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.
story
The Story Behind The Stories by Peace Habila.
I am an accidental fiction writer; does that even sound right? I doubt. Well, it was the pandemic that rocked 2020 that pushed me on the road to becoming a fiction writer this is not without few kicks and prodding from angels in human form. During the lockdown, I had a long random catch- up phone conversation with a friend that I had not spoken to in over nine years. He reminded me of my love for novels and how I was always thrilled by words. True to it, I am a sucker for words. I am always thrilled by how humans manipulate language, how we string up words, toss their meanings around, and still end up with mind blowing interpretations. The conversation which lasted for an hour ended with “Peace, I think you need to start writing again”. That made a lot of sense at the time because the boredom that characterized the lockdown was getting the better part of me. I decided that night to join the gig. It was also clear to me that the level of boredom looming over the country demanded me to move out of my comfort zone and familiar craft (poetry). The next morning, I wrote my first allegory story. I uploaded it on my timeline on Facebook for two reasons: to get a sense of productivity and to show my friend that I appreciated the pep talk. This was followed by other allegory stories on varying topics. The reception was impressively massive to my amazement because to me, I was only trying to dust and pick up my creative skill from where I left it over twelve years ago. In no time, bids and pieces of encouragement from folks on ways to improve my craft started rolling in. With each advice or offer came the need to do better and seek improvement. On one of those encounters, a family friend, who is an amazing writer, drew my attention to Cmonionline essay competition. For a moment, I did not feel ready; I did not even feel equal to the task; you can call it the handy work of imposter syndrome. So, from afar I monitored the activities of Cmonionline on Facebook for weeks. The passion and consistency with which information was dispensed on the page got me awe struck. To soothe and mollify my curiosity, I used to run to the page on Sundays between 7:30 and 8 p.m. to read the wining essays. That was how I became addicted to the page. My skill lacked a lot of things at that time chief of which was consistency. But I was determined to fix that. I graciously allowed myself to be consumed by the overwhelming passion in creative writing. Then came the beautiful day I decided to join this moving bandwagon with the hopes of developing consistency in style of writing and pace of writing. My first submission titled ‘Regret’ missed the deadline due to network issues. The feedback I got the next morning further convinced me that I have found the right place. At first, I struggled to keep up with the weekly demands of writing. I fought a huge battle with procrastination. Interestingly, the prize was not the goal; the goal was to grow in a community of creative minds, but wining felt supercool. So far, I have turned in about ten stories and won three times. To celebrate the wins, I dragged my longtime friend (Roselyn Sho-Olajide) to Rayfield Resort in Jos. The large expanse of water afforded us the glorious atmosphere to discuss the weird relationship between Zaq and Rufus, the fictional characters, in Helon Habila’s Oil on Water as we devoured our Suya and drank our Coke in between laughs. Wining wasn’t magic; it was a reflection of the journey of growth. To overcome procrastination, I came up with a plan. I knew my interest was in creative writing so I maintained that lane. I resisted the temptation of jumping to another genre. For moments where the topics for creative writing weren’t appealing or appeared cranky, I squeezed every juice of creativity left in me until storylines were birthed. I also found a way to improve my pace. I call it the one-hour gig. After coming up with a storyline in my head, I would neatly work out all the details about my characters, their feelings, the plot , setting, etc. in my head before moving to the study. I willingly subject myself to an hour weekly writing drill. At the beginning it was tough and appeared almost impossible. With determination and diligence, it is now an easy cruise. I now enjoy my weekly one-hour cruise in the study. Above all, this journey has taught me how to stick to the goal and how to appreciate the passion embedded in creativity. Consequently, I have grown from reading just the wining essays to reading all entries. Roselyn and I now devout our Sunday evenings to discuss amazing entries. It has also given me new friends, some of which are my friends in the figment of my imagination and the prowess of their pens on paper. Few of them are now my Facebook friends. The icing on the cake was when I got my feedback on Tuesday morning; I was super excited. It felt like I was reading from the editor of my first novel. I didn’t hesitate to reply. For the first time, it gave me the opportunity to discuss my choice of words and style. Somewhere in my heart, I wish we could go back to our Sunday evening announcement of winning essays. I feel there is no better way to wrap up the weekend than reading a wining essay knowing fully well that the writer gave it his/her best shot. In three months’ time, it will be a year since I embarked on this journey into the creative world. I think I should host a party to celebrate the passion behind Cmonionline, the sponsors, the
The Story Of My Life by Eunice Abiodun.
I was given birth into the family of five. My mother was a petty trader and my father, a school teacher. When I was born, my paternal grandparents welcomed me with open hands but it was the other way round from my maternal grandmother. My maternal grandmother had told my mother that she mustn’t marry into a poor home because she wouldn’t want any child coming to her to ask for financial assistance. Rather, she wants to be pampered by her children, most especially, by her first child. Unfortunately, my mother was her first child and it was seeming as if all her dreams of being pampered will not come through. So, with that hatred, she refused to attend my naming ceremony and she refused to perform her motherly rite of bathing her first grandchild. When it was time for me to go to school, my father made it clear to my mother that he cannot sponsor a girl child to school. Shocked by that statement, my mother decided to take the burden of sending me to school. Meanwhile, I already had a younger brother. My younger brother became the apple of my father’s eye. In fact, a ram was slaughtered on his naming ceremony which on my own naming ceremony, only biscuits and pure water were shared. Even as young as I was, I knew that a rival had arrived. But fortunately for me, my paternal grandmother noticed the hatred my father had towards me and she gladly took me to away from them. Unfortunately, it was an ephemeral happiness as she died while I was in form three. I had to return to my parents. At that point, my mother felt I had acquired enough education, so, she didn’t see any need to send me to school. Her focus was transferred to my younger siblings- two boys. But I was determined to further my education, so I applied for a petty job to be done after school hours so that I could sponsor myself. My father saw this as an insult, so he threatened to send me out of his house if I applied for the job. I took it jokingly but just as he had threatened, it happened. I ran to my mother, but she also pushed me away. I became frustrated. So, I had to go to my maternal grandmother’s house, which was a stone throw from our house for help. I was not surprised when she used a long stick to send me out of her house and told me never to set my feet in her house. Sorrowfully, I resumed to the place I had applied for a job as I was offered the job. My plan was to resume back to the house very late at night to sleep in the passage, after all, my father owns the house. But very early, I would bathe and leave the house before anyone notices. Meanwhile, my parents had stopped feeding me because I took up the job. Sleeping in the passage was also short lived, as my immediate younger brother reported that I do come home late at night to sleep and wake up very early to leave the house. Fortunately for me, I was in my final year in school. I wrote my final examination. Despite all the ill treatment, my result was the best. In fact, my class teacher refused to give me my result as she proposed that she would give it to my parents directly so they could have a change of mind and realize I have a very bright future. When she got to my house to spread the good news, my father thinking she had come to beg him to consider sending me to the university, which was her intention anyways, tongue-lashed her. My mother also joined in insulting her. Then, I decided that if schooling would be impossible, then, trading should be possible. I ventured into selling pepper which became a very successful trade for me as I had more than enough. When my mother was told about it, she said over her dead body would I make it above my siblings. It was then, I fully realized that if I do not act fast, my life will be ruined. I had to leave the village for Lagos. Meanwhile, she had gone to a witch doctor to inquire about my destiny. It was foretold that I must never marry a man who is not from my village and my state because if I do, she would never see me again. She was scared I might not listen to her. So, she exchanged my bright destiny for my immediate younger brother’s. At least, if the bright destiny is exchanged, then she has a hope that what would have been all mine in a far away place will be enjoyed in the family. So, I was left empty. When it was time for marriage, I took my fiancé home for them to see. But my mother blatantly refused my marriage to him because he is from another state. I accepted her idea which did not go well with me. Another suitor came. This time around he was based abroad. He had only come home to see his parents when I met him. Joyfully, I took him home with the mindset that she will be so happy to receive him as her son in law to be. But reversed was the case, she got furious and told me never to marry him. I also lost him. Unfortunately for me, I met a pauper who was from my state but not my village. Out of desperation, I told her bluntly that he was the one I would marry. She refused as usual but I had my way. Few years after marriage, my husband died. I was left alone with four children to cater for. One thing I observed so well was, whenever my parents fell sick, I would be summoned
