JESSE by Michelle Nnanyelugo

JESSE by Michelle Nnanyelugo

by | Oct 27, 2019 | ISSUE, Issue - Fiction

JESSE

by Michelle Nnanyelugo

I peered into the sitting room from the gallery where I stood with the lights beaming a smile at the stucco on the wall.

With a fling, I let go of my brother engrossed in a deep slumber, watching his brain pop out of his small skull. Milky particles mixed with blood and water. The air reeked of the malodour from his bowels.

The wall belched, echoing Jesse’s name. He was just two, my only brother whom mother bore in her old age. They were inseparable.

A tiny voice in my head pushed me to throw him. I had nursed this thought for a long time that I decided to vent my spleen.

By the time I caught a glimpse of mama, her blurry eyes clouded with tears, sunken cheekbones, and pale look, with trembly knees that could barely carry her, she had slumped.

Source: From the Rebel Issue (October 2019)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MICHELLE NNANYELUGO. With a flair for speaking, Michelle dabbles in spoken word artistry and podcasting. Poised to reinstate people’s mindsets by causing a paradigm shift, she is a thought therapist. Currently breaking out of her confines, she has a lot running through her mind, hence scribbles for a living. When she is not volunteering, she is either observing or exploring. A wanderlust who believes we can live in a better world, if only we contribute our quota to humanity. 

JOG IN THE RAIN by Carl Terver

JOG IN THE RAIN by Carl Terver

by | Mar 19, 2019 | FLASH FICTION, RESOURCES

JOG IN THE RAIN

by Carl Terver

She saw the new pair of trainers in the cupboard, fine white things wrapped in a transparent bag. Only, the size was smaller. She knew Dami jogged every morning because she had been waking up beside him these days.

Dami was a quiet guy, in a way any hermit would covet. He smiled gently and walked as if his heels avoided the ground. Nobody knew what he did save that he jogged every morning.

‘Maybe you should jog to Lagos one of these days,’ she said to him when he returned from one of his jogging adventures in the morning, while she gave him a glass of water. As he gulped the liquid his eyes fell on her belly whose bulge, which he expected to see, was not showing. ‘I would,’ he answered.

She kept a journal since she moved in with him because she knew her life had changed. She had fallen in love with him and now was out of school because of the baby. She had to write down the things noteworthy of this change, like the uncanniness of her lover whom she knew only a pinch of; the man she’d spend the rest of her life with, maybe.

There was little conversation that went on between the two of them. With someone like Dami, it was hard to start one. When she’d left her father’s house for his place, she’d expected to meet him very unsettled, but he wasn’t. He’d simply asked, ‘You’re pregnant?’ looking at the luggage she carried. ‘Yes,’ she had nodded.

♣

‘How do you feel’ he asked.
‘Fine. Okay.’
He sat on the arm of a cushion, perspiration all over him. A collection of poetry was on the table. ‘You’re reading poetry?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I found it.’ She didn’t want him to take her up on it. Before now she’d only known poetry as a form of art, especially inspired by love.
‘You know, there’re some poems marked there. There’s this particular one.’

♣
She met him at an art exhibition. She’d seen the flyer for the exhibition on Instagram. The venue was close to her house. She was more curious than interested; art had nothing on her. The only thing she knew closest to art was her little brother’s pencil drawings.
‘It’s called abstract painting,’ he had said to her when he noticed the painting’s magnetic effect on her.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ she had responded, turning to the voice that had interrupted her sudden affinity to colours on canvas. And something had buckled inside her. He was saying something about the painting, how the kind was done to make humans see beyond the ordinary …
‘It’s transcendent,’ she finally said.
They both shook hands and talked for a while. She had wanted the painting but couldn’t afford it. ‘You can have it,’ he’d said to her.
‘Thank you,’ she said, repeatedly, till the moment the painting was packaged and given to her. Even as she collected it, she curtsied still saying, ‘Thank you.’
The following days it was the word ‘transcendent’, and not her gratitude, that Dami remembered like the tune of a naughty song you kept humming because you woke up with it on your lips.
♣

 ‘… ‘The Good Morrow’. Have you read it?’ he continued.
‘No,’ she said.
‘You should,’ he said, too.
She was quiet as she sat on another cushion. The conversation had yielded things to write down in her diary.
The room was big, deliberately so. It was both bedroom and living room without demarcation. There was a bed at the far end by the windows. There was the wardrobe. Everything in its place. Small stools, a study corner with a table lamp, a miniature shelf (he wasn’t a heavy reader), and other hardware.
‘It’s a big compound . . . Where is everybody?’ she asked.
He started joltingly, then recollected himself. She hadn’t seen it, he thought.
‘In Canada.’
It wasn’t enough. Her brows went up.
So, he continued. “My father used to, well, still works with this manufacturer. He had a big promotion. He took everybody…’
‘Except you,’ she finished.
‘I was in the Navy. I could have followed them then, but I had other plans.’
‘What plans?’ she asked.
‘Well, I calculated. After ten years I could resign from the Navy with a pension, and I would have the house. Just me. Alone.’
Then, she wondered if she had intruded on his aloneness. Her eyes were focused on a point on the wall. She followed his conversation, but his voice came to her from the point on the wall.
‘Did you see it?’ he asked.
‘The trainers?’ she thought, saying.

♣

They walked past the area in front of the porch of the house. The front door to the house was locked. And she commented, ‘I was looking around. It’s like every other part of the house is locked.’
‘I think so,’ he replied.
The ground of the compound was filled with gravel, strands of grass shot up from the pores. The coat of paint on the walls nearer to the ground had turned to flakes, revealing cracks that resembled the boundaries on a map, some part of it, fallen off. Spirogyra fried by the sun coated the walls, too. They passed an overhead water tank, inhaling the rust on the metal architecture that supported the tank, their feet making crunching sounds against the gravel.
They were now at the backyard.
He produced a key and inserted into a lock to a door that was hidden in dried vines. It opened into a void. Blankness. They couldn’t see anything; just shafts of light from windows high up the walls of the interior that shaped into a hangar sort of. A sound was heard – the click of a light switch – and the space was flooded with fluorescent lights. She said nothing. She just stood and took in the sight.
On the night of that day, as she lay on the bed before slumber came to borrow her consciousness, her eyes were wet. There wasn’t much to know about her lover than she would know, but she knew he was the man God had sent to her.
‘I’m an artist. I paint, but I don’t like people knowing about it,’ he’d told her when they both stood at that door gazing into the plethora of easels and canvases and paintbrushes and colours and brightness.

♣

It began drizzling in the early hours when Dami presented the new pair of trainers to her to try on. It was a bit funny to her, but she did.
‘I want us to jog today,’ he said.
‘Today? It’s raining, my pregnancy . . .’ she said.
‘You’ve never jogged in the rain before. It’s sweet. You’ll see.’
So, she went out with him, that morning, in the rain, initiated into his ritual. It was sweet as he had said. Tiny droplets of rain fell softly against her skin. The cold weather was kind, mildly so. They held each other’s hands as their trainers touched the earth and leapt making wet-soil noises. She felt the blood warm in her body even as her heart pulsed. And since that day, mornings when it rained inspired a feeling in her: Something transcendent.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Carl Terver, b. July ’91, loves to listen to Bob Marley’s ‘Who The Cap Fits’, is a Nigerian writer and poet who have been published in Brittle Paper, Praxis magazine, Expound, and The Kalahari Review, and forthcoming in The Offing. He is working on a book of poetry criticism, Dead Images Don’t Walk. He is a comma disciple and fan of Adam Gopnik. His forthcoming poetry chapbook is For Girl at Rubicon. He is an in-house writer and the assistant digital Editor at Praxis magazine.

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

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

by | Mar 18, 2018 | CONTESTS, FLASH FICTION

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.

CRUEL LOVE

CRUEL LOVE

by | Mar 5, 2015 | SHORT STORIES

CRUEL LOVE

Thursday, January 15, 1970

 

6:00pm, Umuahia, Eastern Nigeria

 

The crackling sound emanating from buildings engulfed in flames and the cacophony of distraught voices was the background orchestra of the tragic scene which symbolized the leftovers of a vicious war. The Mother Earth got drunk after taking gulps of fratricidal blood shed by brothers and friends now turned foes. The war started with a subtle conflict amidst citizens of a country who gave themselves over to the fleeting deceits of hate and sentiments rather than the inundating comfort of love and reality. The silent grumblings in the heart of men crawled to the public square of callousness until it formed a gigantic mound of war which almost tore the nation into shreds. Now that the war was over, the survivors can only count themselves lucky and fortunate not to have been a victim.

 

Inside Ojukwu’s bunker, a feminine but confident voice fills the room; an old rickety radio on a wooden table produced the voice of Evelyn Okafor, a renowned newscaster for Radio Nigeria as she talks about the proclamation of Gen. Yakubu Gowon: “No Victor, No vanquished”.
The Biafra Republic just died before their very eyes, everything happened too fast for them to believe or digest; the audacious commando, Ojukwu already in exile, Philip Effiong just officially surrendered in Lagos. The unbelief, the disappointment and the defeat was well mapped out on the faces of the beleaguered soldiers. The Federal Republic of Nigeria won the 32 months of a bloody Civil War, it was as simple as that and thinking of what will become of their future was a pure induction into the Hall of dilemma.

 

Captain Christopher Adeagbo, a tall handsome fair-complexioned broad-chested soldier, one of the very few Yoruba soldiers who fought for Biafra, he had lived all his life in the East and speaks Igbo language fluently; he schooled at the Government College Umuahia where he became the Head boy due to his contagious brilliance.

Nigerian soldier

Chris stretched his legs and hands on his sick bed as he tried to change the position of his aching body; his fair yellow skin was decorated with blisters and scars from different injuries sustained during the war. He had for the past one week being hospitalized right here after he sustained a major injury from a Molotov cocktail blast which should have killed him. Nurses Jane and Amarachi had no doubt given their best to ensure that Chris was in a good condition.

 

“The Junior Commando” as he was fondly called by his friends was once a student of Political Science at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka and it was in his sophomore year that he had the uncontrollable urge to join the Army though it was against the wish of his parents who were University Professors. His parents fled to the Ibadan at the moment when the fiery furnace of the war started brewing. His second fallout with his parents was when he told them that he would like to marry the lady of his dreams; the ravishing beauty with an angelic voice, Ngozi Okeke. The wedding became the talk of the town as he eventually tied knots with the Enugu-born lady, one of the beautiful cousins of Ojukwu. His parents were strongly dispassionate with the marriage as they wanted him to marry a lady from their tribe (Yoruba). Truly Chris was no longer in the good books of his parents but he had earlier sent a letter to them that he would like to come back to Ibadan and settle down, he pleaded with them to allow him come over with his injured wife who lost her left leg to the war. He wished that they would be merciful enough to accept him and his wife especially at this moment when they both needed help. Every time he remembered the pains of his decisions, the thoughts of his dogged, strict and no-nonsense parents would always flood his mind. He had lived with them long enough to have memories of their unforgiving spirit and harshness to neighbors.

 

Despite the arguments going on amidst the able-bodied soldiers in the bunker, Chris was lost in the loch of his overwhelming thoughts; he wanted a new life for himself at least to start his family since it was barely a week he got married to Ngozi that the war commenced on a full scale.
The gentle tap of Nurse Amarachi brought Chris back to the Bunker as he let out a weary smile to mask the wrinkles of his depressing thoughts. As a soldier he had learnt always to be strong and to exude a high morale.

 

“I hope your body is finally taking shape as we await the arrival of Dr. Donga for the authorization of your discharge today.” Amarachi said softly with a caring gesture.

 

Chris scratches his bald head with his bandaged hand and replied in his baritone voice; “I am better. Thanks a lot, Amarachi for your care and concerns.”

 

“I have got a letter for you from Ibadan, it came in few hours after the war ended” said Amarachi as she handed the letter to him and catwalked her way back to the Nurses’ Station.

 

Chris gently opened the letter; he uncovered its contents with his heart racing like a deer in search of a brook. He fed his eyes with the content of the letter time again and again until streams of tears flowed than his eyes. He quickly wiped the tears, he needed to sleep to reset his dramatic day; the pills of Valium V tumbled down his throat and he was soon fast asleep snoring like a tired Elephant. Until his heart…

 

Saturday, January 18, 1970

 

7:00pm, Ibadan, Western Nigeria

 

Not all families could afford a radio set talk less a television set. It was seen as a luxury of the wealthy by many especially at a moment like this when the war just ended. Professor Lucas Adeagbo, an erudite professor of archaeology and a proud grandfather in his early sixties was seated on the same sofa with his wife in their spacious living room. They paid rapt attention to the Black and White television set right in front of them. It was time for the 7’O’clock news on Western Nigerian Television (WNTV) and it was a daily ritual for them to watch.

 

“And that is the news at 7:00pm, but before I leave, I would like to inform the general public about the dead bodies of the following Biafran soldiers which are yet to be recovered;

 

Col. James Ruskins
Capt. Nicky Ajayi
Maj. Gen. Yunus Dauda
Capt. Gregory Abajo
Col. Kalu Alkali
.
.
.
.
Capt. Christopher Olamide Adeagbo
Gen. Frederick Dende.

 

If you know any of them please inform the General Officer Commander (GOC) of the nearest barracks to you,… ”

Professor Grace Adeagbo let out a deafening scream before the completion of the news. The death of Chris came as a shock to both of them.

Screaming at her bewildered husband amidst streams of tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks:
“Yeeeeee!!! My son is gone, Baba Chris,  my Captain is dead, this is so painful. What could have killed my brave son? But we pleaded with him to come back home but only that he should not come here with that his Igbo wife.”

They were soon in their Peugeot 404 as the driver sped off to Odogbo Barracks with the parents of Captain Chris in the backseat.

amputated leg

They later found out that Chris committed suicide after receiving their letter on his sick bed. The contents of the letter talked expressly about the hatred of the parents for the wife of Christopher, they never wanted her to come along with Christopher talk less of a wife without a left leg. It was an eyesore for their exalted state.

 

Unknown to them, the letter of Chris was a ploy to test their love. He lost his wife to the war and his left leg was amputated after he was rescued by the whiskers from last week’s blast. He concluded that if HIS PARENTS DO NOT LOVE HIM ENOUGH TO LOVE HIS “ONE-LEGGED” WIFE THEN THEY CAN NEVER LOVE A ONE-LEGGED CHRIS.

 

***Fiction inspired by the Nigerian Civil War (May 1967 – January 1970).

P.S.: Love those who cannot reciprocate the love. This in itself is LOVE. I love this quote from 1989 Nobel Peace Prize Winner, Dalai Lama: “Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. Without them humanity cannot survive.”


© 2015 by Osho Samuel Adetunji

 

About the Author

Osho Samuel Adetunji is a graduate of Mechanical Engineering from Nigeria’s premier University, University of Ibadan. He is a poet, a blogger, a Public Speaker with a knack for short stories, inspirational articles and poems. He is a great thinker, creative and dexterous young man who does not only believe in excellence but also extols the tenets of discipline, hard work and effectiveness. He is an award-winning individual who is multifaceted and consistently measures success by effective impact.

He is a writer per excellence with articles published on VAVANE AFRICA, THE SCOOPNG, KONNECT AFRICA, Paarapo and Home zone media. He co-founded THE COURTROOM in 2012 with Tijani Mayowa. He is the founder of KREATIVE DIADEM, a new initiative which kicked off on March 1, 2015.
He is an inspirational young man who is addicted to going an extra mile in all facets of life. He is also a lover of football, tennis and boxing. You can follow him on Twitter with the handle: @inisamosho

 

 

 

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THE CAMPAIGNERS

THE CAMPAIGNERS

by | Mar 1, 2015 | SHORT STORIES

THE CAMPAIGNERS

Deji saw more than 40 posters on the 27th of November 2014, they were all people campaigning for the Gubernatorial position in Ibadan Oyo State.

 

There was Lawal Oshutogun and Deji thought he was rather rascal looking. Even though the Barrister was a Lecturer of Law at the University of Illorin. There was Badmus Bamgbose, he looked deceitful “I mean all that smile” Deji thought to himself.

There was Abiodun Seyi. This particular man made him laugh. He still remembered the Facebook update he saw about Seyi. Someone furious with him went ahead to say

“You must be an armed robber if you are considering voting for Abiodun Seyi, are there no responsible people in the whole of Oyo State? I can’t imagine people going back to the era of body bleaching creams, leg chains (on a man’s leg) and a rascal who spends his father’s loots at CocoDome”.

Deji couldn’t stop laughing after he read the post.

He never thought much about the posters or those coming out for the Gubernatorial post until he saw the poster of Ayolola Ayobami. He pasued. Screamed 40 times in his mind and cleaned his eyes to be sure it was Ayolola Ayobami. He vowed there and then that Ayolola will not win. He prayed, sang and clapped in a space of 60seconds.

 

Deji had a class, he was a PhD holder hence he was called Dr. Deji. Since the class was soon he made a mental note to tell his students about Ayolola. And so after he was done teaching them a topic in ENTREPRENEURSHIP – although he was a lecturer in the Department of Mechanical Engineering, he began to narrate.

The campaign

The campaign

“This Ibadan people are already getting ready for 2015. I sure most of us are past the age of 18 so let’s vote well o.. Hmmmm. You see back in the 80’s I was a student at the University of Ife and being someone who loves transparency I decided to join the Students Council and as God will have it I was appointed Financial Secretary. During the 84/85 session we had to make a financial report and I noticed that #40,000 was missing. I asked the President and the General secretary what happened to the 40,000 missing in action and they said for me to keep quiet and forget about as they have used it for personal refreshment. Knowing what that meant I decide to bring it up in the councils General Meeting. But before I could bring it up I was suspended for Unruly behaviour and subordination. So you see my children if those kind of people should be in authority today what change are you going to see?”

 

The President was Ayolola Ayobami and so after the class. Deji called Ayo, he got the number through a mutual friend and told him “Ayo, it’s Deji I’m sure you will be surprised but I just wanted to let you know one thing : YOU ARE NOT GOING TO WIN!”

 

About the Author of THE CAMPAIGNERS

I’m Onwukwe Chimdinma Adriel. A 400 level Law student of the Prestigious University of Ibadan, Ibadan, Nigeria. I love writing. You can see some of her works here: www.adrielzjournal2013.wordpress.com and subscribe to her channel; BBM Channel : C0016FD7F

 

 

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