The Dossier | Collins Undelikwo | Short Fiction
“Your services are no longer required.” Mr. Aku said with a smile. “My wife and I have sorted things out between us. Just yesterday after church and a nice Sunday jollof, she confessed everything!”
Short fiction
Locked Up In An Everlasting Bondage by Damilola Olorunsola
It is an undisputable fact that everything rises and falls in relationships. An in-depth understanding of this maxim by each and everyone would give us a better world to live in. The people we are emotionally connected to are the ones we’ve opened up our hearts to. We wouldn’t hesitate to do anything for the ones that have our heart and of course, we know we have people to fall back to during our own trying times. The ultimate desire of every human on earth is to know that they are loved, cared for, wanted and appreciated. Consciously or unconsciously, there is a refreshing feeling we all get from knowing that we are genuinely loved by others. I am generally not the expressive type, at least that is who I’ve always believed I am. I find it very difficult to relate with other people. I unapologetically severe any seemingly “out of boundary” relationship without a hearing. The hearing usually takes place in my head, I effortlessly play the role of both the prosecuting and the defending counsel and ultimately, the judge. For years, I hid behind an impenetrable facade. My mother abandoned a “six month old me” at an orphanage for reasons I’ll never get to find out. The Orimolade Orphanage Home was my home for so many years. I couldn’t understand why my own mother would give me up. I do not even know what she looks like, till date. I began to feel a void in my life starting from my early teenage years. I wasn’t the only girl of my age who grew up at the orphanage, but I was the only girl who never got out of the pain of being abandoned. My mates at the home did everything they could to bring me out of my misery, but I wouldn’t bulge. I can’t count the number of times they told me to count my blessings and make the best out of my life, but I always discarded their advice. I was bitter that my own mother didn’t love me enough to put up with me, irrespective of whatever mess she got into. I was so bitter that I shut out everyone from my life. I was a “case” at the home, but they still loved and cared for me. In my final year in the university, I met someone. He was the best person I’d ever met. I met this beautiful soul at the university library. He had helped me picked out a book from of one of the library’s high shelves when he saw me struggling with the shelf. Raymond had a very beautiful heart, one I’m not sure I’ll ever come across again in this life. He had warmed his beautiful self into my heart within a thirty minute discussion. He was undeniably intelligent and funny. He was the first person to get past the wall I had built around myself for so many years. Ray was everything that I wasn’t but desired. He tried all he could to make me relatable. I’ll never forget his ever favourite statement to me, “Dee, it costs you nothing to show people you love and care about them. You never know how much that means to them.” My every time reply had always been, “I hate no one. I don’t think anyone should think I do.” Isn’t it surprising how blinded we can be to other people’s situation. The most charming and social persons around us also have demons they’re battling with. But we’re usually blind to this fact. This was my exact situation. Ray was always the one doing the reaching out, always showing the care and love, and heaven knows how much I loved this guy, but I hid behind my fears. Raymond loved me, I knew it, I felt and saw it. But what did I give him in return? I was bitter, angry at life, angry at myself, that my existence couldn’t compel my mum to take up the challenge to care for me. So, I shut out everyone. I didn’t want to love, neither did I want to be loved. I didn’t want to get anymore heartache. I didn’t want to let anyone in, I lived in the fear that they’ll all end up leaving me, just like my mum did. But I was wrong, oh! how wrong I was. Raymond was different. I can still vividly remember scenarios where I had shouted at him, where I had shown no care for the things that mattered to him. When in reality, my heart was rooting for him but my head was always getting in the way. I always believed the demon in my head which told me how no one truly cared. They’ll always end up leaving. Apparently, Ray had his battles. Battles he had always wanted to share with me but which I never gave ears to. This minute I’m laughing heartily at his jokes and the next minute, I’m giving him attitude. Raymond gave his all. He eventually withdrew and as hurting as that was, I never made attempts to find out what prompted his action. My heart knew I lost a treasure but my head argued I made the best decision; mum left, every other person will, too. Little did I know Raymond was fighting for his life. I was so blind that I didn’t even notice he had lost a lot of weight during our last days together. It took a letter delivery to my doorpost to tell me how selfish, inhumane and stupid I had been. While I thought I was protecting myself, I was actually crushing others in the process. Raymond had been battling with cancer for two years and the only person he had spent a bulk of his last days with, never cared to know anything about him. I left him to fight his battles all by himself even when he had shown me much love than I could ever imagine.
A New Beginning by Emmanuel Enaku.
I open my eyes slowly and sit up in bed. The rays of the sun are already streaming into the thatched hut. It is a big hut; one of the few luxuries Ikemefuna had left me before his passage to the great beyond. It had been a cold night. It is expected because we are already in the core of the rainy season – a season our colonial masters fear the most because it comes with an increase of vectors and eventually, the spread of diseases which their European DNA is not accustomed to. Why not just give us independence and go back to your home, anyway? I look down at Nkechi and Chidifu still sprawled on the mattress and chuckle at the sight that meets my eyes. Nkechi has her legs a little distance from Chidifu’s mouth which is open allowing the undisturbed trail of saliva flowing down to his arm. Nkechi obviously took from me. I had always been a bad sleeper. I can still remember mama waking me up at night, shouting “Odiegwu!” and telling me to adjust myself. As for Chidifu, he, no doubt, took from his father. I chuckle at the thought of Ikemefuna running on legs as little as Chidifu’s and drooling saliva from his mouth when he slept. Oh! How I miss him. I don’t plan on cleaning the drool off Chidifu’s mouth. I would tease him with it a little when he awakes. I adjust Nkechi’s legs and get up from the mattress – it has already become threadbare. I should get a new one soon but I plan on leaving this village with Chidifu and Nkechi and settle in Aba. Yes, I had talked about it with brother Okoro when I had gone to visit him there two years ago – shortly after the death of Di’m. It was the first time I had travelled out of Mmu-Mmenyi, my village in Bende LGA of Abia state. Brother Okoro is my elder brother and most favourite in the family. It has been this way since childhood and sometimes, the memories of our escapades when we were much younger makes me smile. Brother Okoro works as a clerk in the Post Office in Aba. This makes communications between us easy because he gets my letters as soon as they arrive and there isn’t any delay in receiving his letters too. The last time I was there, he had told me of his plans to get boats and canoes with his savings. He would employ the services of good boat men that would convey people through the Azumini Blue River and report to him with the profits. His letters over the last two years had made reference to this and he was making good progress. Thanks are to Chukwu. I hope to make such good progress too. I just cannot continue to bear the difficulty that has continued to buffet me here in Mmu-mmenyi. If only Ikemefuna were to be here. Well, I had resigned to my fate a long time ago for the sake of our children. I do know that it will be a difficult journey – it has been a difficult journey – and the thoughts of what awaits chills me to my bones but then, I have no other option. Giving up really isn’t an option. Sometimes, I simply cry myself to sleep because it gets so tough and I get so lonely without Di’m, my husband. However, I get an upwelling of strength after crying and I do move on. Brother Okoro does help too. He has been kind enough to send some money once in a while but I try not to burden him. He has his family to cater for and mama too depends on him. Besides, he is still trying to establish himself. I should think of doing same in whatever way I can. I walk to the door and push the lock out of its position. Little quantity of sand falls off as I do this – an indication of termites. The insects must have found that my door post has become weak due to the incessant rain. I make a mental note to sprinkle some tinder mixed with charcoal on the door post later on. It is bright outside. I can see smoke rising into the sky over the mud fence from Ekwefi’s kitchen. She is always up early. Unlike mine, Ekwefi’s husband is still very much alive; Hale and hearty. He is a good hunter and manages a big yam farm. Ogbonna is quite handsome and sometimes, Ekwefi tells me of the adventure they have in the bedroom when all is dark. She giggles shyly when she talks about Ogbonna’s prowess in bed. “O siri ike dika igwe! It is long and strong like iron. It sometimes touches my heart.” She would say, referring to Ogbonna’s manhood and then, burst into raucous laughter as she gesticulated. At times, I get jealous but most of the time, I enjoy the gist and later feel slippery in between my thighs. You cannot blame me; my libido did not cease to exist when Ikemefuna died. The truth is that I have had several advances from men in Mmu-Mmenyi. Even Thomas Milliard, a white official that handles the affairs here in Mmu-Mmenyi has intercepted me severally on my way home from the market. He is white and handsome with brown beards but on days when the sun gets too hot, Captain Thomas’s face becomes red like ripe palm fruits and I don’t find this attractive in any way. Indeed, having the captain ask me for an affair is considered by others as a good opportunity and I see how genuine he is, but I can’t see myself being with another man except Ikemefuna. Not to talk of a white man, a district officer for that matter. “Ekwefi, are you up?” I shout in the direction of her compound. “Nwanneoma! Yes, I am cooking.” Her voice
Flawed by Peace Habila
He just didn’t show up, no, he didn’t make it to his own wedding. This plan was perfected without sparing a thought for me, the supposed bride.
Project Phanes by Collins Undelikwo
My eyes are heavy. I try to open them but they snap shut immediately, pushed back to sleep by an invisible hand
FERVENT By Roselyn Sho-Olajide
She had let her family down. Her siblings had looked up to her. What would they think of her? She stayed back in the room they shared with Fervent during the semester break and told her parents that she needed to finish up some school work.
Two Lovers, A Boy, An Accident by Orhemba Jeremiah
1. The nineteen year old turns the thought over and over. He will go to work. No, he won’t. At this, he clutches his stomach, folds his knees to his chest. From behind his glass window—the sky washed, a brilliant blue; outside, plopping sounds—pat. pat. pat. He feels his head. Warm. So he pushes the blanket off his body. He does not feel cold either, even though it rained heavily last night. He draws up his knees, closer, to his chest. Whimpers, clutches his stomach. Applies pressure. No, he can’t pull through this. He won’t go to work today. The door bursts open. Kai, ooooo, he hisses. There stands his mother in the doorway, eyes shaking in sockets. Her fingers are wrapped around the door handle. Her words hitch. “Jerry…still not.. Still not…better?” “No,” the boy wriggles on the bed. “Okay, then. Let me get you food so you can take drugs.” The boy simply nods. It takes a while, but his mother eventually leaves. “The door, mummy!” 2. Vernen waits for his mother to leave the house first. Then, in one swoop, he heaves the swollen mass that is his school bag, stuffed with clothes. “Where are you going to?” his little sister quips. “Mind your business, Msuur!” “You’re running away again. I’ll go and tell Mummy. Mummy!” He pushes at his sister. “Get out of my way! Idiot! You can go tell Buhari if you want.” Outside, his little brother calls, voice merely a whisper. “Vernen.” But Vernen forges ahead nonetheless, feet quick against the tarmac. All that roaring in his head, the tightness of his muscles, his dry mouth, hot breaths. He is never returning, never! Nonsense and nonsense. 3. Shimaver’s mind is insistent. Check your bag. I swear, you’ve forgotten that file. I am sure, he retorts. I am sure I took that file. So? He pulls to the side of the road, set his bag against the body of his motorcycle and begins unzipping. He parts his bag, and there, the white of the file staring back at him. See? Doesn’t it feel great to be certain? Abi, you want a repeat of last time? You would have gotten that job. Just shut up. His phone vibrates against his thigh. Having fished it out of his pocket, he holds it aloft, palm curled up against it. <Mon Armor> Babe, I’m not feeling well. I am dying. Immediately, his heart stops and the world feels cold. So, so cold. Air becomes the edge of swords cutting with each staggering inhale. Once, twice, he matches on his brakes. Not now, not now. And as if the motorcycle heard, as if it can also hear the pounding in his ears, it groans to life. Shimaver swerves it around, bursting into the road even though there’s a train of vehicles, a lorry in the lead, fast approaching. Around the bend, the text sears on his consciousness: Dying. It is bitter. The phlegm in his throat. The trickle of sweat seeping into his lips. He increases speed. The motorcyclist he overtakes yells at him, but whatever it is he said gets lost in the roaring wind. He did not even see the man. Does not even remember that the time for the interview he set out for this morning is two minutes away. All he knows is the road unfolding to him, the liquid in his eyes. He runs into potholes, is rattled. He does not slow. Rather, he aces up his speed, the only palpable thing to him now. Memories dance in his mind. His boyfriend leaping out on him and pressing his lips to his. “Jerry, someone could see us.” “That was quick. And can we not soil today already? It’s my nineteenth birthday, Shimaver. My last as a teen.” All these swirling in his mind when he rams into hardness, a furious shove, and before he knows he is in the air and then sliding along the tarmac. There’s so much screaming, “Jesus, Jesus,” a spiking pain in his back, throbs kicking under his skin. “Ah.” I am dying. So he gets up, quickly. But then people are pouring in from everywhere, rushing towards his motorcycle lain on the tarmac, towards a figure. No, no, no, he jostles his way forward. A boy. And blood pooling around his head. No, no, no he says, dragging up the boy up against his body while another man helps take off the pregnant school bag. “Vernen wam o. Vernen wam o,” a voice is wailing. “Vernen.” A woman emerges, pushing the man away. Her face is stained with tears. One glance, and Shimaver realizes the semblance. The boy’s mother. Lord Jesus, what have I done? I am dying. Panting, panting, panting, the whole world spins. The sky meets the ground, then widens. People become wavy lines. But there is Jerry, stark and straight against the distortion. “Shimaver, Shimaver.” His mother is behind him. 4. Nineteen year old Jerry wants an explanation. He looks from his boyfriend to the bloodied boy and more tears fill his eyes. Vernen’s mother looks up to him. Her eyes are so red. “Uncle, look at your student o. Just look.” He looks. Vernen. Shimaver. His intestines no longer twists, his heart does now. So he begins to shout, “Okada, okada!” Shimaver trembles. “Babe, babe.” But Jerry is not hearing. He keeps screaming, “Okada!” About the Writer Mhembeuter Jeremiah Orhemba is Tiv and Nigerian. A 2021 ARTmosterrific artist-in-residence and first runner-up for the 2021 Kreative Diadem contest, his works have found home or are forthcoming in FictionWrit Magazine, The Shallow Tales Review, Arts Lounge, Eboquills,The Muse Journal, Agapanthus Collective, ARTmosterrific, and Fiction Niche. He wishes to attain the serenity of water, enjoys watching TK and Carlos kiss, and still loves AURORA and Christina Perri. He tweets @ son_of_faya.
Lagos | Chukwuemeka Oluka | Short Fiction
I have often heard that, “to survive in Lagos, you need the technical know-how to switch from ‘hello’ to ‘wetin dey happen’ to ‘sholoriburuku ni iya e ni?’” This mindset never departed from me as I pondered all through while enduring the usurping traffic.
Kamoru | Becky Peleowo | Short Fiction
A dead body. Buried in the woods. Covered up by dry leaves and twigs. The smell of fresh morning dew mixed with dust filled the air.
Nineveh
“Nineveh” is a contemporary reimagining of the Biblical story of the prophet Jonah, a man stubborn, firm, but pure of intentions. It was first published on medium.
Beacon by Oladejo Victor
Right from the moment his wife died of cancer, Fawemi was given to an unearthly fear. He became hysterical like a pilgrim lost in dystopia.
Kiki by Victor Oladejo
Kiki raised the small slab that separated the counter from the rest of the office over her head and carefully, she returned it to the latch.
In Small Madam’s Service by Oluwaseun Osanyinro
Katherine found it hard to understand what Small Madam, Toke was saying. She thought of what to say to make I repeat herself.
An Unprecedented Surprise by Victor Akintomide
The last time it had happened, she had tried finding out why she was being dismissed.
A Night To Remember.
In my several years of practice as a psychotherapist, I have learned that swapping stories among my patients helps to improve their mental health a lot. I have brought the four of you together so you can all tell your stories. I believe it’s a step towards healing.
