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Bitter-Sweet Pie by Solomon Ekoja

There was a boy named Wazobia from the Nzaga-nyanga hills, about four thousand miles away from the capital city of Jos. The community was so hostile to the point that visitors who sought to introduce Western education were slaughtered once the news broke out. Many a foreigner tried to have access to this hostile group of people but all efforts proved abortive. Some who succeeded in visiting the community were killed to appease the gods of the hill. It was in this type of community that Wazobia was born but he chose to be different. The whole community was deprived of Western education because they held to some erroneous ritual beliefs that education was meant for those with mental illness. The low level of illiteracy took its toll on the members of the society, as they preferred wearing fig leaves to putting on clothes made from cotton or wool. Many a youth met premature deaths when they insisted on associating with modern trends. In spite of all the community was practicing, Wazobia was a very dogged and subtle boy. This made him come up with the idea of taking charcoal and slate each time he was about to go for his hunting adventure. While others were in the heat of hunting, he would privately retire to the top of a raphia palm and write down the names of some tree species commonly found in the forest. Among the numerous tree species, he saw in the forest, he took a keen interest in Anceistoclads korupensis and Prunus Africana because of the manner in which the fluid from these species killed pests on contact. After each hunting session, each youth was to take his kill to the village square for evaluation by the king. Most of his peers returned with large antelopes but Wazobia on several occasions returned with nothing. This made the villagers suspect he was involving himself in some illegal activities against their norms but no one had a piece of concrete evidence to lay the charge against him. His colleagues in society were entrusted with the task of monitoring his movements and the activities he engaged in during hunting sessions. He was nearly caught by a neighbour of his while he practiced his writing skills but he luckily escaped. Meanwhile, many a member of his community were exposed to deadly diseases as a result of multiple sex partners, dirty surroundings and drug abuse. This was a great source of concern for the young boy who saw scores die yearly from different ailments. One fateful day, while the rest of the villagers were conducting a festival, he sneaked out for his study. On his way, he discovered that a helicopter carrying some European researchers developed a fault mid-air and crashed near his village hill. The incident made him scared but he summoned courage to visit the site to see if he could render assistance to the victims. On arrival, the helicopter was on fire with all the passengers trapped. He forced his way through the window using his local hunting gun and succeeded in rescuing the crash victims. Being a member of a community that was hostile to foreigners, he quickly resolved to hide them from his fellow villagers. He fed them with green apples and lodged them at a cave, rarely visited by members of the public. The researchers agreed on taking Wazobia along with them but he resisted the offer at first. After a series of pressure, he succumbed to the offer. Two days later, the researchers recovered and established contact with a rescue team. The rescue team on arrival whisked the crash victims and Wazobia away without the knowledge of the villagers who were engrossed in a weeklong ritual to appease their gods. On arrival in the United Kingdom, Wazobia was flabbergasted at the site of his new environment. He even had to change his clothing from leaves to cotton to be able to cope with the harsh weather condition of Europe. While there, he enrolled at a foundation school where he was able to perfect his reading and writing skills. His seriousness earned him a scholarship exam, which was to be written a month later. He burnt his midnight candle to be able to meet up with the syllables for the examination. On the date of the exam, he was terrified by the number of students that expressed interest to partake in the exam, but that never dissuaded him from the “I can do spirit of a Nigerian”. In the course of the examination, the invigilators informed the students that only ten students out of the thousands sitting for the examination would eventually be selected. A few weeks after the examination, the scholarship results were released by the concerned agency and to the surprise of everyone, Wazobia was among the lucky students that gained a scholarship to study any course of their choice at Harvard University. He opted for pharmacy because of the interest he developed in some African tree species in the course of his hunting sessions in Nigeria. At Harvard University, everything from lectures to practical classes looked very strange to him but he was able to adapt with the help of a colleague of his named Kaitlyn. She was from a British ancestry that earned their wealth from the transatlantic slave trade. In spite of the efforts of her family to dissuade her from learning about the history of slave trade, she resolved to embark upon a secrete research at the national library to unearth these hidden history and understand the ordeal faced by her African brothers during that era. Her efforts to dig into history for instance led her to the story of Konta Kinte, a young boy from Sene-Gambia who was kidnapped from his village when he went to fetch some wood to make a drum for his brother. The pitiable condition in the castles where slaves were temporarily housed for months coupled with the devastating conditions faced by the

Creative Essays, Essays

Sweet Stigma by Ebube Ezeadum

  It wasn’t that the 300-level student, Bowale Israel, wasn’t handsomely carved. Neither was he as deadly as a shark cultist. It was the little exhibition of mad: the sudden explosion, the unconscious pacing up and down the hallway, the loud dialogue-like monologue. It was these things that made even the thought of having a romantic lady in his life seem like fiction. Deborah Ebong was the transfer student in his class. Somehow she had miraculously worked her transfer to the University even at 300 level. She was as slender as a one-year-old pawpaw tree. Her long hair, rather than her breasts or a womanly shape, was the singular characteristic speaker that announced that she was a female human. She just wasn’t the girl Bowale Israel was looking for. She didn’t pass up to half of his features-I-seek-in-a-woman checklist. No large backside; no curvy waist; beauty, Nil; intelligence, not impressive; ability to cook well, he heard that she hardly ever boils water sef! So she was a failed candidate to him. Yet he recognized but didn’t know why she always flanked around him like a remora fish on a shark’s side. *** It was going to be the routine Valentine’s day. No lover. No call, well except his younger sister asking him if he had taken his “anti-schizophrenic drugs”. He kept pacing the room, scared that he may have another episode of explosive outburst. He was talking with an increased volume to himself. Why was I even born? That’s true. I never gave it a thought; it was probably a mistake. Hmmm… I feel like I’m just wasting resources here. Why is life so unfair? I can’t even have a love partner. And I am in the 300 level! Maybe I should just become a priest if I survive graduation two years from now. Or… wait. Not a priest. A monk. I can’t afford to travel to China. What do I do now? Bowale pacing came to a stop as he spotted the coconut at a distance from his bright window. Something struck his mind. Easy! I’d travel to the village. I can be a village monk. But what about jobs? It doesn’t matter, man, the villagers farm their food and that’s all that matters, right? But my friends… Be a real man, you’ve got no friends! Bowale scratched his head; he didn’t want to believe the voice in his head. But it seemed so real and right. His pacing resumed. Faster than before. His heart raced. His feet and wrist pumped with blood and energy. No, not now. The psychiatrist had told him to distract himself by painting pictures when Mr Negativity spoke to him, but he was not in the mood to continue painting this lonely city portrait. He opened his room door to steal some breeze for a while. Two hostelites dressed in Valentine’s color passed by with their girlfriends at their sides holding fancy packages. “Why did you pass the corridor? Now everywhere is smelling perfume, perfume. Do you people want to block my nose?” “What concerns him if we passed a general corridor?” One of the boys asked the other. “Chike doesn’t respond to him; you know how he always does.” “That’s true sef, no crazy hostelite can spoil our day,” He wrapped his hands around his girlfriend and stoned her with a kiss on her chubby cheeks. There was a wicked cackle as they walked down the corridor. Bowale was mad. He went back inside, slammed the door. He came out again, slammed the door harder. He opened it again and repeated the action only stopping when he heard his doorknob drop to the ground with a clang. He could hear the silence afterwards: the birds cooing, his heart crying aloud, the cars honking. Bowale sat on his bed gazing at the spoilt doorknob on his hand and the fresh bruises on his right foot which made him so puzzled. His pocket vibrated twice. Then he heard his ringtone. Who could it be? He stared at the screen. Deborah? Why? He touched the screen and raised the phone to his right ear. Yes. Hello. I’m fine. Okay? My email? Why? Important message. Okay… About what exactly? Speaker? Me? How? His face lit. Okay. I’d check it right now. Thank you. Well… I didn’t have any Valentine outings. I’ve been home all along. Sad, boring Valentine’s day as usual. Which girlfriend? No, I don’t have one. In fact, I had never had one since 100 level. No one has called me today up till this moment, well, except you. I’m still in my hostel by the way. What about you? This was the first time he asked about her; it felt different. Impossible! He sat upright, plucking his nose unconsciously. You, too, were home all along? I thought it was just me! Wow. I get it. Hmm… Are you for real? Okay. You know what? Can I come over to your place? Oh. You don’t stay in the hostel? I get; your parents may be thinking XYZ. Her laughter was unique; It seemed powerful yet creamy. You want to come over? Wow. I never saw that coming. I stay at Zik Hall. Block C. You can call me when you get there. Okay. Let me see what I can do; if there is no foodstuff, we’d soak garri together. Her laughter induced his blushing. He dropped on the bed, his smiling face opposing the multiple white squares on the ceiling. Yes o… Even on Valentine’s day. Okay now. I’d be expecting your call. Once again, Deborah, thank you so much for what you did; God bless you. Yeah. I’ll check my email right away. Take care, too. Bye. Bowale smiled. He never thought Deborah could be a wonderful person. He heard footsteps pass the hall and he suddenly remembered that she would be coming over soon. He tucked in the bedsheet in minutes, swept the floor, and hid the bucket and the pair of

Creative Essays, Writers

My Sweeter Akara by Ebube Ezeadum.

  “You don’t even have a car. Abi do you want me to trek with you forever?” Amaka stormed out of my sight, “Find your class, Ebube! I don’t do broke boys. Period!” Her words were like a bundle of broom sticks thrust into my ears and chest. “Don’t worry bro,” Demola, my best friend, placed his palm on my shoulder, “you’ll get over this soon.” I couldn’t resist the urge to be less manly, I threw my sad head on his shoulder. And like a crying baby, we slowly walked to my hostel. “She called me ‘boy,’” I soliloquized, “a 23-year-old, boy.” “It’s okay.” Demola stressed, “Maybe it’s God’s way of sending her out of your life.” “Nooo,” I shook my head, “ God can not do that; he knows I love her to the brim.” “Amaka why?” I was intensely bitter, “Shey na because say I neva get moni abi?” “I go make am for this life. Before I finish my final year I go buy this moto,” I uttered out of annoyance inviting unwanted stares at me. *** I scratched my eye with intense vigour until it reddened. The wandering smoke was the culprit. The night breeze was cool and crispy. The flame on the lantern seemed like it wanted to dance to suicide and so I kept a matches box nearby in case it did. “Yes, how much own do you want?” “Two hundred naira own o,” the man replied, “add yam too, fifty naira own.” I stabbed the Akara (beans cake) in twos until I had stabbed the Akara-filled tray twenty times. I looked up to him, “Yam fifty naira abi?” He nodded. He was tall and fair. He was equipped with well-built arms. I did the stabbing again in the yam section. I made it seven pieces instead of five. I give extra pieces to many of my customers. The newspaper I used to pack his Akara and yam was not just hot above my palm. “Do you want stew, sir?” “Yes, please,” he looked up from the white screen of his phone towards my direction. In a moment, his parcel was wrapped in a black nylon. “You can have it, sir.” His right hand extended a one thousand naira note to me while his left collected the hot package. I raised the one thousand naira note to the mini lantern light that illuminated the darkness of the night around me; it wasn’t counterfeit. I dumped the money into the pocket of my apron and scampered for his change. I found a five hundred naira note, then a hundred and finally a two hundred naira note. I did not see a fifty naira note to give him. “Abeg who get fifty naira for here?” I asked the other customers who were waiting in the line. The only response I got was: “Oga do fast make I comot from here.” “Or don’t worry, keep the change.” the tall man said. “Ahh. Oga. Oya carry fifty naira pap make we do check and balance,” I pointed to the transparent bucket where the spherically rolled pap slept. “Check and balance?” The Man gave a quick laugh. You sound like a Mathematics teacher. Okay… If you want to check,” he picked up one ball of pap, “I have balanced.” He seemed nice. I’d love to sit and discuss with him but I was on a date with busyness. Besides, more customers were joining the angry queue. “Have a nice night sir.” “And you too!” He waved to me. His countenance was warm. He wore a pair of glasses that made him look like a student that reads 25 hours a day. “Oga you too talk!” sell Ogi fifty naira, Akara fifty,  make I comot from here.” A round woman shouted. She had tribal marks lining her dark chocolate skin. Her voice was louder than a car horn. “Mama, Emabinu ooo,” My Igbo accent betrayed my plea in Yoruba. “Omo Igbo le le” she murmured. “Egba ma.” I handed her her parcel and she gave me exactly a hundred naira note. Whahala woman. She makes the loudest noise and buys the smallest number of Akara. “Could you please sell fried potatoes to me?” I fell in love with the voice even before raising my head to see the face. She was slender. Her unbraided hair was full and packed with a thick baby blue ribbon. I had seen her face before. She is probably in my faculty but I was certain she was not in my department. My God, she was damn cute. If I wasn’t careful, I could walk blindly into the boiling oil beside me. But I chose to maintain my focus. Business is oil, Pleasure is water; the two are immixable. I reminded myself of  Demola’s speech. “How much own…” Should I complete my sentence with “ma” or “my dear”? “…my customer?” I concluded. “Just two hundred naira own,” her voice rang repeatedly in my head. I used my eyes to count the potatoes left. It was just a few left and I was frying some fresh one already. “It wouldn’t be enough oo. Please, could you exercise some patience? I am frying a new set.” I pleaded with a soft smile. “Okay, no problem.” her thin voice was unique and caught my full attention. I struggled hard to remain focused. I even tried to talk myself out of my love illusion. What if she disappoints me again like Amaka? What if she’s proud and snubs my moves? What if she… “I have seen you somewhere,” she started to my amazement. “Yeah, me too.” I ran to stir the potato before the lower side of it got burnt, “Are you in the faculty of Tech?” “Yeah,” surprise stained her voice. I started draining the potatoes out of the large oil-filled pan. The firewood beneath the coal pot crackled in a low baritone. The smoke that emanated from it was confused: let’s go north; no, steer

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