Thursday, December 10, 2009
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Today, He let me in albeit safely
MY BIRTH
Today, I am five years of a quarter of a century shy
Today, on a Wednesday two decades ago, she pushed and wept
My crowning head, curly and bloody
I came in, when he kissed and let go, a wailing infant marked by his seal
Today, two decades ago, I brought pain and then effulgent joy
Today, two decades ago, He let me in
Today, I am five years of a quarter of a century shy
Today, on a Wednesday two decades ago, she pushed and wept
My crowning head, curly and bloody
I came in, when he kissed and let go, a wailing infant marked by his seal
Today, two decades ago, I brought pain and then effulgent joy
Today, two decades ago, He let me in
Thursday, November 19, 2009
ORION'S BELT IV
Chai!!! I've been so MIA!!! jeez!!
Myne has gone and started another story in my absence, but won't you finish Gladys' story Myne??? I feel so outta the loop!! I have to go and catch up on the blog entries I've missed!!
And here's the FINAL entry, enjoy guys and critique!!!
P.S - I'm not ignoring you Myne, I will get to your concern in a bit
@ Rethots, thank you for your comments..*I blush and yes, I will respond to them, soon.
ORION'S BELT IV
*****************************************
“Death for us all, but his own death to each – Albert Camus”
Lagos, Nigeria July 2007.
Uncle Festus’ expiring prophecy business blossomed into a thriving household name, our raffia mats soon became plastic chairs, his high stool an embellished throne-like high chair, and our clientele was fast expanding to include the upper crust of Lagos society. We had moved to a new house and a huge white banner outside it proclaimed “Holy Festus and Prophet Solomon” in bold red font. The banner was tied to two wooden poles erected in front of our new temple, a small room that was in the back of our newly built bungalow, a far cry from our former “holy” room. In a span of six months, our customer list had quadrupled and so had the gifts and cash offerings to Jah. The plastic bowl had become a red embroidered satin bag that only housed five hundred naira notes and higher denominations, as the almost inconspicuous thread on the side read, apparently a lot of people wanted their enemies dead and if Jah was doing the killing, who were they to argue?
My life as Prophet Solomon was good; I would touch a customer and get a glimpse or a vision of their adversary’s death, I was respected and business was booming. At first, seeing death and funerals had scared me, I refused to be a part of Uncle Festus’ hoax after I saw my first vision as Solomon but when my first customer came back with five thousand crisp naira notes and thanked me effusively for the death of her husband’s mistress I was enticed and then persuaded.
I convinced myself that I was only a tool in the hands of Almighty Jah as Uncle Festus had put it, I did not have a hand in these deaths and I was actually helping people, Amaka disagreed however.
*********************************************
“You call it madness, but I call it love – Don Byas”
Amaka, my heart, we had begun a whirlwind romance after my first few weeks in Lagos, It had started off with winks as we passed each other in the compound and then stolen kisses under the shade of the mango tree when night had come and only the spirits walked the earth. We would lay under the tree on Amaka’s old wrapper watching the stars but not really thinking about them. I would look at her as she watched the stars, thinking how plain but beautiful she looked, she would catch me staring and poke her elbow playfully into my side “We are supposed to be looking for Orion’s Belt” she would say. Amaka loved science and school and insects and she talked endlessly of her dream of owning a school. At first she was going to name it ‘Ekwensi Grammar School’ after her then favorite Nigerian author Cyprian Ekwensi and then she found Sidney Sheldon and decided ‘The Sheldon Nigerian School’ was more appropriate. She was like a pendulum on a string, oscillating and wavering and that was one of the many things that drew me to her.
She had gone off to continue boarding school after two months and we had written letters to each other, at first my letters were always sent back with red lines drawn across words and corrections written above them. She meant well I knew, it was the teacher in her, but it irritated me and so I got Obinna, my neighbor in secondary school to start writing the letters. She marveled out how my lexicon and subject-tense agreement had improved she said in the first letter she sent back after Obinna took up writing the letters, I smiled when Obinna told me what lexicon meant and told him to write “it was all for you babe” in response.
“We are lovers separated by space, but like the stars in Orion’s belt our hearts still beat as one” I had said in one of the letters Obinna had written. In response, she sent me a CD by Luther Vandross that contained only one song – Endless Love. My belly felt like I had just dropped from a high point on those amusement park rides every time I listened to the song. I imagined dancing with Amaka under the mango tree and kissing her until I could taste the pepper soup she had for dinner on my tongue. In June, she wrote that she was coming back to spend four whole months at home, I was exuberant and ecstatic. So ecstatic, that Uncle Festus asked me if I was dipping my fingers into his palm wine kegs, I shook my head and said I was just excited, he peered at me his eyes dancing above his reading glasses and nodded knowingly “I understand”
***********************************************
Lagos, Nigeria July 2007.
“Nigerian Hitler Uw Uw Uw” she screeched clapping her hand over her mouth in a mocking fashion as she pushed me roughly out of their living quarters. “You want to kill Amaka for me abi?” “Tufiakwa!” she said spitting into the sand, Amaka stood in front of the door watching helplessly as her mother shoved me further into the street, her eyes begging my forgiveness. I left their house with only one sandal on my foot, that night Amaka came to me “What a homecoming eh?” she said offering me my sandal “Yes, indeed” I replied. “I am sorry about Mama” she said “But do you really kill people Amadi?” I usually loved Amaka’s bluntness but tonight it was like a blow to the chest. “No, Amaka” I replied, hurt that she would think so low of me, “So, explain...I’m trying to understand here Amadi!” she said impatiently. I began to explain my visions and what Uncle Festus and I had been doing for the past four months that she had been away in school. She listened raptly, caught up in my story and when I finished and let go of my breath that I didn’t realize I had been holding, she kneaded my shoulders gently and said she still loved me but that she could not be with me if I continued killing people. I was astounded “I just explained to you” I said. “It’s me or Prophet Solomon” she said and left me speechless as she made her way into the night.
*************************************************
Lagos, Nigeria July 2007
I was a dead man walking; my eyes were sunken and bloodshot from weeks of sleep deprivation, my collar bone was starting to jut out at an increasingly odd angle and my skin had taken on the sickly shade of tangelos. “Biko, Eat something” Aunty Mary begged me, she was holding a tray that held a plate of jollof rice and she looked as if she was going to burst into tears at any moment. “I’m not really hungry Aunty” I said “And my mouth is dry, maybe water?” She promptly filled a tumbler with water for me watching me as I gulped it down. “Amadi, you have been like this now for two weeks, what is it?” “You can talk to me Amadi, you are like my own son” she said as tears pooled in her eyes, I wiped them with the back of my hand and looked at her intently. She was truly the mother I never had “It is my heart, Aunty” I said as my face fell, she held my hand in hers clinging to it for a long time and then she kissed it “Follow it” she said and she left my room leaving the food tray behind.
***********************************************
The darkness was comforting and reassuring, like a bulletproof vest only it was not made of Kevlar. I felt the brick wall, rough and gritty under my hands and then my hand bumped into the doorknob. Quietly, I turned it “Amaka” I whispered into the darkness, a torch flicked on “Who’s there?” came a raspy voice as the beam of light hit my face. “Amadi?” she asked surprised, the sleepiness had vanished and I put down my duffel bag. “Yes. I wanted to tell you that I miss you Amaka” “At this...” “I love you” I said cutting her off, “Prophet Solomon is gone! Run away with me?” I begged, she smiled and then ran into my arms “The appropriate term is elope, my dear” she laughed tickling my chin. “Can we dance?” I asked “Now?” “Yes, now my love” I said pulling her with me out of the room.
We danced under the mango tree as I hummed Luther Vandross’ Endless love, the night sounds of crickets and owls providing an orchestra and then we kissed as the moon smiled upon us and the taste of last night’s pepper soup lingered in my mouth. “Amadi, look!” she said pointing at the sky, I looked “It’s Orion’s Belt!” she said excitedly “It’s has three stars” I replied. “Yes, two hearts that beat as one and then there was a third” she said. She winked and I smiled, and then she laughed and I lost myself in her.
Myne has gone and started another story in my absence, but won't you finish Gladys' story Myne??? I feel so outta the loop!! I have to go and catch up on the blog entries I've missed!!
And here's the FINAL entry, enjoy guys and critique!!!
P.S - I'm not ignoring you Myne, I will get to your concern in a bit
@ Rethots, thank you for your comments..*I blush and yes, I will respond to them, soon.
ORION'S BELT IV
*****************************************
“Death for us all, but his own death to each – Albert Camus”
Lagos, Nigeria July 2007.
Uncle Festus’ expiring prophecy business blossomed into a thriving household name, our raffia mats soon became plastic chairs, his high stool an embellished throne-like high chair, and our clientele was fast expanding to include the upper crust of Lagos society. We had moved to a new house and a huge white banner outside it proclaimed “Holy Festus and Prophet Solomon” in bold red font. The banner was tied to two wooden poles erected in front of our new temple, a small room that was in the back of our newly built bungalow, a far cry from our former “holy” room. In a span of six months, our customer list had quadrupled and so had the gifts and cash offerings to Jah. The plastic bowl had become a red embroidered satin bag that only housed five hundred naira notes and higher denominations, as the almost inconspicuous thread on the side read, apparently a lot of people wanted their enemies dead and if Jah was doing the killing, who were they to argue?
My life as Prophet Solomon was good; I would touch a customer and get a glimpse or a vision of their adversary’s death, I was respected and business was booming. At first, seeing death and funerals had scared me, I refused to be a part of Uncle Festus’ hoax after I saw my first vision as Solomon but when my first customer came back with five thousand crisp naira notes and thanked me effusively for the death of her husband’s mistress I was enticed and then persuaded.
I convinced myself that I was only a tool in the hands of Almighty Jah as Uncle Festus had put it, I did not have a hand in these deaths and I was actually helping people, Amaka disagreed however.
*********************************************
“You call it madness, but I call it love – Don Byas”
Amaka, my heart, we had begun a whirlwind romance after my first few weeks in Lagos, It had started off with winks as we passed each other in the compound and then stolen kisses under the shade of the mango tree when night had come and only the spirits walked the earth. We would lay under the tree on Amaka’s old wrapper watching the stars but not really thinking about them. I would look at her as she watched the stars, thinking how plain but beautiful she looked, she would catch me staring and poke her elbow playfully into my side “We are supposed to be looking for Orion’s Belt” she would say. Amaka loved science and school and insects and she talked endlessly of her dream of owning a school. At first she was going to name it ‘Ekwensi Grammar School’ after her then favorite Nigerian author Cyprian Ekwensi and then she found Sidney Sheldon and decided ‘The Sheldon Nigerian School’ was more appropriate. She was like a pendulum on a string, oscillating and wavering and that was one of the many things that drew me to her.
She had gone off to continue boarding school after two months and we had written letters to each other, at first my letters were always sent back with red lines drawn across words and corrections written above them. She meant well I knew, it was the teacher in her, but it irritated me and so I got Obinna, my neighbor in secondary school to start writing the letters. She marveled out how my lexicon and subject-tense agreement had improved she said in the first letter she sent back after Obinna took up writing the letters, I smiled when Obinna told me what lexicon meant and told him to write “it was all for you babe” in response.
“We are lovers separated by space, but like the stars in Orion’s belt our hearts still beat as one” I had said in one of the letters Obinna had written. In response, she sent me a CD by Luther Vandross that contained only one song – Endless Love. My belly felt like I had just dropped from a high point on those amusement park rides every time I listened to the song. I imagined dancing with Amaka under the mango tree and kissing her until I could taste the pepper soup she had for dinner on my tongue. In June, she wrote that she was coming back to spend four whole months at home, I was exuberant and ecstatic. So ecstatic, that Uncle Festus asked me if I was dipping my fingers into his palm wine kegs, I shook my head and said I was just excited, he peered at me his eyes dancing above his reading glasses and nodded knowingly “I understand”
***********************************************
Lagos, Nigeria July 2007.
“Nigerian Hitler Uw Uw Uw” she screeched clapping her hand over her mouth in a mocking fashion as she pushed me roughly out of their living quarters. “You want to kill Amaka for me abi?” “Tufiakwa!” she said spitting into the sand, Amaka stood in front of the door watching helplessly as her mother shoved me further into the street, her eyes begging my forgiveness. I left their house with only one sandal on my foot, that night Amaka came to me “What a homecoming eh?” she said offering me my sandal “Yes, indeed” I replied. “I am sorry about Mama” she said “But do you really kill people Amadi?” I usually loved Amaka’s bluntness but tonight it was like a blow to the chest. “No, Amaka” I replied, hurt that she would think so low of me, “So, explain...I’m trying to understand here Amadi!” she said impatiently. I began to explain my visions and what Uncle Festus and I had been doing for the past four months that she had been away in school. She listened raptly, caught up in my story and when I finished and let go of my breath that I didn’t realize I had been holding, she kneaded my shoulders gently and said she still loved me but that she could not be with me if I continued killing people. I was astounded “I just explained to you” I said. “It’s me or Prophet Solomon” she said and left me speechless as she made her way into the night.
*************************************************
Lagos, Nigeria July 2007
I was a dead man walking; my eyes were sunken and bloodshot from weeks of sleep deprivation, my collar bone was starting to jut out at an increasingly odd angle and my skin had taken on the sickly shade of tangelos. “Biko, Eat something” Aunty Mary begged me, she was holding a tray that held a plate of jollof rice and she looked as if she was going to burst into tears at any moment. “I’m not really hungry Aunty” I said “And my mouth is dry, maybe water?” She promptly filled a tumbler with water for me watching me as I gulped it down. “Amadi, you have been like this now for two weeks, what is it?” “You can talk to me Amadi, you are like my own son” she said as tears pooled in her eyes, I wiped them with the back of my hand and looked at her intently. She was truly the mother I never had “It is my heart, Aunty” I said as my face fell, she held my hand in hers clinging to it for a long time and then she kissed it “Follow it” she said and she left my room leaving the food tray behind.
***********************************************
The darkness was comforting and reassuring, like a bulletproof vest only it was not made of Kevlar. I felt the brick wall, rough and gritty under my hands and then my hand bumped into the doorknob. Quietly, I turned it “Amaka” I whispered into the darkness, a torch flicked on “Who’s there?” came a raspy voice as the beam of light hit my face. “Amadi?” she asked surprised, the sleepiness had vanished and I put down my duffel bag. “Yes. I wanted to tell you that I miss you Amaka” “At this...” “I love you” I said cutting her off, “Prophet Solomon is gone! Run away with me?” I begged, she smiled and then ran into my arms “The appropriate term is elope, my dear” she laughed tickling my chin. “Can we dance?” I asked “Now?” “Yes, now my love” I said pulling her with me out of the room.
We danced under the mango tree as I hummed Luther Vandross’ Endless love, the night sounds of crickets and owls providing an orchestra and then we kissed as the moon smiled upon us and the taste of last night’s pepper soup lingered in my mouth. “Amadi, look!” she said pointing at the sky, I looked “It’s Orion’s Belt!” she said excitedly “It’s has three stars” I replied. “Yes, two hearts that beat as one and then there was a third” she said. She winked and I smiled, and then she laughed and I lost myself in her.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
ORION'S BELT III
Hey guys, here's Instalment three, Enjoy and Critique!
***********************************************
“There is a noble manner of being poor, and who does not know it will never be rich - Seneca”
Lagos, Nigeria January 2007.
Shouts of “Pure water tutu re” rang out distinctly amidst a mélange of the cries of other hawkers peddling their goods and roused me from my slumber. “Pure water pure water” the voice called again: it was a shrill voice, unmistakably feminine, fragile and delicate, like earthenware in a kiln and it sounded like it might break if it went a chord higher.
I found her in the crowd and watched, observing, she wore a plain dress with a flowery pattern, she looked to be about fifteen, and she had rolled her wrapper into a circle and placed it on her head as a cushion for the sweating bowl that contained nylon sachets of water nestled against blocks of ice. She looked back abruptly and caught me staring, then she winked and lifted the bowl in question, I shook my head and smiled back, I was in Lagos.
“Ah, you’re awake” Uncle Festus said slapping my thigh, “Are you hungry?” he asked and I nodded. He popped his head out of the bus window and yelled “Gala Gala”, a young man wearing a rumpled greased-stained singlet ran up to him and lifted a carton bearing the Gala logo with a cow outlined on its sides to the window. Uncle Festus picked two sausage rolls and cautiously inspected them for some malady or defect and then finally settled on one. He handed the man some money and as he turned to go Uncle Festus yelled as if he had already left the commerce window “Abeg help me call the Fanyogo man”, “yessir” the man answered and disappeared into the throng of people. The Fanyogo man appeared seconds later “Which one you want Sir? I get cho-ko-late, vanilla, and straw-berry” he asked, breathlessly running up to our bus that was now moving from the Yaba market traffic. “Amadi?” he asked “Chocolate” I replied. The man, still running vigorously, dipped his hand into the improvised cooler: rectangular cut carton with thick nylon swathed over it, filled with ice and stacked with packaged yogurts and frozen flavored ice, and handed Uncle Festus the yogurt. He dove for the paper floating to the ground and barely caught it as Uncle Festus threw the money out of the window and the bus launched into full speed.
I woke up to the sound of clanging bells and Uncle Festus chanting off key in a sing-song manner “Holy Michael, Holy Gabriel, Ho-lee Ho-lee” he cried. I rolled over on my mattress and onto the floor; my mattress was a thin flattened piece of foam not quite covered with its threadbare cloth and almost disappearing into the floor it sat on. The air smelled of my sweat, sewer debris, and the faint hint of fried fish wafted in through the window. Last night had been exhausting, I had met Aunty Mary - Uncle Festus’ wife, an animated plump woman who hugged me and pressed my head to her bosom cooing and aahing over how much I had grown. We finally sat down to a dinner of boiled black-eyed beans in a spicy palm oil stew on plastic chairs in the parlor, after Aunty Mary had tired of making observations about the shape of my ears, and how my nose was remarkably like Adaku’s and then Uncle Festus commenced his too long talk about his “job” and its entailments.
He had announced to me proudly that he was a prophet and that I would be joining him as an apprentice in his prophet business to earn my stay, since Adaku had told him I possessed the powers to augur the future. I immediately informed him that I possessed no such powers and that I had only had one very vivid dream where I saw my only friend die and days later he was gone. Uncle Festus had laughed and said it did not matter whether I possessed powers or not, once word got out that I had foretold Uzo’s death I would become a powerful prophet, and it would help if I was able to predict one or two more events correctly. Curious and perplexed, I had asked Uncle Festus “What, If I don’t dream anything?” in response he shook his head from side to side with a grin as wide as his face would allow and answered “You formulate!”. “Formulate?” I asked, “Ah, village boy...I forget, it means you make up a quack vision, anything you like!” Uncle Festus said, smiling triumphantly like he had just discovered the cure for AIDS. “Oh? Isn’t that criminal?” I asked my eyes as wide as Aunty Mary’s China saucers. The slap to the back of head came first and then Uncle Festus’ acerbity “Stupid boy! Are you calling me a common criminal in my own house?” I shook my head solemnly and fixed my eyes on my almost empty plate, “We shall change your name to Solomon, it is more Christian” Uncle Festus declared as his chair scraped the cement floor and he got up to leave.
I got up from my mattress, stretching and yawning, I smoothed my boxers that had ridden up in my sleep and then made my way to the communal bathroom outside, my towel slung across my neck. I entered into the tiny bathroom carefully twisting my body and the bucket of water to avoid rubbing my arms on the slimy algae covered cement walls. Fifteen minutes later I was out, my towel wrapped around my waist, my bucket and soap dish in hand, and then I saw her. She had a deep blue towel tied across her breasts with mounds of tan chocolate flesh peeking out and her towel skimmed her knees. She looked my naked torso over and winked again like she had done yesterday, I smiled “let me” I said, reaching for her bucket of water, she placed the bucket on the ground “Amaka” she said, her eyes smiling, “Amadi” I replied, lifting her bucket.
Despite my bath seconds ago, I now smelled like incense and woodsy smoke, I hurriedly donned the blood red garb of muslin and secured the free flowing garment with a white sash around my waist. “Hurry!” Uncle Festus snorted impatiently as I slid my feet into the worn leather sandals he had given me, “Customers will soon be arriving” he said and plopped a huge white chef-like hat onto my head, adjusting it till it was in place, looking me over he sighed satisfactorily “Finally! Oya follow my lead” he said as he threw upon the door to his “holy” room. Outside the door, two women sat on a raffia mat that was the waiting area, one had a baby tucked in the crook of her arm and the other held a small basket of ugwu leaves. “Prophet Festus” they bowed in greeting, hands clasped together as if in prayer Uncle Festus shut his eyes for a brief second and reopened them “My Children, Jah’s peace” he said placing his fore and middle fingers reverently on his lips and extending it back to them. “What brings you?” he asked as he rolled up his muslin and balanced his weight on his high stool, “It is her husband” the woman with the vegetables replied pointing to her friend who was rocking the sleeping child. “Let her speak!” Uncle Festus thundered. “One small girl is trying to steal him from me” she said sniffling and wiping her eyes with the edge of her wrapper. “J-ah! Jah! Jehovah!” Uncle Festus shrieked, he had gotten up abruptly from his stool and was now making circuitous rotations on the mat, his garment like a kite buoyed by the wind. He began a frenzied dance, his head swaying from side to side, the jigada beads on his ankles shaking furiously, and his arms resting on his hips as his buttocks moved to a rhythm only he could hear. He made an elaborate spin and plunked unto his high stool, “Your gift to Jah” he asked extending his hands to the woman with the vegetables, She handed him the leaves her head bowed in respect. “Jah! Angel Mikeluu! Angel Gabereli” he cried “You have done it” he said lifting the basket up to the heavens in one swift motion and handing it to me. “It is done, my child” Uncle Festus said to the woman carrying the baby and “This is what you will do” he began.
Uncle Festus informed the woman that Jah’s solution to her problem was to sleep naked in her husband’s room for three nights in a row; Jah had said that she was to perfume herself and everywhere that had hair on her body and present herself to her husband at ten o’ clock every night, and failure to adhere to these instructions would result in calamitous and disastrous consequences. The woman and her friend had nodded gravely and then they thanked Uncle Festus profusely as they put a wad of hundred naira notes in a bowl Uncle Festus placed in front of them. As they got up to leave, the woman’s arm brushed mine and all of a sudden I was plunged into a circling tornado of unending darkness and then I was in front of a house that had a large framed picture of a young woman propped up on a table with artificial flowers surrounding the frame and white candles burning on both sides of the table. There were women dressed in mourning clothes, wailing and shouting, “Chinwe o!” one cried and another woman sitting stiffly on a chair laughed bitterly “Cruel death, and she was so young”.
“Ama…Solomon” I heard Uncle Festus call, water was being sprinkled on my face and I was lying on the mat “I’m awake” I said cleaning my face with the back of my hand, the women were peering at me, unsure about what to make of the situation. “Who is Chinwe?” I asked the woman with the baby as I sat up, her eyes grew wide with amazement or fear, and I could not tell which one. “My husband’s mistress” she finally answered. “How did you…” she stuttered “I didn’t…” she began again, I waved away her questions “Chinwe is going to die” I said looking at the woman. She looked bewildered, and then her expression changed into a pained smile, “Thank you Prophet Solomon” she said bowing her head.
***********************************************
“There is a noble manner of being poor, and who does not know it will never be rich - Seneca”
Lagos, Nigeria January 2007.
Shouts of “Pure water tutu re” rang out distinctly amidst a mélange of the cries of other hawkers peddling their goods and roused me from my slumber. “Pure water pure water” the voice called again: it was a shrill voice, unmistakably feminine, fragile and delicate, like earthenware in a kiln and it sounded like it might break if it went a chord higher.
I found her in the crowd and watched, observing, she wore a plain dress with a flowery pattern, she looked to be about fifteen, and she had rolled her wrapper into a circle and placed it on her head as a cushion for the sweating bowl that contained nylon sachets of water nestled against blocks of ice. She looked back abruptly and caught me staring, then she winked and lifted the bowl in question, I shook my head and smiled back, I was in Lagos.
“Ah, you’re awake” Uncle Festus said slapping my thigh, “Are you hungry?” he asked and I nodded. He popped his head out of the bus window and yelled “Gala Gala”, a young man wearing a rumpled greased-stained singlet ran up to him and lifted a carton bearing the Gala logo with a cow outlined on its sides to the window. Uncle Festus picked two sausage rolls and cautiously inspected them for some malady or defect and then finally settled on one. He handed the man some money and as he turned to go Uncle Festus yelled as if he had already left the commerce window “Abeg help me call the Fanyogo man”, “yessir” the man answered and disappeared into the throng of people. The Fanyogo man appeared seconds later “Which one you want Sir? I get cho-ko-late, vanilla, and straw-berry” he asked, breathlessly running up to our bus that was now moving from the Yaba market traffic. “Amadi?” he asked “Chocolate” I replied. The man, still running vigorously, dipped his hand into the improvised cooler: rectangular cut carton with thick nylon swathed over it, filled with ice and stacked with packaged yogurts and frozen flavored ice, and handed Uncle Festus the yogurt. He dove for the paper floating to the ground and barely caught it as Uncle Festus threw the money out of the window and the bus launched into full speed.
I woke up to the sound of clanging bells and Uncle Festus chanting off key in a sing-song manner “Holy Michael, Holy Gabriel, Ho-lee Ho-lee” he cried. I rolled over on my mattress and onto the floor; my mattress was a thin flattened piece of foam not quite covered with its threadbare cloth and almost disappearing into the floor it sat on. The air smelled of my sweat, sewer debris, and the faint hint of fried fish wafted in through the window. Last night had been exhausting, I had met Aunty Mary - Uncle Festus’ wife, an animated plump woman who hugged me and pressed my head to her bosom cooing and aahing over how much I had grown. We finally sat down to a dinner of boiled black-eyed beans in a spicy palm oil stew on plastic chairs in the parlor, after Aunty Mary had tired of making observations about the shape of my ears, and how my nose was remarkably like Adaku’s and then Uncle Festus commenced his too long talk about his “job” and its entailments.
He had announced to me proudly that he was a prophet and that I would be joining him as an apprentice in his prophet business to earn my stay, since Adaku had told him I possessed the powers to augur the future. I immediately informed him that I possessed no such powers and that I had only had one very vivid dream where I saw my only friend die and days later he was gone. Uncle Festus had laughed and said it did not matter whether I possessed powers or not, once word got out that I had foretold Uzo’s death I would become a powerful prophet, and it would help if I was able to predict one or two more events correctly. Curious and perplexed, I had asked Uncle Festus “What, If I don’t dream anything?” in response he shook his head from side to side with a grin as wide as his face would allow and answered “You formulate!”. “Formulate?” I asked, “Ah, village boy...I forget, it means you make up a quack vision, anything you like!” Uncle Festus said, smiling triumphantly like he had just discovered the cure for AIDS. “Oh? Isn’t that criminal?” I asked my eyes as wide as Aunty Mary’s China saucers. The slap to the back of head came first and then Uncle Festus’ acerbity “Stupid boy! Are you calling me a common criminal in my own house?” I shook my head solemnly and fixed my eyes on my almost empty plate, “We shall change your name to Solomon, it is more Christian” Uncle Festus declared as his chair scraped the cement floor and he got up to leave.
I got up from my mattress, stretching and yawning, I smoothed my boxers that had ridden up in my sleep and then made my way to the communal bathroom outside, my towel slung across my neck. I entered into the tiny bathroom carefully twisting my body and the bucket of water to avoid rubbing my arms on the slimy algae covered cement walls. Fifteen minutes later I was out, my towel wrapped around my waist, my bucket and soap dish in hand, and then I saw her. She had a deep blue towel tied across her breasts with mounds of tan chocolate flesh peeking out and her towel skimmed her knees. She looked my naked torso over and winked again like she had done yesterday, I smiled “let me” I said, reaching for her bucket of water, she placed the bucket on the ground “Amaka” she said, her eyes smiling, “Amadi” I replied, lifting her bucket.
Despite my bath seconds ago, I now smelled like incense and woodsy smoke, I hurriedly donned the blood red garb of muslin and secured the free flowing garment with a white sash around my waist. “Hurry!” Uncle Festus snorted impatiently as I slid my feet into the worn leather sandals he had given me, “Customers will soon be arriving” he said and plopped a huge white chef-like hat onto my head, adjusting it till it was in place, looking me over he sighed satisfactorily “Finally! Oya follow my lead” he said as he threw upon the door to his “holy” room. Outside the door, two women sat on a raffia mat that was the waiting area, one had a baby tucked in the crook of her arm and the other held a small basket of ugwu leaves. “Prophet Festus” they bowed in greeting, hands clasped together as if in prayer Uncle Festus shut his eyes for a brief second and reopened them “My Children, Jah’s peace” he said placing his fore and middle fingers reverently on his lips and extending it back to them. “What brings you?” he asked as he rolled up his muslin and balanced his weight on his high stool, “It is her husband” the woman with the vegetables replied pointing to her friend who was rocking the sleeping child. “Let her speak!” Uncle Festus thundered. “One small girl is trying to steal him from me” she said sniffling and wiping her eyes with the edge of her wrapper. “J-ah! Jah! Jehovah!” Uncle Festus shrieked, he had gotten up abruptly from his stool and was now making circuitous rotations on the mat, his garment like a kite buoyed by the wind. He began a frenzied dance, his head swaying from side to side, the jigada beads on his ankles shaking furiously, and his arms resting on his hips as his buttocks moved to a rhythm only he could hear. He made an elaborate spin and plunked unto his high stool, “Your gift to Jah” he asked extending his hands to the woman with the vegetables, She handed him the leaves her head bowed in respect. “Jah! Angel Mikeluu! Angel Gabereli” he cried “You have done it” he said lifting the basket up to the heavens in one swift motion and handing it to me. “It is done, my child” Uncle Festus said to the woman carrying the baby and “This is what you will do” he began.
Uncle Festus informed the woman that Jah’s solution to her problem was to sleep naked in her husband’s room for three nights in a row; Jah had said that she was to perfume herself and everywhere that had hair on her body and present herself to her husband at ten o’ clock every night, and failure to adhere to these instructions would result in calamitous and disastrous consequences. The woman and her friend had nodded gravely and then they thanked Uncle Festus profusely as they put a wad of hundred naira notes in a bowl Uncle Festus placed in front of them. As they got up to leave, the woman’s arm brushed mine and all of a sudden I was plunged into a circling tornado of unending darkness and then I was in front of a house that had a large framed picture of a young woman propped up on a table with artificial flowers surrounding the frame and white candles burning on both sides of the table. There were women dressed in mourning clothes, wailing and shouting, “Chinwe o!” one cried and another woman sitting stiffly on a chair laughed bitterly “Cruel death, and she was so young”.
“Ama…Solomon” I heard Uncle Festus call, water was being sprinkled on my face and I was lying on the mat “I’m awake” I said cleaning my face with the back of my hand, the women were peering at me, unsure about what to make of the situation. “Who is Chinwe?” I asked the woman with the baby as I sat up, her eyes grew wide with amazement or fear, and I could not tell which one. “My husband’s mistress” she finally answered. “How did you…” she stuttered “I didn’t…” she began again, I waved away her questions “Chinwe is going to die” I said looking at the woman. She looked bewildered, and then her expression changed into a pained smile, “Thank you Prophet Solomon” she said bowing her head.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
ORION'S BELT II
So I finally did it, I messed around, went on the blogger link, changed encoding..a bunch of randomness that is even confusing me sef, but I DID IT! So YAY ME!! Here is second installment, enjoy guys! Thanks for your help Repressed One.
ORION'S BELT©
We began our walk home as I told him my dream, he throwing stones at imagined lizards in the far distance, me gesturing endlessly with my hands. I concluded my dream as we neared Mama Uzo’s backyard garden , Uzo broke his stride, gave me a quick hug and thumped me on the back “There is nothing to worry about Amadi, now that you have told me your dream, of course I will not run into the road for a ball!” he said.
I smiled uneasily, I was not entirely convinced, there was still the niggling feeling of uncertainty, like on days when it rained while the sun shone brightly and a sense of dread had settled upon me. But I nodded my head in agreement and answered “Yes, of course” with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. “Mama cannot see you, go I will see you later” Uzo said, as he unlatched the kitchen door and waved goodbye. I walked home feeling very confused and afraid. My head was throbbing with questions and there was no one who could answer them, Adaku, my mother was a self-absorbed ex-beauty queen who still reveled in her pageant days and went through life like she was still the twenty year old who had won the Ogudu Market competition. I was the mistake that happened with the business man otherwise known as my father - the electronics dealer in Mammy market. The same mistake that destroyed her figure she had since been trying to reclaim. Adaku, the woman who would not bat an eyelid even if I set my head on fire (I had tried it, the patch-work pattern growth of my hair would always remind me of my foolishness). I laughed bitterly as I thought of having a conversation with her about my dream. The only time Adaku ever spoke to me was when she barked out orders, gave me food, or during the morning ritual. She called me every morning after she finished taking a shower, naked before her full length mirror, she would hold her love handles and say to me “Nwa Ekwensu! Devil Child! You see it?” She would look me up and down, from my head to the sole of my feet and eye me in a way only she could execute. After I singed my hair and wounded my scalp, I gave up trying to get her attention and establish a relationship with her, it was a hopeless cause.
I got home weary and mentally exhausted; I had detoured from my original route home in hopes of ridding my mind of the persistent feelings of doubt, to no avail. I walked into the kitchen tense and hungry, on the kitchen table sat an Eleganza cooler of yam porridge. I scooped spoons of bright yellow mush (the kind of yellow that comes only from rich palm oil), yams morsels replete with utazi slivers and spinach leaves into a ceramic bowl and wolfed it down hungrily, sated I fell into a deep sleep.
It was Saturday - chore day, and I generally danced to the beat of my own drum, I usually woke up at six and commenced with sweeping the yard and then all the rooms in the house. Adaku usually came in at noon, drunk and rambunctious. She had spent the night at the local palm wine joint, sitting on the laps of men who bought her drinks hoping to score a new boyfriend. Today was different though, she staggered into the house, her skintight mini-dress ripped and revealing her was-once-white lacy pant, her hair was in a disarray, and there was a huge stain of some liquid spread across her chest and breasts.
“Ekwensu, ebe ki no? Devil, where are you” she screamed, she was drunk. “Adaku, there is bath water for you” I said, holding my breath to avoid the reeking stench of stale sweat and fermented palm wine and pointing in the direction of the outhouse. She moved towards me as I wondered if she was too drunk to take a shower, and then she struck me in the face. My mouth fell open as my cheek tingled, my ears had taken on a new shade of red, and they were hot - I could feel the heat spreading down my neck. She had never hit me, despite her cold-heartedness and deficient maternal skills, Adaku had never once laid a finger on me. “Why?” I asked, my palm cool against my burning cheek, “Lo-ok at wha---t that wo-man did to…me” she stuttered. “Uzo is dead, and you talked to him se? You killed him Amadi.” “I am tired Amadi! I cannot continue to deal with your wahala, Festus is coming to take you” she talked fast and mumbled the words like she had hot yam in her mouth. “Uncle Festus?” I asked, “Yes, to Lagos” she said and walked past me, slamming her bedroom door as she entered into it.
***********************************************
‘Ukwa ruo oge ya o da – At the appropriate time, the breadfruit will fall”
We went to see Uzo’s mother – Adaku and I, in spite of her attack on Adaku, to pay our condolences and that was when she screamed at us and called me an ogbanje. Adaku said nothing as we left the mourning house, we could hear the women whispering and muttering under their breaths “Ashewo” one said, “Prostitute” another spat in agreement. But they would never say it to her face, because they liked their faces too much - if there was anything other than drinking Adaku could do: it was wrestling and winning.
“Uzo died in his sleep, I didn’t kill him” I said to Adaku as we walked home, “Festus is coming tomorrow, pack all your things” she replied, ignoring my self-exoneration. “Maybe, you can learn his trade and make something of yourself in Lagos” she continued. “What does he do?” I asked, “Am I Festus?” “You will find out when you get there” She answered mordantly. The short conversation had ended, and we silently made our way home.
ORION'S BELT©
We began our walk home as I told him my dream, he throwing stones at imagined lizards in the far distance, me gesturing endlessly with my hands. I concluded my dream as we neared Mama Uzo’s backyard garden , Uzo broke his stride, gave me a quick hug and thumped me on the back “There is nothing to worry about Amadi, now that you have told me your dream, of course I will not run into the road for a ball!” he said.
I smiled uneasily, I was not entirely convinced, there was still the niggling feeling of uncertainty, like on days when it rained while the sun shone brightly and a sense of dread had settled upon me. But I nodded my head in agreement and answered “Yes, of course” with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. “Mama cannot see you, go I will see you later” Uzo said, as he unlatched the kitchen door and waved goodbye. I walked home feeling very confused and afraid. My head was throbbing with questions and there was no one who could answer them, Adaku, my mother was a self-absorbed ex-beauty queen who still reveled in her pageant days and went through life like she was still the twenty year old who had won the Ogudu Market competition. I was the mistake that happened with the business man otherwise known as my father - the electronics dealer in Mammy market. The same mistake that destroyed her figure she had since been trying to reclaim. Adaku, the woman who would not bat an eyelid even if I set my head on fire (I had tried it, the patch-work pattern growth of my hair would always remind me of my foolishness). I laughed bitterly as I thought of having a conversation with her about my dream. The only time Adaku ever spoke to me was when she barked out orders, gave me food, or during the morning ritual. She called me every morning after she finished taking a shower, naked before her full length mirror, she would hold her love handles and say to me “Nwa Ekwensu! Devil Child! You see it?” She would look me up and down, from my head to the sole of my feet and eye me in a way only she could execute. After I singed my hair and wounded my scalp, I gave up trying to get her attention and establish a relationship with her, it was a hopeless cause.
I got home weary and mentally exhausted; I had detoured from my original route home in hopes of ridding my mind of the persistent feelings of doubt, to no avail. I walked into the kitchen tense and hungry, on the kitchen table sat an Eleganza cooler of yam porridge. I scooped spoons of bright yellow mush (the kind of yellow that comes only from rich palm oil), yams morsels replete with utazi slivers and spinach leaves into a ceramic bowl and wolfed it down hungrily, sated I fell into a deep sleep.
It was Saturday - chore day, and I generally danced to the beat of my own drum, I usually woke up at six and commenced with sweeping the yard and then all the rooms in the house. Adaku usually came in at noon, drunk and rambunctious. She had spent the night at the local palm wine joint, sitting on the laps of men who bought her drinks hoping to score a new boyfriend. Today was different though, she staggered into the house, her skintight mini-dress ripped and revealing her was-once-white lacy pant, her hair was in a disarray, and there was a huge stain of some liquid spread across her chest and breasts.
“Ekwensu, ebe ki no? Devil, where are you” she screamed, she was drunk. “Adaku, there is bath water for you” I said, holding my breath to avoid the reeking stench of stale sweat and fermented palm wine and pointing in the direction of the outhouse. She moved towards me as I wondered if she was too drunk to take a shower, and then she struck me in the face. My mouth fell open as my cheek tingled, my ears had taken on a new shade of red, and they were hot - I could feel the heat spreading down my neck. She had never hit me, despite her cold-heartedness and deficient maternal skills, Adaku had never once laid a finger on me. “Why?” I asked, my palm cool against my burning cheek, “Lo-ok at wha---t that wo-man did to…me” she stuttered. “Uzo is dead, and you talked to him se? You killed him Amadi.” “I am tired Amadi! I cannot continue to deal with your wahala, Festus is coming to take you” she talked fast and mumbled the words like she had hot yam in her mouth. “Uncle Festus?” I asked, “Yes, to Lagos” she said and walked past me, slamming her bedroom door as she entered into it.
***********************************************
‘Ukwa ruo oge ya o da – At the appropriate time, the breadfruit will fall”
We went to see Uzo’s mother – Adaku and I, in spite of her attack on Adaku, to pay our condolences and that was when she screamed at us and called me an ogbanje. Adaku said nothing as we left the mourning house, we could hear the women whispering and muttering under their breaths “Ashewo” one said, “Prostitute” another spat in agreement. But they would never say it to her face, because they liked their faces too much - if there was anything other than drinking Adaku could do: it was wrestling and winning.
“Uzo died in his sleep, I didn’t kill him” I said to Adaku as we walked home, “Festus is coming tomorrow, pack all your things” she replied, ignoring my self-exoneration. “Maybe, you can learn his trade and make something of yourself in Lagos” she continued. “What does he do?” I asked, “Am I Festus?” “You will find out when you get there” She answered mordantly. The short conversation had ended, and we silently made our way home.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Apologies...
So I've been trying to copy and paste the story since friday from microsoft word to no avail....help someone? I even tried to cut and paste, I apologize to my few fans I will keep on trying though.
**********************************
On my life -
Can you fall in love with a mind (foremostly)?
I think I am falling in utmost LIKE with his mind.
**********************************
On my life -
Can you fall in love with a mind (foremostly)?
I think I am falling in utmost LIKE with his mind.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Orion's Belt
Hey everyone, so I am awake waiting for Omulu's brown rice to cook (the things I do for love). How has everyone been o? I have been bamboozled with school work mehn...chai..na so education be? But I have something for you wonderful people of Blogsville, this is a short story I wrote for my creative writing class (as it is a lengthy piece, I willl be posting in installments).
ORION"S BELT
“Na condition wey dey make crayfish bend”
Asaba, Nigeria December 2006.
I remember the first time I was called an ogbanje, I was fifteen and it was after Uzo’s funeral, Adaku and I had gone to pay our condolences and upon seeing us Uzo’s mother screamed and shrieked in anguish “Get out of here! Haven’t you done enough? Go and take your ogbanje son with you.” The events leading up to Uzo’s death were prosaic but apparently they held a certain significance for Mama Uzo, we had been playing in his room with his deck of cards that his Aunty from Lagos just got him, when all of a sudden I felt very lightheaded and nauseous, I felt myself falling fast, very fast into a swirling, spinning black pool. I tried to grasp some tangible form and I realized I was clutching at air, a thick fierce wind engulfed me, the pool was sucking me in, I breathed deeply one last time and then I remembered Uzo, where was he? And then I let myself fall.
I woke up on the corner of the street, unharmed and afraid. People were walking past me like I was not there, I greeted Mama Uche, the crayfish seller and she barely glanced my way or even acknowledged my presence. I began to scream, thick and throaty, and then the sound caught in my throat as I watched Uzo follow his ball as it rolled into the road and a black Toyota charging into the road, hard and fast, sweeping Uzo with it and barely pausing. “Uzo!!” I screamed, he may have heard me but I would never know as his knees buckled and he fell as the car collided into him and left a bloody corpse in its trail.
I felt myself stirring “Amadi! Amadi! Wake up joo”, “Uzo?” I asked unsure, “Na wa for you o! Who falls asleep in the middle of go fish? Ha! I just went to get us chinchin and you are already sleeping.” “Uzo, you are going to die” I said matter of factly, shocking myself. “What?” “You are going to die” I said again firmly with no affect, I was scaring even myself, he looked at my face severely, scrutinizing as if for a tell-tale sign of an early onset of madness. “I think you better go home and sleep Amadi. You don’t seem very well to me’’ he replied. I wanted to argue and say I was fine, narrate my life-like dream and listen to Uzo’s take on the matter but I thought the better of it, I had just told my friend that he was going to die, I probably needed a whole lot of something.
As I walked out of Uzo’s room and into the shabbily furnished parlor that had cushions sagging in the middle and torn through the stitching from age and overuse, Uzo’s mother looked up from the egusi she had been shelling and placed it on the wobbly wooden centerpiece that looked like it might collapse at any moment. “ Nwa m e be ki n’eje? Unu e mesigo? My child where are you going? Have you boys finished?” she asked. I nodded quickly and muttered a yes as I promptly slid my thin frame through the door and disappeared before I was attacked with a barrage of questions, and then I heard her call for Uzo as I shut the door. Uzo avoided me at school for the next week like I was the proverbial king who had shit in his pant and was not aware, when he saw me in the boys’ bathroom he fled as if an army of black soldier ants were after him. The day before he died he finally spoke to me, school was over and I was sitting under the shade of the soursop tree munching noisily on roasted corn and pear. “Amadi” he said softly “Uzo” I answered, standing up from the tree root I had been sitting on. “Mama told me to stay away from you, I’m so...” he began, I waved away his apology “No, I’m sorry Uzo” “I really am” I said looking into his eyes. He looked back at me, searching my eyes for what seemed like forever “It is true then, you are sure?” he asked, his body was rigid, his shoulders squared, and his back ramrod straight but his quivering voice betrayed his fear.“Yes, It is what I saw” I replied. “What happened exactly?” he asked and then I began to narrate the trance like episode.
ORION"S BELT
“Na condition wey dey make crayfish bend”
Asaba, Nigeria December 2006.
I remember the first time I was called an ogbanje, I was fifteen and it was after Uzo’s funeral, Adaku and I had gone to pay our condolences and upon seeing us Uzo’s mother screamed and shrieked in anguish “Get out of here! Haven’t you done enough? Go and take your ogbanje son with you.” The events leading up to Uzo’s death were prosaic but apparently they held a certain significance for Mama Uzo, we had been playing in his room with his deck of cards that his Aunty from Lagos just got him, when all of a sudden I felt very lightheaded and nauseous, I felt myself falling fast, very fast into a swirling, spinning black pool. I tried to grasp some tangible form and I realized I was clutching at air, a thick fierce wind engulfed me, the pool was sucking me in, I breathed deeply one last time and then I remembered Uzo, where was he? And then I let myself fall.
I woke up on the corner of the street, unharmed and afraid. People were walking past me like I was not there, I greeted Mama Uche, the crayfish seller and she barely glanced my way or even acknowledged my presence. I began to scream, thick and throaty, and then the sound caught in my throat as I watched Uzo follow his ball as it rolled into the road and a black Toyota charging into the road, hard and fast, sweeping Uzo with it and barely pausing. “Uzo!!” I screamed, he may have heard me but I would never know as his knees buckled and he fell as the car collided into him and left a bloody corpse in its trail.
I felt myself stirring “Amadi! Amadi! Wake up joo”, “Uzo?” I asked unsure, “Na wa for you o! Who falls asleep in the middle of go fish? Ha! I just went to get us chinchin and you are already sleeping.” “Uzo, you are going to die” I said matter of factly, shocking myself. “What?” “You are going to die” I said again firmly with no affect, I was scaring even myself, he looked at my face severely, scrutinizing as if for a tell-tale sign of an early onset of madness. “I think you better go home and sleep Amadi. You don’t seem very well to me’’ he replied. I wanted to argue and say I was fine, narrate my life-like dream and listen to Uzo’s take on the matter but I thought the better of it, I had just told my friend that he was going to die, I probably needed a whole lot of something.
As I walked out of Uzo’s room and into the shabbily furnished parlor that had cushions sagging in the middle and torn through the stitching from age and overuse, Uzo’s mother looked up from the egusi she had been shelling and placed it on the wobbly wooden centerpiece that looked like it might collapse at any moment. “ Nwa m e be ki n’eje? Unu e mesigo? My child where are you going? Have you boys finished?” she asked. I nodded quickly and muttered a yes as I promptly slid my thin frame through the door and disappeared before I was attacked with a barrage of questions, and then I heard her call for Uzo as I shut the door. Uzo avoided me at school for the next week like I was the proverbial king who had shit in his pant and was not aware, when he saw me in the boys’ bathroom he fled as if an army of black soldier ants were after him. The day before he died he finally spoke to me, school was over and I was sitting under the shade of the soursop tree munching noisily on roasted corn and pear. “Amadi” he said softly “Uzo” I answered, standing up from the tree root I had been sitting on. “Mama told me to stay away from you, I’m so...” he began, I waved away his apology “No, I’m sorry Uzo” “I really am” I said looking into his eyes. He looked back at me, searching my eyes for what seemed like forever “It is true then, you are sure?” he asked, his body was rigid, his shoulders squared, and his back ramrod straight but his quivering voice betrayed his fear.“Yes, It is what I saw” I replied. “What happened exactly?” he asked and then I began to narrate the trance like episode.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Hey Guys..
So, I know I said I will be updating with loooooooooooooonng posts shortly, but mehn I have been so busy with work and this particular toaster that insists we must talk at least six times a week..jeez!!! more on that later sha.... Ok, so the semester is on and I'm taking this creative writing class to hone and polish my skills (the ones I hopefully have) and we had this assignment to write a letter in the same vein as James Baldwin's letter to his nephew (something generalizable that others can relate to) and here's what I did.....
Enjoy..P.S- No, I haven't gotten it graded yet and we were supposed to incorporate synesthesia and conflict, plus I need to proofread for punctuations.
Dear Mama,
I am angry at you, yes angry, livid even! I have only just begun to realize that the indifference and detachment with which you have treated me throughout my life has left a solid ineffaceable imprint, like a footprint mold in cement. I find that I am incapable of telling my new bride, Joyce, that I love her. Sure, I give her a roof over her head, the security of a home, food in her belly, trinkets and bejeweled combs to adorn her wrists and wooly hair, but the one thing she craves I cannot give, the simple words - “I love you”.
Our elders say blood is thicker than water, so I guess it is water that runs through these veins, because all I feel is hate, sharp and searing, I feel no kinship with you whatsoever. Throughout my childhood, you chiseled away at my capacity to feel, my emotions, my human essence. When I fell on the red sand, bruised my knee and bawled, desperate for comfort, you slung me across your knees and whacked my bottom till I fell silent, mortified - Boys did not cry. When I clung to your wrapper unrelenting, terrified to be sleeping alone on the makeshift bed by myself, you slapped me across my face and asked if I was a woman. I grew, nurtured with hard work and no love; I was learning to become “a man”. I suppose you want me to be grateful, seeing that I turned out an industrious, intelligent, and hard man. But I am not, because Mama in all my twenty eight years on earth you have never once told me you loved me, in teaching me to become “a man” you forgot to include that I would need a heart, and for Joyce I would always be an incomplete man trying to learn how to love.
Your son,
Nnamabia.
Mama's Response
Nnamabia,
How are you and your wife Joyce? So you are angry eh? You youngsters of nowadays forget the hands that fed you, in my time that rubbish letter you sent me expressing your…emotions, you called it? Would be an abomination!
So you want love? Nnamabia what are you going to do with love I ask you? Will you eat it? Will it quench your hunger? Did love make you the strong man you are today? You children make me laugh.
Our people say that a yam destined to burn, will burn whether it is roasted or boiled. Did I ask you to marry your educated wife, Nnamabia? Now, she wants love and you are insulting the breasts that fed you, it is not my fault you cannot satisfy your wife, perhaps you should tend your yams more carefully.
Mama.
N.B - Mama's letter was originally written in Igbo.
Enjoy..P.S- No, I haven't gotten it graded yet and we were supposed to incorporate synesthesia and conflict, plus I need to proofread for punctuations.
Dear Mama,
I am angry at you, yes angry, livid even! I have only just begun to realize that the indifference and detachment with which you have treated me throughout my life has left a solid ineffaceable imprint, like a footprint mold in cement. I find that I am incapable of telling my new bride, Joyce, that I love her. Sure, I give her a roof over her head, the security of a home, food in her belly, trinkets and bejeweled combs to adorn her wrists and wooly hair, but the one thing she craves I cannot give, the simple words - “I love you”.
Our elders say blood is thicker than water, so I guess it is water that runs through these veins, because all I feel is hate, sharp and searing, I feel no kinship with you whatsoever. Throughout my childhood, you chiseled away at my capacity to feel, my emotions, my human essence. When I fell on the red sand, bruised my knee and bawled, desperate for comfort, you slung me across your knees and whacked my bottom till I fell silent, mortified - Boys did not cry. When I clung to your wrapper unrelenting, terrified to be sleeping alone on the makeshift bed by myself, you slapped me across my face and asked if I was a woman. I grew, nurtured with hard work and no love; I was learning to become “a man”. I suppose you want me to be grateful, seeing that I turned out an industrious, intelligent, and hard man. But I am not, because Mama in all my twenty eight years on earth you have never once told me you loved me, in teaching me to become “a man” you forgot to include that I would need a heart, and for Joyce I would always be an incomplete man trying to learn how to love.
Your son,
Nnamabia.
Mama's Response
Nnamabia,
How are you and your wife Joyce? So you are angry eh? You youngsters of nowadays forget the hands that fed you, in my time that rubbish letter you sent me expressing your…emotions, you called it? Would be an abomination!
So you want love? Nnamabia what are you going to do with love I ask you? Will you eat it? Will it quench your hunger? Did love make you the strong man you are today? You children make me laugh.
Our people say that a yam destined to burn, will burn whether it is roasted or boiled. Did I ask you to marry your educated wife, Nnamabia? Now, she wants love and you are insulting the breasts that fed you, it is not my fault you cannot satisfy your wife, perhaps you should tend your yams more carefully.
Mama.
N.B - Mama's letter was originally written in Igbo.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Ekene Agabu
Gawlsh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! totally feeling Ekene!! and it's just his voice o! and what comes out his mouth! Eke Baby, I salute you! lol (I am such a groupie! chai!).
Check out Eke baby here>>>http://www.ekeneagabu.com
Check out Eke baby here>>>http://www.ekeneagabu.com
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Guys and Guys
Feels like I'm walking on eggshells...
I hate feeling like this.
Argh...so much for being truthfully blunt...
I forget I'm not as sensitive as I should be...
On the upside, is this our first tiff? (he he)
Who knows??
P.S - Chari, I realize this is not a PROPER update, does anyone know where Mz. Dee don run go?
I would say upcoming news on L.C>>> http://adialayo.blogspot.com/2007/07/ruminationschewing-cudover-and-over.html , but I may never deliver.*sigh. and I wonder why my blog is dying.
I hate feeling like this.
Argh...so much for being truthfully blunt...
I forget I'm not as sensitive as I should be...
On the upside, is this our first tiff? (he he)
Who knows??
P.S - Chari, I realize this is not a PROPER update, does anyone know where Mz. Dee don run go?
I would say upcoming news on L.C>>> http://adialayo.blogspot.com/2007/07/ruminationschewing-cudover-and-over.html , but I may never deliver.*sigh. and I wonder why my blog is dying.
Friday, May 8, 2009
In Love!
I have come to say that i am super-duperly officially in love with Chimere Shaffer Smith (known to the groupies as Ne-yo). Regardless of his receding hairline, his not-so discreet sowing of wild oats, I his undiscovered wife will remain faithful.
Signed on this day, May 8th 2009 - Adia Smith.
P.S - Don't judge me, I just saw the mad video, plus I had a pina colada....
(lengthy posts are on the way *crossed fingers* and I'm still kinda waiting for feedback on the story..so don't just read over...COMMENT! pls..I'm begging..don't Neyofy me again)
* Neyofy - Neyo's wanton behavior and unabashed disregard for his wife -Adia.
Signed on this day, May 8th 2009 - Adia Smith.
P.S - Don't judge me, I just saw the mad video, plus I had a pina colada....
(lengthy posts are on the way *crossed fingers* and I'm still kinda waiting for feedback on the story..so don't just read over...COMMENT! pls..I'm begging..don't Neyofy me again)
* Neyofy - Neyo's wanton behavior and unabashed disregard for his wife -Adia.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
SEALED GRAVES FINALE
Hey guys, I am sorry I didn't post on Thursday like I promised...I was uber busy with mid-terms..so once again I apologize. I am grinning stupidly as I type this, imagine my surprise when I logged in to post and what did Adia see? Two followers??? what?? I was flabbergasted!! thanks Timi and Estelle. Mwah!! Ok, so here's the finale guys, I haven't gotten any critique so far, so I hoping you guys chip in and critique away...I appreciate constructive criticism, here>>>>>>>> enjoy!!!!
SEALED GRAVES ©
I was looking at the six-foot hole in the ground, they lowered the casket into the ground and I shoved a spade in the soil and threw dirt on the coffin. Ralu stood beside me, steady as a rock, he put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder as we both watched the priest perform the burial rites. I could smell him, sweat and cologne mingled to give a heady fragrance. I looked up at him and smiled reassuringly, I was fine. Although, death seemingly brings with it an aura of finality, this death marked a new beginning . It brought transcendence and release. This was the time, that chapter in my life I had tried to tackle for so long, never letting up had finally unraveled itself. Even though this was not closure, I was content with resolution. Oddly, I was happy; funerals are typically cheerless and dispiriting, yet I was standing looking at the coffin and I felt no sadness only a strange sense of serenity. Mama had finally gone home.
In retrospect, Mama had lived her life after Papa’s death in gravitation towards this destination. She had never gotten over Papa’s death and I am almost certain that she had pined for this day to come. I watched her degenerate until she became a living relic and I could do nothing to help her. I remember so vividly that rainy day after we had stormed out of the women’s meeting in church, it had been the incipience of her spiral downwards. As we walked home that day she had murmured constantly and at times she interjected the drone of the rain with loud exclamations like “Pity…hmm!” The weeks that followed revealed a new and unfamiliar Mama; she would cry and hit her head on the rough brick wall of her room until her shaven head was scratched sore and bleeding. She stayed in her room all day and never came out. My eight year old mind could not decipher what was happening. I was oblivious to the truth that Mama had not yet come to terms with Papa’s death and that after three months her repressions had broken loose. I slowly became a walking shadow in the house, an insignificant painting that no one remembered to dust. I remember asking Aunty Ezinne what was wrong with Mama and she answering that Mama was sad but she would soon be happy again.
That happiness never truly came, on her “happy days” Mama would cook up a storm, everything from ofe nsala to akara. Those were the days I lived for, she would look at me with her bright eyes dancing in their sockets and ask me in Igbo “Gogo, what do you want to eat, what should I cook?” beaming at me all the time. I did not need to look for the light of recognition in her eyes then; I knew she was really seeing me. However, those days were few, after her cooking sprees she would abruptly become distant and return to her room and then the wailing would begin. I recall asking Aunty Ezinne a second time what was wrong with Mama, this time she shook her head despairingly and said that Mama was sick, very sick. Consequently, Aunty Ezinne cooked my meals and took care of me while Mama lay in her room moaning and wailing or staring at the ceiling tiles seemingly lost. I slept in Aunty Ezinne’s house till I turned thirteen and then I became Mama’s mother. It was because of those “happy days” I never left Mama; I force-fed her, restrained her when she tried to inflict wounds on herself and held her as she shook violently her body racked with sobs. I stayed, because on those “happy days” our roles were reversed, I became the child once again and Mama my mother.
I watched them, arms folded across my breasts; the picture was so familiar somewhat like déjà vu. Men clad in shorts carrying head pans and cement bags walked around, some mixed mortar and others laid the mortar on the grave. I watched like an unseen observer distanced from my body, oblivious to the flies that danced around my legs; piercing and sucking. Then at sundown, it happened they sealed the grave with the headstone, beautiful words inscribed in cement alluding to Mama’s wonderful attributes. I expected to feel pain, sharp and biting but all I felt was release like a bladder full of urine that was finally assuaged. Mama was where she had longed and needed to be, laid to rest beside her husband. I stood looking at the two tombstones, lovers interred, they sat side by side like mirror images almost disappearing into one another and then I smiled.
SEALED GRAVES ©
I was looking at the six-foot hole in the ground, they lowered the casket into the ground and I shoved a spade in the soil and threw dirt on the coffin. Ralu stood beside me, steady as a rock, he put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder as we both watched the priest perform the burial rites. I could smell him, sweat and cologne mingled to give a heady fragrance. I looked up at him and smiled reassuringly, I was fine. Although, death seemingly brings with it an aura of finality, this death marked a new beginning . It brought transcendence and release. This was the time, that chapter in my life I had tried to tackle for so long, never letting up had finally unraveled itself. Even though this was not closure, I was content with resolution. Oddly, I was happy; funerals are typically cheerless and dispiriting, yet I was standing looking at the coffin and I felt no sadness only a strange sense of serenity. Mama had finally gone home.
In retrospect, Mama had lived her life after Papa’s death in gravitation towards this destination. She had never gotten over Papa’s death and I am almost certain that she had pined for this day to come. I watched her degenerate until she became a living relic and I could do nothing to help her. I remember so vividly that rainy day after we had stormed out of the women’s meeting in church, it had been the incipience of her spiral downwards. As we walked home that day she had murmured constantly and at times she interjected the drone of the rain with loud exclamations like “Pity…hmm!” The weeks that followed revealed a new and unfamiliar Mama; she would cry and hit her head on the rough brick wall of her room until her shaven head was scratched sore and bleeding. She stayed in her room all day and never came out. My eight year old mind could not decipher what was happening. I was oblivious to the truth that Mama had not yet come to terms with Papa’s death and that after three months her repressions had broken loose. I slowly became a walking shadow in the house, an insignificant painting that no one remembered to dust. I remember asking Aunty Ezinne what was wrong with Mama and she answering that Mama was sad but she would soon be happy again.
That happiness never truly came, on her “happy days” Mama would cook up a storm, everything from ofe nsala to akara. Those were the days I lived for, she would look at me with her bright eyes dancing in their sockets and ask me in Igbo “Gogo, what do you want to eat, what should I cook?” beaming at me all the time. I did not need to look for the light of recognition in her eyes then; I knew she was really seeing me. However, those days were few, after her cooking sprees she would abruptly become distant and return to her room and then the wailing would begin. I recall asking Aunty Ezinne a second time what was wrong with Mama, this time she shook her head despairingly and said that Mama was sick, very sick. Consequently, Aunty Ezinne cooked my meals and took care of me while Mama lay in her room moaning and wailing or staring at the ceiling tiles seemingly lost. I slept in Aunty Ezinne’s house till I turned thirteen and then I became Mama’s mother. It was because of those “happy days” I never left Mama; I force-fed her, restrained her when she tried to inflict wounds on herself and held her as she shook violently her body racked with sobs. I stayed, because on those “happy days” our roles were reversed, I became the child once again and Mama my mother.
I watched them, arms folded across my breasts; the picture was so familiar somewhat like déjà vu. Men clad in shorts carrying head pans and cement bags walked around, some mixed mortar and others laid the mortar on the grave. I watched like an unseen observer distanced from my body, oblivious to the flies that danced around my legs; piercing and sucking. Then at sundown, it happened they sealed the grave with the headstone, beautiful words inscribed in cement alluding to Mama’s wonderful attributes. I expected to feel pain, sharp and biting but all I felt was release like a bladder full of urine that was finally assuaged. Mama was where she had longed and needed to be, laid to rest beside her husband. I stood looking at the two tombstones, lovers interred, they sat side by side like mirror images almost disappearing into one another and then I smiled.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Sealed Graves IV
Thanks guys for the comments, really appreciate...but I really would appreciate your CRITIQUING more! So, here's the fourth installment, things take a turn and the story unfolds..enjoy!!
SEALED GRAVES ©
“Goli-be! Golibe o!” Mama’s shrill voice broke into my reverie. “Yes Mama” I answered, standing from the steps I had been sitting on and brushing the sand grains from the back of my dress. “Je kwado, anyi ne je uka Go and prepare, we’re going to church” she called from inside the house. “O” I answered. “Hurry, the women’s meeting starts soon” she shouted. I walked into the house, headed for my room and emerged minutes later “Mama, I’m ready”I said as I made a bow at the back of my head with the tail ends of my scarf and walked into Mama’s room. “Ok” she replied, “Carry my bag” she said handing me her big black leather bag. “Mama, it is raining o!” I said as I collected her bag. She looked up at me from her mirror, momentarily stopped plaiting her hair and answered “ I che na enwero m anya? Do you think I do not have eyes?” In response, I sat silently in a chair watching her as she braided her hair into cornrows, my wounds still smarting from her biting sarcasm and wondering why we had to attend the meeting despite the rain and the road that would be undoubtedly slippery.
We got to church half-wet with our rain boots dripping and muddy. This was not the kind of rain people went out in except it was an emergency, despite the huge umbrella Mama and I had shared, it had still felt like the rain was flogging us, its long strokes had beaten me tirelessly and mercilessly. “Ah...Mama Golibe, welcome” Mama Chidinma greeted, she sat at the head of the meeting and signaled for us to come to her, her hands pointing out the seats to her far right. The women sat in a circle around her and as we walked to our seats they turned to us and gave us sympathetic looks, their heads inclined towards us nodding in both greeting and commiseration. Mama and I took our seats and Mama Chidinma began “Christian mothers I greet you!” “We greet you too” the women replied. “Our agenda today is short” she continued. “We will discuss plans and fund-raising for our annual bazaar, the state of our financial affairs, and relief for our widows and orphaned children” she finished. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me and Mama, Mama was tapping her fingers on the inside of her lap; it was either anxiety or infuriation, I could not tell. Mama Nkechi, the secretary began “Mama Golibe, on behalf of the Christian mothers I offer our condolences….” It was infuriation, Mama stood up from her chair abruptly, jerking the chair and simultaneously pulling me to my feet. “We don’t want your pity! My husband has been dead for three months, we don’t want salt in our wound!” she shouted and dragged me out of the church. We left the women open-mouthed and speechless, Mama had dragged me outside the church, so we sat outside and the rain still fell; unyielding and incessant. I listened to the pitter-patter of the rain as it hit the corrugated iron sheets and Mama muttering under her breath. Suddenly, she opened up her umbrella “Let’s go Golibe” she said and so I followed. I would never forget that walk home, it was long and arduous and the beginning of a chapter in my life I could never quite tackle or close.
**Next Thursday, is the final installment, ending the story..so click here on thur and bring your critique hats along!
SEALED GRAVES ©
“Goli-be! Golibe o!” Mama’s shrill voice broke into my reverie. “Yes Mama” I answered, standing from the steps I had been sitting on and brushing the sand grains from the back of my dress. “Je kwado, anyi ne je uka Go and prepare, we’re going to church” she called from inside the house. “O” I answered. “Hurry, the women’s meeting starts soon” she shouted. I walked into the house, headed for my room and emerged minutes later “Mama, I’m ready”I said as I made a bow at the back of my head with the tail ends of my scarf and walked into Mama’s room. “Ok” she replied, “Carry my bag” she said handing me her big black leather bag. “Mama, it is raining o!” I said as I collected her bag. She looked up at me from her mirror, momentarily stopped plaiting her hair and answered “ I che na enwero m anya? Do you think I do not have eyes?” In response, I sat silently in a chair watching her as she braided her hair into cornrows, my wounds still smarting from her biting sarcasm and wondering why we had to attend the meeting despite the rain and the road that would be undoubtedly slippery.
We got to church half-wet with our rain boots dripping and muddy. This was not the kind of rain people went out in except it was an emergency, despite the huge umbrella Mama and I had shared, it had still felt like the rain was flogging us, its long strokes had beaten me tirelessly and mercilessly. “Ah...Mama Golibe, welcome” Mama Chidinma greeted, she sat at the head of the meeting and signaled for us to come to her, her hands pointing out the seats to her far right. The women sat in a circle around her and as we walked to our seats they turned to us and gave us sympathetic looks, their heads inclined towards us nodding in both greeting and commiseration. Mama and I took our seats and Mama Chidinma began “Christian mothers I greet you!” “We greet you too” the women replied. “Our agenda today is short” she continued. “We will discuss plans and fund-raising for our annual bazaar, the state of our financial affairs, and relief for our widows and orphaned children” she finished. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me and Mama, Mama was tapping her fingers on the inside of her lap; it was either anxiety or infuriation, I could not tell. Mama Nkechi, the secretary began “Mama Golibe, on behalf of the Christian mothers I offer our condolences….” It was infuriation, Mama stood up from her chair abruptly, jerking the chair and simultaneously pulling me to my feet. “We don’t want your pity! My husband has been dead for three months, we don’t want salt in our wound!” she shouted and dragged me out of the church. We left the women open-mouthed and speechless, Mama had dragged me outside the church, so we sat outside and the rain still fell; unyielding and incessant. I listened to the pitter-patter of the rain as it hit the corrugated iron sheets and Mama muttering under her breath. Suddenly, she opened up her umbrella “Let’s go Golibe” she said and so I followed. I would never forget that walk home, it was long and arduous and the beginning of a chapter in my life I could never quite tackle or close.
**Next Thursday, is the final installment, ending the story..so click here on thur and bring your critique hats along!
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Sealed Graves III
The saga continues...lol!! ( I had to sound like those Nigerian movie annnouncers!!)
Thanks for the comments guys, critiques, and feedback are thoroughly appreciated..so critique away..be it sentence structure, tense, anything... For new readers, the first two installments are below and this is me working on my literary talents. Enjoy!!!!
SEALED GRAVES ©
We had concluded the customary two-week burial rites for Papa, Mama Nkiru had sewn me a black dress for Papa’s funeral and when Mama tried to pay her for it, she shook her head firmly and raised her hand in decline. So Mama nodded her head in understanding knowing it was Mama Nkiru’s own way of showing her sympathy. Three months after they had sealed Papa away, Mama and I collected our mourning garbs and stowed them in a suitcase, then Mama liberally distributed camphor balls in the suitcase before zipping it shut. I left Mama’s room as she hoisted the suitcase atop a stack of more suitcases squeezed into a tight corner of the room; the rains were here and it had been raining all day. I couldn’t wait till evening when the rain subsided and dusk was ushered in by the cool zephyr that was the certain aftermath of the seemingly endless rain. I anticipated turning on the kitchen lights and watching as winged termites descended in a swarm on the electric bulbs.
Ralu had taught me how to catch them last year; he had put his hand over mine as I nervously grasped the wings of a termite with my thumb and forefinger and promptly drowned it in a bowl of water. That night our bowls had been brimming with termites dancing in water, we had sat together in companionable silence as we tore the wings off their soft bodies and when we were done we handed them to Aunty Ezinne who fried them till they were a crunchy golden brown. She gave them back to us wrapped in newspaper, oil seeping through the thin sheets. Ralu had popped one in his mouth immediately the newspaper touched his palm and as he swallowed he made a low guttural sound that Aunty Ezinne nodded to and replied “You are welcome”. He then smiled at me encouragingly, urging me to try one as the corners of his mouth turned up in a grin. I ended up not trying one but eating the whole of my share and half of Ralu’s. I liked the rich, curious taste of the insects and the characteristic tang the groundnut oil it was fried in gave it.
Thanks for the comments guys, critiques, and feedback are thoroughly appreciated..so critique away..be it sentence structure, tense, anything... For new readers, the first two installments are below and this is me working on my literary talents. Enjoy!!!!
SEALED GRAVES ©
We had concluded the customary two-week burial rites for Papa, Mama Nkiru had sewn me a black dress for Papa’s funeral and when Mama tried to pay her for it, she shook her head firmly and raised her hand in decline. So Mama nodded her head in understanding knowing it was Mama Nkiru’s own way of showing her sympathy. Three months after they had sealed Papa away, Mama and I collected our mourning garbs and stowed them in a suitcase, then Mama liberally distributed camphor balls in the suitcase before zipping it shut. I left Mama’s room as she hoisted the suitcase atop a stack of more suitcases squeezed into a tight corner of the room; the rains were here and it had been raining all day. I couldn’t wait till evening when the rain subsided and dusk was ushered in by the cool zephyr that was the certain aftermath of the seemingly endless rain. I anticipated turning on the kitchen lights and watching as winged termites descended in a swarm on the electric bulbs.
Ralu had taught me how to catch them last year; he had put his hand over mine as I nervously grasped the wings of a termite with my thumb and forefinger and promptly drowned it in a bowl of water. That night our bowls had been brimming with termites dancing in water, we had sat together in companionable silence as we tore the wings off their soft bodies and when we were done we handed them to Aunty Ezinne who fried them till they were a crunchy golden brown. She gave them back to us wrapped in newspaper, oil seeping through the thin sheets. Ralu had popped one in his mouth immediately the newspaper touched his palm and as he swallowed he made a low guttural sound that Aunty Ezinne nodded to and replied “You are welcome”. He then smiled at me encouragingly, urging me to try one as the corners of his mouth turned up in a grin. I ended up not trying one but eating the whole of my share and half of Ralu’s. I liked the rich, curious taste of the insects and the characteristic tang the groundnut oil it was fried in gave it.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
My story contnd'
Hey guys, thanks for all the comments!!! thoroughly appreciate...At the end of the installments, I'll be asking you guys to critique the story, so please make a mental note of your critiques for all the installments..or you could just tell me now..either way works for me. Well, here is installment II enjoy (to my now live audience.lol)!!!
Sealed Graves contnd (COPYRIGHT!!!! cannot be reproduced people, borrowed, and all d ish..)
I watched Mama walk into our house, Aunty Ezinne had her arm around her waist and Mama Caro was holding her hand and leading her to the door. As I lay on my mat that night, I tossed and turned endlessly, unable to sleep I reached for the kerosene lamp and with one strike of the match box I had the wick of the lantern burning brightly. I looked down at my lap, little flesh triangles and lines covered it, Papa called it mat print. He said if I ever stopped sleeping like I was fighting a war then maybe I would not wake up every morning with impressions of the mat’s design temporarily etched in my flesh. I looked across the room, by the window sat my white plastic chair, bare. I stared at it for a while trying to decipher what was so wrong about its austerity, no light bulb illuminated my head, so I lay back on the mat, my knees bunched up, my arms forming a pillow for my head, and my eyes fixed intensely on the ceiling tiles as if there lay the answer to the chair’s mystery.
The light streaming in from the window and the cock’s incessant crowing woke me up, and then it hit me. It was Sunday and my chair was bare, Papa had forgotten to tell me to polish my shoes and iron my clothes with the charcoal iron and that was why my Sunday clothes were not laid out on the white chair. I sprang from my bed, eager to get to the bathroom before Papa caught me and began his speech about preparation and success. I turned the knob of the bathroom door, my towel in hand and realized that my bucket was empty. The empty bucket had just added another thirty minutes to Papa’s lecture, I could already hear him “Golibe, how many times will I tell you ehn? Fetch water for tomorrow the night before, iron your school clothes a week in advance, you can never be over-prepared. “A tuoro omara omara, a tuoro ofeke o fenye isi n’ohia – If you tell a wise one, he understands; tell a dunce, he runs into the bush.” Papa’s proverbs always made me cringe; their delivery was like a blow only more piercing. I snatched the bucket by its handle and made my way quickly to the tap outside the house, there I met Papa only he was not standing, his arms folded across his breasts with that remarkable frown pasted on his face. He lay beneath clay and limestone. It was there I finally broke down, my tears falling like torrential rain. On Papa’s grave were blocks of cement and bricklayers wearing cement bags fashioned into hats were mixing mortar beside it. Their bodies were grey with cement dust and most of them wore only shorts, one with a pot belly and a pen stuck behind his ear was yelling above the dust and the sound of cement bags slapping the ground. I assumed he was their supervisor, I watched as grey dust snaked up his nostrils and engulfed him, wondering how he could breathe with all the dust, and then I heard him “We must finish today o! and put the tombstone” he shouted. It was then an agonizing scream tore itself from my throat, they were sealing Papa in a grave, how would he ever come back now? I stood immobile, my tears blinding me, reality setting in, someone had their arms around me, and I knew instinctively it was Aunty Ezinne she always smelled liked a fusion of Saturday Night powder and pepper soup spices. She held me to her, hugging me tightly “E besina Gogo Don’t cry Gogo” she crooned. My tears fell profusely, continuously, I cried for myself and for Papa and I knew then that he was never coming back.
Sealed Graves contnd (COPYRIGHT!!!! cannot be reproduced people, borrowed, and all d ish..)
I watched Mama walk into our house, Aunty Ezinne had her arm around her waist and Mama Caro was holding her hand and leading her to the door. As I lay on my mat that night, I tossed and turned endlessly, unable to sleep I reached for the kerosene lamp and with one strike of the match box I had the wick of the lantern burning brightly. I looked down at my lap, little flesh triangles and lines covered it, Papa called it mat print. He said if I ever stopped sleeping like I was fighting a war then maybe I would not wake up every morning with impressions of the mat’s design temporarily etched in my flesh. I looked across the room, by the window sat my white plastic chair, bare. I stared at it for a while trying to decipher what was so wrong about its austerity, no light bulb illuminated my head, so I lay back on the mat, my knees bunched up, my arms forming a pillow for my head, and my eyes fixed intensely on the ceiling tiles as if there lay the answer to the chair’s mystery.
The light streaming in from the window and the cock’s incessant crowing woke me up, and then it hit me. It was Sunday and my chair was bare, Papa had forgotten to tell me to polish my shoes and iron my clothes with the charcoal iron and that was why my Sunday clothes were not laid out on the white chair. I sprang from my bed, eager to get to the bathroom before Papa caught me and began his speech about preparation and success. I turned the knob of the bathroom door, my towel in hand and realized that my bucket was empty. The empty bucket had just added another thirty minutes to Papa’s lecture, I could already hear him “Golibe, how many times will I tell you ehn? Fetch water for tomorrow the night before, iron your school clothes a week in advance, you can never be over-prepared. “A tuoro omara omara, a tuoro ofeke o fenye isi n’ohia – If you tell a wise one, he understands; tell a dunce, he runs into the bush.” Papa’s proverbs always made me cringe; their delivery was like a blow only more piercing. I snatched the bucket by its handle and made my way quickly to the tap outside the house, there I met Papa only he was not standing, his arms folded across his breasts with that remarkable frown pasted on his face. He lay beneath clay and limestone. It was there I finally broke down, my tears falling like torrential rain. On Papa’s grave were blocks of cement and bricklayers wearing cement bags fashioned into hats were mixing mortar beside it. Their bodies were grey with cement dust and most of them wore only shorts, one with a pot belly and a pen stuck behind his ear was yelling above the dust and the sound of cement bags slapping the ground. I assumed he was their supervisor, I watched as grey dust snaked up his nostrils and engulfed him, wondering how he could breathe with all the dust, and then I heard him “We must finish today o! and put the tombstone” he shouted. It was then an agonizing scream tore itself from my throat, they were sealing Papa in a grave, how would he ever come back now? I stood immobile, my tears blinding me, reality setting in, someone had their arms around me, and I knew instinctively it was Aunty Ezinne she always smelled liked a fusion of Saturday Night powder and pepper soup spices. She held me to her, hugging me tightly “E besina Gogo Don’t cry Gogo” she crooned. My tears fell profusely, continuously, I cried for myself and for Papa and I knew then that he was never coming back.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
My story....
It's official my blog is moribund!! I'm so sad!!!!! no comments??? why???????????
Anyhow..here is a story I wrote..will be posting in sections till the end..enjoy (to my invisible readers) more sobbing!!!
SEALED GRAVES (COPYRIGHT!!!!! cannot be reproduced...and the rest of the ish)
Mama was rolling on the ground and beating her head in despair. “Di m o! My husband!” she screamed again and again, “Chukwu na mo! Ebe ki no? My God! Where are you”. Mama Caro and Aunty Ezinne, our neighbors, struggled to pull her up, each time she was halfway up she would fall back to the earth screaming “hapu m, tata a ga m anwu! Leave me, today I will die!” Her black blouse and wrapper were cloaked in red earth; the wrinkled skin of her feet a dusty red. Behind her Ikenna and Uzo lowered the wooden casket into the grave that had been dug, Father Anthony stood a few feet away from them clutching his missal to his chest his other arm extended over the casket making the sign of the cross. A fine sheen of sweat covered his forehead and rays from the sun bounced off his shiny bald head. As I watched them put Papa in the ground, I remembered Ralu telling me that Father Anthony was not godly at all. He said he had seen the collar of his cassock and it had brown streaks of dirt all around it, and Father Anthony could not possibly be godly because Sister Eusebius who taught him Moral Instruction had said that cleanliness is next to godliness.
So I ran, straight at Father Anthony intent on pushing him to the ground and showing everyone that he was not as chaste as the white cassock led them to believe. Let them see him as his white became mud red, as I lunged at him throwing my weight in the direction of his mid torso, open arms and a warm embrace intercepted my flailing arms. He scooped me up and placed my head on his chest, it was then I saw Mama advancing, a tired frown on her face. “Golibe” she called, the way she did when she was exasperated. Underneath her languorous tone I could hear her screaming in a fit of rage “You will not kill me o! Golibe! Mba nu!” like when I broke her vase from England, but this was different Father Anthony should not be praying over Papa’s body, he was ungodly. I looked up from Father Anthony’s chest and there stood Mama, her weary eyes alive with anger. As she tried to take me from his arms, Father Anthony said softly to her in Igbo “Rapu ya, o bu nwatakili, o maro ihe n’eme Leave her alone, she is a child, she doesn’t know what is happening.” So Mama left me in his arms and later he put me down as he shoved the spade into the earth “dust to dust” he said lifting mounds of red earth and scattering it on the wooden casket. He beckoned to Mama who came near the grave and rolled up the sleeves of her blouse, sweat trickled down her brow and mingled with her tears as she too lifted the spade and drove it into the earth and then scattered its contents on the casket. But Father Anthony was wrong; I did know what was happening. I knew that Papa was in the wooden coffin and Mama had just thrown sand on him.
Anyhow..here is a story I wrote..will be posting in sections till the end..enjoy (to my invisible readers) more sobbing!!!
SEALED GRAVES (COPYRIGHT!!!!! cannot be reproduced...and the rest of the ish)
Mama was rolling on the ground and beating her head in despair. “Di m o! My husband!” she screamed again and again, “Chukwu na mo! Ebe ki no? My God! Where are you”. Mama Caro and Aunty Ezinne, our neighbors, struggled to pull her up, each time she was halfway up she would fall back to the earth screaming “hapu m, tata a ga m anwu! Leave me, today I will die!” Her black blouse and wrapper were cloaked in red earth; the wrinkled skin of her feet a dusty red. Behind her Ikenna and Uzo lowered the wooden casket into the grave that had been dug, Father Anthony stood a few feet away from them clutching his missal to his chest his other arm extended over the casket making the sign of the cross. A fine sheen of sweat covered his forehead and rays from the sun bounced off his shiny bald head. As I watched them put Papa in the ground, I remembered Ralu telling me that Father Anthony was not godly at all. He said he had seen the collar of his cassock and it had brown streaks of dirt all around it, and Father Anthony could not possibly be godly because Sister Eusebius who taught him Moral Instruction had said that cleanliness is next to godliness.
So I ran, straight at Father Anthony intent on pushing him to the ground and showing everyone that he was not as chaste as the white cassock led them to believe. Let them see him as his white became mud red, as I lunged at him throwing my weight in the direction of his mid torso, open arms and a warm embrace intercepted my flailing arms. He scooped me up and placed my head on his chest, it was then I saw Mama advancing, a tired frown on her face. “Golibe” she called, the way she did when she was exasperated. Underneath her languorous tone I could hear her screaming in a fit of rage “You will not kill me o! Golibe! Mba nu!” like when I broke her vase from England, but this was different Father Anthony should not be praying over Papa’s body, he was ungodly. I looked up from Father Anthony’s chest and there stood Mama, her weary eyes alive with anger. As she tried to take me from his arms, Father Anthony said softly to her in Igbo “Rapu ya, o bu nwatakili, o maro ihe n’eme Leave her alone, she is a child, she doesn’t know what is happening.” So Mama left me in his arms and later he put me down as he shoved the spade into the earth “dust to dust” he said lifting mounds of red earth and scattering it on the wooden casket. He beckoned to Mama who came near the grave and rolled up the sleeves of her blouse, sweat trickled down her brow and mingled with her tears as she too lifted the spade and drove it into the earth and then scattered its contents on the casket. But Father Anthony was wrong; I did know what was happening. I knew that Papa was in the wooden coffin and Mama had just thrown sand on him.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Little Someone and I contnd' (might want to read entry below first)
Somebody help me o! blogger does self editing and takes out chunks of what i've written when i'm done posting..leaving blank spaces..any suggestions????
Looking at this poem now, I'm thinking my little someone is probably anorexic, plus crackers and soup ? Why couldn't it be Garri and Ofe Onubu? ok..something light..plaintain chips.lol. My mind was really fascinated by the American/British culture. I recall wanting to taste and feel snow. (I have.lol!) But,that's story for another day joo...
Looking at this poem now, I'm thinking my little someone is probably anorexic, plus crackers and soup ? Why couldn't it be Garri and Ofe Onubu? ok..something light..plaintain chips.lol. My mind was really fascinated by the American/British culture. I recall wanting to taste and feel snow. (I have.lol!) But,that's story for another day joo...
Saturday, February 7, 2009
My Little someone and I.
Hey Guys!! Happy New Year!!!! Here's hoping the new year brings many wonderful things and it is indeed a year of unspeakable joy for us all. Amen!
Ok, so I know I haven't come back to finish my series *On love, crushes, and jeans* but I will be back..It's just two more to go and it features crushes even on blogsville (scandalous eh?)..so hopefully, I'll get it done. For now, here is a poem I wrote when I was 17, I was (almost) fresh out of high school, ok, not really - a year out of high school, my inspiration? My t.v hugging cousin. Enjoy! P.S - I didn't change anything..this is what my 17-year old mind came up with.
MY LITTLE SOMEONE & I
I'm frustrated, on the verge of insanity all because...
I know a little someone who's up till 3a.m and funny enough when I wake at dawn,
he was up an hour before.
It's puzzling and I can't comprehend it, how my little someone does it.
He's awake at 5, sets out at 6, and by 7 he's in his chair
Punching numbers on his keyboard, picking the phone that's always ringing, attending to people as they walk in and out of his office.
I wonder how he isn't crazy!
He skips lunch as always, he says he's keeping fit, he sits back in his chair sipping mineral water, his fingers working steadily on his computer.
Soon the day is over, he jumps into the seat of his Rover, he starts back home where he eventually has a light dinner - crackers and soup, sometimes a bowl or two. (Only on weekends does my little someone indulge, he has breakfast, lunch, and dinner!)
When he's done eating, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Soon he's seated on the cushion facing the T.V, he so loves the movies one would think he was born with them. Now he has his bottle in one hand, the other is on the remote, I don't even bother trying 'cos I know the T.V's taken till three.
So there he sits watching the people and the movies, I really don't know what's so interesting.
I don't get to see him sleep but at dawn when I wake, he was awake long before
I've tried, really tried to understand but my brain just can't process this data. He's an enigma that isn't unfolding. A mystery so very frustrating.
Doctors say you need 7 hours sleep to be healthy, strong, and merry. My little someone is never sick, yet he sleeps just for an hour. He doesn't have the occasional headaches, not even the slightest trace of a fever. He's cheerful, blithe, and merry as a palace jester. Now you see why I'm going mad, he should have been dead long before now.
But he's alive, yes! alive, bubbling with so much vivacity.
So here I rest my case. I'm letting sleeping dogs lie, though I'm on the brink of madness my litte someone is my guide!
Looking at this poem now, I'm thinking my little someone is probably anorexic, plus crackers and soup ? Why couldn't it be Garri and Ofe Onubu? ok..something light..plaintain chips.lol. My mind was really fascinated by the American/British culture. I recall wanting to taste and feel snow. (I have.lol!) But,that's story for another day joo...
Ok, so I know I haven't come back to finish my series *On love, crushes, and jeans* but I will be back..It's just two more to go and it features crushes even on blogsville (scandalous eh?)..so hopefully, I'll get it done. For now, here is a poem I wrote when I was 17, I was (almost) fresh out of high school, ok, not really - a year out of high school, my inspiration? My t.v hugging cousin. Enjoy! P.S - I didn't change anything..this is what my 17-year old mind came up with.
MY LITTLE SOMEONE & I
I'm frustrated, on the verge of insanity all because...
I know a little someone who's up till 3a.m and funny enough when I wake at dawn,
he was up an hour before.
It's puzzling and I can't comprehend it, how my little someone does it.
He's awake at 5, sets out at 6, and by 7 he's in his chair
Punching numbers on his keyboard, picking the phone that's always ringing, attending to people as they walk in and out of his office.
I wonder how he isn't crazy!
He skips lunch as always, he says he's keeping fit, he sits back in his chair sipping mineral water, his fingers working steadily on his computer.
Soon the day is over, he jumps into the seat of his Rover, he starts back home where he eventually has a light dinner - crackers and soup, sometimes a bowl or two. (Only on weekends does my little someone indulge, he has breakfast, lunch, and dinner!)
When he's done eating, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Soon he's seated on the cushion facing the T.V, he so loves the movies one would think he was born with them. Now he has his bottle in one hand, the other is on the remote, I don't even bother trying 'cos I know the T.V's taken till three.
So there he sits watching the people and the movies, I really don't know what's so interesting.
I don't get to see him sleep but at dawn when I wake, he was awake long before
I've tried, really tried to understand but my brain just can't process this data. He's an enigma that isn't unfolding. A mystery so very frustrating.
Doctors say you need 7 hours sleep to be healthy, strong, and merry. My little someone is never sick, yet he sleeps just for an hour. He doesn't have the occasional headaches, not even the slightest trace of a fever. He's cheerful, blithe, and merry as a palace jester. Now you see why I'm going mad, he should have been dead long before now.
But he's alive, yes! alive, bubbling with so much vivacity.
So here I rest my case. I'm letting sleeping dogs lie, though I'm on the brink of madness my litte someone is my guide!
Looking at this poem now, I'm thinking my little someone is probably anorexic, plus crackers and soup ? Why couldn't it be Garri and Ofe Onubu? ok..something light..plaintain chips.lol. My mind was really fascinated by the American/British culture. I recall wanting to taste and feel snow. (I have.lol!) But,that's story for another day joo...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)