I made up today. I cannot remember the last time I did. Oh yes, I recall. It was the day Adamu, my husband summoned me into his suite. It has been a whole month since then.
Kaycee clutched the hands that had interwoven themselves with hers. The bus queue was long, typical of the first Friday of the month in Lagos. Buses were usually hired to convey church attendants to the Redemption Camp at the outskirts of Lagos and that left most commuters a little stranded, scrambling for the few buses that came by. None did today and for once, this didn’t bother her. The brisk after rain wind blew across her face sending cold shivers down her spine. She knew it was more than the cold that made her shiver. It had everything to do with Lanny who had said nothing for the past thirty minutes. Not after she told him the news. Read more
Lost; staring at her as she slept so calmly, leaning on the dirty bus window. She must have been pretty exhausted as she slept immediately she got into the bus. She looked so peaceful, sleeping away all her sadness. She heaved a sigh in her sleep as though she had heard his thoughts. She tried to adjust in the uncomfortable bus seat while holding her arms around her shoulders, obviously cold from the heavy downpour a couple of minutes back. Read more
It was the day before yesterday. I remember clearly because I wore the shirt I disliked. I remember strutting down the hall with my hands in my pocket, feigning confidence which was already lost in that shirt. I saw him; albeit for a split second. But there’s no mistaking it was him. His brief statue darted down the stairs and I was caught in my tracks. I exhaled the air I wasn’t aware I was holding. Something about him sent creep waves my way. Not only mine as I turned to see a woman and her son retreating from his way. Read more
The hair on her neck prickled, she got a feeling that there was something hovering, weighing on her. She shook it off-she was NOT superstitious, forget she grew up under a superstitious mother. Still doing the dishes, she began to whistle a happy tune and bob her head from side to side.
Instantly startled by the heavy pounding on her apartment door, just behind her, she dropped the dish she was holding. For some reason, her heart pounded and the banging on her door persisted, a tiny voice whimpering ‘please, please, help me!! He’s coming’
She turned, heart pounding, frozen. But a force pulled her towards the door-what if, what if she could actually help? What if she put herself in danger? As thoughts raced in her head, she heard it again, a sob, a whimper, just against the door, please help….
She just got into action and unbolted the door; a small, disheveled girl pushed past her but that wasn’t the scary part, she was covered in red. She turned to stare at her, to ask the questions if her lips could utter them and the girl cried ‘he’s coming, he’s coming’
If only she knew then, what she knew now, she would have bolted out the door, herself, leaving the girl behind. She wouldn’t be staring at the hard unforgiving lid of a coffin. The clawing certainty she was going to die.
‘Who-o-o?’ she asked. There wasn’t need for an answer, the hair on the back of her neck prickled. This time, she didn’t feel a presence hovering. This time, the hot, sticky, heavy breath behind her neck was real.
I’m sharing this post written by my friend who entered for a competition. Please vote for her by clicking here.
PS: I dedicated the Fiction Friday Posts in November to my friends who wrote for the competition. Please be kind and vote for the stories you like.
Have a fabulous weekend!
Too many waters have indeed passed under this bridge. The red-brown of walls and hues of indigo on paths to dyers’ homes have become the stuff of funerals, the despondent and those dreadful workplaces.
It has been three days since the burial and ten since I found my youngest son’s body in a pool of faeces and vomit. I have grown tired of being asked how my heart is faring. How does a heart fare at times like these?
My oldest child would not look me in the eye; he fears I may recognize the mix of grief and relief his’ carry. If only he would look cautiously, he will see that it is not his secret alone to keep. I wear mine in dark corners of rooms.
Efuna, I do not pine for you. We made a pact we both must honour.
Adulthood makes fools of us all; it makes martyrs of some and beasts of others and we each have a hand in which we become. You should have chosen carefully. My child, a woman’s life is difficult. She bears the weight of her children’s choices. It is only fitting that she be allowed a veto in such lives; adults or not.
So I strolled into your room and requested your audience, I said to you “a child’s fingers are not scalded by the piece of hot yam which his mother puts into his palm”, I presented you the empty calabash; that ancient symbol of a people’s desire for a life that has outlived its usefulness. In a final demonstration of self-piety and perhaps cynicism, you accepted and here we are. Why the tugging?
Efuna, I am the mother-duck that has left behind her corrupted late-budding duckling. It is the way of things that surround us.
Here is another lovely story by one of my friends for a competition. Please vote for her by clicking here.
PS: I’m dedicating the Fiction Friday Posts in November to my friends who wrote for the competition. Please be kind and vote for the stories you like.
Have a pleasant weekend!
Hotel in the Middle of the Street
So I desperately flagged down a taxi. To the driver, I said ‘take me to the cheapest hotel here.’ After what seemed like days, he finally reached a hotel in the middle of a vibrant street, bursting at its seams with shops, kiosks, food stalls, and lots of what looked to me like vagabonds.
How did I get here? First off, in an unsafe hotel on a bustling street. Lastly, in a petite room with only 3 stupid channels. I spent my whole day cooked up here gasping for some oxygen and praying that I don’t pass out or that I don’t get jacked. Thinking back on the fact that the only meal I’ve had was an oatmeal bar. I guess that’s why I am not in grouchy bear mode. Smirk!
I just can’t sleep. I keep tossing and turning from one end to the other of my bed. I keep hearing footsteps go past my room. Now this was a real doozy, all that stood between me and any impending danger was a flimsy wooden door. The night seemed against me, the heavy, cloying heat dragging my skin. I think a movie is on, “7 pounds”. I am looking at the screen but they are just images flashing by.
The real movie was in my memory. I remember her; her lovely heart-shaped face. The one I thought could do no wrong. Forever was her name, or so I thought. I remember her face, her smile. That cold, rigid smile as she pulled the trigger, never breaking eye contact with me.
And then my breath stops. I can feel it, as I hear a set of footsteps stop right outside my door, waiting. Is this what bass drums sound like; my heart beating heavy against my chest.
This was a story written by a friend of mine for a competition. Please vote for him by clicking here.
PS: I’m dedicating the Fiction Friday Posts in November to my friends who wrote for the competition. Please be kind and vote for the stories you like. ❤
Thank you! 🙂
Have a pleasant weekend!