Good Contents Are Everywhere, But Here, We Deliver The Best of The Best.Please Hold on!
Data is Loading...
Your address will show here +12 34 56 78
Fiction
Her husband’s dirty clothes from yesterday are still unwashed. The children will soon return from school and lunch is not ready yet. Mama Osas picks up the match box from the trolley close to her television, the cellophane of salt, her container of Maggi and another of ground pepper and heads towards the kitchen. Maybe I go just make yam for them, or small concoction rice. I no get power to cook another thing. She has been sleeping since everyone left the house. Rest only comes in snatches when her husband and children are out. The kitchen is located at the back of the ‘face me I face you’ house, not far away from the toilet. “Mama John, good afternoon o”, she greets her neighbor who is engrossed in the song as she washes the mountain of clothes in front of her, her movements synchronized to the song. Her stove is on a cabinet for easy access because of her condition. Her hand impulsively caresses her baby bump and she smiles. She is carrying a messiah, a savior, the son who will remove suffering from her life. Everything suddenly has been good for the past few months. Her husband refrains from hitting her, scared that he might hurt his son. All he does is throw insults instead of the blows that had been her portion during the other pregnancies. This boy is special, and is to be protected from harm. Someone touches her lightly on the arm. It is Mama John asking if everything is fine. “No mind me jare. I dey fine, I just dey think some things.” She picks up a tuber of yam and starts peeling. “You see as papa Gift take beat mama Gift this morning?” Mama John says. She ignores her. “You dey hear me so?” “Me? Na wetin you talk?” “Where your mind even dey sef? Na wa o. I say whether you no see as Papa Gift take hammer Mama Gift this morning?” Mama Osas rolls her eyes and replies, “I hear o, wetin happen sef?” “Wetin happen? Wetin dey happen for that house wey pass Gift? Me I no even know who that man marry sef, whether na Gift abi na Mama Gift.” “Ehen? So na Gift make am wan kill him wife this morning?” “Yes na. Gift been dey complain say she no wan go wan go school, naim her Mama beat am. Papa Gift wey no know wetin happen for the matter, just hear him pikin dey cry, e no even ask wetin happen, e just give the wife pow for face!” A sudden stab of pain makes Mama Osas drop her knife. “Yes o, na so the surprise sef take catch me. You dey drop knife, me wey almost drop my pot of soup nko? I thank God sha say e nor fall, because for this economy, my husband for just kill me throwaway!” Another stab of pain hits. Experience from having three children tells Mama Osas what is happening. She picks up her knife and continues peeling, faster now. “Na so o. That girl ehn, as she small so, every time her mama go dey cry because of am. Na everything wey she want the Papa dey give am.” Mama Osas grunts. “I even hear say Papa Gift dey touch him pikin,” Mama John whispers. “Na die that man dey find so. Him go just die throwaway. Tufiakwa!” Mama John moves a hand in a circular motion round her head and snaps her fingers to express the abomination. Mama Osas stops peeling suddenly. Athink they tell me say make I begin come hospital once I smell labour make my pikin for no die? She packs everything including the yam peels back into the cabinet. “Mama Osas, wetin you dey do?” “Nothing o.” She remembers that for some reason Mama John is always around when she’s having a baby. She won’t let that happen this time. “This one wey you dey squeeze your face so…” “Na nothing o, na so I dey do my face sometimes o, I no even know why.” Mama Osas returns to her room with hands still dirty from peeling yam and picks up the nylon bag holding her delivery items that had been carefully arranged for more than a month. Minutes later she walks out of her room and jams the door shut, then walks out the compound. She bites her lower lip from groaning aloud as she waits for an okada. One stops for her after a few minutes. “Madam you dey go?” “Yes o. Fate Hospital.” “Hope everything dey ok.” “Just carry me go,” she says. “Na one fifty o” he says, his face changing from concern to annoyance at her tone.” “Ehn? 150 ke? Wetin them dey carry fifty naira?” “You dey go abi you wan talk story?” “Oya make I give you 100 naira,” she says. He kicks his bike in preparation to zoom off.” “Oya carry me make we go.” In ten minutes, they are at the hospital. Mama Osas only finds a two hundred naira note in her wallet and hurries inside without waiting to collect her change. Immediately she enters the reception, she screams, “Labour o! Labour o!” nurses come to her aid. “Na our patient she be?” the younger nurse asks. “Yes, she register for here.” “You no serious o. So if I no register for here nko? You no go answer me abi?” Mama Osas raises her voice, releasing some of the pain she has been suppressing for almost an hour. “Madam no be so, na new nurse be this,” the other nurse says. “She just start work yesterday na im make she dey ask. How your body?” “Na im you dey see so o, make this boy comot for my body make I rest.” “God go do am for you, na small small,” the new nurse says. The doctor on duty came out as soon as he was informed about Mama Osas’s presence. She screams immediately she sets eyes on him. “Doctor my boy wan come out o.” The doctor smiles. “Take her to the labour room and get everything set. Call me when she is ready.” Dr. Esele walks into the ward. Inside, a woman sits on the edge of her bed staring at a newborn inside a crib just beside the bed. She turns when she becomes aware of his presence and looks up at him. He nods in answer to her unspoken query. Everything is fine. *** Mama Osas is tired from pushing for so long. It has never been this difficult for her. A part of her mind reminds the fact that this is a boy, and she relaxes before summoning all her strength for a mighty heave. “I see the head,” Dr Esele says. “Keep pushing.” A baby wails. She’s done it, finally. Her son is here, her world will change for the better. She watches as the doctor takes the baby from the nurse who is going to clean him up. “I’ll handle this myself. This is one special baby.” Mama Osas smiles. The cry of a baby snaps Dr. Esele to the present and he looks at the child being stretched towards him. “He’s yours now, thank you for this precious little girl,” the woman says with a British accent while staring at the baby who is now in the crib the boy once occupied. Dr. Esele starts rocking the boy in his arms so he can stop crying. “Hope she’s fine? No complications?” “She’s fine,” he assures her. “We need to leave now because the new mother will want to see her son.” “Of course,” she says. She retrieves a suitcase from beneath the bed and drops it on the bed. “This is yours, five million naira cash, as agreed.” Dr. Esele drops the baby on the bed and opens the suitcase. His eyes widen at the number of freshly minted one thousand naira notes in one place. “Thank you for doing this for me,” the woman says. “It means a lot.” Gently she lifts the little baby from the crib and cuddles her. “What can I say?” Dr. Esele asks. We thank God.” He locks the suitcase with care and picks up the baby, dressed in a coverall that isn’t part of the things Mama Osas brought. Of course he has an explanation for that already. “This is it then. We part ways to never see again.” “Of course,” he answers. In his mind they have never met. He doesn’t even know her name, she never told him. She walks out of the room and with the baby in one arm and her bag in the other, looking back one last time to ensure she’s forgotten nothing behind. Never again will she go through the ordeal, this is her last child. Never again will she care for a child only to have him die in her arms. One is better off with a healthy daughter, than a sickly son. Linda Orajekwe is a graduate of English language and literary studies from Lagos State University. A social media manager and a Journalist with a certificate in public relations from the Nigerian Institute of Public Relations. She promotes the African culture and literature through her blog www.linorajj.com. When Linda is not writing, reading, beading, sewing or talking, she’s definitely watching a movie or looking for shadows to chase. 
0

Fiction
It’s been one of those days. The kind of day that leaves me feeling undervalued, undermined, and feeling that I deserve better than what I’m getting from the tyrants who call themselves my employers. I’m wondering whether I’m actually cut out for the career path I chose, or whether I missed the call when it came to determining professions. I am scared of failing, scared of ending up as an also-ran, scared of letting down my family and myself. I could end up choking to death on these depressing thoughts if I remain seated behind this office desk, so  I decide to take a walk to clear my head. Hands in pocket, earphones plugged, playlist swinging from John Mayer’s “Stop This Train” to The Script’s “Breakeven”, I look for a different perspective, a new distraction, something to save my mind from the drudgery that is paid employment. “Okpa di oku. Okpa di oku!” The call pierces through my earphones, and ultimately interrupts my thoughts. She is selling a meal which is a distant cousin of moin-moin though made from a different plant, and more filling. I stand and stare at her and my eyes meet hers. She walks in my direction, assuming my interest is in buying what she has to sell. A smile finds its way to my face as I inhale the steamy aroma of her stock. It reminds me of the city to which the meal is indigenous, of a phase in my life and of a girl named Oge. I first ran into her three years ago at a students’ conference; one of those conferences where youths gathered for purposes other than the central theme. I needed the distraction; I was in my final semester and my project supervisor happened to be competing with the villain in Maleficient to see who was meaner so I took the trip to ease my mind. Then again, the host university was located in a city of which I knew nothing about except its popularity for coal and limestone and I wanted to find out more for myself. I had been drawn to her wit, and despite her attempts to ward me off, finding my overconfidence annoying, I found ways to bump into her for a better part of the three days the conference lasted. I was in a camera-happy moodand even when she did not want to, she ended up in my phone’s photo gallery. My stubbornness ultimately paid off, and by the time I made the return journey to school, my contact list had a new addition. The four-hour trip from coal country to Ancient sands had Oge’s image dominating my thoughts, and while I faced the last lap of my undergraduate sojourn, I longed to see her again. There was something in those eyes that reminded me of Nse Ikpe Etim, there was the nose I wanted to rub with mine, and there was all the sarcasm I could not get enough of. As Fate would have it, we had a chance to choose the location for the next phase of our academic pursuit, in our quest to become lawyers. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity; I chose Coal City. I got what I wished for, and while that branch of the Nigerian Law School was not the most conducive in terms of infrastructure, there was something to look forward to on weekends. My first official weekend in Coal City had coincided with Oge’s birthday, and I remember telling Clara, a friend whom I had accompanied for shopping at the city mall, to help take my purchases back to school, as I had something ‘urgent’ to attend to. “If I don’t return by 8pm, something is wrong,”I told Clara. I met with Oge at a secluded area of the city mall upon Clara’s exit, and she told me of how her birthday was shaping up to be a bore-fest. I took a ride with her on the mall’s roller coaster and gave her a treat, all too glad to save the day. I returned to the campus by 9pm that day, Clara and my other colleagues wearing huge cloaks of worry on their faces. I was right; something was wrong. Oge was what had gone wrong with me. More trips to the heart of the city on weekends followed, accompanied by long phone calls, but while I flashed all the signals, her heart refused to switch from red to green. I eventually poured out my feelings in black and white, but my application for admission into Oge’s emotional space was turned down. As is the usual reaction when a man’s love is unrequited, I withdrew, cutting off all forms of communication. This did not last long though. Just when I thought I had her out of my head, text messages with the words “I miss you” flowed in. I began to hope again, and laced my love-boots. In my opinion, there was still a chance of being Oge’s significant other. My fondness for Oge began to reflect in my attitude to the city. The “okpa” began to taste better, especially when washed down with a 35cl bottle of Coca-cola. The city lights became brighter, the roads appeared smoother, I fell in love with music from Phyno, and places like Trans-Ekulu, Nike Lake and Independence. Layout began to appeal to me. Heck, I even joined in fervent prayers when the governor of the state was away from the country, unable to perform his official duties due to a mysterious illness. In spite of the long nights out however, red light never turned to green, and in time, I threw in the towel, channelling the energy to my academics. I was however civil enough to provide room for one last rendezvous; after my make-or-mar professional examinations, I delayed my journey home by a few days, agreeing to spend time with Oge in one of the city’s half-decent guest houses. It was in one of those suites that I found out the reason why she had refused to grant a lease of her heart: someone was already in residence. Twenty-months have passed since I last set my eyes on Oge. Communication is infrequent, but nothing, nothing beats physical contact. Technology can only do so much, and phone calls don’t give me the chance to stroke her hair. I miss her to bits, and the feeling is mutual, but circumstances are a lot different now, and wishes remain wishes. Now I don’t plan to steal love away from anyone, but I am just saying that if Oge opened even one of her emotional windows, I would jump right in. I know her heart is someone else’s, but I wouldn’t mind being allotted just a corner of the room, with a little mat to lay on. I get curious;I want to find out just how her brand of lipstick tastes, how flexible she is and how fast her pulse can get. “Okpa di oku! Oga, i-nwe-ne?” I look up. The woman’s eyes nurse hope that I will buy from her. I shake my head and smile, not because her okpa is inferior or not steamy enough, but because I fear that after eating, I just might be tempted to board a bus to Coal City, just to get a chance to rub my nose against Oge’s. This first appeared on Kalahari Review. Ifeanyi Jerry Chiemeke is a lawyer and freelance writer who lives in Lagos. A foodie and enthusiast of the Fine Arts as well, Jerry’s works have been featured on Brittlepaper and The Kalahari Review
0

Features, Interviews

Long before Celebrity Interviews and decades before Twitter blurbs and Polls; likes and dislikes, teenage author, Marcel Proust, answered a series of questions asked by the  Daughter of the Future Prime Minister – Felix Faure, while playing a parlor game.

The responses and question seemed normal at the time, but has since taken a life of its own.

Posthumously coined the Proust Questionaire, it has become a way for great luminaries to ponder life’s greatest notions – love; hope, happiness and even the essence of life itself. These questions are simple, yet revealing; and although on first grasp might look quotidian, a little introspection would reveal layers upon layers of sensibilities.

The Proust Questionaire remains a timeless reminder of the caprices, appeal, and innermost self of the creative spirit, and a tunnel through which masters and literary greats continue to whisper to us through the ages. Centuries later, the questions remain a direct, yet subtle probe of consciousness and complexities, usually part revealing and part funny.

When asked what his current state of mind was, David Bowie replied – ”pregnant,” and when Proust was asked where he would like to live, his reply was: “in the realm of the ideal, or rather, my ideal.”

Not known to allow themselves be penetrated, writers and creatives generally, are known for elaborate masks, built with beautiful wordplay and grand illusions, but  we are at least given a fraction of the simple, yet profound intricacies of a brilliant mind and the strangeness that allows a person gaze into the unknown to create further unknowns.

This is how to question the creative at heart, and dreamers by rote.

Abiodun Awodele – Writer at dusk, masquerade at dawn.

1. What is your idea of perfect happiness? I’d have to say that will be being successful at the things I set out to do, the things that matter to me, and success for my friends at the things that matter to them. I want success for me and my crew. 2. What is your greatest fear? I fear failure. I break out in cold sweat when I think about not making the grade anywhere or in whatever form, and that pushes me to strive harder to avoid failure. 3. What is the trait you most deplore in yourself? I think I’m too trusting of people. Many times I’ve been taken advantage of because I invested too much trust in the person. I like to be sincere with people, so when they don’t reciprocate it saddens me. I wish I trusted people less. 4. What is the trait you most deplore in others? I’m caught somewhere between dishonesty and time wasting. People who lie make me mad, just like people who have no sense of time and cannot be punctual to save their own lives. 5.  Which living person do you most admire? I’m not too big on hero worship, but I’ll pick my dad if push comes to shove. The man has taught me some lessons on people management that I’ll never forget in a hurry. 6. What is your greatest extravagance? There was a time I spent an insane amount of money on installing a satellite receiver system. I mean, it wasn’t like I even had time to watch so much television in the first place, but I had it installed anyway, just to please myself, money that could have been spent on something more useful. 7. What is your current state of mind? Very hopeful and optimistic. I’m looking forward to doing things I feel I should have done earlier, and hoping they’d give me satisfaction I dream of in doing them. 8. What do you consider the most overrated virtue? Chastity. I won’t expand on this. 9. What do you most dislike about your appearance? I like me, no, I love me, a lot. It’s not like I have a choice or I can look any different is it? Why dislike what you can’t change? An episode of Botched will tell you it’s better to stay the way you were made. Just love yourself. 10.  What is the quality you most like in a man? The ability to keep your mouth shut and mind your own business. Too many men these days just want to run their mouths and poke their nose. Don’t be one of those men. 11.  What is the quality you most like in a woman? The ability to keep your mouth shut and mind your own business. Too many women these days just want to run their mouths and poke their nose. Don’t be one of those women. 12.  Which words or phrases do you most overuse? Mine would have to be LOL. Depending on my mood, it can be a conversation starter, filler or ender. 13.  What or who is the greatest love of your life? If I told you, I’d have to kill you 14.  Which talent would you most like to have? Super powers are more my thing, but if you insist then I’ll say it would be making money off  other peoples’ talents 15.  If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? Maybe I’d love to be more forceful with people, and less trusting in certain circumstances. 16.  What do you consider your greatest achievement? For now, releasing my first book would have to be it. The doubt and uncertainty was immense, but I finally rose above all that and just did it. 17.  If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be? Person of course. Imagine coming back as tissue paper. Ewww! 18.  Where would you most like to live? In quiet village (preferably on a farm) somewhere in Europe. Light would be constant and there wouldn’t be any ‘Fulani Herdsmen’ to disturb the peace. I love quietude. 19.  What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? Being in a situation you don’t want, and not being able to do anything about it. 20.  What is your most marked characteristic? My carefree attitude. I’m easygoing, I think. I’m not too demanding, and I find joy in little things. 21.  What do you most value in your friends? Loyalty. Has to be loyalty. I want my friend to be my friend in every sense of the word. Is that too much to ask? 22.  Who are your favorite writers? John Jakes, Ted Dekker and Stephen King. 23.  Who is your hero of fiction? I don’t have any. 24.  Which historical figure do you most identify with? Marilyn Monroe 25.  Who are your heroes in real life? Parents, all of them. 26.  What is your greatest regret? That I didn’t pursue my writing dream earlier. Maybe by now I would have ‘blown’. Who knows? I’m grateful for the talent and all that, but sometimes I wish I’d listened to the voices in my head much earlier. 27.  How would you like to die? Peacefully, with two Angels on hand to take me to the mansion in the sky 28.  What is your motto? Life is an ‘I’ experience. It might sound a tad selfish, but do stuff for you. At the end of the day the consequences of your actions are yours anyway, so why worry about other people? ***** Abiodun Awodele is a writer, and his books, “Always and Forever.” and “As In A Day” areout on Okadabooks and Amazon.
0

Features
Elechi Amadi (1934):  Writer and poet who brought to life the power of the supernatural and its influence on African culture. If it is indeed a writer’s job to record an epoch, then Amadi’s work is the supreme definitive guide for pre colonial societies southeast of the Niger. His stories are often the evocation of the peculiar sentimentality of the era and of the relationship between man and the supernatural, often of resistance from the former, and ultimately, its destruction by the later. Elechi Amadi was born in Aluu, Rivers State, on May 12, 1934. He attended Federal Government College Umuahia before proceeding to the University of Ibadan where he obtained a degree in Physics and Mathematics. He worked briefly as a Land Surveyor and Teacher before publishing his first novel, The Concubine, in 1966. 55 Nigerian Writers You should read (No. 4) He joined the Nigerian army before the civil war, staying long enough to be a captain. He wrote a semi-authobiographical account of the civil war, Sunset in Biafra, released in 1973. In his three famous books: The Concubine; The Great Pond and The Slave, myths and the supernatural are juxtaposed with the real and its impact on humans and the larger society are presented through the technique of magical realism. Religion and gods as vengeful entities are a recurring theme in his works, as is the mockery of a culture that deems machismo the height of its endeavors and enlightenment, even if ultimately, it destroys the same society. Most criticism of Elechi Amadi is often based on the sometimes unapologetic and unmistakable anti feminine rhetorics that dot the pages of his works. But I believe in doing so, the critic is quick to upturn the role of a writer or of history. A writer records humanity through the prism of his own views, hopefully unaltered and without makeup. A great piece of work should be a representation of a people, or at best, what they aspire to be; never what they are not. A great book elicits response – demands discourse, and permeates opposing views. If Amadi’s stories discriminates the African woman or even atimes dehumanizes her, it is because that is exactly how we treat our women, even in post colonial Nigeria. His work bears a timeless reminder of neo-colonialism as man tries to conquer his own people and lord over them, while the female, who by mere instance of her gender, is inherently conquered and her voice is barely heard above whispers. Books: The Concubine (1966), Sunset in Biafra (1973), The Slave (1973), The Great Pond (1978), Enstrangement (1986),   
0

Fiction
The note was written on a yellow Stick-It but held in place by the car wiper. Dorothy would have missed it if she was walking to her car as absent mindedly as she usually does; her mind pre-occupied with things she would promptly forget once she hits the road and joins the endless traffic out of Victoria Island towards Third Mainland Bridge. Things she would forget because her mind would usually roam until it finally settles on nothing to avoid thinking of everything.   Today is different. It is as if she has been struck with punctilio. She catches sight of the note and pulls it out and unfolds it. It had been folded in half with the glue edge facing the bottom of the note but it was not sticking together. It looks like the paper has not been recently detached from the whole, as if it is a page long left drifting and gathering dust rendering the gum inactive. The writing is in capital letters. Dorothy slides into the driver’s seat and reads the words, “I HAVE YOUR NUDES AND I AM GOING TO LICK THEM”. Dorothy reads the words again broken into two lines at “NUDES” and then she bursts out into a near hysterical laughter. She laughs until the tears run down the side of her face and settle into the edge of her lips and she tastes the saltiness. She wonders if this is a case of pun or  malapropism and the fact that she cannot tell which only makes her laugh some more. She extracts a piece of serviette from the box and dabs the tear off her face careful  not to ruin her makeup.  She turns the note over.  There is no indication of who could have sent it. She squeezes up the note and stuffs it into the pigeon hole trying to deign it no further thought as she fits the key into the ignition and the engine turns over. She winds up windows and switches on the AC.  Thoughts of what her life was not too long ago flashes through her mind. ****** Dorothy steps on the accelerator.  The roads are somewhat free today.  Maybe because it is a Thursday,  slow day for the traders who spend about a third of the day cleaning up their environment.  Dorothy momentarily thinks of the economic waste of spending three hours every Thursday cleaning.  That’s 12 hours a month. She wonders if anyone has analysed how much Lagos generates per hour and what hours of the day traders are most productive.  She approaches a red light and is again reminded of her life.  Each time something new happens and she thinks she is going to be propelled to the next level, something else comes along and puts a stop to her movement. She recounts some of her almosts: almost graduated with a first class; almost got her first job as an aeronautical engineer; and just last week, almost making Managing Partner. She is that person who gets knocked out at the last minute, the could-have-been. Oh, there is also almost engaged…thrice. [color-box] Read: 55 Nigerian Writers you should read. (No. 4) [/color-box] The traffic slows to a crawl and Dorothy changes the channel as they begin to play what she terms Nigerian savage music, a mixture of danceable beats and sordid language. How this music appeals to anyone,  Dorothy cannot fathom but she sees people bob their heads to this and at parties,  waists gyrating to the beats. She finds a news channel and feels the sadness settle into the pit of her stomach as she hears news of yet another bomb blast killing scores. She offers a silent prayer for the bereaved. Life expectancy in Nigeria is already 41 and she wonders how much lower it will get if Boko Haram is allowed to continue their rampage in the North. The light turns green and she shifts the gear stick to drive, propelling the car forward. The driver of the gray SUV had been travelling at 80km/hour.  The only thought on his mind is how to get to the hospital on time. He had received a call from a bystander who had seen his mother slump in the mall. The stranger had been kind enough to take her to a hospital. He had ended the meeting abruptly. His mother has been his all, his pillar, his support. And if she dies now it will a terrible blow to his so far wonderful year. He has accomplished all he wanted this year well ahead of schedule. The traffic light is about 300 meters ahead.  He sees it is on green,  perhaps if he accelerates he will make the cross before it turns red.  Somewhere at the recesses of his mind the warning about how deceptive the green light is comes on.  He can almost hear his driving instructor say, “Green light bad, red light good” following the pattern in George Orwell’s Animal Farm. He hesitates for a millisecond, his reflex forcing a tap on the brakes, but the urgency of the call gets the better of him as he shifts his foot almost immediately. 30 metres out and the light goes red.  He is travelling at 93km/hour. The crash of metal into metal sends Dorothy’s car into a spin. The car does a complete 360 and finally crashes into the concrete road barrier. Dorothy hears Bach’s Cello Suites playing in the distance, the tempo  dragging at 30BPM while her physical world speeds at the tempo of allegro vivacissimo. The automatic break system of the SUV had kicked in, greatly reducing the impact of the collision. It takes ten seconds for the driver to recover from the impact of the airbag. Ten seconds for other road users to begin hooting. The driver gets out of the car in a flash,  not caring about his momentary disorientation. He hopes against all odds that the occupant of the car he just hit is fine.  His hope rises a notch as he sees he had smashed into the passenger side and there is no passenger in the car.  Other road users are hurrying over to help but he beat them all to it. Dorothy’s head is  lying over her hands which are still gripping the two sides of the steering wheel. The driver cannot see her face clearly but he can see her airbags had not deployed. Thankfully she is wearing her seat belt. The door is stuck, slightly knocked in and the driver is assisted in forcing it open.  The driver leans over and checks her pulse. ****** It has been two years since the accident. Dorothy’s life had taken a turn for the better since  then as if the accident shocked the demons out of her life.  Dorothy smiles as she puts on her sun glasses.  She had stepped out of the car without a scratch.  The driver had insisted on repairing the car and they had become friends.  Their wedding was coming up in two weeks.  She is to become Dorothy Isa-Dada. She had chosen, to the chagrin of her friends, to adopt both her husband’s first and last name. [color-box] Read: #Fiction: Fairy Tale [/color-box] Dorothy’s mind momentarily returns to the rumpled note in the pigeon hole.  Hadn’t one of her girl friends told her to expect the unexpected? But she cannot remember sending anyone any nudes. But there was a time she had been wild and free. Did anyone hate her enough to do this? Dorothy engages the car and then a tap on the window. Isa. He is already going round and getting into the car.  Dorothy is so glad to see him she forgets the note sticking out of the pigeon hole.  He gets into the car and smiles at her. “I thought to pay you a surprise visit.” “And I am surprised,” Dorothy responds leaning over for a quick kiss. Then Isa spots the note and pulls it out.  Dorothy’s heart stops beating for a second. She swallows trying to calm her nerves and think of an appropriate defence.  What if he doesn’t believe her? Isa opens the note and straightens it out on his thigh. “This is no way to treat your husband to be’s forget it not note.” “You dropped this?” Dorothy asks incredulously. “Of course,” Isa responds as he produces Dorothy’s Strawberry flavoured nude lipstick. “Who else would steal your nudes and then lick them?” The End.   [color-box] Abigail Anaba is a writer, teacher and thinker. She has been in the writing business for about fifteen years where she worked mostly in the movie and TV industry with writing credits to “Eve”, “I Just Came Back”, among others. She recently published her debut novel, SectorIV. [/color-box]
0

News
Cassava Republic – a publishing house based in Abuja will publish Elnathan John’s debut novel, ‘Born A Tuesday’ this November, according to a release on their official Facebook page. The novel is a coming of age story about an Almajiri whose life and struggles are shown through his diary entries. Elnathan was nominated for the 2013 and 2015 Caine Prize, but lost on both occasion. Cassava Republic signed him in June, 2014.
0

CEq05MRW8AEDpyH By @emini_ANOTI Hero by Enrique Iglesias began to play as they walked to the dance floor. He smiled as he stretched out his hands for her. She smiled back and placed soft, well manicured hand in his. He allowed himself to stare at the ring on his finger for a while and he felt very proud he had chosen the diamond with turquoise set in platinum ring; it was a beautiful contrast against her dark skin and she had been thrilled with his choice, her smiles beating the obscene thousands he had spent on the ring. They had always talked about a significant wedding band, something extraordinary and something with her birthstone. She was the old school type that wanted to wear the something old, something blue, something borrowed on her big day. That why she had chosen to wear the off shoulder thigh high slit cream silk dress her mother had worn on her wedding day. Her friends had thought it was not so fairy tale-ish but looking at her now, she looked like royalty; expensive royalty even though the only jewelry she had on was her ring and the diamond earrings my mom had given her last year after we announced our engagement, her way of saying she was really pleased with my choice. She was too beautiful for words and he was proud she was his as long as forever. She felt as if she was going to explode with all the joy she was feeling. Her heart refused to stop dancing in her chest and she could not stop herself from smiling. How could she, when she was marrying the only good man left in the whole universe. He had looked beyond her faults and loved her in a way she could not believe she could be loved. He had made her the happiest woman to walk this earth; something she had only thought was possible in cheesy romance novels and movies. She still often felt like she was dreaming. As he drew her in a warm and tight embrace, she could hear his heart pounding so loudly; a perfect beat to her dancing heart and they moved to the best music of all time; their beating hearts. He looked down at her and she saw tears glistening in his eyes like fine diamonds. Her heart was melting, her knees were weak but she had never been so strong. She looked at his now tear-streaked face and she felt like she was going to explode into beautiful colourful pieces; a perfect show of how much beautiful emotions were running through her mind. “Oh babe, you are going to make me cry too”                                    “Nope, all I want to see is that sunny smile of yours and I am at peace” That was all she needed. The tears flowed freely down her cheeks as she laughed. Only him could make her feel that way; the only one for her. He held her tighter in his arms where she would always belong and he had never felt so much peace as he was feeling at that moment. She was the only woman in the world who could make him feel that way, the womb that will birth the man God has destined him to be; his woman, his everything. Enrique Iglesias sang on as they swirled together on the dance floor, lost in their fairy tale. I can be your hero I can kiss away your pain And I will stand by you forever You can take my breath away You can take my breath away I can be your hero
0

Short-Story-Prize-logo1 The 2016 Commonwealth Short Story Prize is open for entry. The Commonwealth Short Story Prize is a prize awarded to the best piece of unpublished short fiction (2500-5000) words in English from writers in Commonwealth countries. Each year, a shortlist of 5 is chosen from the five regions that make up the commonwealth, from which an overall winner will emerge. Regional winners receive a fee $2500, while the overall winner will receive $5000.   As reported by Mainlandbookcafe, Jonathan Tel won the 2015 prize. Interested writers can apply here. Application closes by November 1st.
0