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Blog, Creative Essays

Let The Best Man Win by Johnson Onyedikachi.

Bilie took the three-piece flannel suit to the changing room. It was the nineteenth time he was trying on a piece of suit today. Either it was too classy or uppish. The salesgirl had grown tired of choosing for him, and had a secret prayer under her breath that he would just decide to leave. “I need something charcoal grey,” Bilie said to the salesgirl. “Sir, all the suits you have tried on are charcoal grey,” the salesgirl gave back, a note of urgency in her voice. Still standing before the mirror, tugging at the lapels of the flannel suit, Bilie said, “But this doesn’t feel right on me. Come on, look at it! This won’t make me stand out amid a crowd. Don’t you have eyes?” The salesgirl said nothing. She rubbed her temples instead with eyes firmly shut. Bilie turned around to look at her. “Are you all right?” He asked, placing a hand on the salesgirl’s shoulder. “Do you have a headache?” And that was it; whatever restraints the salesgirl had, snapped at that fragile moment, her teeth coming off her lips in a snarl of rage, hands swaying into the air with all the violence that they could muster such that Bilie had to duck back to escape getting hurt. “You have tried on cotton-twill, pinstriped, and even double-breasted denim, and yet not one is good enough for you!” The salesgirl blustered, her eyes two small fiery beads that you could think laser beams would shoot out from at any moment. “If you don’t have anything to buy, just go home!” By now, the store manager had appeared on the scene, and had been yelling the salesgirl’s name only to get heard by the angry bird on the third call. “Grace, what is wrong with you?” The manager, a squat fat man, asked. “Have you gone mad? It’s a customer you are speaking to in that way.” “Please, leave her alone. It’s my fault. I have been hard on her,” Bilie said, staring at the salesgirl whose innocent demeanor at the moment wouldn’t let you believe she had any violence in her. She had her head drooped down, her eyes set on her foot, her shoulders sagging as if she carried a tired sky on them. She was about to lose her job anyway. Bilie was about to say one more thing in the salesgirl’s favor when his phone began buzzing. He took it out of his pocket, and the Caller ID showed it was his friend, Lotam, that was calling. He walked over to the sales manager. “Please, let nothing happen to this girl’s job. I am begging. I will take all the suits I have tried on today,” he whispered to the sales manager who was still obviously offended by the scene the salesgirl had caused. “Please, I have to go and take this call. I will take the suits.” He turned to the girl, gave her a nod, and headed to the changing room. He let out a deep sigh and swiped his phone. Lotam’s vibrant voice came over. “Bilie, have you seen Dinobi’s latest post?” Lotam asked. “No, I haven’t been online since morning. Just because he is getting married, does that mean we will always be checking what he posts?” Bilie asked. “No, Bilie this one is important,” Lotam insisted. “Check it out pronto.” “Why not tell me about it? I am in the middle of picking a suit for the wedding. Best man goals, you know.” Lotam’s throaty laughter came through and was abruptly cut out in a coughing fit. Collecting himself with an effort, he said, “That’s why you have to check his new post! You are no longer his best man. His elder brother is his new best man.” Bilie tittered. “If you don’t shut that trap of yours, I will smack you through this phone.” “I am not kidding, Bilie. Dinobi’s new best man is his brother.” Bilie’s face fell. “But his brother is in Austria!” “He is due to come back today, bro. And he is going to be Dinobi’s best man on Saturday,” Lotam informed. “But I am Dinobi’s best friend,” Bilie said, the sadness seeping through him. “Well, I must be his best man, no matter what.” “I thought as much. Dinobi’s brother is due to be at Murtala Mohammed Aiport by 13.30hrs,” Bilie said and hung up. By now, rage had taken hold of Bilie in the place of sadness. In feverish movements, he changed back to his khakis and headed out of the changing room. He paid at the counter for the suits he had tried on, and headed out to the main road. The hot air outside only infuriated him more. He strode to his car, and threw his bags of clothes into the trunk. He glanced at his watch, the time was 12.05hrs. The airport was about 45 minutes away from where he was, and he had figured just what he would do. He went to the stop, waved down a taxi, gave the driver his address, and climbed in. As the driver began maneuvering the traffic, Bilie thought it the right time to make his offer. “Hey, can you lend me this cab for some hours. You can come and take it from Parkview estate,” Bilie told the cabbie who managed a chuckle. “You dey ment?” The cabbie asked, swerving the wheel. In a quick movement, Bilie had taken out his pocketknife and had its point at the skin of the cabbie’s neck. “Say that again,” Bilie snarled. “Oga, there’s no need for violence nah,” the cabbie said, the plea in his voice very audible. “What is the name of that place you said I should come for it?” “Parkview Estate. Be there by six tonight and you can have your cab back. Tell any other person, and I will make sure you die painfully slow. Now, pull over.” The cabbie did as he was told. He was

Essays, Writers

Man Up by Peace Habila

  The day Nkem died; the earth stood still for a moment. It happened within the twinkle of an eye. I watched  helplessly as her life began to ebb. She fought hard. She gave it her best shot, but the labor pangs overshadowed her when she had just dilated 10 centimeters. The image of her lifeless body with our  stillborn baby dangling in between her thighs still sends cold shivers down my spine and had kept me awake most nights.  The  thoughts of the events that culminated in her eternal end forces me to think  that if only we had done somethings differently, she wouldn’t have gone through that painful death. I wish I had the antidote for death. That Saturday morning, everything seemed normal. She pushed her protruded stomach around our small apartment with a pinch of  pride, the type typical of self-assured pretty damsels. She had rocked the Duduke crooner that morning in preparation for her EDD which was in two weeks’ time. We had no premonition that death was lurking in the neighborhood. She was full to the brim with life and smiles. In fact,  she had a bowl of her usual spicy snail and mushroom soup that looked very irritating. She relished each bite to my astonishment. I stood there wondering why a sane person would enjoy such. Well,  pregnancy cravings  can make one devour with pride the unthinkable meals of unfamiliar climes. Hours later, she complained of a sharp pain around her pelvic and it grew with the minutes. I knew she had gone into labor. I grabbed few items from the house, dragged her to the car, and rushed to the hospital. She was examined and two hours later,  we were on our way to the labor room. The pangs behaved like an elastic band; at some points, she had few moments to smile and tease my fear- plastered- face, at other times, the pain got her screaming the roof down. The nurses kept urging and instructing  her to push. With each command came her hands clinging to mine as if they were yearning  for my veins. It climaxed when we saw the head of the baby. I cheered her on, rubbed her head, endeared her, and gave   her all the love I had left in me. Soon, her face dropped. She instinctively redirected her gaze towards me. I lovingly turned towards her, rested my shoulder on the edge of the bed, and gave her a piercing look, eyeballs to eyeballs. The connection was deep, real, and somewhat  magical with a level of pain rays shining forth. Within a flashlight, she shot a weak smile which  grew faint almost immediately;  then, it happened. Her eyes suddenly froze after she had given me the faintest smile. It happened so fast that I had to replay that moment over and over to convince myself that I was not dreaming. They knew it was a stillbirth, but none of them warned or alerted us. They wanted her to birth it, a task she could not complete. I stood there in shock as they performed the medical ritual of trying to resuscitate her. I knew she was gone. I felt it in my bones. The tall nurse walked towards me and led me away to allow the doctor, who just arrived, intensify the ritual. I stood in the vestibule pinching myself and hoping to wake up from the nightmare. I could not just process it.  I soon went blank even of the basic things caused by adrenaline. Then the doctor appeared. ‘I’m sorry, we lost them’, he said. I sank deep into his arms the way I would sink into Nkem’s arms after a bad day at work. I was about to launch a scream when a hand touched me from behind. The hand was accompanied by   the familiar words- ‘be a man, man up! The elderly man who said those words had monitored the whole event from onset. He stood before me with a disposition that says ‘I have all things under control’. His non- verbal cues complemented his words perfectly and made me appear stupid for wanting to wail. Truth be told, those words changed my life. It first took me back to my childhood where we were taught that boys don’t cry. We were forced to hide our pains in our esophagus. We were taught that tears meant weakness and was not a good characteristic of a strong man. I knew it was time ‘to be strong’. So, I sorrowed  as expected by society. I needed society to validate me as a strong man. I was hoping that act would also  impress her in the great beyond. But deep within, I was dying. I was in dire need of a little petting in a subtle but reassuring voice. At the funeral, hot painful tears welled up in my eyes but, again, I quickly dismissed them. I kept a strong face, a boiling heart, and shut the boy in me seeking to wail to escape the excruciating pain. Well, no one gave me a broad shoulder to cry on. Their supposed words of comfort were mere melancholic demands of the impossible. I was expected to suck up my pains like  chilled coke racing down my thirsty throat. I was still being a man when I slid into depression. I was manning up when suicidal thoughts started creeping in. I was trying to man up when I attempted suicide. I  was only trying to man up when I lost my sanity. I was still manning up when I woke up in the psychiatric ward at Yaba. Peace Habila, a resident of Jos, Plateau state is passionate about creative writing. She wrote in via peacehaila2017@gmail.com    

Essays, Writers

Our Rat Race With A Business Mad Man by Osanyinro Oluwaseun. 

  I knew it would be stupid of me not to join the crowd at that moment. The adage “don’t follow the crowd” was not applicable in this situation. I mean, whatever could cause people to be running while I walked in the opposite direction had to be that dangerous. With a quick turn, I took to my heels while wondering what was the cause of the chaos. My inquisitive side got hold of me as I asked my partner in the race if he knew what we were running from. I was not disappointed; he also did not know. He joined the crowd like me. I asked another beside me and got the same answer. I looked up and asked God for mercy as we were all running a rat race and none knew why.  Some seconds after, we stopped and turned back to watch. Others had stopped too and I felt it was high time I knew what made me do an unnecessary exercise in a hot afternoon. I pushed my way between the still panting runners straight to meet anyone who had an idea of what was pursuing us. However, my sudden boldness was short-lived as we all heard the words “excuse me” and everyone started running again. Before I joined the host of many others, I caught a glimpse of a man totally in tattered clothes, holding a stick and coming at us. Well, I got my answer. We were being chased by a mad man ready to instill injuries on us. I ran with all my might but it seemed the mad man was a better runner. He was getting closer. It had been long a mad man had displayed such height of madness in our community and I began to wonder whether my mother’s dream was coming to reality.  My mother had called me earlier that week that I should be careful in my going out and coming in. With various verses of the scriptures, she prayed till her airtime got exhausted. I didn’t bother calling her back because I didn’t want to be disturbed by her scary dream. Now it seemed it was finally coming to reality. Coming back to the present, I realized the mad man had stopped to rest and people had stopped too. I was getting angry. I had places to go but this was a one-way street and the only way was the mad man’s way. People had started going back home to come out whenever the man had passed. Others were entering people’s shop for cover while children saw this as a time to test the strength of their limbs as they moved close to him and then ran away again. I could not go back home and so I looked around for a shop that I could quickly seek refuge.   Sadly, the mad man did not let me make my decision as he started walking right to me. People began running again but I stood transfixed. I think I was paralyzed with fear already as he came closer. Mothers were shouting and praying and men began looking for whatever they could use to tie him down. I just stood recalling my mother’s prayers and asking for her forgiveness. I must have almost wet my trousers when I heard his clear voice. I think he must have said “excuse me Sir” thrice before I realized it was coming from the mad man. My fear turned to laughter immediately. I was sure onlookers would have thought he had transferred the madness to me as he came close. Once he saw he had my attention, he sighed out of relief. He pleaded with me not to run that he was not chasing me. Explaining further, he said he did not have an extra iota of strength to chase and could barely walk hence the use of the stick. My question of who exactly he was made him sigh again. At this time, people began coming closer. Maybe to watch two madmen interact, who knows. Seeing my back up around, I demanded in all authority to know who he was and why he was chasing the community. He explained that he was a business man kidnapped a month ago who escaped his captors and had been wandering around the bush hence his appearance. He was simply trying to get someone to explain his predicament but his look made people think he a mad man and his hurried steps towards them made them think he was pursuing them. He simply made the whole community exercise their limbs today. Thankfully, we were able to provide better clothes and lead him to the police station.   One leaving, one of the men said he now believed one should not judge a book by its cover. The madman was not a madman after all. Well, I disagree. Everyone has a way of dressing for easy recognition before their first speech. A banker, a doctor, a carpenter, a prostitute and even a madman. The madman’s appearance denied him any opportunity to speak. He was already addressed as a mad man though he was a business man.       Osanyinro Oluwaseun, a graduate of Microbiology and currently a master student of Public Health at the University of Ibadan runs a blog on WordPress deejemima.wordpress.com

Essays, Writers

If You Talk To A Man In His Language by Oladejo Victor.

You sat on the edge of the bed , clutching your bedsheets in your hand. The window was opened and the breeze with its coldness crept towards you like a hunter skulking in the bush. The night was in a strange romance with quietness which was unlike of your ever bustling street. No one was at home because they were on holiday. You stayed back not because you hate having holidays , the truth was,no one would be receiving you. They were gone — your parents — they died three years ago and your siblings are far in the distant north. You stared into the quiet night and shook your head. You hated loneliness. You grew nostalgia and you closed your eyes as if you could relive those happy moment you call your beautiful past. You wished you could relive and inhabit those colourful days when your parents were alive, though they it was tinged with some bits of sadness too. You wished those days of innocency and carefree life you lived with your brother: Samuel and your parents would come alive. You remembered those beautiful days when your father would call you to his study after your siesta . He would sit you down and read his books on history. He read about Napoleon and the French , about a man called Gandhi from India who he called his model and of silk and cocoons from China. You wondered why he loved to read those books to you and what relevance they were. He read some interesting literature by African female writers to you most of the time. He read books written by Ama Ata Aidoo to you and some of chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. He told you he want you to learn from them and you did! Your encounter with chimamanda through literature kindled a new form of fire in you. You learnt the word :”feminism “ and what it meant. Your brother painted it bad , so did your mother and after a while your father(due to some reasons). You did also at first. You were fascinated by her success and wished to be like her. You became a bit addicted to her works and your mother warned you : “wumi , overly successful women never get married , because low-class men will shrink at their sight”. She thought chimamanda as overly successful because of the limits she broke. Even when she got married your mother never stopped the message. You knew that it was a plain unintended lie. people were only surprise at some success and the only way to contribute is to talk. You wondered why your mother hated feminism when she needed it herself. You wondered why she preferred to stick to hate and never embrace it when she received lashes daily at her work place because she is a woman. You wondered why she decided to accept there was a limit to success as a female and remained as the deputy of her firm for three years because she competed with men. Your brother added a bit of his message too. You noticed that whenever chimamanda and fighting for equality of gender came into the dining table conversation, he got angry. Now as an adult he fought with his wife often and got divorced. He was arrested recently for assault because he slapped a female co-worker. Your father hated feminism eventually because he was scared of your behavior — you always question decisions made by men — He perceived you learnt that from reading “feminist manifesto “ by chimamanda. You knew the book was a guide on becoming a champion of equality , you picked the necessary advice based on your version of feminism. Your older self became what you read . you didn’t tolerate abuse from anyone and people saw that in you. When you read “ Half of a yellow sun “ by chimamanda , you were surprised at what the eastern part of the country faced. The deaths, destruction of buildings ,starvation and separations of family from loved ones all echoed in your heart and you became part of the story. You were glad she wrote the book to remind the sleeping Nigeria of her past that should not happen again. You vowed to shun anything that could bring about hate among you and people from other ethnic groups and tribes. You perfected your new form of believe to the extent your co — workers began to complain among themselves that you avoided your tribesmen and set other people from other tribes above them. You ignored their words because you promoted those people above them based on qualification and not tribalism as expected. You allowed your friends to live with you even when they are not from your tribe. Your favourite quote was : “ if you talk to a man in a language he understand that goes to his head . if you talk to him in his language , that goes to his heart “. It was a quote you understood its meaning but you didn’t know of its full potency until you knew the world’s only language : Action. Everyone in the world understands action in any form it is used. You realised that was the reason Chimamanda chose to act. She acted by speaking on equality fearlessly through interviews and talkshows on equality , unity and race because it is the language that the world needs to hear. Her appearance on “ TEDxEuston” amused you. Her words about stereotype limit and shape of thinking about Africa at the conference shook you. She preached through her actions and you decided to do the same anywhere you go. Her fearlessness and boldness to be different despite her gender made her your perfect definition of an human being worthy of your admiration. You believed that if everyone should preach the right thing through their action on issues that concerns others , if they chose to look above race or economy background and speak through their positive actions the world would become a better place to dwell. Oladejo Victor Olayemi, a secondary school graduate is a budding artist who

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The man is the head of the house – Tiwa Savage

“It’s real. I’m not going to say I’m completely comfortable with it but it is what it is. You have to deal with it. If it means you have to work 10 times harder than your male counterparts, don’t complain about it, do what you have to do. We all celebrate people like Oprah and Mo Abudu and we don’t actually realise what they had to do to get to that point. They probably had to do 20 times than their male counterparts. Once you get there, you don’t complain about how you get there. So, whatever it is you have to do as a female, you just have to get it done. I know I’ll (ruffle) a few feathers but I also don’t think men and women are equal, I don’t think that’s how God created us that way…especially in the household anyway. So I think as females when we realise that yeah we can be strong in our career, but when we are home we have to realise that the man is the head of the house” ~ Tiwa Savage Why is she receiving flak from some ladies for this statement???  

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