BROKEN TEARS by Akinsanya Damilola

BROKEN TEARS by Akinsanya Damilola

by | Oct 6, 2017 | FLASH FICTION, SHORT STORIES

BROKEN TEARS

by Akinsanya Damilola

“Broda please, please find me something, my belle dey crack, broda please, please abeg you.”
He said this line in the same precise version over and again as though he spent an entire day memorizing that part. I looked straight into his green eyes searching for a shred of lie in them but all I felt pity for the poor boy. The kind of pity I had for the boy who had lost his right arm to the whim of a drunken policeman wielding a gun. The kind of pity I nursed toward my first crush when she lost her father violently during the Boko Haram winter strike. The kind of pity I could not describe when my next-door neighbour was diagnosed of the Ebola Virus. The fair-skinned boy could not be more than ten. I could tell by looking at his unlined face that bore a sea of endless uncertainties. He was a Fulani boy on the busy Iwo Road with crinkly hair the colour of a coconut husk.
Owo yin da? The driver shouted, etching out his impatience with meaningful glances. His calloused manner must have disgusted a woman in the back row and a rowdy barrage of words ensued. It was at that point I realized the bus was full.

 

“Ki ni e wan ro?” He added. Maybe the bus conductor knew I had been thinking of Oyinda before the Fulani boy came. Maybe he knew I had been picturing Oyinda’s beautiful figure in my mind. Maybe he knew Oyinda and I had, earlier that day, being in the same lecture room and I had not learned anything from the whole sixty-eight-minute class. “Is that your sister?“ The man sitting beside me asked when he saw me staring at Oyinda’s picture on my phone- the one with her mum. Yes, I replied sharply to avoid further questioning. Unfortunately, the man was not one to give easily.
“She is very beautiful,” he added.
“Thank you, sir!” I said as I looked away- the universal signal of disinterest. The man still didn’t get the hint.

 

“She looks just like my daughter, with her wide smile on a naughty face. I lost her last month to meningitis,” he added sadly. I became febrile as a cold current ran down my spine. I tried to blot out the reality of his words but the statement had blindsided me. Meningitis! That was the same disease that the state health workers had come to my hostel to administer vaccines for. At first, I had snubbed the whole exercise writing it off as unhygienic because of the limited number of needles and syringes available. And there was a man who had lost his daughter to what could have been my killer.
“I’m so sorry sir,” as words managed to make their way out of my mouth. “She must have been an angel to you.” The man did not utter a word. He was looking in the opposite direction, fixing his deep-set eyes on the verdant hedges along the Lagos-Ibadan expressway. His eyes were filled with tears that trickled down like raindrops from a roof in September. The atmosphere between us was thick with sorrow.
“God will rest her soul in His bosom,” I said breaking the silence. The man looked at me, the wealth of sadness in his eyes piercing me like a knife as he said to me, “I hope she will be safe there.”

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Akinsanya Damilola(Akindavies), a final year student of the Faculty of Law at the premier University of Ibadan. He discovered his writing aptitude after an encounter with Richard Wright’s Black Boy a couple of years ago and has ever since written a considerable number of poems works and short stories. He is the recipient of the Lagos State (Alimosho Local Government) Essay Contest 2009 and was among the ten finalists of the Unesco Goi Peace Essay, 2015, among others. Away from writing, he has a fondness for trees and wildlife conservation.

LOVE by Eunice Oladeji

LOVE by Eunice Oladeji

by | Feb 7, 2017 | SHORT STORIES

LOVE

by Eunice Oladeji

Right after my parents died, I was packaged to my brother’s home. I was still in shock from watching my parents burn to death in a fire that I started. At an age where everything was fascinating and worth trying, I had lit a match close to a leaking gas cylinder. The explosion that ensued flung me against the edge of our kitchen table. My father was the first to get to me. Mother was upstairs, ill in bed. He carried me out and told me to run to our neighbors. He ran back inside to get mother, but neither of them made it out.

 
My brother, Gabe, had left home two years ago. He had concluded that the Christian lifestyle of my parents was below him. He had started clubbing, drinking heavily and bringing his girlfriends home. Mother tried her best to turn him from the wrong path he had chosen. Father took over fully when mother was diagnosed with cancer. I would not say father did a good job of advising Gabe because soon after, both of them had this big row and Gabe left home the next day. He got married to one Faye and got a house.

So, when father and mother died, there was nowhere else to go, except his house. Gabe and I were never close, so it was just strange and awkward at his place. It was worse with Faye, because I saw her as just one of the random girls that Gabe moved with, and not his wife. I desperately needed comfort and someone to share my grief and guilt with. I needed assurance that their death was not entirely my fault. I desired a hug to take away the pains that tore at my six-year-old heart. But, Gabe could offer me none of these. Things got worse a year later when Gabe and Faye divorced. Gabe said he could no longer cope with taking care of me. He put me up for adoption. I thought it was a joke, until my first foster parents walked up the front porch of Gabe’s house. I can’t recall the surname they came with, but I remember the cigarette smell that clung to them. After some hasty handshakes between the adults, I was taken to their green truck. I remember the color of the truck because I so much dislike green and that made me conclude I was not going to like that couple either. I was right.

 

That marked the genesis of my life as a foster child to more than three homes. The longest I stayed was in the third home, four years. By the time I was to go to the fourth home, I was fourteen. I had experienced more bad than good and had grown a bitter heart. I was going with rebellion brewing in my veins and was determined to fight against anyone and anything that attempted to add to my miserable state. No more was I the whimpering child seeking for any attention I could get. I was all out for war.
 
Mrs. Hans was my fourth foster mother. She was a very young and recently widowed woman. When I got to her place, I was first enchanted by the beautiful garden in front of her house. The flowers were gorgeously arranged and kept. I wondered if she was the one taking care of them. Inside, the house was even more captivating. There were splashes of many colors adorning the walls. Her wedding pictures hung on walls and stood on tables.

 

 

 

I had come prepared to fight hatred, but was ill-equipped for the love she showered on me. I did not know how to respond to her care, love and attention. In fact, I still rebelled and tried to throw her love back at her. I used rude words, hissed at her when she used the word love. I purposely disobeyed and avoided being with her as much as I could. All that was my way of testing if her love was real and lasting. She passed that test and won my heart. I gradually let go of the hurt and anger I had bottled up for a long time. I later learnt that the garden had been her husband’s idea and he had diligently kept at it for the two years of their marriage. When he died, she took over and made sure it was always neat. Six months on, she still enjoyed quiet moments sitting in the midst of the flowers planted and preserved by her husband’s love.
 
My fifth year with her, I gained admission into the university. I was so sad leaving her even for one session. Holidays were eagerly expected and were spent in precious moments of love. For me, it was love that sprouted amidst conflicting emotions and was nurtured till full blossom. That love had encompassed my very being and lifted lots of weights off my shoulders. I always went back to the university campus loaded with love and other essentials for living.

 

Three major things Mrs. Hans dealt with first were my faith in God, forgiving my brother and most importantly, forgiving myself. Once my faith was successfully restored, it was quite easy to forgive my brother. The hard part was forgiving myself. I could not deny that my curiosity had pushed me to do what I should not have done. The guilt I felt had grown into a deep fear of matches and naked fire. Mrs. Hans had a long and hard time convincing me to cook on my own. In my other foster homes, I never had to cook. Most times, I ate in restaurants or went hungry. My first successful cooking left me in tears of relief and joy, mixed with sad memories of father and mother.
 
I met with my brother the same day I lost my mother, Mrs. Hans. Unknown to me, Gabe had been tracking me throughout my transfers from one home to another. When he saw that I was well established with Mrs. Hans, he decided to come over. I was at church, preparing for a special Sunday ministration with the church choir. I was in the middle of a laugh with some of the choristers when Gabe walked in. It was a moment I had been waiting for and at the same time dreading. His face held lots of emotions and prominent among them was a pain.

 

I have never seen Gabe in tears and I have never felt those tears on any part of my body. As I drew him into a hug, I felt hot drops falling on my shirt and seeping through the fibres. When he finally pulled back, he said, “She is dead, I am so sorry.” Of course, it took me a long time to come to terms with the meaning of those words. When I finally did, I blacked out. He had walked into the house and met her ‘sleeping’. He made some deliberate noises intended to rouse her. After waiting for a response, he moved closer and called her name, she gave no response. He alerted our neighbors who also told him where he could find me.
 
Her burial was a quiet one. Apart from Gabe, the attendees had intimately known Mrs. Hans for at least ten years. I wept more than I did at the burial of my biological parents. That woman took me in at a time when she was still grieving, yet, she helped me rise above my own negativities. She helped me look and see beyond the dark tunnel I placed myself. Through her untiring efforts, I grew up into a better person than I could ever have imagined.
 
Over the next few months, before I left for my final year at school, I got to spend time with Gabe. I got the chance to show him and make him feel the same love I had known with Mrs. Hans. We picked up the thin thread that connected us and forged a bond, a tight bond. Gabe came looking for me with nothing to himself. When I left for school, he had love, a fast growing business and a house.
 
My name is Vik. In a day, I lost a family and gained a family back. Love is the principal thing.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
 
My name is Eunice Oladeji Oluwafolakemi and my pen name is PEO.  Starting from essays  written in secondary school, I discovered my flair for writing and the joy in it. I live in Nigeria with my family of writers; my parents and three siblings. I am a fifth year medical student in the University of Ibadan. I was born 4th February and I am from Osun state.
 
I like writing because it allows me create a world where things happen how, where and when I want them to. I can decide the past, present and future. I have written many poems, some short stories and I am still working on my first novel, although none has been published.
I believe, as a writer of faith, that someone, somewhere, only  needs to read at least a line of my writing to think, speak and act better.

 

THE MURDER (A SERIAL STORY) by Olutayo Owojuyigbe

THE MURDER (A SERIAL STORY) by Olutayo Owojuyigbe

by | Nov 17, 2015 | SHORT STORIES

THE MURDER (A SERIAL STORY)

 

Episode 1

There was blood everywhere— thick frank blood! How can anyone have this much blood? She gasped and quickly wiped her fingerprints off the pistol with the green shawl he had bought her for Christmas.

Mark wasn’t breathing, he wasn’t moving either, he looked really dead. She bent over him and felt for his carotid pulse but he had no pulse. Are you kidding me? It was just one bullet shot, it couldn’t possibly have hit him that hard, could it? Okay, maybe it could. She had shot him right in the head and the bullet had gone through his glabella all the way to the occiput— a clean breakthrough. Fortunately, the bullet hadn’t split his skull open. What would he need an intact skull for anyway? He was as dead as John F. Kennedy.

Caramel grabbed her tote bag and hurried out of the apartment. She thought of calling 911 but it seemed like a bad idea. When she got downstairs, she waved down a taxi and hopped in. “Malta Washington Street!” The Hispanic driver peeped at her through the rear-view mirror as though it was apparent that she had just killed a man, and she panicked. “Now!” she yelled at the man and he drove off.

 

The murder

 

 

When she got home, she went straight into the bathroom and washed the blood stains off her face but the blood stain was stuck on her jean jacket and she couldn’t get it off. She pulled off the jacket and hid it in the leather box underneath her bed.

She sat at the kitchen counter and poured herself a drink. She couldn’t stop thinking about it. She had really wanted to kill Mark but not with a gun, perhaps with a slow poison. She wanted him to suffer like she did, she wanted him to pay for all the years he had stolen from her, she wanted revenge and she had it, but she couldn’t believe she had killed a man with a gun.

Maybe he wasn’t dead, maybe someone would find him in his apartment before it is too late. But Mark was dead and there was no doubt whatsoever about that, she only wished she hadn’t killed him.

She turned on the TV in the living room and flipped through the channels, there was no news about a recent murder of a man named Mark Stone. She picked up her mobile phone to call her lawyer and then she hit an epiphany. No one needs to find out about Mark’s murder, no one needs to know that she killed him.

She sprang from the couch and went to get her tote bag from the bedroom. The gun, where was it? She hadn’t seen it since she got back home. She searched her tote bag for it but it wasn’t there. She panicked again. The gun was missing.

 

***************************************************************************************************

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK….

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OLUTAYO JOY OWOJUYIGBE is a 500L medical student of the University College Hospital, Ibadan. She believes in immortality via writing and loves to write about mysteries. She is currently working on her first novel.
THE CALL OF THE CROW

THE CALL OF THE CROW

by | Sep 19, 2015 | FLASH FICTION

THE CALL OF THE CROW

I did not know what to write, I had always searched for the right story everywhere in mind. Then my mother woke me up. It was midnight and the whole village was sleeping.

“Listen…” she whispered to my ear, and I waited for her to talk; she did not.

I thought my ear was not cleaned enough, so I cleaned it again and I waited, and still my mother said no word. I used to be impatient when it came about listening, but my mother’s smile could turn a burning heart into an enchanted garden. Yes, my mother’s smile could.

“Keep calm…” she whispered with that same smile.

I tried but there was that thought; my girlfriend would come for a visit tomorrow, so I kept picturing the lovely day we would spend together. My paper was still white and empty, and the night would end.

“Keep calmer…” again did she whispered.

I thought of a mighty sun that would wipe out the face of my girlfriend and leave an empty room. The room got emptied, and the sun was so mighty that no other image could set a foot in. I was sweating, because of the effort I had to make to fight the first word that would make my story.

“Calmer and calmer…” tenderly she whispered.

I was getting too tired, for the right word was not coming. Then I heard a crow from a distance.  “A crow… I thought, what is a crow doing there at this time of the night?” The lonely crow kept calling, no fellow replied. “Is the crow calling?” I asked myself, without thinking of it; I was still waiting for my mother to talk to me. She did not, only the voice of the crow flew in the darkness.

The voice of the crow

Then I saw the sunlight growing weaker. A little wind caressed my body and dried it and relaxed my mind, I felt a warm hand touching my wrist; when everything go in a deep darkness in my mind, I heard the voice of the crow closer, no longer calling with that dreadful voice, but telling a story with sweetness and harmony.

“I’m inspired!” I screamed with my heart, and my softened wrist started to write the words that where silently coming along.

I knew I had the right story, and that is how I got inspired. It was not the most beautiful story on earth, but it was a perfect one. I looked for my mother in the bed, and I could find her nowhere. My mother was out, not trying to manage a sleepless night; my mother was in her grave managing a sleepless life. And only my writings would take her to Peace.

RAY NDEBI

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

My name is Théodore René Ndebi, born in Cameroon. I graduated in Banking Management. But what really makes me proud and happy is WRITING !!!!! I started writing around 1990. I write the most I can.

I mostly write for children’s future. As a child, I had always dreamt of a world where poor children and orphans could be happy as well. I have many unpublished collections in French: Chaque Jour Un Poème, Rêve D’un Soir, La Missive Du Petit Prince, Suis-Je Assez Bien Pour Toi… I’m also author of unpublished novels in French (Cierge Noir, Plus Violent Que L’amour, Les Fruits De La Tempête…). My first published novel; THE LAST GHOST/Son Of Struggle got published in 2013 by AuthorhouseUK; it appears in the LOS Angeles Times Festival Of Books Catalogue 2014 Page 8. Available online @ Amazon, Kindle, AuthorhouseUK, Barnes & Noble, Indie. I wrote numerous award winning texts. I am a Book Reviewer and Translator. I am a member of OneAfricanChild since 2013 and Co-Founder of Le Salon Du Livre Yaounde-Cameroon. You can check my works on: authorrayndebi.wordpress.com.Ray Ndebi on Facebook, @RTNdebi on Twitter, Facebook Page My Soul & Mon Ame.

 

YOU NEVER KNOW YOU EVER KNOW

YOU NEVER KNOW YOU EVER KNOW

by | Jul 17, 2015 | SHORT STORIES

“YOU NEVER KNOW YOU EVER KNOW”

The students of St. Cornelius Methodist High School were on the assembly ground ready to exercise assembly activities. The boys were well dressed, looking attractive in their dark-blue shirt with shorts and the girls in pinafore. They do press their uniforms during the weekend break with some of them applying perfume to smell pleasant.

On Monday morning like this, they wake very early to arrive school in time in order to tidy up their school compound and then get set for the day’s work. This was what Mr. James Alfred had made obligatory for them since he resumed as their principal about two years ago.

Esulaalu was what the students had nicknamed him. He was short and dark like the outer surface of a local pot. He was strict and a disciplinarian. The teachers too knew him. He did correct them as if they were his students. Hence the cognomen.

This was name the students chorused when they saw him out of his office, coming to conduct the assembly this morning.

“He’s coming….is coming”

“Esu is coming…” They broadcast.

A long silence beckoned. At this moment, no one dare utter a letter. Even the teachers were wet as he approached.
In most schools around, Monday was a day that students usually look forward to, but in St. Cornelius the story was never the same. Their difficult times started immediately it’s Monday. At 6:00am, Mr. Alfred would have been in school, standing by the school gate once it’s 7:00am. Any student that came in a second afterward is a late comer. He had organized the number of strokes according to the minutes exceeded. His strokes started from five. No crime no matter how small can make him go below that.
Their hard times would soon continue on the assembly ground, especially on Mondays which he did conduct.

“Good morning…sir”. The students chorused.

“Good morning sir. Morning sir.” The teachers uttered. As if they had hot yam in their mouth, the only thing one could hear was ‘sir’

Like that of a roaring lion, slowly he replied ‘what is good about the morning! What?’ He asked.

With a thick mass of hair on his fore-head, he commanded the students to recite the national anthem after a thorough examination on their neatness.

“At ease”. He echoed.

“Attention”

‘The national anthem. 1, 2, 3…go!’

He stood like a general, so also the teachers. Reciting the song with the students with his eyes traveling all around. They were almost ending the anthem when his eyes landed onYakubu’s. The last boy on theSS1 line. Though he stood like others but what he was uttering wasn’t the national anthem. Mr. Alfred studied him well but did as if he noticed him not. After the recitation of the national pledge, the students hailed. Yakubu too. Had he knew, he wouldn’t have wasted his healthy voice on mere hailing as what would make him shout than he ever did was here.

“OkunolaYakubu, come out here”. The principal ordered.

Yakubu was no longer himself. The just merry of the national anthem had travelled at the speed of light. He had not gone for swimming neither had he ran a marathon but his body suggested he did. Sweats all over his body, down to his pant.

“This boy, while you’re all reciting the national anthem, he was there joining his mandible and maxilla together, pronouncing rubbish”.

“No..no si..r”.

He could not complete his statement when a resounding slap landed on his cheek.Holy-ghost slap. That was what the student called such and the recipient, holy receiver. For about one-to-two minutes, stars of kinds had let his retina. He began staggering like a drunk or rather one, searching in the dark. The students were lost laughter. They ought not, but they couldn’t help it.

‘What nonsense!’ roared the principal.

‘I was talking and you had the gut to interrupt. Oh! That I lied against you?

‘Good…good’

‘So let’s hear you then’.

Yakubu was totally confused. He knew he was now in two problem; that he could not recite the national anthem and that he had made the principal wear his original behavior.
He stood like a soldier with his hand visiting his face time without number, cleaning the frequent-dropping tears. He knew he cannot escape it.
What made him always at the back wasn’t because he was the tallest in his class, it was actually because of fear. He believed anyone stranding at the front should be bright as questions were often thrown to those at the front and he was never one.

‘Arise O Compation…’ he echoed, with a cracking voice.

The students again raised the laughter. Some of the teachers too showed their upper teeth in a jiffy. Yet all these could not move Mr. Alfred to even smiling, rather, he floggedYakubu eighteen strokes of the cane, instructing him to learn the song before the week ran out. Afterward, he addressed the students and they all marched into their various classes.

The classes were so noisy. Mr. Alfred would not exhibit annoyance that quickly. After all, they just marched in. he would think.

you never know

The football match played on Sunday night was the major discussion in SS1, where Yakubu belonged. The game that featured Chelsea FC against FC Barcelona. The final match of the UEFA champions league. The Barcelona football team took the early lead but their opponent eventually defeated them form 2-0 down. Hence the match ended 2-4 with the blues as they’re fondly called becoming the new UEFA champion
The result did not favour Yakubu. He could hardly sleep throughout the Sunday night. On Friday, before they went on weekend break, he had had a bet with Maduka that Barcelona would defeat Chelsea. He said Messi would bag hat-trick, Neymar brace so also Suarez. All that Yakubu said on Friday seemed true to Maduka. He knew Messi too well. Neymar and Suarez were as well dangerous, but with one mind, he believed anything can happen.
It’s Monday now and it’s Maduka’s turn to brag. Immediately he entered the class he had started shouting, hailing his team and punching his own chest. Everyone believed it was worth it except the girls. They did not know why he should be doing all those. Some of them were already saying they’d report him to the principal if he continued.
To avoid being ridiculed, some of the boys whose teams didn’t reach the final had joined Maduka in celebration. Whenever he echo ‘Up blues’ they would all chorus ‘For life’. All these Yakubu could not withstand but was pretending until Maduka did it to fault. He roamed to his seat, displaying the money they used as bet before him, making it touch his nose and other parts of his face.
No!Yakubu could not take that. He stood in annoyance and slapped him, immediately, they began fighting.

Mrs.Bankole was entering their class to take them English language when she saw the duo on the floor. All efforts made by their class mates to stop the fight did not materialize. But as soon as she entered, they voluntarily released each other.

‘Shio…Olodo’ saidMaduka.

‘It’s only fight that he knows, simple national anthem he could not recite’

‘….com-pa-tion’

He said all these with his heart beat beating like a drum. He was not happy with his performance for it was obvious Yakubu punched him more. Also, the rate at which their mates hailed Yakubu had revealed to him he lost.
‘Why are you fighting for goodness sake, why? MrsBankole asked.

‘Don’t even bother to tell me anything, ok? Just follow me to the principal’s office. Now!’. She said with her head moving as if it would fall. She was skinny and lacked adequate strength. All the strength shehad was to go to the class, fill the air with vocabulary and phonetics while teaching.

‘You again! Mr. Alfred roared.

‘In fact, the boy is now becoming a terror in this school’ said Mrs.Bankole with a light voice like that of a little child.

‘You know it’s not up to 10 minutes that I gave you eighteen strokes of the cane, you’re here again alleged of bad behaving’. Said the principal, pointing atYakubu on the floor where he had knelt.

‘Please, I want to know what actually happened. I’ve got a lot to do’. The principal enquired.

Maduka dusted his trousers as he stood to explain what he believed that happened. He said all in his own favour as he knew Yakubu is deaf to English.
When he finished, Mr. Alfred turned toYakubu to hear what he had to say. He was out of the planet as it was his turn to speak. He knew he need not ask whether he would explain in English. Yet, he had something to say.

‘Sir, he’s rude’. He said, confidently.

‘Rude?’ The principal said, as if he had not heard him clearly.
Yakubu thought he was incorrect so he changed his mind.

‘Yes Sir, he’s ruded’

‘What!Ruded? The principal said, amazed. Mrs.Bankole gasped. Maduka’s mouth wide opened.

In a short while,Yakubu had thought of many timesMaduka played rude to him and therefore he suggested to join them all together.

‘Will you speak good English! Mrs.Bankole roared.

‘Yes ma. He’s …he’s rudeded.

Mr. Alfred was totally frustrated. He did not know whether he was to stand or sit.Yakubu’s last statement almost cut his intestines. He later told Mrs.Bankole andMaduka to leave for the class. But for Yakubu, he gave him punishment after severe beating. He did not allow him enter the class room throughout the day. No food. Nothing.

‘No food for the idle’ Mr. Alfred thought.

When the ‘closing time’ time bell rang, it was as if Yakubu was thrown into an ice. He knew his suffering was over as it would be rare if Esu took him to his house to continue the punishment.
With a rocky voice but a friendly face, Mr. Alfred welcomed Yakubu back to freedom after six hours in discomfort.
He was very weak and sober. He fell as he practiced to walk. All his body parts could not obey him.

‘Who told you you’re not correct in the first place? The principal asked.

Yakubu was not interested in anything he had to say. He thought he had punished him for nothing and now trying to make plea. He sneezed constantly with mucus escaping his watery nose. His eyes red and back-bone, paining.

‘Your first sentence was actually right’ Mr. Alfred continued.

‘You lacked confidence in what you knew and you ended saying jargon which had made you suffer this way. Wellgoodluck in your endeavor. You can leave now’.

Yakubu could not believe his ears. He can’t just believe he suffered for something he knew. He pitied himself as he walked out of his office.

‘I never knew I ever know’. He said, weeping

Falling.

BY OLABISI SEYI_OMOTOSHO
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I  was born on 19th Feb. 1996. I hail from Ikire the land of Dodo, Osun state. I attended Holy Cross Catholic Primary School, Ikire. Having graduated, I was admitted to  Saint Augustine’s Commercial Grammar School where I was elected as the Social prefect boy of my set. I was then one of the competitors group, a group said to be the community of the intellectuals. Having succeeded in the secondary school, I opted to study Medicine in the great citadel of knowledge; The Lagos State University, Ojo which was successful but to a different course, Physics.

SHE HELD MY HAND

SHE HELD MY HAND

by | May 14, 2015 | SHORT STORIES

She Held My Hand

“Am leaving now”, she said. Everybody knew what that meant. It meant she had done her part and would therefore very much wish to be excused so that she attended to her other schedules. Who could have blamed her when everybody was leaving? Besides, we had by this time reached the final phase of our work. “Thank you so much for the service you have rendered, it really means a lot and we do appreciate”. That was the Chief Executive Officer commending her input as far as  project implementation  was concerned. However, being a kind of girl she was, she made sure to shake hands with everybody as a way of saying goodbye. So it happened that I was the last and that was it.

It was in the way she held my hand. It must have lasted for eternity and it spoke more than the silence which enveloped our souls. She deliberately interlocked her hand  with mine and caressed my palm. She then looked deep into my eyes again and smiled, this time blushing. I retained that gaze in the most excellent way, but her eyes so  watery and lazy, made me propound that she must have been raised in a faraway planet. Still looking deep into her eyes, I noticed something very exquisite…she had that longing to be with me. Sadly, I was just a poet and could anything good come from a poet?

It was in the way she held my hand

It was in the way she held my hand

But something good came from a poet that day, at least he expressed how he had felt when her soft hand found her way into his palm. The message I sent her that night must have caught her by surprise, for her response revealed something that I never knew existed in her hearts of hearts. She said I was the guy she always came to see, I was the guy she was so eager to go out with even if that meant giving up her job. Besides, it was only part time and the reason she had not quickly accepted full time employment at another reputable organisation unlike our own was that she had the faintest belief of capturing my attention. All she ever wanted was to see me everyday, to pass through my office and extend greetings so cozy and incalculable. I recollected all those cold mornings she brought  coffee to my office, I used to think it was just a virtue of her being a partner and she did that in the name of professionalism. I regretted all of the moments I had misconstrued her gestures for friendship for she expected more.

Questions started puzzling my mind, did she really have any idea how much dumbstruck her splendour made me feel all the times we were together? Did she at any point in time, recognize how

in all our conversations I was always the one who talked less and did more of the staring? That should have granted her the clue that I was interested in her perhaps even more than she was in me.

Nevertheless, it was in the way she held my hand that day which became a determining factor of our remaining years on earth for we vowed to spend them together….and we did.

Retelling the story as it was last week and the continuation will continue after this continuation)

By me, The God Centered Poet

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Wisdom Henry Magomero Uledi Studied Law at Staff Development Institute in Blantyre, Malawi. He is now The Publicity Secretary For The Church of Central Africa Presbyterian Youth Urban Ministry (CCAPYUM) resident in Malawi’s Capital, Lilongwe. The Spoken Word Poet is sobriqueted as “The God Centered Poet” For His recitals do the linking of souls by bringing them to Christ,in heavens wing..

Pin It on Pinterest