain pumping ideas into a supernatural imagination, hmm. I like to think all about this but it sometimes gets tedious as the stern voice of my Sunday school teacher would reach me from afar — “God’s ways are not our ways!”. Well, I give it to pastor Dotun. I think he knew better about God’s ways than I do even now. However, when I remember the effusive smile and powerful handshake Mr Chukwudi gave me on entering his office that Monday morning, I was sure that God must be a master of comedy, tragedy, tragicomedy — those sorts of things. My meeting with Don, AKA, Chukwudi was my first step in applying what I had learnt so far in the creator space. My journey of learning was, at first, more like an idle scrolling and reading and watching of YouTube videos — anything to distract me from the hurt I felt after my break-up with Sadiya, a ship that split right in the middle after colliding with the iceberg of religious incompatibility — and I could not believe, not in a long shot, that the snippets of knowledge I was gaining here and there would bring about such astronomical progress. You see, I signed that deal with Chukwudi for a paltry sum of money. I never saw Mr Chukwudi smile. He didn’t smile even as he signed the copywriting agreement and I didn’t smile either because I had lesser faith in myself and my abilities than he thought he had in me. I just wanted the distraction of a job. So, you could imagine my consternation when I saw his face, which had always looked like that of an angry ox, transformed with a pleasant wide grin. “Sit down, sit down!” He said, gesticulating with obese arms and then, he explained to me how my writing had brought in more customers and how business had thrived. As I left his office that afternoon, with my paycheck and a huge bonus, I was a completely different person. I began my blog and started a Messidinho series. A series that told a little of my life and my escapades as a young and hot nigga with an insatiable craving for honey-pots, what the Igbos called Otù. (Chuckles). I watched my followers increase across various social media platforms and took note of the corresponding increase in the figures at the bank. I became more adept. I started a series to help men who had low self-esteem and problems approaching women, leveraging my experience and the latest podcasting tools. Soon, I had paid classes that turned in a lot of people who were hungry to learn. For kids, I had a platform where I taught art creation. Having previously perfected my art ability and taken several courses on creative arts and graphics design, I employed people to work remotely from home giving tutorials not just in art and graphics but in many other subjects that a youngster would find interesting and perhaps, daunting. You know kids and adventures. I travelled and made vlogs, hosted conferences from the comfort of my home made use of Google meetings and similar tools. The money kept flowing. As my fans increased, I started getting paid in mega amounts of zeros to appear in shows and conferences within and outside the country. I wrote books, started a publishing company, created visibility online, across platforms and created a community for talented writers to grow. Soon, this community began to accept deals for ghostwriting, copywriting and playwriting from top shots and film houses. The journey has been great and I can only imagine what the future would bring, great, I’m sure! I mean, just look at it this way; the nearest future would bring Samantha Dinka, which isn’t going to be bad at all but ten years or so, wow. I’m already at the zenith of the Creator’s space but then, I doubt I’m ready to step down from the playing field. I know, I know you dread me having ten Samanthas. I don’t think I have the stamina anymore but there should be some wild nights or don’t you think so? Now, don’t look at me like that. I’m Messidinho after all and I don’t plan to stop being Messidinho anytime soon. (Chuckles).

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I Came To Win by Faith Oyadiran

Growing up in the suburbs of Ojo town in Lagos State came with its blessings. I grew up in my father’s three-room apartment, which lies a few blocks from the bustling Alaba International Market. Our proximity to this hub of commercial activities ignited in me a strong affinity for entrepreneurship . At age seven, I developed a deep passion for entrepreneurship, though without a defined niche. I fell in love with the various shows on display at the market: of people haggling over the prices of goods, the result of which could be a spontaneous fracas that leaves a receipt of swollen red lumps on the face of a customer who had haggled beyond the seller’s patience limit or a smile that lights up the face of someone who had just struck a bargain. My parents had expected me to indulge myself in some childhood rituals by playing video games with my friend Chike or dragging ownership rights to the TV remote with my siblings. The fun in such exuberance had eluded me. Instead, I would drop my bag, immediately change into my favourite baggy shorts and an oversized T-shirt, and head straight to my father’s shop. My father’s electronic store occupies the second floor of a three-story building situated along the main road. It had a large signpost lined with fancy neon lights attached to the frontage that read, “From grass to grace.” Astonished by my unwavering commitment, my father would pat me on the back, an act I have come to understand as his show of affirmation of my precocious traits. On one occasion, my father recounted, “At eight, I was busy hunting innocent lizards on the streets of Afor_ugwu in Aguobuowa, Enugu state”. My father would recline in his revolving armchair and tell me stories of how he had felt an urgency to leave the village and start something for himself. “I left my village with only a pair of clothes and shoes and promised never to return until I became successful.” His success story stirred up a desire in me to write my own narrative. At night, I will bring out my dog-eared velvet diary, which has been deprived of its best years. I would recreate scenes I had witnessed earlier in the market in detail. I would sketch, as appendages to my stories, the images of real-life people that detailed their varying dispositions toward their new acquisitions or their disappointments at their inability to obtain what they had come for. I had unconsciously developed an uncanny ability to string words and images into a narrative. At eighteen, I became obsessed with giving the family’s business a little prodding. I stumbled upon an advertisement offering free training on social media marketing and other packages that seemed overpriced. I enrolled for the free class and later paid for the extra packages on offer, such as video editing and graphic design using Canva. My love for video creation grew more. I began creating video ads in the form of skits to promote the business. I uploaded the video skits to my YouTube channel with high hopes of instant success, but to my dismay, I discovered that success itself is an adventure. I encountered more challenges, the most memorable being the day I was cornered by some of my father’s competitors and was accused of fraternizing with voodoo to boost our patronage. I remained resilient, seeing each obstacle as an opportunity to learn and grow. I began experimenting with different genres and styles until I eventually resorted to acting out the scenes I had enacted in my dog-eared diary as a seven-year-old. I gripped my audience by projecting the joy and enthusiasm visibly reflected on the faces of the clients that eventually make a purchase, while comically presenting the red, swollen face as a consequence of a decision to ignore what I’m offering. This level of creativity caught the online community unawares, and by implication, my followers and subscriber list had risen astronomically overnight from nothing to a little above 30k. I sat down to reflect on my journey so far, I was convinced that it was time to write my own story. I poured my heart and soul into producing vivid and compelling scripts alongside high-quality video skits highlighting the attitude it takes to thrive as an entrepreneur. I meticulously researched each topic to ensure accuracy and relevance while infusing my content with a playful and imaginative approach. My game went viral and consequently, opportunities began to knock at my door. I received invitations to collaborate with renowned organizations to amplify their brands while projecting them for an even broader reach. I had earned myself a valid reputation that booked me romantic dates with different brands and sponsors who could not resist the mouth-watering potential that our partnership had to offer. The Redridge Consortium, a firm worth billions of dollars, offered me a deal to create video ads for an entire section of their properties on Banana Island. It was a once-in-a-lifetime offer that included an acre of land in Ajah and a whopping sum of one hundred million dollars. I only had to do what I have always done. I executed the project to my client’s expectations. The video recorded over a million views within the next five days of its uploading on all social media platforms. It was a landmark achievement. I couldn’t contain my excitement at becoming the latest millionaire in town, so I chartered a private flight and headed straight to the Amazons to fulfil my lifelong dream of a cruise under the Aspen trees that overlay the bank of the Amazon River and an evening spent listening to the melodies of thrushes and other mysterious birds that had made the Amazons their home. My BIO 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

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Hidden Millionaire by Becky O. Peleowo

I accompanied Maami to my cousin’s wedding on her insistence that I should reduce my digital presence and pay attention to “urgent” matters. My cousin, Kiki is getting married at 28. Kiki, a fresh graduate has no job but her would-be affluent husband would take full responsibility for her needs. That was what mattered more in Maami’s eyes. I also needed to prove to our extended family that I was not an Ashewo, the classified prostitute every one of them thought I was. I didn’t refuse Maami’s request because it was hopeless to do so. Even a widely acclaimed attorney would not win an argument against her. For Pete’s sake, why would my own family think I am a prostitute? Is it a crime to be a millionaire? Is it wrong to work from home rather than prance about town like a hunted gazelle? Or does driving a Lexus RX 350 and dishing out highly competitive content on social media make one a prostitute? What about being an author, a blogger, a TikTok queen and a social media influencer? I worked hard to earn my keep. Maybe Maami was right; Many Nigerians like to hear a simple-name profession. You have to be a doctor, a lawyer or a what-the-world-wants-me-to-be. I feel for Maami as I thought of her trying to defend her 40-year-old single-mum daughter that earns enough to buy a home on the Island in a classy metropolitan like Lagos. I imagine her trying to explain to her untutored circle of friends that her daughter made her money from writing and making videos that promote adverts for companies. I imagine her trying to explain how much effort I put into these videos, how frequently I study late into the night and how tasking replying to followers’ comments can be. Perhaps Maami needs to change her social circle to suit the changing times. Sitting on a decorated chair in the wedding hall with one of the flowers stands almost touching my head, I reminisced on how I started my journey to financial freedom. I used to be that jobless mother of one who had her CV in almost every organisation until one of the employers told me I was unemployable. What! Why? He said I lacked modern skills that could get me a decent job. I felt lost. I had grown up with criticism all my life. Body shaming and bullying were two monsters that tormented me until I discovered the route to self-esteem and self-development. I was born with bulging eyes that appear to be falling off their sockets when I spoke. In secondary school, I was always by myself because I did not want to be an object of ridicule to my friends. In my University days, I wore dark shades under the pretext of a sight defect just to ward off unpleasant comments. My sisters would call me “fish eyes” when I annoyed them. My mum would ask me why I was not as plump and curvaceous as my sisters. She would fret and lament how difficult it would be for me to find a man but now, I rock my “sexy eyes” and my petite figure like America’s next model as Donald would call them though I was closer to the floor in height. I looked around to see if Donald had arrived. He is my world and I am already feeling bored at the frivolities that clouded a typical Nigerian party. I anticipated Donald’s arrival with impatience. When I met Donald, I found out that there was finally one person who saw things differently from the scrutinizing eyes of the world. Everyone, including my son’s father, saw a skinny, unattractive woman who had no hope of making it on her own. My sisters used to tell me how lucky I was to have attracted my ex. Later I discovered he only wanted to marry me to process his visa to the United States and then he broke off the engagement and never returned, leaving me with an unborn baby. Donald saw a light in me that no one else saw. His first comment about my beautiful eyes still rings in my head and endears him to me. That he made me an independent woman and coached me into the creator economy was another reason Donald meant much to me. When we first met, I was shocked at how such a young guy could be so rich. He was a lab scientist but also a social influencer. He introduced me to digital marketing, then life coaching on Youtube and making content on TikTok. Currently, the best of our income comes from a partnership with companies on product advertisement and getting paid as social influencers. We created content on relationships, our daily life, health and many other topics that targeted the younger generation. Donald and I have been on for four years now and Maami thinks he might leave me for a younger woman soon. After all, why would a 35-year-old man dot on a 40-year-old woman with a child? “Wine, Ma’am?” A young dude carrying a tray of drinks flashed his teeth at me in the corner where I sat hoping that one of my followers would not recognise me. “Thanks,” I said, ruminating why the usher seemed jittery. I am not a celebrity, wait, maybe I am a digital one. “I should thank you!” He said beaming with smiles. “Why?” I replied “Your content on TikTok is inspiring.” “Really?” “Yes Ma’am!” “I follow you on Youtube and Instagram too. You’re Ewa from Ashes, right? I follow Don success too. I mean your boyfriend.” “Oh, thanks!” I gave a humble smile hoping the young chap would disappear before a family member appeared. Where on earth was Maami who wanted me to socialise and get a husband on time? “What’s happening here?” Maami always showed up when you needed her most. “Just one of my fans from the social sphere.” I turned to the youth, “If

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The Trajectory and Influence of Digital Technology in Graphic Design by Chukwuemeka Oluka

The creative and dynamic field of graphic design is nothing short of exciting. Imagine what it takes to communicate one’s ideas and experiences with visual and textual elements. So, to think of graphic design is to think of works like artistic advertisements, eye-grabbing graphics on websites, captivating content in magazines, etc. How about posters, infographics, book covers, product labels, logos, business cards, and mobile apps, the list is just long. In all these works, tailored messages are communicated to attract and connect target audiences. This helps businesses to establish an identity for their brand. Meanwhile, every graphic design is meant to serve a purpose, which could either be to create aesthetics for enhancing user experience or to create that visual touch that shapes users’ emotions and appeal. To achieve this, graphic design elements such as colour, size, line, shape, form, texture, and space can either be combined or contrasted. One of the best ways graphic designers can stay on top of their game is to keep up and closely monitor emerging technological trends influencing their jobs. In a paper published in ‘The International Journal of Design Education,’ David Sinfield of the Auckland University of Technology, New Zealand posited at the time, that the field of graphic design is moving away from the usual form of ink, pigment paint and paper, and is moving steadily into the digital spheres of illustration. According to him, this has significant implications for speed, colours, textures and varying styles that open other avenues not normally associated with graphic design. It is therefore noteworthy that graphic design keeps undergoing major changes in its associated technologies. While design principles remain intact, new digital technologies provide prospects for improvements. Today, graphic designers are armed with devices such as digital recorders, MPEG players, iPhones, iPads, cell phones, laptops, and smartphones, as well as a plethora of other digital products surging the global market. There are also plenty of resources available online today that can be accessed through sites such as YouTube, Google Plus, Lynda dot com etc. Shweta Kamra, a graphic designer and image editor on Medium in tracing how graphic design evolved from the traditional print to the dynamic world of digital media, revealed that in the Renaissance period, Johannes Gutenberg’s invention of the Moveable Type influenced the field of graphics design. This invention birthed typography which became a breakthrough in printing, and thus, typography became a crucial element of graphic design, helping designers to enhance visual communications. Before the Renaissance period, symbols and images were used to convey messages in ancient civilizations. After the Renaissance period was the industrial revolution which heralded significant advancement in technology. The industrial revolution saw the rise of print, with the invention of the printing press. This improved graphic design tremendously. Tracing this trajectory further after the industrial revolution, the digital revolution and the era of digital design came on board. This period marked the advent of computers which became a significant innovation in graphic design history. So, digital designs became possible with the emergence of software like Adobe Photoshop and Illustrator, giving graphic designers unprecedented creative leverage. Also, motion effect software tools such as Adobe After Effects or Blender 3D app would bring still designs to life through animations, transitions and video editing. Images could be manipulated, text and visuals could be integrated, and interactive user experiences became possible. Digital technology has truly revolutionized the thought process and approach to the work of graphic designers. With the emergence of digital media, graphic designers can create and share their works across mobile apps, websites, social media and a large array of platforms. This encourages collaboration amongst designers, especially those whose roles are remote. Thus, with software tools like Adobe Creative Suite or Figma, digital technology allows faster iteration and more efficient workflows. With these tools, graphic designers can quickly create prototypes that test design concepts in real-time. Also, digital design tools like Canva Pro and Canva for Teams have made graphic design processes more simplified than ever. While Canva Pro was launched in 2015, Canva for Teams was launched in 2022. Today, the discussions are centred around the integration of Artificial Intelligence (AI), Virtual Reality (VR) and Augmented Reality (AR) into design processes for more immersive and engaging visual experiences. There is no doubt that these hold the future for graphic design. In conclusion, tracing the trajectory of digital technology, reveal that technology is moving forward at supersonic speed. So, graphic designers have to match that pace of progression, especially in their designs. They just have to evolve, adapt and be in sync with emerging digital technologies as this remains the gateway to pushing themselves towards achieving their full potential. About The Writer Chukwuemeka Oluka is a graduate of Electronic and Computer Engineering from Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka, Nigeria. He is a passionate writer, a graphic design enthusiast, a research enthusiast and a COREN-certified Engineer. He tweets @Mekus_Oluka and can be reached via “write2oluka@gmail.com”

Blog, Resources, Writers

Writing Tips: Types Of Plot.

  There are so many types of plot, categorized into general or broad and streamlined or specific plot types.  On general or broad type, there are 4 categories covered in this article: linear, episodic, parallel and flashback. Linear plot: A linear plot, also called the progressive plot, is the commonest plot type employed in short form works like short stories or essays. It is dramatic, and presents the actions in a story in chronological sequence. Normally, it begins with an exposition, where the main character(s) in a story are introduced; their background and history, their personal struggles and motivations, for example. It is then followed by a rising action, where a major conflict is being tackled, and then we get to the climax, the most intense part of a plot, where we have the most excitement, expectations, and edge. Then there’s a falling action, where the story is fixing its loose ends, sort of like a summary of events. And finally, the resolution, at which point the ultimate questions your character begins with is answered and the story comes to a close. Most short stories make use of the linear plot, eg: Adachioma Ezeano’s  You Girls Are Good. It begins with an introduction of the characters thus: “My twin sister’s name is Nkemakonam. Mine, Nkemjika. Both names are twin siblings of the word ownership. Silly names from silly parents with no things, given to girls with no one, maybe, a quarter-parent.” We instantly know who the characters are, and what kind of environment they’re in. In Meron Hadero’s  The Street Sweep, we see first the portrait of the protagonist, Getu, trying to perfect a Windsor knot. We know instantly that he is anxious. The story then follows the other elements in a linear plot. Episodic plot: This involves a chronological arrangement of events, also. However, unlike the Linear plot that focuses on one narrative, the episodic plot focuses on multiple narratives, events, and characters. The development of each new character is explored using episodes, and often, these episodes are connected by a theme or a central idea. Episodic plot is mostly used in world building for longer form works, like novels. Adventure novels use this plot mostly. Through the introduction of several character stories, the readers get a much better perspective of the conflict in the story. A common example is the HBO series, Game of Thrones, where we have several characters, exploring different journeys, but mostly connected by a central theme or instrument. Prallel plot: This is a structure that enables a writer to weave two or more dramatic plots in a story. In the beginning, these multiple dramatic plots run on their own, independent of the other, up to their rising events, but then crash together at the climax. A perfect example of this is the theme from one of the week’s Essay Competition, where writers were asked to write a story with about five independent events that link up at the end. Remember that? This plot is very effective in creating an emotional moment in the climax among the readers because they have previously been involved in multiple rising actions. Flashback plot: In a flashback plot, the story usually doesn’t need to begin with an exposition. It could start in the middle of a high point action. The writer can then go back in time to provide a backup for the preceding actions. The events in a story need not be presented sequentially. However, use of flashbacks should not be random: the arrangement, based on a timeline, is to offer readers more insight into future or past occurrences, and to heighten the anticipation. If done poorly or overused, it could mar a work. On streamlined/specific plot, there’s the: Overcoming a monster/adversity: in this kind, your protagonist must defeat an evil character, save those they love most, family or community or thing, and then emerge a hero. It could play out in many ways, ignoring the traditional format it’s presented in. An example is: Arya Stark from GoT. In Game of Thrones, the major storyline is probably about who gets to sit on the iron throne, but that’s one aspect of the plot. The overarching theme, which, if you watched closely, was foreshadowed throughout the seasons, was about the Long Night. So, all through the story, we see the movie strategizing to defeat the Night King and the army of the dead. And Arya Stark defeats this long dreaded villain to emerge the hero of the story. This is just an extrapolation of her character arc, it’s more complex than I’ve put it but I hope you get the idea. Also, is Harry Potter in the titular series. From Rags to Riches: A character moves from poverty to wealth and then to poverty again. A cycle. Comedy, including Satire, humor, etc. Tragedy: as in grief, exploring macabre themes, like Adichie’s Notes on Grief and Jennifer Seniors’ What Bobby McIlvaine Left Behind. Rebirth: Think about a character that holds an ideological controversial point of view, but throughout the story we watch them grapple with these ideologies, encounter several turns, and at the climax, they emerge, different, either as a result of an experience they had. Eg: a character who doesn’t believe in love because of past trauma, but toward the end finds themselves falling in love, and then existing in denial, then accepting at the end. This list is inexhaustible.  Recommended Reading: You Girls Are Good by Adachioma Ezeano (Guernica, 2022)     ©Image by Riccardo Monteleone on Unsplash. Culled from Cmonionline Writing Retreat 2022

Blog, Essays

You Lazy (Intellectual) African Scum! by Field Ruwe.

They call the Third World the lazy man’s purview; the sluggishly slothful and languorous prefecture. In this realm people are sleepy, dreamy, torpid, lethargic, and therefore indigent—totally penniless, needy, destitute, poverty-stricken, disfavored, and impoverished. In this demesne, as they call it, there are hardly any discoveries, inventions, and innovations. Africa is the trailblazer. Some still call it “the dark continent” for the light that flickers under the tunnel is not that of hope, but an approaching train. And because countless keep waiting in the way of the train, millions die and many more remain decapitated by the day. “It’s amazing how you all sit there and watch yourselves die,” the man next to me said. “Get up and do something about it.” Brawny, fully bald-headed, with intense, steely eyes, he was as cold as they come. When I first discovered I was going to spend my New Year’s Eve next to him on a non-stop JetBlue flight from Los Angeles to Boston I was angst-ridden. I associate marble-shaven Caucasians with iconoclastic skin-heads, most of who are racist. “My name is Walter,” he extended his hand as soon as I settled in my seat. I told him mine with a precautious smile. “Where are you from?” he asked. “Zambia.” “Zambia!” he exclaimed, “Kaunda’s country.” “Yes,” I said, “Now Sata’s.” “But of course,” he responded. “You just elected King Cobra as your president.” My face lit up at the mention of Sata’s moniker. Walter smiled, and in those cold eyes I saw an amenable fellow, one of those American highbrows who shuttle between Africa and the U.S. “I spent three years in Zambia in the 1980s,” he continued. “I wined and dined with Luke Mwananshiku, Willa Mungomba, Dr. Siteke Mwale, and many other highly intelligent Zambians.” He lowered his voice. “I was part of the IMF group that came to rip you guys off.” He smirked. “Your government put me in a million dollar mansion overlooking a shanty called Kalingalinga. From my patio I saw it all—the rich and the poor, the ailing, the dead, and the healthy.” “Are you still with the IMF?” I asked. “I have since moved to yet another group with similar intentions. In the next few months my colleagues and I will be in Lusaka to hypnotize the cobra. I work for the broker that has acquired a chunk of your debt. Your government owes not the World Bank, but us millions of dollars. We’ll be in Lusaka to offer your president a couple of millions and fly back with a check twenty times greater.” “No, you won’t,” I said. “King Cobra is incorruptible. He is …” He was laughing. “Says who? Give me an African president, just one, who has not fallen for the carrot and stick.” Quett Masire’s name popped up. “Oh, him, well, we never got to him because he turned down the IMF and the World Bank. It was perhaps the smartest thing for him to do.” At midnight we were airborne. The captain wished us a happy 2012 and urged us to watch the fireworks across Los Angeles. “Isn’t that beautiful,” Walter said looking down. From my middle seat, I took a glance and nodded admirably. “That’s white man’s country,” he said. “We came here on Mayflower and turned Indian land into a paradise and now the most powerful nation on earth. We discovered the bulb, and built this aircraft to fly us to pleasure resorts like Lake Zambia.” I grinned. “There is no Lake Zambia.” He curled his lips into a smug smile. “That’s what we call your country. You guys are as stagnant as the water in the lake. We come in with our large boats and fish your minerals and your wildlife and leave morsels—crumbs. That’s your staple food, crumbs. That corn-meal you eat, that’s crumbs, the small Tilapia fish you call Kapenta is crumbs. We the Bwanas (whites) take the cat fish. I am the Bwana and you are the Muntu. I get what I want and you get what you deserve, crumbs. That’s what lazy people get—Zambians, Africans, the entire Third World.” The smile vanished from my face. “I see you are getting pissed off,” Walter said and lowered his voice. “You are thinking this Bwana is a racist. That’s how most Zambians respond when I tell them the truth. They go ballistic. Okay. Let’s for a moment put our skin pigmentations, this black and white crap, aside. Tell me, my friend, what is the difference between you and me?” “There’s no difference.” “Absolutely none,” he exclaimed. “Scientists in the Human Genome Project have proved that. It took them thirteen years to determine the complete sequence of the three billion DNA subunits. After they were all done it was clear that 99.9% nucleotide bases were exactly the same in you and me. We are the same people. All white, Asian, Latino, and black people on this aircraft are the same.” I gladly nodded. “And yet I feel superior,” he smiled fatalistically. “Every white person on this plane feels superior to a black person. The white guy who picks up garbage, the homeless white trash on drugs, feels superior to you no matter his status or education. I can pick up a nincompoop from the New York streets, clean him up, and take him to Lusaka and you all be crowding around him chanting muzungu, muzungu and yet he’s a riffraff. Tell me why my angry friend.” For a moment I was wordless. “Please don’t blame it on slavery like the African Americans do, or colonialism, or some psychological impact or some kind of stigmatization. And don’t give me the brainwash poppycock. Give me a better answer.” I was thinking. He continued. “Excuse what I am about to say. Please do not take offense.” I felt a slap of blood rush to my head and prepared for the worst. “You my friend flying with me and all your kind are lazy,” he said. “When you rest your

Blog, Essays, Monishots, Resources

Your Language Will Not Die If You Learn Another One.

To have another language is to possess a second soul.~Charlemagne Some may not like what I’m about to write but I’m going to write it nevertheless because it is somewhat underrated and underappreciated. But above all, it is factual and objective. I know we are concerned about culture and heritage. How to preserve our traditions, languages, and all that. For Igbos like me, this concern possibly grew more worrisome when UNESCO predicted that our language will become extinct by 2025 if nothing is done to check its fast-declining use. So when a friend recently queried why my kids spoke little Igbo, our discussion raced back to that doomsday prediction. I started researching ways to teach my teenagers Igbo and realized that contrary to my fears our dear language has actually flourished in recent times. I discovered that in our usually enterprising manner, many Igbos rose to the challenge and elevated the language to disciplinary status in global institutes of repute like Oxford and Harvard. However, what gave me the greatest joy was that as 2025 approaches, numerous websites like igbotic.net where anyone can learn Igbo have emerged. My exuberant exclamation was that “Igbo language liveth!” Buoyed by this knowledge I rang my friend and reignited the topic hoping to convince him that UNESCO’s augury will come to naught after all. He still insisted that I should ‘force’ my kids to learn our mother tongue. That was when I asked a simple question that left him bewildered. “When and how often will this Igbo language skill help my children?” After a brief back and forth which was leading to more confusion, I had to explain my position. Most Igbo kids living outside the South East started out speaking Hausa, Yoruba, etc along with their peers. This makes it easier to live in those areas. I know a lady who fantasized about her kids speaking “asupri supri” because she longed to migrate to the western world. For years she pursued her dream of moving to Canada. Last year when she finally landed there I called and asked if her kids have started speaking “asupri supri”, her euphoric response was all you needed to feel her satisfaction. I also have a friend in the UK whose daughter spoke better Igbo than some children in Amawbia when she was just 3 years old. At 6 she could read and write in Igbo language. This was only possible because her mum considered it a duty and passionately taught her. There are many like her in the diaspora and together with concerted efforts by other stakeholders, will ensure that our language endures. You see, being a diasporan has many peculiarities and one is that your kids are often raised in an environment (school) where they are not only taught in a different language — English in most cases — but also have mates communicating in that language. In addition, whereas I studied Igbo as a 2nd language in primary school, Irish was the mandatory 2nd language here at that level. Now as a father, it was one of my intentions to teach my kids Igbo when I relocated and I did try. Perhaps I didn’t try enough but of course, you cannot force them as that may have unintended consequences in these climes. The truth is that the chances of my kids going back to live in Nigeria and particularly the South East is almost zero. This is even more so given the current trajectory of insecurity and economic hardship in the country. And as I embraced this reality it soon became clear that French, Spanish, German, Mandarin, and indeed programming languages like HTML, Python, and Java offer better opportunities for kids in our global and tech-driven world. Now consider this. For some time now I’ve been applying for research and academic positions across diverse EU institutions that will hopefully launch me into a doctorate study. For one, they are usually funded programmes. And in addition, they offer the opportunity to learn in a multicultural environment. Unfortunately, my chances have been reduced by one factor; lack of second language proficiency. It is often an eligibility requirement for most EU Institutions that you possess certain levels of certification in at least 2 official languages. That was how my French-speaking friend who lives in New York got a job at the Hague some years ago. So here I am stuck with only English and Igbo languages when a member of the cmonionline community of writers in Nigeria is a French teacher. This writer may actually be more qualified than I am for many positions in the EU. And guess what? There are more like her. Of course, with the internet era, the opportunities available to those who know computing languages like Java, and Python are limitless. But when we say that young Nigerians are ill-equipped to seek jobs abroad, it isn’t limited to tech skills because language skills equally give you a competitive edge. If you possess B-level competency in French, Spanish, Dutch, or any European language for that matter you can apply for many jobs over here that are open to non-EU citizens. Furthermore, some Universities in EU countries have free/affordable tuition but many Nigerian students don’t know this. Norwegian, Swedish & Dutch are among the easiest languages for English speakers to learn. You can learn any of these languages online and with a recent ruling by the EU Court of Justice that the European Commission cannot restrict the choice of a second language to English, German, or French in its recruitment process, your chances of landing a job are even greater if you are proficient in any other European language. I have not in any way suggested that you cannot or shouldn’t go the extra length to teach kids your indigenous language. It is a thing of pride to watch kids speak their native language. So if you can speak, read or/and write in Igbo that’s fine. If you can teach your wards thats even better. In addition, if

Blog, Essays, Monishots

Is The Housewife Alien To Igbo Culture?

Never ever accept ‘Because You Are A Woman’ as a reason for doing or not doing anything ~ Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie The above tweet which forms part of a thread on inheritance highlights some of the deficiencies in our culture. We have laws that are being regularly updated but these things still happen because of pervasive ignorance. How I wish the federal government will declare an emergency on education and revive MAMSER to ramp up the dissemination of information via local means outside the dominant electronic channels. Anyway, the tweet reminded me of the related but disturbing experience I’m about to narrate. In 1992, I was admitted to Nnewi teaching hospital for pneumonia. With the normal practice in Nigerian public hospitals being that the patient usually buys the drugs, I noticed that my cousin who attended to me always bought twice the recommended dosage of drugs each day. When I asked why he explained that his classmate’s husband, an elderly man, possibly in his 70s or 80s also had pneumonia and struggled to buy drugs. I was discharged after 9 days and asked to return for a check-up at a later date. On my return for the checkup, my cousin who drove me inquired about his classmate’s husband and was informed that he passed away. There were no mobile phones then so we drove to go and condole with the bereaved woman. The widow in her 30s I guess, started sobbing as we entered the living room. She told us that when I left the hospital she could no longer get the needed drugs for her husband because his relatives refused to fund his treatment. They asked her to deposit the man’s property documents as collateral before they can provide a loan. The problem was that she was a housewife with 4 kids none of whom had reached post-primary level. She was married many years after her husband’s first wife died without having children. So she was caught between the proverbial devil and the deep blue sea. Surrender the property to raise funds that could possibly save her husband or hold on to it as a backup to fund the training of her kids supposing her husband passes on. She sought counsel from friends after efforts to raise funds failed. Apparently, she was advised to settle for the latter option as her husband died the week after I left the hospital. The fierce debate we had on our way back remains vivid. I opined that the woman should have taken the loan to save her husband and the man can sort things out with his relatives thereafter. While my cousin claimed he saw the man’s condition and that survival was not certain so the woman was right not to have gambled. I found this thought process quite bizarre even in my sympathy for a young widow faced with the challenge of raising 4 children. Women, especially wives must seek economic empowerment and men must encourage this in our society. I have peers who would not let their wives work or engage in any form of enterprise. What the hell is that? In this age and time? Sometimes I wish I can just teleport these men to the Western world where the system is such that the financial burden of households is better managed with combined income. Yet it would seem that for Africans, particularly Igbos, the economic subjugation of women was a colonial import. I will even argue that as patriarchal as the pre-colonial Igbo society may have been, the housewife is alien to our culture and was magnified by the colonialists. This position is supported by the fact that feminism is equally a foreign concept as well as the prominence attached to economic empowerment in our marriage customs. Of course, our ancestors expected their wives to be submissive, do domestic work, and bear children. But it is also a fact that farmland and livestock are usually made available for a prospective bride to manage before the union is consummated. Unlike what we have now with urbanization meaning that a bride who is a banker obviously won’t need a chicken pen to earn a living, that provision constituted the base of economic freedom for the Igbo wife back then. My late grandmother was a serial entrepreneur who engaged in different economic endeavours. Before the Biafran war, she used to trek to Oye Agu Abagana or Afor Igwe Umudioka with her colleagues on the respective market days to trade. I’m talking about a distance of 15–20 km. She equally cultivated innumerable farmlands and had a rich barn. Back then Akpu (cassava) was the more popular staple and she always had them fermenting in 2 big drums because she never ate Garri. She always had goats and chicken such that ije gbota nni eghu (getting feed for the goats) was a daily chore I enjoyed with the numerous houseboys that passed through her tutelage. Anu mkpo and azu kojim (dry meat and fish) never lacked in her ngiga as onugbu soup was her favourite and you dare not cook it without protein. The wealth from her enterprise earned her the alias Ogodu nwelu afha or Oke ogodu. This literally translates to a wrapper with a name or a great wrapper because she preferred Ntorika George, Hollandis Wax, or Lace to the average textile wrapper. Stacked in metal chests popularly called Oriental, I remember that for many years after her demise, we still picked wrappers from there for condolence visits. She was an umbrella for widows and less privileged women that usually gather each morning to process either egusi, ojawara or abacha mmili. They will then go down to Eke Amawbia for igba mgbele (trading) and return in the evening for accounting duties. As a kid, I was inspired by her industry and enterprise. For me, she epitomized the Igbo woman of her time. Back to the first part of my story. I couldn’t process my cousin’s line of argument because I

Creative Essays, Diaspora Diary., Essays, Writers

Diaspora Diary: Three Words To Sum Up Life.

  We are in a strange time. A period when a tiny microbe is changing our way of life. We are now left with books, tv, music, the internet and memories. I have a memorable story to share. You know that type of incident that sticks with you for a lifetime. My dream to relocate abroad looked to have come true when I met a young man from my town named Chuks. We met at a friend’s wedding reception during the Christmas celebration. He was visiting from London and I could tell by his dress and accent. We had a couple of dates and attended some other social functions together. We had a lot in common and started seeing each other more and more. We shared jokes, fun times and stories from our life experiences and we both had ambitions to become academics abroad. While he was already doing his master’s while I had plans with my mum to apply once I finish my national youth service. When he wanted to return to his base he asked me to accompany him to Lagos. That was when he surprised me and proposed the night before he boarded a flight back to London. I was already in love or so I believed and accepted on the condition that I will join him in London. Initially, he started giving excuses that the visa process will take a long time. But I shocked him by revealing that I had dual citizenship and needed no visa to migrate to the UK, all I needed to do was renew my passport. I first became suspicious when he started acting funny after I asked for some money to make up my flight ticket. He promised to give me some money but came up with one excuse after the other. I finally told him to forget about the money when my mum made up the balance. I told him I will be coming over during the summer after passing out from NYSC. He was happy— or so I believed —  and promised to refund the money when I come. When I arrived in London that summer I discovered that he was living with a friend instead of in his own flat as he said. Again I shook off my suspicion that something was not adding up. He lied that his flat was undergoing renovation and even arranged a visit to a property his friend was renovating. I was appeased and I became hopeful that we will move back in after some weeks. Weeks turned to months and he came up with a story about an expected insurance payment that was delayed. After some time he asked me to get a loan from my mum which will be repaid once the insurance firm pays in 3 months. I hesitated but I later agreed. After all, it is ‘our house’ and my mum will happily lend it to his future son-in-law. After discussing it with my mum, she raised about four thousand pounds for him. After several months during which he sometimes travelled for ‘school excursion’ and stayed out for days, I summoned the courage to ask him about ‘our flat’. It turned out to be another fairy tale about the complications of the insurance process and all that. By this time I was already pregnant. I informed him about it and he pretended to be excited only to leave the next day without returning for three nights. I couldn’t reach him, I was horrified and confused. To make matters worse on the second day after he left I woke up to discover that his flatmate was also gone. Was this a bad dream? This can’t be happening. It gradually started dawning on me that I could have been used. Pieces of events and stories started flashing back at my mind. Is it over? Could my dream have crumbled so in just a few weeks? Luckily I already had a care job through an old friend in a church rectory. So I was busy and was earning a little but that wasn’t the plan. All subsequent attempts to reach Chuks yielded nothing. Even his friends who I know had no idea of his whereabouts. I was almost devastated. Almost but not completely. Determined to have the baby, I told my mum the whole story. She prayed for me. One of the longest prayers in my life. She then advised me to go into self-isolation for the duration of the pregnancy so that I can focus on safe delivery. I did. I deleted all my social media profiles and maintained contact with only my family and a few close friends. I wasn’t much of a religious person but I started praying more and more. God knows I needed it then. The parish priest was wonderful. He asked me to move into the guest room at the rectory at no cost. His wife always brought hot food during the winter and sometimes she stayed back to help me with cleaning. I had Chioma in June. She weighed almost 4kg but I delivered her like a Hebrew woman. I didn’t even bother to search for her father because that will spoil the joy she brought. When I got a better job with a telecoms company I moved outside London. Today, I am married to a pastor and we are now a family of five. I am also an evangelist with two books to my name. When my mum visited last month we discussed my journey.  She asked if I ever heard from my dubious suitor and I told her that I have never bothered. When she asked why, my reply was, “I have forgiven and forgotten”. She then asked how I was able to move past all the trauma. I looked at her for a long while and then slowly replied. “Mummy, it was my daughter. She brought back life into my being with her cries and smiles. Through two years while living alone

Monishot
Blog, Monishots, Opinion Articles

How To Tackle Police Brutality.

If someone puts their hands on you make sure they never put their hands on anybody else again. ~ Malcom X Once again we are seeing incidents of police brutality. I earlier wrote that it is not as if these shameful acts of our police officers abated after the #EndSARS protest. No, it just happens that they now try to avoid the cameras but unfortunately for them, Nigerians are bolder, so they record and expose the crimes on social media. However, it is worrisome that many seem to have given up on getting justice. It is not unusual to see comments like “nothing go happen”, and “they will be released the next day” when the police authority reports that perpetrators have been arrested. Of course, it’s easy to understand these feelings in a country where those tasked with protecting citizens are oftentimes the ones harming and in extreme cases taking the lives of citizens. But sometimes it is impatience and ignorance rather than despair that let off offenders in uniform. But we cannot relent. We must continue building Nigeria to a much saner clime. I will scroll back to 2003 and narrate my experience with police brutality to show that our police officers will actually do their job if we demand accountability. I was driving to Enugu with 3 friends when we were stopped at Oji River. After searching my car the police sergeant demanded the vehicle documents which I willingly handed over to him. He then started asking silly irrelevant questions and I initially answered till he asked where I made the money to buy a BMW. For one, Amawbia to Enugu is my regular route and I barely had issues with policemen over the years. Secondly, as a businessman who travels frequently on Nigerian roads, handling the police is a prerequisite skill. And finally, I am a friend of the police by virtue of proximity as my filling station is opposite the State CID and I actually supply the state command petroleum products. So I was more angry than perplexed and retorted, “You should have asked who I am instead”. To which he instantly barked, “Oh you want to impress your friends eh kwa. You want to show them that you can handle the police. Oya come and tell me who you are”. He immediately grabbed my jeans by the waist and started dragging me away. It all escalated so fast that I was halfway to the parked pickup van before I recovered from the shock and raised my voice in protest. “What have I done?” was replied with slaps until he got to the van and asked me to jump in. I refused and continued querying him about my offence. My friend who also recovered from the shocking incident rushed across the road to his superior asking him to intervene. I felt relieved when the inspector, an elderly man shouted at him. “Hey, Samuel hold it there!” The inspector crossed over and asked him what happened. He said I insulted him and refused to obey a lawful order. To my utter dismay without hearing from me the inspector ordered me to jump into the van! Of course, I refused again. An action which I will regret for the rest of my life. They numbered about four and all of them descended on me. I was beaten to a pulp with fists and batons and by the time I was eventually bundled into the van my left shoulder was dislocated. All the pleas from my friends fell on deaf ears. I was asked to surrender my car keys and my friend was ordered to drive my car to Enugu with them. In that excruciating pain, I was left behind the van as they drove all the way to Enugu. For context, a dislocation is classified as one of the most painful injuries. Some police officers can be heartless! We got to their station and I was ordered to sit on the floor. The DPO came out, heard their story and then invited my friend into his office to hear from him. I was later called in and when he heard about my shoulder the first thing he did was to feel the joint. It was evident that this was an experienced officer. He immediately shouted at the inspector. “So you injured this man and instead of taking him to the hospital you brought him here?” The inspector tried to say that I was acting but he was shouted down and instructed to take me to the hospital immediately. I was driven back to the Orthopaedic hospital where my shoulder was fixed. We went back to the station but the DPO had left and we were told to return tomorrow. The next day I came with the full paraphernalia of a successful businessman. I had my lawyer, a colleague in the oil industry and my mentor who incidentally was the DPO’s friend. The idea was to intimidate the entire station and that was exactly what we did. The officers were summoned and pulled off duty. The DPO asked them to plead with me not to submit a petition to the commissioner. For the first time in my life, I witnessed and relished the humiliation of offending police officers as they prostrated and begged. I refused and told the DPO that we will submit the petition. The following week an officer friend, the inspector’s daughter and her husband sauntered into my office clutching a bottle of wine. She introduced herself as a teacher, her husband works at UNN. They pleaded for me to forgive and withdraw my petition. She went on to explain that they have been begging their dad to retire since his 5 children could take care of him but he refused because he wanted to be promoted to ASP before his retirement. My friend explained the reason behind this; apparently, there is a huge salary/pension margin between the two ranks. Well, I called my lawyer and

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Messidinho  The Unfeeling Beast by Emmanuel Enaku

I took one long swig from the bottle of champagne that stood on the marble-topped table in front of me and smiled inanely. I didn’t feel any pain; there was no emotion and no feeling. When I decided to be Messidinho, a ruthless, unfeeling playboy, I was well aware that there was no turning back. To fully accept my identity, there was something I had done; something I would never have considered as the gentle, loving and sweet man of my previous self, something my old identity abhorred but one with which the new me fell in tandem with and gravitated towards with undying love and passion — revenge. Oh, yes, the sweet savoury equalizer, one served cold. I chuckled and dropped the bottle on the counter. It was a low horrible grinding sound and my smile was like death. You see, my heart no longer existed. In the space it occupied was something else — something dark and thrilling which brought with it a dark form of excitement and seemed to bring me a little relief. Something… oh, something that filled me with the energy of the darkest form. One that made me draw immense pleasure from blatant ruthlessness and debauchery — from others’ pain and tears. My heart was dead and replaced with hate. And so, as I thought of Remy’s betrayal and the losses I incurred as a result, I knew so deeply that I was down to get a lot of pleasure. Dark pleasure but a pleasure nonetheless. I took out my phone and dialled the Rasta’s number. It rang without being picked and so, I dialled again. “Listen, Paddy, I’m sorry. Look, man, I’m so sorry. I… I don’t know how it happened. I can’t tell what came over me, bro!” Remy’s stuttering voice came through the phone as he picked up the call. I smiled wickedly. “Listen, Remy. How about we put the past behind us? I hold nothing against you, okay? Look, let’s meet at the park tomorrow at 7 PM like we used to do”, I said and smiled again. “Okay, man! I’ll be there. Trust me, Paddy, I just wanna make things up. Please, bro. Just forgive me, okay? It was a mistake.” “Hey, man. Put it behind you. We are good.” I said and chuckled. “Tomorrow, 7 PM. We meet at the park, Remy. I’ll see you then.” I said and ended the call. I picked up the glass of sparkling wine and drank deeply, draining the glass to the last drop and then, I adjusted my tuxedo and leaned into my seat. The thoughts of the events that will follow the next day filled me with Glee — one so great that I shuddered alarmingly. Of course, I had the perfect plan for Remy, a beautiful idea that I had chosen out of a thousand others to teach the numbskull a lesson. And unfortunately, I had decided, rather coldly, that it would be a lesson a human can only learn once. I am Messidinho, the soulless, handsome player but one who could become a monster. Remy played with the tail of a tiger and bit more than he could chew. I didn’t just have the will to deal with Remy. I had all the resources ready to give him a painful send-off and that was what I was going to do. I took my phone and dialled a number. There was a click and I smiled when a gruff, deep voice responded with a cold cadence. “It’s me, Shadow”, I said and licked my lips. Shadow was one of those crazy, soulless, super-strong men. He had no qualms about breaking a man’s neck for a few bucks and I relied on him because of his expertise in handling issues without flops. “I got a few fucks to straighten out and I’ll need your help. Look, you’ll be free tomorrow? Say, 6:30 PM?” “You talk too much. What’s the pay?” His gruff voice cut me off rudely, unintentionally intimidating and brazenly domineering. “You’ll get three times the usual, boy” “Alright, sounds good. I’ll take the details.” He said. “It’s an old pal of mine, Remy. You remember, him?” “Remy Bolanle?” Shadow said and scoffed. “Sounds like easy money”. “I want him, switched off, man”, I said desperately and licked my lips. “He’s a dead man.” The other man reassured and I smiled. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Tomorrow’s the deal. See you at the park”. I hung up and smiled. It was a perfect setup for Remy Bolanle. Truly when a man brings ant-infested faggots into his home, he should expect the visits of lizards. I wish Remy knew that but it was too late. I am Messidinho and I don’t go back on my word. Having made the call to Shadow, I relaxed, assured by him that everything would go smoothly. I called the barboy over and asked for a refill of my glass. I was about to gulp down when the theatre suddenly erupted with a blast of music and I smiled when I heard the lyrics. “And you thought I would let it go… I dug two graves for both of us”. It was XXX Tentacion’s music about revenge, a cold one. I watched the exotic dancers gyrate about on the metal poles that were erected on the stage and I pulled out some crispy currency notes from my pocket and placed it on the counter table. “How do I get a chick for the night?” I asked the barboy, slipping him the notes. I watched his eyes widen and shine with greed as he stared at the minty notes. He licked his dried lips and spoke hurriedly. “Sophia’s the best around here”, he said without taking his eyes off the money. He tried to reach for it but I pulled it back teasingly. “Half info takes us nowhere, Paddy.” “Alright.. alright, there she is between the two dudes at the back.” I looked in the direction his index pointed and immediately got

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