Randoms.(1) I spent the early years of my life thinking of all the things I wanted to be, the things I surely wanted to do. At 12, my personal aspirations had become clearer. It's midnight already.. this reminds me of the nights I stayed up fantasizing about my achievements after my daily routines. One thing was certain, only God's grace and hard work could birth all my aspirations(I learnt from my parents) I had personally decided to heed these words which made more meaning to me as the years rolled by. Something happened! I knew little about these people who are often 'represented' in almost all the offices I have had to visit; an established pot bellied man saying, "this is Nigeria", a middle age woman willing to disregard due process in want of naira notes that have obviously been unable to hide her financial challenges and certainly an ignorant youth willing to yield with a disgusting glee. ....So when I put in that extra effort in my activities, overlook the frivolous affairs of contemporaries, it's not because I am trying to be 'super human' but because I want to be one of the several examples why hard work pays when coupled with GOD'S GRACE, I want to stand out for those who will choose to do be upright in the midst of moral decadence. Finally, the white walls which I shall subsequently be enclosed by shall represent ACCESSIBILITY, JUSTICE and those who may have decided to remain on the "other side" would never dare ignore the conviction that they have no business with the corridors of those walls where I shall breathe at noon on weekdays(whenever).

TWO WRONGS Busying myself with the bizarre pleasure of stretching my hair, muttering over the tardiness of my old microwave while defrosting a plate of food as usual would have seemed more worthwhile than this, but I had found my way to Harvey lane again. The thought of this drove me crazy; I unconsciously displayed my disgust by banging my steering thrice. I would have lowered my glass to tell the bus driver beside me, who had made vain efforts to overtake me, how dead he would be if I noticed even a crack on my wing mirror but I sped off instead. Jumoke, my six year old daughter ran towards me, caging my legs after I had slid the parlor door open. She was saying too much at a time, words I had no patience to decipher tonight. "Mummy needs to rest," Grace said, pulling Jumoke away, relieving me of my office uniform. "Grace, you have to wash that right away,"I said. "Yes ma, ma, do you...” I had hushed her with by signaling a NO to whatever questions she was about to ask, with my right hand as I walked up the stairs. I poured myself a glass of wine, making way for my ash chair. I had followed the soap opera displaying on my television for fifteen minutes then suddenly I realized I did not deserve any form of pleasure. What seemed appropriate was this irresponsible twenty-eight year old wife, mother, and medical doctor thinking of how to clear this mess. I resolved to pretend everything was fine, shut up about this and move on, like I had done before but this Dutch courage would vanish once my husband sets his eyes on me. I had no excuse, none! I had everything, everything but my husband to stop me from wandering into the arms of another lad. I thought I had heard Ade, my gate man open the gate. I hurried to peer through my window. I felt a brief relief, seeing him strain to listen to BBC news, I could guess, on his black portable radio. I retired to my recliner, thinking about all that had happened today. How I should have saved myself this stress by telling Stanley to take his hands off my shoulders the first time he did in my office earlier in the day. As we both hurried into his apartment at Harvey lane, an inner voice had told me to stop my foolishness and drive home, it had reminded me of the dangers of being caught, how I had promised God four months ago that if he let my affair with Stanley disappear without being revealed I would never indulge in the stupidity of adultery again. His kisses made me weak, giving in was the only thing I, Funke could do; a woman whose husband was busy chasing naira notes, if he had ambitions of competing with Bill Gates, I did not know. All I knew was we had too much already. I felt a sudden chill when Dabota, Stanley's fiancée had walked in, I covered myself, hurrying out of his apartment as she cursed. "What a shame...”she yelled. I did not wait to hear all the facts she had to spill, after all we both worked at the Marina General Hospital, she had all the details which were perfect enough to keep me within the confines of my mansion, she knew how I toured countries for vacations, she had never seen me wear a particular dress a second time, that confirmed the whispers around the office on the number of clothes in my wardrobe. Perhaps she was not as detailed as I thought, if she could not figure out my husband, Daniel practically lived in his office, had little or no time for his family. Dabota had threatened to reveal this, I didn't care. All I thought about was Daniel, I had no clue what his actions would be if he heard about this. I had dozed off, getting off the bed by 11:45pm only to find Daniel snoring beside me. I did not see right, I mused, staring at the lipstick stains all over his shirt. Definitely those red patches on his shirt belonged to a broad-lipped woman, I could tell from the conspicuous patches she had left. Whore! I yelled inaudibly. It had been several hours of arguments after I had managed to rouse Daniel, he had no remorse for his actions, he lied about the glaring signs of an affair and my fury had forced me into telling him about Stanley who has gladly been filling his space. That had earned me simultaneous blows, heated arguments followed. "Get out,” he said, with revulsion as he pointed at our bedroom door. In no time he had rolled one of my boxes throwing it angrily towards the staircase. It's 1.18am, Daniel did not think of that when he chased me out of his house without my daughter. By Merit Gogo-fyneface.

ONLY YEMI KNOWS I'M DARK.

I did not fall in love with Yemi because he promised me the whole world. Whenever I walked along the street he was there, on occasions. Our first stares grew into first words, first words ripened to a first visit and here my story begins. I am Adiba, calm and easy going. My albino skin is 19years old and my brown eyes does not make me prettier and for this cause people would rather keep their distance. When Yemi tells me I'm beautiful, my head sparks and there is a shocking sensation in my bones because for him only, I am dark. Ordinarily, I should cry but I can't for all the tears I should shed now had dried up in my childhood where several humiliating and isolating experiences lay. I did not cry. I looked straight in his eyes and he said it again this time with a depth of sincerity in his voice that hastened lip locking and before one could say jack, I had toured that filthy path that made me forget Sunday school lessons. Soon, the remorse I had felt each time I left Yemi's was history and all I could do was yearn for more moments with the only man that didn't see the awkward colour of my skin. I had learnt to love him, to trust every word he said. If the whole world would not associate with me; knowing Yemi cared made me care less. Everything seemed perfect till one beautiful morning. One morning just like the others something changed, with me precisely a lot of things I could not comprehend. Days later, the nurse told me I had acquired the dreaded disease (HIV) and if I regularly took the necessary drugs, I may live longer but if not death was near, but before I die if I had to; my mother would kill me for there was no place to go, no where else to watch this belly of mine grow since she was all I had and Yemi for whom I was beautiful and dark, I lately repelled.........
by MERIT GOGO-FYNEFACE.

Welcome To Ladun Liadi's Blog: Shores of Despair By Merit Gogo

Welcome To Ladun Liadi's Blog: Shores of Despair By Merit Gogo

NUPTIAL BLISS.
The sky rumbled, rain drops hit the ground fast, with the force it had withheld earlier in the day when it threatened to rain. I tried to calm my nerves with the pop music from my stereo but I knew that was not enough. Dozie was still on my mind.Eventually, I resolved to get to Ada George.                                    
The road was abnormally free, except for the terrible pot holes here and there, which hindered my speed and I hoped would not damage any part of my KIA optima, my birthday present from Dozie. Walking into the estate, I had unconsciously turned visible heads towards my direction ,with my dark blue gown which was some reasonable distance above my knee, enhancing my light skin. Some part of my long hair fluttered around my eyes and I stylishly put it aside as I walked towards the staircase leading to Dozie's apartment. He was sipping a glass of red wine when I walked in. His white and black moustache parted, revealing the flawless dentition of the thirty-nine year old civil engineer as he smiled at me.                    
I did not even fake a smile to please him. "Baby, what's the matter," he began with the subtle voice that I fancied. I remained silent, dropping my pink bag on the bed, I folded both arms across my chest, staring at Dozie. He moved behind me, holding my shoulders.
"What do you take me for," I began with a firm voice I believed would carry me through the conversation however it turned. "Are you alright?" he asked, raising his brow as he took a place on the king sized bed. "Of course I'm not, how can I be alright with all the deceptive stories of you being a single parent".                  
"Where is that coming from?" he asked. "Incredible, do I sense any attempt to deny your wonderful family, do I ?"I said, staring at him furiously. He remained silent, staring at me in a manner expecting me to exhaust my ranting, this silence raged me even more.                                              
  "You are ignoring me!". There was no response, he switched channels, settling for BET. I stood there in the centre of his well furnished sitting-room, not knowing what to say or do next. I reached for my hand bag, determined to leave but Dozie held me, burying my head in his shoulders.
"Yvonne, I'm sorry. My bad, I should have been honest with you but apparently doing that would have made me loose you. We've come this far, two years together is not something we should waste because of some facts, we can do nothing about right now.I love you and you...".
"Don't go there, don't!"I yelled.
"We shouldn't fight over this," he said.
"Do you think this is funny, I have given you two years of my life Dozie."I said, demonstrating with my fingers in case he did not understand what two years meant to a twenty-six year old girl.
"Yvonne, it's not as terrible as you make it"
"No it isn't, you have a wife and son there in London and you were going to marry me next month if my curiosity didn't lead me to your cell phone." Dozie held me close. I was broken and didn't realize when I let him
kiss me.                
I drove home that night with a feeling I could not describe. I was supposed to be extremely mad at him, for fooling me for too long but here I was still thinking about him.
I lit a stick of cigarette to relieve my heavy heart, emitting the smoke in a carefree manner after each passionate thrust. I should have known all along, I told myself but Dozie exhibited much dexterity when he had lied about being an orphan, starting up a life here in port-harcourt on his own.
All these meant nothing now. I took a look at the ring on my finger and I knew there were just two sides to this; a court marriage with Dozie- after all he was not legally married to his wife, or letting go. I would have settled for the latter but I couldn't deal with the thought of starting all over. We carried on with the wedding and with Angela and her son there in London, I had the privilege of enjoying my marriage until Dozie subsequently told me he was relocating permanently to Nigeria with his family- I realized the huge mess I had walked into with my eyes wide open. by Merit Gogo-fyneface.

THE FIRST DAY OF AN UGLY BEGINNING.

Mama is sitting in the courtyard, her palms on her chin and elbow on her laps, which is covered with the worst of all her wrappers- she saves the rest for the women's meeting and special occasions. Solomon, my four year old brother is playing in the sand, which Papa would have flogged him for but unfortunately, he is absent and Mama does not care at all if Solomon fondles the filthy sand, full of saliva and other dirty items. From the impatient tapping of feet, to the smacking of her black lips, I can smell trouble all around our small apartment. I run around the kitchen, searching for every possible weapon Mama must have envisaged would break Papa's head, for having the guts to touch her savings, savings meant to make up my fees for the next session which was only a week away.
"Segun,”

"Ma," I responded running to the kitchen, from my prying spot .

"Segun where is my kitchen knife, “she began.

My heart beat because if I tell Mama I have no clue, she would fling the back of her palms carelessly on my face, the rational half of my mind tells me to pretend to find it but before I even decide which to follow, Mama angrily walks out of the kitchen to meet Papa.
"The fool is here, “she barks, clapping her palms together, firmly tying her wrapper which is faded and confuses me on what colour it had been before its present state, when I try to think. Papa tries to ignore her, moving towards our room door. Mama hurriedly races towards the door, covering it with her massive size.
"You spend my savings on that scarecrow your loose brain tells you is better than I am, and you come here with the thought of resting, you must be mad. “
"Biola, I am in no mood for your foolishness right now, get out of my way, “he said, moving towards our door again.
Mama pushed him so hard that his body hit a part of the old stem that has been used to hold our twines on which my school uniform was spread. My blue school shirt flew into Omawumi's veranda, our neighbour who had left her four children to rage Mama with the kind of side talks she would like to hear, which confirmed Mama'ssuspicion.
Papa forced himself up, aggressively moving towards Mama. In a split second, Mama's nose had started bleeding as a result of the force of Papa’s punch. She wailed, running up and down the compound, calling out to the neighbours and threatening Papa must kill her.
"Ayoola, you must kill me today, “she said, proceeding into our clustered kitchen, disorganizing it more by throwing down most items in search of the knife. Then her eyes rested on the wooden pestle, she gladly pulled it from its position running out of the kitchen.

"Papa, “I screamed running towards Solomon, to raise him from the ground. My voice was not loud enough, Mama's pestle landed on the rear of Papa's head; he fell with his face to the ground. With the gravity of Mama's pestle, I knew Papa would never watch me get into secondary school; he would never witness any progress in my life, never. Before our neighbours gathered the scene to shake their heads and tell Mama to take heart, I carried Solomon to the backyard to shed the entire tears that welled up in my eyes. As I cried, drops of my tears fell on Solomon’s head, some on my khaki shorts. This was obviously the first day of an ugly beginning. Two days later, Omawumi inadvertently told Mama she was not certain if Papa was actually having an affair with the girl at his workplace, she said she had only seen them chat and her conclusions were based on the way she had seen Papa smile at her. We fed on a meal per day, and I did not complain, I did not dare intensify Mama's sorrows by complaining I was tired of eating poorly cooked soup on a daily basis, I ate them with feigned excitement that made her rub my head and tell me everything would be alright. It was never going to be, I could imagine as soon as the police van halted in our compound and the thin man who looked bereft of strength to pull even an arrow, or the gun beside him, took Mama away after using the rusted handcuffs to marry her wrists. by Merit Gogo-fyneface.

Ukamaka Olisakwe: On Writing Eyes of a Goddess














Sometime early October, 1991, I dreamt that I died during a stampede. I was nine years old and the fear left me in cold shudders. I remember running out of the room and screaming 'blood of Jesus!', as we were taught to say in church. For hours that nightmare left me paralysed in fear, and it marked a defining moment; it was the next day that the bloody '91 Kano riot began. I was shocked by what humans could do to other humans, at how easily we could snuff lives. I knew of family friends who lost loved ones in the bloodbath. My cousins were trapped in the heart of Kano. Dad took the risk, when Mum couldn't stop crying, and went in search for them. Fear is like a huge stone sitting in your stomach; it sat in mine for hours. I cringed and wept while we waited for dad's return. The stories of butchered women and children filled Sabon Gari -- where we lived, the tales of family burned in their homes raved, and of people butchered. We had neighbours whose relatives escaped with minimal cuts and burns; they told saddening stories. I kept shaking, until dad finally returned with my cousins and aunt, all six of them. For years I remember the joy in mum's eyes, the laughters and then tears. I still remember the faces of relatives searching for loved ones, of people severely hurt, the endless cries of “Boys Oye!” by the vengeful Christians in Sabon Gari, and the intermittent screams that the rioting men were closing in on us in Sabon Gari. I stayed awake for most of the nights, with the strong belief that if I stayed wide-eyed, the rioting boys would be kept off. And they were kept off. And after the fifth day, the Nigerian Army was redeployed to the beleaguered State.


My quest began when I was much older; I tried to understand why human beings could hurt others, how the decisions we take make or break the lives of others. That memory of the riot and many other experiences stayed with me. For years I lived with those fears – those demons. It was the reason I never became very fluent in the beautiful Hausa language, why I hardly ventured outside the confines of Sabon Gari all through my stay, except during my short studies at the Federal College of Education, before dropping out at the age of nineteen. Each time I tried to open up, to learn, that crippling fear kept jumping and clamping my stomach into a hard ball. I lived with those demons, lived like one in a blur.


Writing brought freedom -- I was encouraged by my friend, Idris Saliu, to write stories after he read my scribbles. Writing is like exorcising demons; those voices up there begging for freedom, to be penned down, the voices of the people in various times in my growing up: happy, wishful, lusty, sad. I walked with them and did not have peace until I abided to their whim. They hum when I'm in company of friends, and I had to furiously write in long hand, which had my friends muttering: “Wetin be her own sef?”




The voices never let you go until you have set them free, until you pen the last word, then you exhale, like one doused with a bucket of cool water after a marathon. But it goes away, this orgasmic state, because they return again. Again. And again. With different stories. They come when you accidentally flip through TV channels, or through books, or even listen-in on a conversation that isn’t your business in the first place. They trigger some sort of memory. They get stronger each time, their voices sharper and clearer. Your skill as a writer sharpens with each completed short story or book, and you marvel at the wonder, at the profound creativity, of being able to birth such beautiful children with finesse. You begin to accept that truly, this is who you were made to be, who you will always be: a story teller.


I’ve been asked how I wrote Eyes of a Goddess. A friend said he ‘suspects’ me, that perhaps, that was truly my story. There is the truth that the character grew up in my village; in my house, lived in same room I slept in for years, but that was where it ended. The story grew naturally on its own.




To tell about Njideka -- the narrator in Eyes of a Goddess, I had to let her become me. I think that’s the point where budding writers trail off: the inability to let your characters think and feel like familiar people. Njideka would be as tall as I am if she were my age, and she had my face. And to make her feel comfortable, I had to let her feel at home in my memories; my home. I had to let her into my secret and being, to become one in body and soul. It helped me interpret her feeling/emotions just as I would if it happened to me, to react or burst out just as I would, to become aware of her sexuality just as I did. I think that’s why most people read Eyes of a goddess and ask if it actually happened to me because the story was not told in a detached tone like a shrink reading out the notes on her patients. It is like I was telling the world: This is me! I was depressed at some points too -- it affected me as a person having to write such a passionate story. Most times I cried. I cried a lot while writing it, laughed a lot too, and at nights I dreamt I was Njideka. That is how strong a character could be when you see their lives through your own eyes – through the eyes of our many personalities. But the major challenge is in separating yourself from your characters at the end of the story, to move on no matter how your story turned out. This is very crucial.


Fiction writing gives you cover and power; the power say 'Let there be light!' and there will be. You could recreate lives that were already lost, you could incorporate every facet of life as you wish, imaginations, and those fears you would not ordinarily give voice to on any other day. It gives you the opportunity to punch people in the face with truths that you would not easily tell them, especially those that are so far from your realm or circle of friends, and you get to package the story in such an appetizing way that would be alluring and punchy at the same time. It’s like cooking a dish that is hot and cold at the same time. How possible is that? Writers are magicians!




The trying part was after I was done with the story. Okay, here, most people get lily-livered; you get afraid when you are advised to let a third eye read your work. But it was very important that a third eye read my book; it was my first time. I met a close friend online – Richard Ali. He read the first three chapters and went: “Wow! Wow! Wow! This is beautiful!” I did acrobatic tumbles on my bed, though I tried not to break my neck.. hehehehehe! It was satisfying to have such an educated mind read my story and make such a comment. I sent him the next three chapters, and that was when the whole bubble got burst.

“Wait! Wait! Ukamaka, you are all over the place. What happened? What happened to that first writing style? What's the story about? You are rubbing it in and it is boring,” RA said to me over the phone. I was deflated like a balloon, and the crash to earth was dizzying and painful. But it was a necessary one. Together we reshaped the book. All unnecessary parts were cut off. I was well over a hundred thousand words when we began, and after he was done, I was left hanging limply on a seventy-five thousand. Am I happy? Hell I am! Most times in our fight to write lengthy stories like other established writers, we over-write; clog our chapters with paragraphs that get bogged down in shoddy details, and they add no value to the book. A third eye is like your final audience; he gets to LIVE your story while reading, and he judges if it is realistic, feasible, alluring, or a total put-off.




On publishing: Writers reel out stories of rejections. Some paint them so colourful, you are filled with fear. I had a rejection and an unreturned query letter. But I got lucky; met the humble Prof. Paul Nnodim, the publisher at Piraeus Books LLC, Massachusetts, USA. It was fulfilling, kind of. Though for weeks after I held the first copies of my book, I was filled with this overwhelming emotion, one I couldn’t name. It was unbelievable -- what I created, though I do not go about aggrandizing my accomplishments; I am still a beginner, and I'm liking the voices now.


Excerpt: Eyes of a Goddess by Ukamaka Olisakwe




Papa always rode home in his old Suzuki motorcycle. He would perch on it like a proud king, his hands gripping the handles firmly, and his back straight up as if he had swallowed a flat board. And there was always character in the way he climbed on or off the motorcycle; one leg raised high and over the seat, like the boys practicing karate at the church, then arching swiftly and landing precisely on the pedal. Then he would turn on the ignition, let it hum for a while before revving it loud enough for the neighbours to hear. And when he drove in at the end of the day, he revved and circled the compound almost in a full circumference before parking it at the stem of the coconut tree.




But when Papa came back from the church without his motorcycle, his brows set in thick furrows and his mouth in a pout, I knew something was wrong, and things were about to take a different turn. His strides were determined and his slippers made slapping sounds under his feet, raising little puffs of dust. I was seated on our veranda tugging my right sixth finger.




“Papa, nno,” I greeted. But Papa didn’t respond.




Papa darted into the sitting room and sat on our armchair.




I peeped from the window, found him sulking, staring angrily at the ceiling. I didn’t know whether to go to him and ask what bothered him, or to go get Mama, who was seated by the side of the house, between the banana and guava trees, with her friend, Ochiora. Their voices flittered from amidst the trees; their discussion was about Mama Ifeoma who just lost her husband.




“I heard she was caught again with Otenkwu in the bush near Eziogo yesterday!” Ochiora squeaked in her thin voice.




“Eziokwu? What were they doing hiding in the bush?” Mama asked.




“I heard he was fondling her breasts!”




“Hee! Hee! Hee!” Mama guffawed.




I’ve always wondered why Mama’s voice sounded so grouchy that even when she laughed, it came out with a raspy lilt.




“Men have no shame. Imagine that irresponsible old fool fondling the sagged breasts of a widow whose husband is still maggot feed six feet below!” Ochiora said.




“Ah! Ah! Stop laying emphasis on those breasts, please,” Mama cackled bashfully.




“Ha pum! Let me say my mind. Or, is it my fault that her breasts are shrivelled like an old man’s testicles?” Ochiora asked.




“Ta! Ochiora, you talk too dirty! Mechie onu! Your mouth needs to be scrubbed clean with an iron sponge,” Mama replied, laughing out loud again.




“Yes now! Didn’t you see how they flapped freely against her chest as she ran to see her husband’s corpse when he fell from that palm tree?”




“And to think of it, Otenkwu was her husband’s best friend. They tapped wine together as teenagers. Hey, women, we will never cease to shock the world,” Mama said.




“I even heard that she has been messing around with that Otenkwu a long time ago before her husband’s death,” Ochiora confided.




“Inukwa! Are you sure?”




“How can you ask if I am sure? Have you not heard that he had been bedding her early in her marriage and her always drunken husband never knew?”




“But if this is really true, then Otenkwu has set out a deadly path for himself. When the dead remember him, he will wish never to have been born!”




“I even heard Mama Ifeoma’s brother came all the way from Nimo, to warn him just early in this New Year. But he is headstrong! He even says he will marry her!”


“Chi m! While she still mourns her husband…? When death comes to kill the dog, it will not even let it perceive the smell of faeces,” Mama intoned.




“Do you pity him? Let him continue. “Anyone who is being treated for a deadly illness, but keeps having an erection, should be left to die,” Ochiora said. Mama gave a short laugh.




“Yes! He should be left to die since he wishes to shag with ghosts!”




They both laughed louder; the sound rumbled around the compound.




It was surprising that Mama stuck to a friend whose every other sentence was always peppered with words meant only for adult ears. Perhaps, Mama secretly liked gutter language. Ochiora was not a born again Christian as Mama. Sometimes I felt that through Ochiora, Mama allowed herself to live the life that otherwise only existed for her as a subconscious experience.




I peeked again through the window netting, to see Papa still looking downcast and alone.




Mama’s laughter died in her throat when Papa bellowed in a lusty “Mama Nkemjika! Come here!”




She scurried from the backyard and passed a glance at me, at how I swung my leg from the veranda, before darting into the house, saying, “Papa Nkemjika, what is it that got you upset this afternoon? When did you ride in?”




“My motorcycle has been stolen!” Papa cried out like a child.




I peeped from the window to see as Mama’s hands flew to her chest, like one with a sudden heart attack, before she cried “Obala Jesus, Blood of Jesus!” She had her back to me, and she towered over Papa.




Ochiora dashed into the room then as Mama screamed. “What happened, Papa Nkemjika?”




“His motorcycle was stolen!” Mama responded.




“Ewoo! Who stole it? Where? When?” Ochiora asked as she came to sit beside Papa. Mama didn’t sit down; she loomed in front of Papa, as if she wished to beat the story out of him.




“Who stole it? Ehn? Who stole it?” Mama asked in that tone that sounded as if she had bought the motorcycle with her own money. “Who stole it?”




Papa sighed; his jaw nestled in his palms. He started, “It was after service that I went to greet the vicar, to thank him for a prayer well said on behalf of all the unpaid civil servants in our state. He had prayed that the hands that dangled our civil rights above our heads, far beyond our reach, would weaken; resulting in our freedom.




“Ehen? And what happened?” Mama asked.




“He even gave the special adviser to the governor, who had come for a thanksgiving service held by one of his cohorts, the tongue-lashing of his life. The honourable vicar openly scolded him for misleading the governor. You should have seen the fat fool trying to hide his mammoth head in between his fat shoulders! Even his enormous gut wouldn’t let him bend his head.”




“Papa Nkemjika, and what happened to the motorcycle?” Mama pestered.




“I am coming to that,” Papa replied, “So, after the wonderful service, I went to the vicar, to thank him for preaching the truth. You know, every other priest in the state has either pretended all is well, or has refused to talk about our troubles. They all shy away from the topic, as if they cannot see the sufferings of our people. Some cowardly ones even pray for the governor just to gain recognition.”




Mama sat back on the chair, realizing it would not do to rush Papa. Papa loved taking his time to tell a story, as if he really wanted you to see this picture through his own eyes.




“So, nwuyem, my wife,” Papa said forlornly, “I talked at length with the vicar and he asked me to come with him to his quarters for a short prayer. It was much later that I remembered that those boys who stole the church’s fans might still be lounging around. I hastened back to where I had parked my motorcycle to find it was still safely tethered to the Ukwa tree.”




“It was there, still tied to the tree?” Mama asked.




“Yes, it was. I danced to the altar, to thank the Lord for this safe keeping. I didn’t spend more than ten minutes of thanksgiving. When I came out again, my motorcycle was no longer there!”




“Hey! Just like that?” Ochiora asked.




But Mama had a different look on her face, the kind you have after eating a spoonful of soured egusi soup. “So, you found the motorcycle safe and you still went in to give thanks? After the church was dismissed? You didn’t deem it fit to give thanks in your heart?” Mama asked angrily.




“But I had to thank God for the safe keeping,” Papa said.




“And what happened afterwards? Eh? You got it stolen then!” Mama cried.




I sat back on the veranda while Mama grumbled and Ochiora cooed. It was all so familiar, and at times like that I worried why Papa tolerated Mama talking down at him. I wanted him to be a tad hard and strong-minded. But he always waved away her nagging. Papa was quiet throughout dinner that night. He only paid attention to Adaeze, feeding her small moulds of the fufu which he dipped first into the tasty onugbu soup. Adaeze muttered “water” after a few swallows. Mama pushed a small plastic cup of water to her. Mama didn’t talk to Papa. A frown creased her forehead as she nibbled at a piece of meat, her gaze focused intently on the grey images on the television. I felt she missed the motorcycle—our pride and joy in a clan where most men rode on old bicycles.




I sat behind our chair, where I always sat during dinner, and picked at my food. Mama gobbled down her food, her munching mixing with the noise of our television. It was our turn to have electricity, as it said in the time-table which the men from the NEPA office at Awka had drawn up for us. We enjoyed electricity rarely, just three times a week – and that, too, only if it came on – while the other neighbourhood had it the next three days. At seventeen, Nkemjika still shared a plate with Ebuka, who was seven years younger. Ebuka’s eyes were, as usual, glued to the wrestling match on the TV screen. He would linger at moulding his fufu when any of the wrestlers made an acrobatic tumble and landed on their opponent’s body. Ebuka would then smile and hail the wrestler with words like “idi too much!” or, “Nwoke ike! Strong man!” This was his third day in a row watching the same clip.




Nkemjika switched to the network at 9pm. Nkemjika never missed the national news and that night, the UN was making peace in far away Sudan. I sat at my position and watched Papa’s face as it creased in disgust at the hero worship offered to the UN soldiers. There was something there that had my stomach in tight knots when his gaze settled on me. After I had stared at him longer than it would have taken me to eat my meal, I stood up with my plates and said, “Thank you, Sir,” to him, and “Thank you, Ma,” to Mama before disappearing outside, to sit on the veranda and watch insects bop their heads against the fluorescent lamp.


Papa’s comment about the United Nations rose above Nkemjika’s responses. The UN, he said, does not care about Africa, was not meant for Africans.




“They don’t care if we slaughter our neighbours. They will troop in here all dressed up in fancy camouflage and boots and guns in the name of fighting for peace, but use that opportunity to loot whatever they can lay their hands on. They don’t care for black men. To them, we are a bunch of barbarians,” he said.




“But we Africans slaughter our neighbours, Papa. We are barbarians,” Nkemjika countered. “We fight our neighbouring communities.”




“Oh forget that! It is the UN inciting community clashes over diamonds, gold, or oil. They supply rival clans with machetes and guns in exchange for diamonds, gold, or oil.”




“They work on our psyche, Papa. They know we are greedy, so they use it to turn us against our neighbours.” Nkemjika’s tone was patronising, meant to goad Papa. And Papa fell for it. He went into his famous speech about how the British ruined Nigeria, how they amalgamated people with different beliefs and thinking, then they discovered that the Igboman was smart and made sure he would never succeed in politics. Then Papa launched into the war stories.




It was always that way with Papa. His famous talk about how Nigeria used genocide and starvation to wipe out the Biafra nation bored Mama to tears. She and Nkemjika knew never to interrupt him when he went into the Biafran mode. They listened; else his anger for our failed Nigeria would be vented on them. His voice wafted over to me through the open window. I would have seen him boiling in restrained anger had I peeped through the old mosquito netting. But I sat there, alone and bemused, in the quiet starless night, with hundreds of questions flitting through my mind, questions that I never gave voice to. Dark images flapped webbed wings around the compound. I was not scared. I sat there, knees close to my chest, enveloped by the chirping of night insects until a strange thud began to thrum in my chest. I felt slow drips of sweat start to pool under my arms, and my eye brows twitched.


“Isele,” whispered an amplified female voice so close to my right ear and everywhere. “Isele, it is beginning.”




I snapped my head, to my right.




No one was there.




“Isele!”




I felt a sudden coldness, a distinct shift in the temperature. Something crawled under my skin, something eerie and scary. I jumped up and dashed back into the house.











Ukamaka Olisakwe is the author of Eyes of Goddess published by Piraeus Books




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