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.

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.

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...

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...