“Anyone who is able to weave a good story is my hero any day” – Interview with Olakunle Ologunro

“Anyone who is able to weave a good story is my hero any day” – Interview with Olakunle Ologunro

TABLE TALK

“Anyone who is able to weave a good story is my hero any day” – Interview with Olakunle Ologunro

As the Kreative Diadem Annual Creative Writing Contest enters its second year, we had an engaging chat with the winner of the maiden edition in the flash fiction category, Olakunle Ologunro. His short story ‘Pampers’ was published in the Queer Africa 2 anthology, and republished in Queer Africa: Selected Stories, his flash fiction ‘And They Were Laughing’ was published in LitroUK.
In this interview, Ologunro discussed his passion for writing and the struggles he has encountered on his journey to find his voice in the literary world. Enjoy.

 

KD: Who is Olakunle Ologunro? Let’s meet you!
 
Ologunro: Hello! I am Olakunle Ologunro, a final year student of English in the University of Ilorin, Nigeria.

Olakunle Ologunro

Winner of the 2017 Kreative Diadem Annual Creative Writing Content (Flash Fiction Category)

KD: When did you first discover your passion for writing, what inspired you?

Ologunro: I honestly don’t know. I read quite a number of books while I was growing up, and because reading and writing go hand in hand, it is possible that my writing must have picked up from there.

KD: What are some of the challenges you face as a writer? What steps do you take to overcome them?

Ologunro: Oh, the general ones: Self-doubt and acute self-criticism; moments of feeling like I’m not made for this writing thing; moments of ‘Why the heck is this story not surrendering itself to be written?’
How I overcome it: I sleep. Or I go visit a friend. Or I check my WhatsApp and Facebook. Or I count my blessings. Anything, I just don’t remain at the table mulling over my problems. I leave them to cool and them come back to attack them or be attacked (again) by them.

KD: Who are some of the literary figures that inspire you/you look up to?

Ologunro: I’m not specific/limited. I draw inspiration from a number of sources that would be too numerous to list. But to put it simply, anyone who is able to weave a good story is my hero any day. I am not bothered if that person has never published a book, or if s/he is a multiple award-winning author.

 

But to put it simply, anyone who is able to weave a good story is my hero any day. I am not bothered if that person has never published a book, or if s/he is a multiple award-winning author.

KD: In 2017, you won first prize in the flash fiction category of Kreative Diadem’s annual writing contest. How did you feel about winning?

Ologunro: Surprised. Then excited. And then panicky.

KD: Let us get down to your flash fiction. What was the inspiration behind Imole? Was there a specific message you intended to pass along to the reader?

Ologunro: Would you believe me if I said that the idea for ‘Imole‘ came to me from nowhere? I can’t remember what I was doing then, but the line, “Your mother, belle of the ball, wanter of things beyond her capacity,” came to me. I think I wrote it down so I would not forget, or maybe I did not. The rest of the story followed that line of thought. The writing happened speedily, but the editing was not as speedy.

And no, I wasn’t interested in passing a message. At least that was not my foremost intention. I understand that people who read it might take away a lesson or two, but while I was writing it, all that mattered was telling a story that seemed ripe enough to be told.

KD: Apart from winning first prize in the flash fiction contest last year, what are some of your other achievements? (Awards, nominations, published works, etc.)

Ologunro: I placed second in a writing contest by Naija Stories, was a finalist for the Awele Creative Trust Award, was shortlisted for the Gerald Kraak award anthology, longlisted for the inaugural AMAB-Home of Books Foundation Prize. My short story ‘Pampers’ was published in the Queer Africa 2 anthology, and republished in Queer Africa: Selected Stories, my flash fiction ‘And They Were Laughing’ was published in LitroUK, and my recent short story ‘A Nonrequired Guide to Writing Love Stories’ appears on Brittle Paper.

KD: Are you currently working on any books at the moment?

Ologunro: No, I am not. I wish I was, though.

KD: What advice would you give to aspiring writers like yourself, especially in Nigeria?

Ologunro: “When it gets too tough to go on, remind yourself that if you can survive in Nigeria, a thing like writing is too small to break you.”
Just kidding. I cannot think of a good advice presently, but I’d suggest listening to Hall of Fame by will.i.am and The Script. The song found me years ago, and every line of it could easily be a watchword.

 

KD: What do you think about Kreative Diadem?

Ologunro: I think that they are doing a good job. To find a space (online or physical) invested in the growth and support of young writers and talents, is a great means of encouragement, something that we all need in large doses.

KD: Any final words?

Ologunro: Thank you so much for this chat. Thank you for thinking I have something important to say, something worth reading, and for reaching out. I hope we get to do this again.

 

“Believe in your dream; believe you have something to say to the world” – Interview with Chiamaka Nwangwu

“Believe in your dream; believe you have something to say to the world” – Interview with Chiamaka Nwangwu

TABLE TALK

Believe in your dream; believe you have something to say to the world” – Interview with Chiamaka Nwangwu

As the Kreative Diadem Annual Creative Writing Contest enters its second year, we had an engrossing chat with the winner of the maiden edition in the poetry category, Chiamaka Nwangwu. She made the longlist for the Nigerian Students Poetry Prize in 2016. Her essay, ‘My Book Affair’ was published on TheAfroReader, a literary blog in 2017.

In this interview, Nwangwu discussed her passion for writing and how she got the inspiration behind her winning poem, ‘Lights Out.’ Enjoy.

KD: Who is Chiamaka Nwangwu? Let us meet you!
 
Nwangwu: Hello. I am Chiamaka Doreen Nwangwu. I am from Nsukka in Enugu state. I live in Lagos. I am currently in my 4th year of undergraduate law at the University of Ibadan. I think I am a bit of a romantic. I love reading; I have a fondness for African literature. I also write a little.

Chiamaka Nwangwu

Winner of the 2017 Kreative Diadem Annual Creative Writing Content (Poetry Category) 

KD: When did you first discover your passion for poetry, what inspired you?

Nwangwu: I did not exactly have a passion for poetry but literature in general. I consumed any book that piqued my interest, whether poetry, prose or drama. I think continuous reading motivates you to write. One of the first complete poems I wrote was in JSS1. Nothing special happened before that. I just picked up a pen.
I must mention however that I was deeply inspired by my elder sister. She kept a red book in which she wrote beautiful poetry. I remember the titles and I remember the words, I felt like if she could write so well at such a young age, then maybe I could someday.

 

KD: What are some of the challenges you face as a poet? What steps do you take to overcome them?

Nwangwu: The dreaded writer’s block. The start that you are afraid you cannot finish. The words not fitting or sounding right. The gnawing fear that you might one day be unable to produce poetry. I face these ones.
I try to be patient with my poetry. I keep trying until it sounds right. I usually finish a poem I start. If I am blocked, however, I leave it. I read any kind of literature that usually motivates or spurs me and then I go back to it. I write for myself so I try not to put pressure on myself. If the words come today, I will put them on paper but if not then hopefully tomorrow.

KD: Who are some of the literary figures that inspire you/you look up to?

Nwangwu: I think I am blessed to have been born in a world in which Chimamanda Adichie and Chinua Achebe lived. Their books inspired me and showed me that my story too can be represented in literature. I adore the modern poetry of Warsan Shire, Rupi Kaur, and Ijeoma Umebinyuo.

 

“Believe in your dream; believe you have something to say to the world. Don’t put down the pen.”

KD: In 2017, you won first prize in the poetry category of Kreative Diadem’s annual writing contest. How did you feel about winning?

Nwangwu: I was surprised to be honest. I usually do not put my mind to these kinds of things. I try not to get my hopes up so that I do not suffer a huge disappointment if things do not work out the way I want. I was pleasantly surprised. It gave me confidence that my poetry was indeed good. My elder sister always praised my poems but she has to, I am her little sister. Winning an actual competition gave me a bit of external validation and I am eternally grateful.

KD: Let us get down to your poem. What was the inspiration behind Lights Out? Was there a specific message you intended to pass along to the reader?

Nwangwu: I remember there was a fuel scarcity at the time and I passed a fueling station around where I live. There were so many cars at different angles, filled with different people. Others were carrying jerry cans and they looked determined to get petrol that night no matter the cost. I think I just went home that night and started to write.
I tried to capture the plight of different classes of Nigerians and how we are collectively affected by the poor power sector. I want my reader to connect with the problems posed by the power sector in Nigeria and vow to do better if put in a position in power. I hope that anyone who reads the poem, in general, feels motivated to make a change for good in Nigeria.

KD: Apart from winning first prize in the poetry contest last year, what are some of your other achievements? (Awards, nominations, published works, etc.)

Nwangwu: I made the longlist for the Nigerian Students Poetry Prize in 2016. My essay My Book Affair was published on TheAfroReader, a literary blog in 2017. I am really hoping for more accolades.

KD: What are some of your long-term goals as a writer?

Nwangwu: Well, I honestly would like to write a lot more. I want to move into the prose genre fully and it would be amazing to be published by the New York Times for my work. I would like to publish my first novel at 25.

KD: Are you currently working on any poems/books at the moment?

Nwangwu: Yes, I am.

KD: What advice would you give to aspiring poets like yourself, especially in Nigeria?

Nwangwu: Keep reading. Keep writing. Keep motivating yourself, because you will not always receive encouragement from your peers. Believe in your dream; believe you have something to say to the world. Don’t put down the pen.

 

KD: What do you think about Kreative Diadem?

Nwangwu: I applaud anybody, society or organization that celebrates the aspiring Nigerian writer. I love that Kreative Diadem does this by publishing poems and short stories, encouraging submissions and organizing competitions in an effort to award literary excellence. I hope that Kreative Diadem keeps up the good work.

 

KD: Any final words?

Nwangwu: Step out of the ordinary.

 

Imole by Olakunle Ologunro (1st Position – Flash Fiction Category)

Imole by Olakunle Ologunro (1st Position – Flash Fiction Category)

Imole by Olakunle Ologunro (1st Position – Flash Fiction Category)

Flash Fiction Category

1st Position –  Imole by Olakunle Ologunro

1.
Here you are, on a mat in your mother’s small, dark living room, wet with your own sweat, burning with an interminable fever. But it doesn’t begin here. Not really. So how does it—this dampness in your soul, this fading of your memories, this pain—begin?
1a.
Let’s say it begins your mother. Your mother, belle of the ball, wanter of things your father cannot provide. If it begins with her, then it must include your father, too. Your father, acquirer of things beyond him, husband of an exotic woman whose maintenance tag his clerk salary cannot settle.
Your parents said that it was love at first sight, that they met each other at the lobby of a banking hall in the nineties and had simply fallen in love with each other and married months later, but you learned later that this was not totally true. “It was your father that fell in love with me first,” your mother told you when you turned fourteen, when she flung a bowl of soup at your father because he could not buy her the imported Carossi shoes that was the new craze among Lagos socialite women.
She held you as she wept for the things she could have had, things your father could of course never afford, your father who answered Yessah! to boys he could have given birth to if he’d married early, your father who owns three shirts, two trousers and one tie, clothes he wears with the pious devotion of a Jehovah Witness persistently knocking on doors that were slammed shut in his face.
1b.
“You are the light of my life.” Your father’s first words when he held you the day you came into the world. But you did not know this, little baby that you were. You did not know that you were, to your father, everything your mother never was.
You, named Imole seven days after your birth, were an avenue for your mother to need more, to stretch your father thin, like elastic. Baby clothes from Macy’s or Kingsway, or nothing. Thirty thousand naira to buy diapers and wipes, or nothing. All these your father provided, sinking steadily into debts.
And then your father, neck-deep in debt, could not afford Carossi shoes to make your mother stay, your mother who was already one leg out the door. So she left, with a bag full of the things she’d bled your father to buy. With you.
End of your father’s chapter. Now, your mother’s.
2.
To leave a man because of a pair of shoes was silly, yes, but your mother didn’t care. She’d always wanted to be set free, to fly, like a bird. So she flew, with you in tow; mother hawk teaching her daughter to walk. She flew straight into the bed of Alhaji Owoseni, pot-bellied, with rings of fat for a neck. And you followed her choicelessly, like a lady-in-waiting for the queen.
Alhaji was, as they say, rich as sekere, and this he clothed your mother in: Yards and yards of expensive lace. Imported hair so soft, so out-of-this-world. Jewelry enough to tempt a robber. Brassieres and panties so flimsy it seemed cut out of mosquito nets. And all these your mother soaked herself in, while your father pined for you, his happiness. And for her, the love he never stopped loving.
And then, Alhaji died while in bed with your mother. They had been going at it that afternoon, your mother yes-yess-yesssing, Alhaji ah-oh-ahhing. All of a sudden, Alhaji began to shiver violently, foaming at the mouth, white froth of saliva and things unknown. Your mother’s scream called you in, to see Alhaji’s penis, short and fat, standing up, like David on a fallen Goliath, to see her too, naked, her vagina fenced with wisps of curly black hair, her breasts already taking the downward slope home.
Your mother picked the nearest dress she could find: her boubou, and fled. The rest of the news you heard in bits: Alhaji was epileptic. Alhaji almost died. Alhaji’s wives would rip your mother apart if they ever set eyes on her. Your mother with her vagina like burial food. Ashewo olobo saara.
2a.
One question: How do you come crawling back into dirt after months of affluence?
2b.
Your mother swore she would not return. Never. So she became a street light, heavily bright by night, and sleepily unadorned by day. Your mother became a woman who pleasured other women’s men. With the money in her account from her time with Alhaji, she got herself a small apartment in town. This you stayed in and waited while she slept by day. And at night when she morphed into a streetlight, you began your own dreams.
3.
Now, you.
You, sweet sixteen, with breasts as round as sweet oranges. You, flower-pretty, a carbon copy of your mother. You swore you would not be her, but would go out and, like your name Imole, be a light unto the world. You would be an actress or a singer or a writer. You would have fame and money so much that even a wave of your hand will rain money. You would bring your father back, make him become the man he had always wanted to be. You would fix your mother too, seal up the hunger in her belly with enough money and she would have all the things she wanted. You would be a light.
4.
Until Sir.
That was what your mother called him the day she brought him home. This is Sir, she said simply. You thought she meant Sa as in Samuel but she said no, Sir as in Yes Sir.
4a.
Sir had legs as thick as tubers of yam. On his chest and up his neck was hair so dense, you could make wigs out of it. Sir enrolled you in college, paid your school fees and bought you underwear and earrings that brought out the glow in your eyes. Sir called you Delight and when you complained, he said that Light, which was the English form of your name was still there. You liked Sir. At least you thought you did, until the day your mother told you while Sir was out that Erm, she needed a car and Sir had promised to buy it for her, but … but he wanted something else in exchange.
What?
You.
4b.
Of course, you would not do it, you said to her and walked away, angry. But your mother, wanter of things beyond her capacity, never take no for answer. You ought to know this.
4c.
It happened while you slept. Your mother herself ground the tablets and poured them in your soup. And when you woke up to the sharp pain between your legs, dried semen on your thighs, you felt your light begin to dim, to fade.
5.
Your mother got the car and you, a pregnancy. All of a sudden, the car didn’t seem to matter anymore. Your mother wept and tore at her braids and said, “Yeh! Temi baje.”
You wanted to stab her with a kitchen knife until your fingers were sticky with her blood.
Afterwards, Sir came and said he was sorry, that perhaps the condom tore or something. Your mother screamed, a scream that died when Sir wrote her a cheque. Minutes of whispered discussion passed, and then, Sir said he would be back. Your mother cuddled the cheque. You waited. One hour later, Sir returned with another man.
He smelled like stale bread, this man. He pulled down your eyelids and gave you a multicolored selection of drugs that looked like sweets. You swallowed, and while you were resting, lumpy blood ran down your legs. Pain shot up your belly and you screamed. Your mother herself drove you to the hospital, where it was said that Sir’s man gave you an overdose of the wrong drugs and these drugs would begin to corrode your womb. They would try their best, they said, but if only you’d not taken those drugs, perhaps things might not be complicated.
A medical way to say: begin to make funeral arrangements.
6.
You lie on a mat in your mother’s house now, your belly too sore to hold anything down. Your dreams are slipping away. You are your own light, but in the harshness of your pains, the world is too dark to see anything. Beside you is your mother, you know that. Your mother, belle of the ball, root of your calamity. “You will be fine, my baby,” she says. You know you won’t. She has called your father, the same man she once swore she would never go back to. Your father will come rushing in thirty-eight minutes from now, eleven minutes and two seconds after you are dead. Your father will not meet any light. He will, instead, meet nothing but darkness.
END

Racing Stars by Okhuosami Umar (2nd Position – Flash Fiction Category)

Racing Stars by Okhuosami Umar (2nd Position – Flash Fiction Category)

Racing Stars by Okhuosami Umar (2nd Position – Flash Fiction Category)

2nd Position –  Racing Stars by Okhuosami Umar

For as long as I can remember, my mother had two wishes; to hold my hand on my wedding day and marry me off well- preferably to Abubakar; our Imam’s first son. Humble, handsome Abu who always had on giant specs and stood so tall, most people had to raise their heads to make eye contact.
By all definitions Mama was extra; her happiness as infectious as her anger, terrifying. She and Papa were on first name terms and spoke to each other only when necessary. She complained about everything; money, food, clothes, even his family. In times of anger, the veins in her neck popped up and her facial wrinkles deepened. Papa knew then to be quiet. As I got older and understood biology, I often wondered how they managed to make me; this frigid mismatched couple.
That Abu and I end up together was desired and ordered. As often as she could, Mama admonished me to pay greater attention to make-up and house-hold chores. “Bend properly and hold that broom. Your waist is not made of iron is it?” Other times, she’d look me over and take off my wrapper, retying it to the left: “It goes to the left. Nobody can say I did not teach you.” My complaints against this odd betrothal got weaker with time until I was wholeheartedly enthralled. Every Friday with a fast-beating heart, I wore one of my favorite jellabas and stayed behind for Muslim Students’ meetings. With all my heart, I wished someday, Abu would notice me even with as little as a nod but repeated stolen glances confirmed my suspicions. He did not fancy me.
***
Papa died in his sleep on a cold September morning two days before my fourteenth birthday. A vicious sandstorm caused formalities to be postponed till the next day. I don’t quite remember which was worse; the whirling, blinding haze or Mama’s insufferable theatrics. We had to show a proper level of grief. “Bring my scissors and mirror Hafsa” she ordered. I sat on the tiled floor between her corpulent legs, eyes shut and careful not to enrage her by any form of disobedience. Masses of rich black curly hair caressed my face as they fell enveloping me in an aura of what I considered naked ugliness. Quivering with sobs, I took off my pink flowery gown and covered the thin frame underneath in an oversize wrapper. Waves of hot harmattan air blew into our dimly lit room provoking a cough spasm and leaving brown dust on Mama’s favorite blue coverlet.
“Allah, be quiet. Your hair will grow back.” she hissed with disgust. Dry weather always put her in a rage. “You should be angry with your father, not me. What did I ever do to make him treat me this way?”
The words hung on my lips. Did she really expect him to defeat rabies? If she had not demanded pap at all costs that night, Papa would not have jumped our new neighbor’s fence and bang repeatedly on the deaf trader’s door only to get bitten by her mad dog. She should have insisted on taking him to the hospital even when family and friends said native herbs worked best. Dying is better than ceaseless barking anyway.
***
“Your classmate, Amina is getting married this weekend” Mama said shifting her stool so she could face me square, her face enclosed in a frown. I was home on holiday from university. She continued the speech, apparently reassured by my silence while I chastised myself for not making my visit shorter.
“Her mother invited me last week. I have sewn my aso-ebi and told my union people to prepare, that you and Abu are next.”
I grunted okay but my mother will never back down.
“Everybody is already talking about it. I keep showing up for people. When will they show up for me too?”
“Mummy I will not marry Abubakar.” I stared hard at her, eyes narrowed to slits.
If my warning was perceived, it had no effect as she simply ignored it. “And why won’t you? What is wrong with him? He has graduated, is working and Muslim.”
“Why? Perhaps, you can force him to marry me” I shouted, angry in spite of myself.
“Who do you want then? It is not as if you tell me anything. I have not heard you on the phone with a man since you came back despite my careful watch. Nor has one come calling. Do you think it is your books you will marry?”
This was my cue. I returned to school and cannabis. I was no addict. Only a little now and then to keep body and soul together.
Mama was ecstatic when she learnt I had graduated with my mates. She hugged me, crying and laughing at the same time. Her old, puffy cheeks against my youthful skin felt made a dream of heaven. For a moment, I imagined what it would feel like to stay this way forever; this old woman happy because of me. “You get your brains from me” she repeated over a dozen times. We invited friends, hired a caterer and bought souvenirs for the induction party. A night to my big day, Mama threw herself into hysteria.
“It’s nothing my dear” she said wheezing while I pleaded with her to confide in me.
“Your father should be here. First your brother- Ismail was stillborn and Mama had never mentioned him, now him. I cannot do this.”
“You can’t what ma?” I could hear my heartbeats and the unsolicited excuses I’d be making to friends on her behalf with a fake smile the next day.
“Sorry Hafsa but I am too tired. I must be ill. Oh, I am so unlucky” she wailed.
Nobody whistled loudly or clapped too long when the Head of Students called out: “Yakubu Hafsa.” That day marked a turning point in my relationship with Mama. We wouldn’t talk for years.
***
Time flew by and in June 2000, she texted me her diagnosis. We had a cold, formal relationship in place by then. I journeyed back to meet a withered lady in dirty, tattered clothes. When she smiled, the mouth sores were painful to see. The stench from her diabetic foot ulcer gave me goose bumps. Massive cobwebs dangled from the ceiling everywhere in the house. Rodents lived amongst her unsold wares.
I cleaned, burned the stock, washed Mama’s clothes, cooked her a healthy meal, dressed the wounds and drove to see a specialist. The town’s general hospital offered me a post which I accepted. At first, I missed the hustle of the big city terribly but soon came to appreciate the ordered, predictable nature of my work. Mama stayed on admission for four months. Following her discharge, we sat on the porch every evening and gossiped; about Abubakar and his three wives, the new set of stalls being built for which she will be named: “market Chairlady,” my promotion to Chief Laboratory Scientist and my future husband- our Imam offered his hand and I said yes although, Mama thinks he is too old.
The wedding held two days before eid. My friends from the city attended. I asked for the Qur’an as dowry. Mama wore a flowing brown jellaba and matching silver shoes. Her grey hair rolled in a knot, uncovered. I wore a maroon-purple jellaba and veil encrusted with tiny, shiny stones. My unruly hair was carefully oiled and combed into a bun. Black medium heels completed the ensemble. We did our make-up, she designed shapes with red henna on my fairish skin and held my hand as we trekked to the nearby mosque in a small group of family and friends. I became a married woman within minutes.
***
At the outskirts of our village far away from areas inhabited by men and crops, accessible only through a narrow path lined on both sides by frightful shoulder-high weeds, lies a patch of land ever so slightly undulating. There are no visible markers of any kind but my cousin swears he can point at both spots blindfolded. It often worries me that I will never know where Mama and Papa rest in their final sleep. I supplicate to The Merciful One on their behalf as I hope somebody would for me, when my turn comes. The moon will be a silvery orb tonight, glimmering from its fortress in the sky. Who knows, I might see those two chase each other again; the twinkling stars I can’t help but think, are Mama and Papa.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Okhuosami Umar Faruq is a biochemist who has a passion for writing fiction and essays in his spare time. He sometimes writes for microcosms fic and has works under consideration across several journals/magazines.

Let the Day Break by Chukwuebuka Ibeh (3rd Position – Flash Fiction Category)

Let the Day Break by Chukwuebuka Ibeh (3rd Position – Flash Fiction Category)

Let the Day Break by Chukwuebuka Ibeh (3rd Position – Flash Fiction Category) 

3rd Position –  Let the Day Break by Chukwuebuka Ibeh

    Today, your wife would kiss you at the doorway, a firm press of her lips against yours, lingering and unsure, and then her tongue sliding into your mouth, not the usual breezy kisses hurriedly planted on your cheek often. She would lead you into the sitting room and tell you she had made something special for you herself. Would you like the Onugbu soup or Oha or Jollof rice? When you say, still unsure what exactly she was up to, that you didn’t want to have anything, she would pause to stare at you briefly, and then she would ask in a small, defeated voice, ‘Would you like to have a bath straightaway then?’
   She would watch you closely while you undressed to use the bathroom. There was something about her stare that unnerved you.  When she asked you if it was okay to join you in the bathroom, you would say, a bit too quickly, avoiding her curious stare, that today had been particularly uneventful and you’d rather be alone in the bathroom. She would touch your arm gently and kiss your cheek. Take it easy baby, she would say as you shut the door tentatively against her.
   These days, you avoided her. Ever since the doctor, a pleasant gentleman who seemed too young and too handsome to be a doctor, had held out an envelope to you and had told you in measured, solemn tones that this was not the end of the world, that you could still live a healthy life and enjoy a lovely marriage, you had begun to spend less and less time with your wife, conjuring imaginary business trips so you could lodge yourself in a hotel in GRA and drink yourself to stupor, bringing up tales of being too tired or sick or not really in the mood when she reached out for your flaccid penis beneath the sheets. And she was sweet, this wife of yours. She would caress your cheek and call you her poor baby. You work too hard sweetheart, she would say before she rolled over to ponder over one more night of disappointment, of implausible excuses that a child would doubt seriously. She was too much of a believer, this woman. Her optimism had always unnerved, even irritated you. But now, with your status hanging over you like a scepter, you were grateful for this optimism that surrounded her, this lack of questioning on her part.
  You would sit on the bed and watch her comb her hair in front of her dresser, swinging this way and that to get rid of the water in her hair. You would look at her legs, the smooth fairness that you ached to run your tongue over. But then, how could you possibly explain to your wife why you needed to use a condom in having sex when she was on pills and you had never needed an additional contraceptive in the past?
Babe, you would say, finally, barely louder than a murmur. But she would hear you and she would turn and walk up to you, smiling in that seductive way of hers that made your heart skip, already slipping the white towel off her body.
Babe, wait. You would say, fighting the urge to break down. So ignorant was she, so blithely unaware.
Is something wrong, sweetheart? She would say, standing directly in front of you now, cupping your chin in her palms.
 No.., you would begin. I mean.. yes. I went to see the doctor yesterday, you would say slowly, staring at the tiled floor below you because you could not bear to hold her gaze, the bewildered confusion in her hazel eyes. ‘There’s something I have to tell you.
I know she would say and for moments, the air in the room would float above you, too far from your reach. You would sit there, numb and unmoving while she slipped a pack of condom out from the drawer and dangle it before you. I got them yesterday, she would say, finally slipping the towel off her body.
   Later, after you came into the condom, you would prop yourself up on one elbow to watch her calm face, and you would ask her how she knew.
I saw the results of the test in your shirt pocket. She would say. Let’s not talk about it now, sweetheart. It’s better to have this discussion in the morning. Let the day break.
     Your relief would creep up slowly, gradually taking up the space of unbelief. You would look at her eyes and see your weakness in them. You would think of those times you came home late to find her asleep on the sofa in the sitting room while waiting for you. You would think of her persistent silence, her clam looks when you rambled about late meetings and traffic.  You would think of how undeserving you were of her goodness. You would think of the future, try to imagine what it would feel like now that she knew your status.
You would reach out to her as though to hug and kiss her at the same time, but you would bring her palms to your face instead and you would weep your gratitude into them.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chukwuebuka Ibeh studies History and International relations at the Federal University in Otuoke. He has had pieces published in New African Writing Anthology, Dwartsonline, Jotters United and elsewhere. He is a regular contributor with Bella Naija, Woke Africa and the New England Review of Books.

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