Peace Archives -

Rebirth

Cmoni / January 28, 2022

As soon as I ended the call from the hospital, I did not spare a moment to think of the implication of my subsequent actions. All I hankered for was to rush to the hospital and dish out a piece of my mind to the doctors at the hospital and whoever cared to listen. Papa was in a bad shape; the tumor was spreading like wildfire. It was just not logical to discharge him, at least, not yet. We sold almost everything to raise money for his treatment. Our expectation was to return home with a healthy father or at worst, a better looking father. In anger, I rushed to the room picked the small umbrella behind the door, shoved it under my wet armpit, and dashed out. I walked as fast as my feeble feet could carry me. The umbrella came in handy when the sun grew unfriendly. Taking a taxi or a bus that moment was a luxury I could not afford; it was not even an option to be considered. We were broke, miserable, and plagued. I caught myself twice voicing my woes into the thin air as I journeyed to the hospital. Bystanders must have mistaken me for retarded girl burdened by the sorrows of life, and they won’t be far from the truth. I arrived the hospital sweaty-faced, dusty feet, and my worn-out gown glued to my wet body. All my rants fell on deaf ears as no one bothered to look my way. I felt stupid after the janitor narrated how the poor citizens were forced to vacate the private wards to create room for significant citizens of the country who were sick and could not go aboard for medical vacation because of the corona virus outbreak. It sounded untrue to my ears but true to my heart. It became obvious to me that it was our turn to be served the hot bowl of injustice. I accepted the fate before us bit by bit until I could no longer feel its crushing weight. The pains in Papa’s eyes killed me a million and two times to the degree that I craved my own tears. I placed a call across to uncle Dabo who grudgingly showed up ten minutes later. We were on our way home when we heard the announcement of the one-week lockdown due to the continuous spread of the virus. Uncle hissed and hauled curses on the government. He was more worried about his business than he was of papa’s condition. The following week was unbearable for us because papa’s flesh began to waste. He would curl his body in unimaginable shapes, maybe, to release the pain into the atmosphere. The pains glued his tongue to the roof of his mouth: he could not eat, drink, or speak. When he couldn’t bear it anymore, he transitioned to glory in his sleep that Sunday morning. We wailed, but no one showed up. We grieved, but no one cared. We were forced to bury him in a shallow grave we dug at a corner in the compound later that day. * It was hunger that first pushed us to join the ENDSARS protest the next week. But as soon as we found food, a reason or maybe an opportunity showed up for us to fight the injustice, spewed at us, that led papa to the grave. The new friends I made on the protest ground all had their tales of horror. Their tales of horror clustered around my chest making it extremely difficult for me breathe at some point. These tales folded their claws around my intestines like a dark Owl of the North feasting on its prey. My stomach soon began to rumble in fear. I was scared for my life. I was scared of becoming rich or famous. I was terrified by the thought of being shot by an officer for looking good or owing an item of luxury. While on the street, we were kneaded by our desire to demand a better tomorrow. We were united by our fears and pains, but we were oblivious of the fact that the day of doom was nigh. In a cruel twist of fate, the atmosphere changed that afternoon; it became cloudy and too breezy for comfort. The strange but familiar atmosphere got us throwing gazes at the sky hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever was about to descend. Our eyes failed us, but our nostrils were favoured to pick the stench of decayed cadavers in warm blood floating in the air. Our nostrils picked the stench of death even before its bearers appeared. We saw them from a distance, kitted and decorated in their unmistaken regalia. At that point, it was difficult to convince our feeble minds that another holocaust was not about to happen. My heart jumped out of my body but quickly rushed back in to watch from within as events unfold. Within split second, the protesters had formed a cluster as thick as the cloud above us. Fear hovered above our heads and subdued us to silence. The man leading the brigade of armed men ordered us to disperse, but our numbed legs couldn’t even move. I was certain that any attempt to run or even move a limb would result in a stampede. It was a battle; our world against theirs, a matter of life and death. Death was staring at us in the face: she, he, or it was just a trigger away. The tension grew and heartbeats became deafening. The awkwardness forced them to retreat for few minutes. Then Dayo, my new friend, spoke up with his chest moving in an unusual but visible way. ‘I grew up in the barracks, and I know for certain that we have a right to protest. All we need to do is to raise the Nigerian flag high or sing the national anthem and they will let us be’, he admonished. He sounded like the Martin

Creative Essays, Writers

Long Walk To Peace by Victor Oladejo.

Cmoni / May 28, 2021

Wande switched on the bright led lamp over the man. The light pierced the bloodshot eyes and made him dizzy. He was quivering and crying silently. His hands were tied with a strong cord that cut deep into his hands whenever he tried to clench his fists. Wande took the bottle of ethanol and a knife. He walked to the quivering man tied to the chair. “ You are not helping yourself at all, you are not” Wande walked closer, the man flinched and tried to speak, but the brown rag in his mouth tightened and made his mouth bleed. Wande frowned and his eyebrows curved inward. “ l would ask you for the last time, why did you guys send her?” The man was silent. He shook his head and quivered again. Wande took the knife and thrust it into the man’s thigh. The blade tore through the dirty trouser and pierced the unprotected skin. He screamed and glared. Wande took the bottle containing the ethanol. Wande poured it slowly over the ound. The man kept screaming and his voice was close to the screeching sound of an old Cadillac Car. Wande removed the rag and threw it away. The man coughed and phlegm mixed with blood dripped from a corner of his lips. “ Walahi, Na rantse zan gaya muku komai*” He said and coughed. “ l don telli you”. Wande shook his head. He was frustrated. All guards and clique members are always stubborn. He thrust the knife into the man’s wound again. He screamed. “ Alhaji, Ahmed, na him send her, na him”. The man was bleeding and the blood gathered on the German floor around the chair. Wande dropped the knife and sat on the chair. He was feeling lethargic and dizzy. The guard kept quivering. 𝘈𝘭𝘩𝘢𝘫𝘪 𝘈𝘩𝘮𝘦𝘥? 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘰𝘰? The death of Sulia left a great thirst in him. A thirst for vengeance, a thirst for peace. The scene kept playing in his head and it haunted him since the day it occurred. He never knew he would get to the secret so fast and he had been in fear that Alhaji Ahmed won’t be involved and his Career would be over as a soldier. Sulia , before her death, was a beautiful maid working at Alhaji Ahmed’s house. Wande met her when he was sent by Alhaji Musa’s son, Bello, a top officer in the Army. He worked as a private guard for three months and during this period they fell in love. Though Wande was a Christian, Sulia promised that she would become a Believer when they get married. The dream was crushed three weeks Before the Ramadan fast. He received a brief call from her which made him scared and weak. He could remember that day vividly. Sulia’s voice was silent when she called with her phone. “They want to use me. Yes Wande. They….er….er” “ Who are the “they” Sulia? where are you?”. There was a long pause. “ Central Mosque, lNEC office” she said and his phone went off. Wande dropped his phone and drove with a crazy speed to the heart of kano. He parked close to the INEC office and tried to locate Sulia but couldn’t see her. He was sweating profusely and his heart was racing. The cleric at the mosque just started the prayers. Muslim faithful in their colourful bou bou walked briskly to the mosque. Traders were covering their wares and the stalls close to the stalls were empty within a second. Suddenly a truck from the , park drove on an high speed and parked near the mosque. Wande’s heart lurched when Sulia Opened the door of the truck and ran into the Mosque. The truck reversed and sped away. Almost immediately, the Mosque exploded. The brick walls fell apart and dust like giant mushrooms rose into the air. Wande fell on his back and became unconscious until He was revived at the Hospital. “ Why Una send Her? Alhaji Ahmed dey work for Boko Haram abi?” The guard nodded. Wande stood and walked to the cabinet at the far end of the Warehouse. He took his leather Jacket and wore it. He took a pistol and fixed the silencer. He fixed another barrel into the barrel well of his Italian Baretta 259 × 19 mm Submachine gun. He took a pocket knife and a mask with a Viking emblem drawn on it. He closed the Cabinet and aimed the pistol at the unfortunate guard he kidnapped from Alhaji Ahmed’s house and Fired. The quivering body became still. Wande wore the mask and hid his Baretta and the silenced pistol in his Jacket. He walked out of the old warehouse to his Bike and drove it into the silent night. Alhaji Ahmed’s Flat was built next to an Islamic school in Sabon Gari. He was a popular Muslim faithful and a wealthy man by his people’s standards. Arabic writings covered all walls of the building and a stable was built next to it. Wande parked his bike close to the gate. He walked slowly to the fence at the back of the House and climbed the fence. Being a skillful soldier, He broke the lock of the iron grille that was close to the back door. He was about to open the door when He saw a guard. He crouched and fired the guard with the silenced pistol, the guard dropped dead and his torch rolled away. Another guard walked to his Companion and checked his pulse and flinched. He aimed his rifle in the direction of the grille. Wande fired him and he fell to the ground. He walked to the dead guards and dragged them to the grille. He opened the door quietly and walked on his toes like a Ninja. The kitchen was filled with the scent of potato and myrrh. There was a pot of potato next to the zinc. Calenders and almanac were hung on

Blog, Writers

Essay Competition: Week 23 Winners.

Cmoni / March 8, 2021

Ladies and gentlemen, Abulrazaq Ariwoola and Peace Habila have won the N20,000 cash prize for week 23 with their essays titled Towards Peaceful Co-existence Among Ethnicities and Man Up respectively. It is not easy to win with your debut entry. A few have managed to do that but in this essay, Abdulrazaq displayed his abilities like none before him. The topic was well researched and his presentation was concise, expository and with a great command of the language. The clincher for this essay was that a plagiarism check returned a 100% unique result. A rarity for an opinion piece. What a beautiful way to join the fold. Well done Abdulrazaq, we have no doubt you will produce more winning texts. A judge had this to say about Peace’ ability: For me, she is the runaway favourite for Week 23. Her creative talent found expression in a story in which she was in her full element. She dealt with a cultural issue with potentially damaging social effect and was able to draw the nexus between cause and effect, with drama and a bit of poetry. Her prose was smooth, the narrative was engaging, and she showed herself an authentic creative talent. She has been around the top in this series for a while, and this week she made it easy for me to pick her. Congratulations Peace, keep writing. Once again Johnson Onyedikachi was impressive in There Are No Shortcuts. Uchenna Nnoli was surprised to read that he is a teenage writer and made this commendation: This week, he competed at the top level and earns my motivation and support token of N5,000 consolation price. He is a budding talent and should keep working on his art. Congratulations Johnson. Feedback: In Just Because They Lack Beards, Ebube Ezeadum had a strong theme around women empowerment, he had good use of language and his prose was easy to follow. This essay could have won on any other day. The writer holds a lot of promise. Oluremi Daniel and Humble Ogbonna have always made top quality contributions, and impressed with My View On Marriage and Stay Connected? respectively. Oluremi told a vivid and gripping story with an excellent first-person narrative. His flow, vocabulary, tenses and parts of speech were all superb. The story graduated very well to a wonderful crescendo. While Humble intelligently articulated some pros and cons of WhatsApp groups and even though an in-depth analysis would have led to a more detailed conclusion, he nevertheless made plausible suggestions. Great work. The other essays were equally good and successive judges continue to commend the improving standard of the competition. Thanks to all who have been a part of the journey and like I tweeted last week. Something good is coming our way soon..stay tuned!

Essays, Writers

Man Up by Peace Habila

Cmoni / March 5, 2021

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

Bonus by Peace Habila.

Cmoni / February 26, 2021

For the records, I am not a bad person; it is just that life has a way of frustrating and unleashing the vampire in human beings. Situation of life then adds its burdens to our many sorrows by first, squeezing the good in us until we become unrecognizable beings. I have tried but failed countless times to explain to myself that my financial status won’t last forever. I knew, somehow, a job would come along but the time and date remained blurred. My frustration grew and bore fruit of a bitter soul and a sour face. My insecurities also grew wings in the face of the nagging expectations of society and unsolicited concerns, or should I call them mockery? It got to the point that I stopped trying, stopped knocking and stopped working on the natural obsessions of life. I withdrew to my shell and in no time found myself wrapped up in the cocoon of my making and bamboozled by all shades of hopelessness. I was in that sorry state when I got the invite for the Job I applied for over a year ago. Somewhere in my subconscious, I had concluded that I won’t get the job for lack of connection and the overwhelming bureaucracies attached to getting a job in a five- star company like that. I read through the invite the way I would read a badly written Facebook post, void of emotions or any sort of attachment. I concluded it was pointless after analyzing the 57 interviews I have attended in the past. The we-will-get-back- to -you chorus of employers in Nigeria re-echoed in my head with a sense of finality that says ‘don’t even try’. Two weeks later, I woke up earlier than usual with no intention of moving any part of my legs, for at least one hour. I allowed my mind to wonder aimlessly as I fixed my gaze on the wet of part of my ceiling. Soon, Mama’s loud prayers brought a smile on my face. For the first time in a long while, I admired her consistency and high spiritedness. This was however short lived when I became the next prayer item. ‘Jesus, give her a man, give Kyenpia a Job’, she chanted in a pitch not perfect for her aged vocal cords. A fresh wave of anger engulfed me and brought with it a fresh sense of urgency to vanish into thin air. I was still pensive when I heard footsteps and soon a hand reached for my door. With a speed of light, I pulled the banket over my head hoping to dissuade whoever it was. The next thing I heard was ‘Kyenpia, wake up, we need to talk’. My mum muttered those words with the seriousness of someone ready to cast out a living demon out of a person who is oblivious of the fact that he/she is possessed. I remained still for a moment but soon realized she wasn’t ready to budge anytime soon. I gave up and pulled myself up. ‘I want the best for you’, she started gently with a determination to continue laced to her voice. ‘You need to go out and find a man’, she added as though there was a market for men somewhere that I was yet to discover. This was followed by torrent of annoying rhetorical questions carefully asked in the typical motherly blackmailing tone. Then my phoned beeped. It was a reminder SMS for the interview. I jumped out of bed chanting, ‘mama I need to get set’. I had to stage that act to get her off my case. I was glad she bought it hook, line, and sinker. When she left, I felt relieved and went back to bed only to be interrupted by a knock. ‘I brought some money for you’, she said halfway into my room. I collected the money which also reminded me that I must account for each penny at the end of the day. I dragged myself out of the bed, got into something close to formal, and left the house. I just needed to be at the venue so as not to be haunted by guilt when mama shows up in my room later. Halfway into the journey, It dawned on me that I forgot my credentials at home, I wasn’t even sure of the exact spot. I decided to go back to get them: a delay strategy invented by me to while away time. I alighted, spent few minutes musing and doodling on my palm like someone who just lost sanity. I was still on it when a car splashed water on me. I ran after the car like a wild dog. Of course, It caught the attention of passersby and the driver who abruptly brought his car to a stop. The nicely knitted fellow alighted and gave the ‘I’ m sorry speech. Oh! I wasn’t going to have any of that. I ranted and hauled deep- layered insults on him, the type common among dark demons of the underworld. He stood there looking like a lost puppy. I wasn’t moved by his, somehow, innocent looks. Deep within, I felt it was rude for him to own a fine car and be all that cute. The realization that my stained cream skirt was a good reason for disqualification gave me the courage to proceed to the venue. I made my way to the hall only to be greeted by a lady who was overly nice to a fault. I wished she could see my skirt and rant or yell, just something to give me a story to tell mama and cap it with ‘I was turned down’. The lady defiantly refused to read the obvious cues. What’s your name please? She asked, calmly. ‘Kyenpia Dabak’, I replied. She left and returned almost immediately. ‘Come with me’, she continued. As we walked into the hallway, I felt unfit for the job and concluded that my stained skirt was

Essays, Writers

Shamefacedness by Peace Habila.

Cmoni / January 21, 2021

Kabir was at the verge of losing his mind over the graduation celebration ritual. He just could not keep his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth or his lips firmly sealed. ‘How on earth would full-grown fellows be forced to contribute kobo, shi –shi, and widow’s mites to buy bottles of wine only to waste them and then come up with a convenient name(wine popping) to justify the foolish act’, he nagged and stammered as we negotiated the bend close to the footpath leading to the hostel. Unknown to K-guy, as he was fondly called, most of his rants and raves fell on deaf ears. My mind was exhausted by the conversation we had a night before our final exams. The broad grin on my face was just a decoy to steady his resolve that he was making absolute sense even when I did not hear Jack. I was quick to grasp his lamentation about the wine that was popped in class that morning because it was said amidst gesticulation that included his thick, snow-white, unadulterated saliva droplets landing on my face. It caught me off guard. The ‘wawu’ that found its way out of my mouth was necessitated by the impact and mild irritation the saliva had on me. I was not entirely surprised at his exaggerated expressions or the saliva; I had endured those for four years. Our larger-than-life campus friendship was a product of love at first sight. We met on our matriculation day. Halfway into the event, it began to rain. The wind that accompanied the rain rolled off the canopy that shielded us from the showers; even though it did not save us from the cold. Without thinking twice, we ran towards the building opposite us. Unanimously, we rested our backs against the wall and used our hands to wipe off the remaining droplets on our eyelashes. Guess what? Without consulting one another, we slid our folders into our worn-out shirts. At that moment, we knew we had something in common- which was poverty. We connected instantly and grew inseparably almost throughout our stay in the university. We were known for throwing banters at each other to the admiration of others. A day to our final paper, K-guy became restless. His restlessness got me restless too. It saw both of us tossing from one side of the bed to the other with an awkward silence hovering over us. We were like newly wedded couple going through their first nuptial incongruity. When I had had enough of it, I decided to prod, one more time. Boom! It worked. ‘My guy, I will not graduate this year’, he said beneath his breath with half of the words jerking through his heavy tongue. ‘God forbid’, I chanted swaying my hand over my head to assure him that I meant each word. ‘But I have not paid my tuition for the last two sessions’, he continued. K-guy knew his onions; natural intelligence had roots in the fiber of his brain. He was too gifted to be allowed to waste. That night, I started contemplating loaning out my sister’s savings to save K-guy. She had been saving (for three years) in my account to get a sewing machine after completing her training at the fashion school. I shared the idea with K-guy which brought smiles glazed with tears to his face. He promised to find a way to pay back even if that would involve doing odd jobs. Few days after our exams, we strolled to the bank on campus, withdrew the money, cleared his outstanding tuition, and went back to being jolly-good fellows. We decided to stay back (in a single room off campus) for our convocation which was in four months’ time. We took odds jobs to ease the waiting process. Few days to our convocation, I got wind of the information that K-guy had emerged the best graduating student with a jaw-breaking CGPA. Such feats had always attracted awesome awards and prizes. That rumor brought some sort of relief to my troubled soul. I was certain that with the cash prize, we would be able clear the mind-boggling debt howling our names. When his name was called that day, my joy knew no bounds. Finally, I would be able to sleep with my eyes closed and my heart beating at a normal rate. Before walking to the podium, he leaned his head towards me and whispered, ‘we made it, bro’. Immediately, a shade of pride that signals accomplishment engulfed my entire being. It felt like the win was for the two of us. #200,000 was graciously willed in his favor. The gigantic cheque covered his chest but spared his face, enough to show the broad smile on his face. For strange reasons, we did not return to the room together. I spent half the time bragging to our friends that K-guy gave all of us a run for our money. I went as far as teasing Jacob, the fashion icon of our set: ‘it’s not by wearing fine clothes o. With our one pair of trouser and three shirts we still beat wuna.’ Jacob had bullied us, especially k-guy, and I felt it was my job, as a good friend, to pay him in his own coin. When I got to the room, K-guy and his belongings were nowhere to be found. He was gone. Neighbors confirmed that he left in a great haste and pleaded with them not to say a word of it to me. It took me days to convince myself that I had been a fool all along. The money was gone; so was our friendship. The thought of it left a sickly feeling in my stomach. Then my sister called. I sold all my belongings to raise half of the money- #17,500. I spate all forms of lies known to man and demons to cover up for my irresponsible and dastardly act until I was able to cough out

Blog, Essays

Regrets By Peace Habila.

Cmoni / October 5, 2020

Somehow, I feel ruined. The stench from my indecisions wrapped in complacency now choke every glimmer of hope in me. I thought I was being a good girl; ‘the yes, ma’ kind of good girl. I never knew I was pilling the debris of my own lynch-party. No one cautioned me. No one asked what I wanted. I practically joined in the chanting of my own dirge. I sang the cheerful dirge at my own “funeral”. How unfortunate! I have been tagged privileged because I was born with a silver spoon forced down my throat. I was tenaciously moulded into the lady I am today. I was compelled to learn how to blend pride with poise, arrogance with charms, and beauty with emptiness. At least, that was my interpretation and “prescription” of royalty. My tutor who beamed with unnecessary and endless smiles was confident that I would make an amazing princess at that pace. My life was programmed and rolled out before me. I swallowed everything I was taught with pride. It made a lot of sense at that time. I enjoyed the attention I received. I was called beautiful but, somehow, I never felt beautiful. That was the life I knew and had to live. My 18th birthday came with a rude surprise. The birthday package included a journey to study Medicine abroad. His Royal Highness, my father, made the revelation amidst jubilation by excited servants and guests. I was surprised and also confused as to why I was surprised in the first place. ‘it’s in the plan’, I told my self. That gave me the courage to conceal my empty and overwhelmed heart with a broad smile. Later that night, I realised I was excited about the idea of leaving the palace even though I was not excited about the choice of course. I occasionally caught myself smiling about the thought of freedom as congratulatory messages flooded my ears. When it was time to leave home, I was lectured on how to represent my home town, how to make them proud, and so on. I got the details. They were familiar, after all. And It was indeed well received. “Make your father proud” his Royal Highness said. “Yes, your majesty”, I replied. Those were the only words I could reel out of my mind. My new found freedom was thrilling. I had an apartment to myself, the air wasn’t choking with the presence of servants chanting “Do you need anything, my lady?” The first few months were pure bliss in ecstasy. No stiff routines to follow. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t accountable to anyone but myself. It felt so good. This freedom was, however, short lived. It opened my eyes to realize that I couldn’t live with myself. I couldn’t find a balance between peace and passion. I couldn’t find the balance between happiness and the nagging expectations of others (even when no one expected anything of me). It was difficult to walk around without (unconsciously) raising my shoulders high like ‘an exalted unicorn’. I just couldn’t fit in. I was twice removed from normalcy and reality. Loneliness started creeping in like a thief in the early hours of the day. I was mostly conscious yet unconscious occasioned by absentmindedness and nostalgia. I was gradually slipping into depression when my Knight in shiny armour showed up. I was walking down the dry patched lane lost in thought about my near empty room and how I had become extra lazy, no , how I just realised that I had been a lazy spoilt child. So lazy that I would occasionally utter the words “ get me my towel” into the empty space. On those occasions, I end up beating myself for building my life around core dependence on others to do everything for me. “Hello, I noticed you in Prof’s class. You must be Nigerian…,”he said. Without blinking my eyes, the words vomit found its way out of my mouth- “ address me as my lady or My princess” . He couldn’t help his laughter, the echo of which gave my senses an urgent CPR which brought shame to my face. “I’m sorry”, I said. I was hoping the earth would open up and swallow me that moment. His face registered a shade of disgust, yet he offered to walk with me to the bus station. He didn’t say a word after that heart wretching laugh. I wish he did. He was strangely different. He was simple yet elegant. I couldn’t get the mysterious aura around him off my mind throughout that night. Then we met again. This time he didn’t forget to add “my princess” to his salutation to my utter embarrassment. I was forced to apologize again. He felt I was too serious about life. “How?”, I asked. Your shoulders, for instance, are raised like that of “ an exalted unicorn. You need to relax”, he said. No one had ever spoken to me in that manner. It felt like an insult but sounded like some deep truth. He went further to tell me his name – a strange sounding name: “Nandom”. “ Which part of Nigeria are you from?”, I asked. Jos, Plateau”, he replied. I later gathered he was on government scholarship and so he had to work at two jobs to support himself and send some money home to his parents. He reminded me of all the things I have and all the things I lacked. He is confident, self assured, and above all HAPPY. I was surrounded by folks who laughed at my jokes dutifully not that they found them funny. I got compliments not that I deserved them but it was part of the package. I was cloned into a demi- god. I was feared not loved. Praises from maidservants took humanity from me till I became cold at heart. I was served right from birth and was never taught how to serve others. If I had learnt how to give from a genuine heart of love maybe, I would have found fulfilment. If I was given the opportunity to make mistakes and learn from them, maybe, finding my path through life won’t be an issue. If I was given the opportunity to mix and share my heart with my maids. I would have learnt to how to smile genuinely. I am now a stranger on earth trying to find my roots from miles away. I am learning how to be human through love, sacrifice, and service. With this heart full of love, I shall navigate life till I find fulfilment and happiness. I have tasted the unshed tears of yesterday and I dislike the blank taste it left in my mouth. In Nandom’s light I see my light and I hope to follow diligently. Peace Habila wrote in via peacehaila2017@gmail.com