I Had To Do It by Kenechukwu Obi

Footsteps rattled in the building very close to ours, and seemed to be headed for the room in which I was just about taking my revenge. Then I stopped to wonder if anyone had discovered my plot, and was rushing in to stop me. Sudden rush of adrenalin compelled me to walk quietly into the empty wardrobe that was beside the bed on which my target lay, sleeping. The whole attention I could muster was heaped at the only door that ushered entrance into the room, as I waited to hear someone open it. And when that did not happen in ten minutes, I concluded that apart from my target, I was all alone in the room.

I left the wardrobe in a most gentle way. Not even the faintest of sounds could escape to betray my ominous presence in the room. One would hear a pin drop to the ground but not my prowl towards my target. I don’t know how I came to be so good at this, but hatred certainly brought me this far.

Her appearance beamed so much innocence. So did sleep make her. I was not going to allow that dilute my resolve to accomplish my mission. Her breathing was gentle and exuded so much inner peace. She was just a perfect epitome of a sleeping child savouring a peaceful atmosphere, but very unaware of the unpalatable so close to ripping her apart. I thought the scenery was one any artist would be dying to capture on canvass. The pillow in my hands was by now about to descend hard on her face

and held in place with every chunk of my strength, till the deed was done. I would have been dead through suicide by the time you would finish reading this and get to know why I had to act the way I did. I guess I would be very glad in death, knowing that you would use your position as the editor of the largest circulating daily newspaper to get this published.

Brutality that our people have long called tradition had so much stolen their sense of decency, hygiene and humanity. I can tell you precisely when I made up my mind to do what I had to do as my protest against it. I had reasoned that if every girl that got caught in it would do as I did, that womanhood would come to earn some respect from those who always use tradition to brutalise it.

My mother who got widowed after I had lived only for two months on earth, returned home from our village, which was near Calabar in Southern Nigeria. That afternoon was full of scorching heat of the sun. And my mother told me my grandmother wanted to see me in the village.

“You have to prepare and leave next week. Your grand mother is so fond of you.” She hinted again.

I was excited, being the second time I would have a chance to travel to my village since I was born. The excitement in me was so big that I forgot to ask a question I should have asked. Can you guess the question correctly? I’m sure you won’t want to do that because by now, even though I can’t see you, but I want to believe you are already too hungry for this story that is just commencing to unfold. Relax your nerves for it. It is my pleasure to tell this story as long as you won’t find it outrageous.

I forgot to ask what exactly my grandmother wanted to see me for. Excitement carried me away. My mother gave me some money for my journey as well as some advice on how to conduct myself properly on getting to the village.

“Please be obedient to everybody there. Be a respectful girl,” she said to me.

“You are saying that I should do whatever I’m asked to do there?” I responded.

“Yes, Angelina. I know you can be very stubborn many a time but be very obedient to people there.”

“Even if I’m being asked to lie down to be killed?” My mother laughed.

“Nobody is going to kill you,” she enthused afterwards.

Please don’t even for a second think that my mother lacked some kind of description. Her height can very well be described as tall, while her flat nose and hairy skinny bow-legs lend unprecedented credence to the scientific claim that man evolved from apes.

I was welcomed severally when I arrived at my village. My grandmother gave me something to eat and some water to drink. I was relaxed and beamed gladness that I had made the journey.

My grandmother was so excited to have me around. She was full of smiles and laughter that exposed the fact that the total number of teeth in her mouth was no longer thirty-two. Excitement also drove her to keep telling her contemporaries that her granddaughter had come in from Lagos. They all came to see me, each giving me

a hug amidst laughter and joy that enabled me to notice that they too had a problem keeping their thirty-two teeth. Old age must have a way of knocking off women’s teeth, turning them to hags that could cause one instant convulsions, I thought. I was like a young Queen in the midst of the local people. They savoured all my stories about Lagos.

“If you get to live in Lagos, you will like it,” I concluded.

My stories left a lot of girls that came to my grandmother’s place to listen, wishing they were resident in Lagos.

“Oh! My daughter! You have grown to this big size. That is great. We shall soon be expecting you to get married. Is this how Lagos makes children grow so fast?” My grandmother kept saying as she took me around the next day, introducing me to more people. I had by now got tired of being shown around. I was angry a bit but I pretended to be pleased all along.

“You will accompany me to the next village called Kana,” my grandmother said to me two days later. “I want to buy things there.”

She did not mention what she wanted to buy and I did not bother to ask her. To me, Kana provided a chance to savour some more rustic views that Lagos never had.

I noticed before my grandmother and I left for Kana that some local people around starred at me. Stares that said, ‘if only she knows what is coming to her’. I didn’t give a deep thought to what exactly their stares could mean, as I believed they were just admiring the fine dress I wore. Grandmother bought nothing when we got to Kana. She took me into a big compound instead, where we were received by a very fat dark complexioned woman. Though the woman was beautiful, her size was not to my liking. Her legs and hands could almost be said to be the same in size with that of a matured cow. She was just irritatingly full of body fat. She exuded a strange air of authority that made me uncomfortable. I sensed danger in my surrounding as my gaze fell on the fat woman who could well pass for a bull. My grandmother greeted her. She turned to look at me.

“Is this the girl?” She asked my grandmother. My grandmother’s nod was in the affirmative. Fear dawned on me. I began to believe that I was brought to Kana for rituals. And I saw that finding an escape route in the compound wasn’t going to be easy. Five hefty young men were by now blocking the only gate into the compound whose surrounding walls were quite high.

“Are you a virgin?” The fat woman asked me.

I had to throw an enquiring glance at my grandmother. My glance sought to know what warranted the question.

“Can’t you answer?” My grandmother thundered. I told them I was a virgin.

“Better say the truth so that we shall know how to proceed,” grunted the fat woman. I told them again that I was a virgin, not really knowing exactly what to do. Do you know what I did next? I’m sure you have not started feeling sorry for me yet. If you have, then it is premature. I did nothing else but look on, not knowing what my fate was at that time.


My grandmother took me a bit away from the fat woman and aggressively demanded the truth. Again on if I had slept with any man before. And once again, my answer was no.

“Why the question and what are we doing here?” I queried my grandmother. Her reply sounded most ridiculous. But what kept me going was that I gave my mother my word not to be disobedient.

“We have only come for this woman to make you beautiful by seeing your body,” my grandmother answered. Then I was later taken into a room where I was asked to undress completely. This I did very reluctantly anyway. Please, don’t ever ask me what they saw when I was out of clothes. Just use your imagination. The fat woman questioned why I undressed reluctantly before her, if I had not slept with a man before. I was shy, and also because I didn’t understand what my stripping naked was going to be for. Then I started to cry. The fat woman went ahead to invite a man that could easily pass for a baboon. The hairs on his hands alone put so much fear into me and got me more reluctant to comply with further directives.

‘We are all here to make you look beautiful enough for a man to desire you for marriage,” said the fat woman.

I suddenly looked for my grandmother out of fear, but she was no where again in the room. She just disappeared on me, leaving me at the mercy of a group of people who were not making sense at all.

I was directed to lie on my back and part my legs. This I did because I was not told that a sharp object was coming. ‘The baboon’ pounced on me and held my legs apart. A scream escaped from my mouth when I saw the fat woman approaching my parted legs with a new sharp razor blade.

‘Shut up!” She screamed.

I kept screaming and trying hard to escape, but the ‘baboon’ would not let me. The fat woman began to massage my clitoris, so hard that it hurt. She then asked me never to mention death during or immediately after the proceeding. She also explained why.

“If you do say that, then you will die because ghosts of some girls who died doing this are around to take away any girl that mentions death here.”

The fat woman sliced off a bit of my clitoris with the razor blade. What do you think I did? Come on, think. I ran away? Is that what you guess I did? That would be a very wrong guess. What was the ‘baboon’ there for? It was of course to forestall such. I could only scream, wail and wriggle in excruciating pain. The blood that gushed out and coated my pubic region was cleaned with cotton wool dipped in what I suspected to be local gin. It really hurt.

“Congratulations!” Everyone in the room started saying to me after all the cleaning was done.

Those who had brought savagery to my private part now became full of smiles and pouring encomiums on me while I still cried. They congratulated me especially for being a virgin and for becoming from then on, a real woman. I uttered no word, but hated them all, as the congratulatory messages kept pouring out.

What a tradition! I know you won’t support it for the sake of your sisters alone. Please I am not trying in any way to suggest that you are a self-centred person. Protect them as much as possible from this demonic tradition that has permeated the fabric of our society. Please protect them from this unhygienic, barbaric and inhumane female genital mutilation.

My ordeal did not see its end with the evil mutilation completed. It was from one practice to another.

“You will have to go to your fattening room,” said my grand mother who appeared after my private part had been abused by most unwanted persons. I didn’t care to respond to her comment. My stabbing glare just nailed her as she pretended not to be partly behind my ordeal. “It is important that you put on some flesh so that prospective suitors will really appreciate you better,” she went on to say again. I just kept mute and tried to endure excruciating pain. My pubic region was just aching. It seemed as if fire so hot and as wild as those of California was burning right there.

The fattening room I was taken to had no bed. I wondered where I would be sleeping on. There were bamboo sticks on the left side of the floor. It was later that I was informed that the bamboo sticks would be my bed for the period that I would occupy the fattening room. I was told the sticks were meant to relax my bones and help in getting me fat. This did not make sense to me again. A number of women worked in the fattening house made up of lots of rooms. And one of them always came to rob my body with palm oil each morning, after I had had my bath. What then followed was food. I had problems finishing large quantities of starchy food always given to me especially boiled plantain. This was meant to fatten me. I found them nauseating, and this incurred me the wrath of the law that reigned supreme in the fattening house. No left-over food, no matter what.

“I will beat you! I will hit your head with a stick if you don’t finish your food!” These were threats from women who worked in the fattening house. Women so fat that one would believe their weights can push down mountains. I had to eat more than I would normally do. It got to a point that I thought my stomach was going to burst one night. The only difference the copious feeding made in me was that the size of my faeces gradually began to grow in stature, and was growing to make the size of a hill. I was not getting fat, contrary to expectations. The frustration of the women whose duty it was to see that I got fat then began to grow. My case presented a tough challenge them. It called their proven expertise to question. They all eventually had no other choice than to become very angry with me, when I even seemed to be getting thinner with more food. It was not just working. It got to a point when I had to be expelled from the fattening house. And this was after the frustrated women had finished raining all sorts of abuses on me.

‘Leave! Hurry and leave this place! What is this? Are you sure you are human? You can’t be normal! Leave so that we can attend to other women that will respond to treatment. You must be a ghost that took human form and came to put our efforts to ridicule. Please leave and never come back. Where is that old woman that brought this thing here? This evil creature! Please come and take your daughter! She is bad for our business.”

There were ten of us that resided in the fattening rooms for two weeks. All got fat but I. I was glad the women failed, but had one more problem to contend with. A very horrible stench was beginning to ooze out of my pubic region. I feared the risk of getting seriously infected. And I wondered if it were any crime to be a woman in the

first place. A woman born to bear the brunt of horrendous customs. Tears coursed down my cheeks. That meant nothing else but that I cried out my tortured heart.

I did not say a word to my grandmother on our way back from Kana, being full of hatred for her. I had to sit with my buttocks inclined to an angle. You should know why now. And I don’t wish to be asked what angle because I was not there with a protractor to measure it. Well, maybe twenty degrees or thirty. I had a big shawl that had a combination of blue, red and white colours tied to my head in such a way that my ears were covered too. The fat woman had recommended that, saying it was to prevent air from entering through my ears and down to my private part, contaminating what had been done there. Women in the bus noticed from my swollen eyes and the way I sat, that I was returning from a circumcision centre. They did not waste time in showering congratulatory words on my grandmother and I.

“You are a real woman now,” said one of them to me.

“Now prospective suitors will be rushing in to seek your hand in marriage,” said another to me, full of smiles as she recounted her own day.

All her stories did not impress me one bit. I was so in a hurry to return to Lagos and let my mother know how I felt for conniving with my grandmother to butcher me.

“It is our tradition,” my mother uttered to justify her act. “I went through it too”.

But she did not know that as far as I was concerned, that she had given up her right to life. I was just then waiting for the gruelling pain inflicted on me to subside sufficiently. My mind was already made up.

Humanity could not stop me from strapping the pillow so hard on her face. I kept telling myself that she couldn’t be the woman that carried me for nine months in her tummy and bore all the pangs of labour that proceeded full gestation period of the pregnancy that yielded me.

“Go to hell!” I dismissed voices of my conscience that were bold enough to dare to stop me.

She struggled to breath, but could find no air, as I watched life she once had slip away. Arthur, I had to do it. No regrets at all.

I Had To Do It was written by Kenechukwu Obi.

Copyright Kenechukwu Obi 2009.

I am a Nigerian writer of the Igbo extraction. I was born in Lagos, Nigeria, where I attended Pedro Primary School. I attended Nnewi High School, in Anambra State of Nigeria, from where I proceeded for further studies and obtained a degree in Crop Science at the University of Nigeria Nsukka.

My very early writings started in my high school days and soon after leaving high school, I wrote a number of articles in 1991 on the Gulf war, published by the now defunct Daily Star newspaper, then based in Enugu, Nigeria.
My works now include novels, plays for the stage and radio, short stories, poetry collections and children’s stories.

Some of my short stories have been published online, in magazines (including The New Black Magazine and Echoes of Tomorrow Magazine) and in anthologies. Some of my poems have also been published in anthologies as well as magazines and online.

I am one of many Nigerian poets recognized in 2009 (June 3rd) by the Cultural Department of the Italian Embassy in Nigeria.

I am also a lyricist and the author of the novel entitled A Bond That Crumbled Tradition, available at amazon.com, amazon.co.uk, amazon.co.jp, amazon.de, amazon.ca, amazon.fr, abebooks.com, lulu.com and many other leading online book stores worldwide.

I worked with Simon Brett in Enugu, Nigeria from the 31st of March through 4th April 2008, to create a short story (Who’s Better off Now?) for radio broadcast, during a Radiophonics workshop. Radiophonics is the African new writing initiative of the British Council, and Simon Brett is a renowned British Crime Writer, Playwright, Broadcaster and Former staff of the British Broadcasting Corporation.


I still write prolifically and envision exposing my works internationally. I am willing to work with honest, dedicated and focused professionals and organizations that are inspired to add value to my writing career by tapping into my reservoir of creative talents for the benefit of the creative industry.

Email Address: kencel65@gmail.com

Suicides Notebook by Tinashe Muchuri

Susan’s letter arrived late Wednesday the 7th of May. It was addressed to mama. The letter read:

‘Mama, I have tried all the tricks you taught me to at least have Munya back to me. He seems to have been given a muti to forget all about me. The heat here is too strong that it is pushing me to the grave. Munya’s mother, of all the people wants me to leave this place. She wants me away from her son. She wants to enjoy her son’s money. She doesn’t like my presence here anymore. She hasn’t yet satisfied with what Munya did for her before his marriage to me. She is accusing me of disturbing her enjoyment to Munya’s money. Rudo, Munya’s niece has since joined hands with her grandmother. She writes secret letters to her uncle Munya telling him to boot me out of here. She accuses me of squandering Munya’s money by giving it to you my parents. She says I do this forgetting Munya’s mother. She further accuses me of depriving my mother-in-law’s right to enjoy her son’s money. But mama, to tell the truth, how much money did I gave you? I do not remember giving you any cent of his money apart from the $100, 00 he gave to you as tsvakirai kuno! Besides, I have no control of his money. His mother has. As I told you last time, every time Munya comes home for holidays, he beats me up almost everyday. He no longer has desire for me. He sleeps in his clothes every night and doesn’t touch me anymore. If I try to put my hand on his body he throws it away as if I am a crawling creature on his body. Every month end his mother goes to his school to collect money and buy groceries for us. She acts like she is Munya’s first wife. Indeed she is. Rudo, Munya’s niece is the second. I am the third in the row of Munya’s wives. We all look forward to Munya’s love. There is confusion here mama.

Listen carefully mama. On the 7th of May, I am going to take my life. I am going to die, here in my bedroom at 10 o'clock. Bury me at the entrance to Mai Munya’s bedroom. Tell Rudo, Munya’s niece to take care of my little angel, Chido. She should nurture my daughter the way I was supposed to do myself. I will be watching her. Instead she should marry Munya. If she decides otherwise, she will be asking for worse. On my burial, don’t take action against anyone here. I will do that on my own. Don’t take anyone’s wealth. I will fight the war on my own. When you arrive here to bury me, take a small black mote book under my pillow. The book has everything that you need to know and do.

Yours daughter,

Susana.

Mother read Susana’s letter to me over the phone. She instructed me to go to Zaka and stop Susana from taking her life. I argued that she should go instead of me since she was nearer and Susana would listen to her. Mother insisted, citing her BP problem and threatening that if Susana was to die I would bear the curse as she will also kill herself. I had no plans for a journey. I had professional examinations and work deadlines to worry about. But mother did not heed my protestations so I gave in.


I asked for a day off from work. My manager, an African himself, understood my situation. Instead, he gave me all the remaining days of the week off. I borrowed money for bus fare from my workmates. What made the journey a matter of urgency was the date. The very date the letter arrived was the very day Susana was to hang herself.

I went to Mbare Musika without a bag. It was three in the afternoon that I boarded a Jerera bound kombi at Mbare terminus. It was seven hours before Susana would hang. I wanted to get to her before she killed herself at 10 PM. She wanted to die when everyone at their home was asleep. She wanted to do it secretly away from all the other people except her daughter Chido. This was wrong. How could she do that to in Chido’s eyes? Chido was not supposed to be exposed to such a haunting experience and it was now solely my duty to do so.

The kombi that I boarded was a scrapper. I had no choice though. I just wished it will deliver me in time to save my sister. The kombi coughed all the way to Mupandawana growth point and broke there once it gets there. I nearly hit the conductor of the kombi who kept on telling me the kombi will soon be back on the road. I left before I could be given back my bus fare and went to look for alternative transport to Jerera.

I ran from the terminus to the main road to hike a lift and found another kombi after waiting for sometime. The kombi was also going to Jerera. This kombi traveled fast up to Zaka and ran out of petrol. It was some kilometers to Jerera. The crew tried to look for petrol from the roadside fuel vendors but was not luck. We were told that the vendors were all rounded up by the police for illegally selling fuel. We were advised to wait till dawn.

It then became evident that I was not going to beat the deadline. There was no way I could reach Munjanja village where my sister resided before she hanged herself. It was now too late to save her. I prayed to God so he could reach out to Susana and save her life himself. I prayed very hard. The last time I had talked to God was when my father was admitted into the hospital for cancer. The whole family prayed very hard but it was too late. He passed on.

The thought of my prayers to save my father in hard times at the last minute told me that my hope was far from being fulfilled. I wanted God to change Susana’s mind. I remembered her last words to me about her marriage to Munya. I thought she was joking and did not take her seriously. “Brother, if my marriage is destined for failure, then you have to bear this in mind. The end of my marriage is the end to my life on earth.’

I suggested she consult other women outside our family for advice but she refused saying she would only try mother’s solutions.

The hour ten was quickly approaching. Tears filled my eyes. I thought of walking all the way from Zaka Township to Munjanja village in Jerera. The problem was that I had no knowledge of the directions to take in the dark. If it was during the day, I would have asked. I kept on praying to God to save Susana until whatever time I was to reach her place.

The sun was just emerging from the east in the morning when I boarded a private car from Zaka to Jerera. After disembarking I ran to Susana’s village. From a distance, I heard mourning voices. I saw a group of people gathered around Susana’s homestead. They were at the center of the home surrounded by granaries and houses. My fears were fulfilled when I saw a police car at the place.


‘Uchasara naniko nhai Chido? Warasikirwa kani Chido.’ A woman’s voice wailed loudly.

‘Why did you do this? Who is going to take care of the children?’ another voice shot into the dark air. I increased my pace. Chido was my niece. So Susana had fulfilled her word. I ran blindly, tears beginning flow down my cheeks unhindered.


Men folded their hands standing around the police aluminum coffin where I knew the body would be probably be. Women were crying throwing themselves violently on the ground at a distance from where the coffin was. Three women were busy resuscitating Mai Munya’s life.


‘Ingozika iyi? How did this happen in a home with elders? Why did you let this happen in your eyes?’ some people said as I made my way through the crowd. They made way for me as I went straight for the aluminium coffin. How could Susana surely do this? How could she hang for a husband? A human made of flesh like her. The police officers drew me away from the coffin. I tried to get back but two men stopped me, holding me by the arms.

‘Where is Susana’s bedroom?’

‘Who are you?’ one of those who were blocking my way to see what was in the coffin asked.

‘Mai Chido’s brother.’ I said to them. They freed me and pointed me to Susana’s bedroom. I went towards Susana’s bedroom, teary eyes following my staggering footsteps. I found Susana turning sheets and blankets on her bed up and down but alive.

‘Why do you make false alarms?’ I demanded.

‘Zviripapi nhai zvenyu bhudhi?’

‘What happened here?’

‘I was supposed to be dead by now. Rudo, Munya’s niece as always her habit read the note book that I wrote for you my relatives. I am looking for it right now and can't find it. After reading even parts of the letter I sent to mama which I also recorded in my note book she took her life last night in the kitchen at 8 o'clock.

Just when I was about to kill myself, Mai Munya came to my door screaming about Rudo. If you think I am lying look up there.' Susana pointed to a horizontal beam in the roof where a lasso still hung ready. My body shook, but she as if this was all simple dramas, continued narrating her tale. 'Rudo was afraid of what she had read so she decided to to free herself by taking her life'


'You see.' Susana almost whispered, 'Rudo left a note that reads, I will be dead by tomorrow. I did a lot of damage to sekuru Munya’s marriage and life. I wanted mbuya Mai Chido to leave her husband. It was not my fault. Grandmother influenced me to torture mbuya Mai Chido. I read her notebook and could not stand what she wanted me to do after she killed herself. To marry my uncle, the brother of my mother? It was not easy. Better to die than to be hounded by mbuya Mai Chido’s avenging spirit.’

Suicides Notebook was written by Tinashe Muchuri.

Copyright Tinashe Muchuri 2009.

Tinashe Muchuri is a poet, performer, actor, and writer currently living in Harare. Many of his poems were published in online journals such as the Munyori Journal and Arts Initiates and print anthologies.

He performs regularly at arts festivals in Zimbabwe and currently features in a local historical soap called Tiriparwendo as the character Jecha. Muchuri has been a long-serving member of the Budding Writers Association of Zimbabwe, a young writers’ organisation in which he served as branch chairperson for the period 2005-2008 and also currently sits in the executive committee of Zimbabwe Readers Association.

Today, some of his poems have been accepted by an international poetry magazine called Illuminations (UK), Rattlesnake Review (USA) and his Shona poems appeared in an anthology called ‘Jakwara reNhetembo’ (2008,Mambo Press, Zimbabwe).

Tunji Proposal by Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

The door grumbled as it opened. Tunji stepped in and while shutting the door with his left hand, scanned the room for the Director's Secretary. He had been here two hours ago. The lady secretary had not reported to work. Indeed, no one in the office had. He met a cleaner in blue overall sweeping the office. She didn’t look very pleased with what she was doing. She was muttering to herself while flogging the tiled floor with the broom when Tunji stepped in. Reluctantly, she told Tunji to leave as no one had come. She made it sound like Tunji was stupid to have shown up so early. Tunji had to look at his leather wrist watch again to be sure. It was 10.05am. He walked out shaking his head from side to side.

To while away the time, he walked to the ministry’s security post. That was the only place he could find a chair. An old man was on duty. He wore a uniform marked with the badge of the Nigerian Legion. He smiled at Tunji as he shifted his buttocks on the wooden bench to make room for Tunji’s buttocks.

“Corper abi?” he asked his eyes at the large brown envelop Tunji held securely in his armpit.

“Ah, no sir”

“Ok. You dey find job? I hear say dey don dey give job. Na true?”

“No sir. I am not here for a job. I came to see someone, but she is not yet around”

“No problem. Just wait small. Dem go soon come”

Tunji waited for thirty minutes. Sikiru the old security man had kept him entertained. There was the happy tale of how gallant he was in the battle fields in the Nsukka sector during the civil war. And the not so happy tale of not having received his pension in over six years. Tunji was familiar with both tales. His own father was a Nigeria Railway retiree. At the start of the civil war, he was stationed in Enugu.

Tunji checked his wrist watch and yawned. He thanked Sikiru and headed back to the office of the Director of Planning. The office was on the fifth floor. He walked past staff of the ministry signing the time book in the lobby. They exchanged pleasantries with plenty questions. Questions about how the night was and how their family members were. They were not in a hurry. It was already 11.00am.

Power was out in the building. Tunji took the staircase. At every landing, he heard the workers exchanging pleasantries. They shuffled their feet as they walked. It irked him that workers should be turning up for work at almost noon. He prayed silently that the Director's Secretary would now be on seat. He was still saying the prayer when he stepped into the office.

The secretary Miss Agnes was on seat. She was holding a mirror to her face. Her other hand was busy with a pencil at her eye brows. The rest of her make up kit was spread out before her on the table. Two other staff of the office had also arrived. Mr. Ekpo was arranging his table. His lips whistled the tune of Sunny Okosun’s which way Nigeria. Hajia Jumai was on the phone. She was talking about having a new consignment of original Gold, just fresh from Mecca.

The drumming in Tunji’s heart increased on seeing Miss Agnes. He almost jogged to her table. It was a month since he submitted his proposal at the minister’s office. It had been the product of a dream. One of those rare occasions when you remember what you dreamt of at night the morning after. The picture had been very clear. This was it no doubt. The cyber café opposite his house provided the materials he needed. He would come there when they were opening up at eight and wouldn’t leave until lunch time. Soon he just plugged his laptop and assessed their wireless service without being charged. It took close to two months to get the thirty paged document ready. Fresh from the spiral binders shop, he had deposited a copy at the Ministers office.

After two days he returned but was told his proposal was still in oga’s office. The young man - a corp member - who he met had advised that he shouldn’t bother checking back that week. The next week, Tunji returned. A part of him expected that as soon as he identified himself, he would be given a hero’s welcome and immediately ushered into the Minister's office. The minister should have gone through his carefully written proposal he thought and would be waiting to meet the person that came up with such great ideas. That day, he sat for close to five hours waiting. The minister was in a meeting and his secretary was in there with him. At about 5.00pm, a visibly exhausted secretary emerged from the meeting to inform him that his proposal has been minuted to the SA on Works.

That sowed the first seed of fear in Tunji. A friend of his Mustafa who once did his industrial Training in the office of a minister had revealed that any correspondence to the minster that was not read and treated by the minster himself had already began a journey to the akara sellers stand. The SA’s were very notorious in consigning brilliant proposals into the waste bin. They didn’t waste time on mails that didn’t promise to yield money. For such proposals, they had a ready verdict. It was either KIV or PA boldly written across the mail. KIV was for ‘Keep in View’. It meant that perhaps the mail interested the reader but he is so short of time at the moment to really study it. KIV labeled proposals still had some hope which was subject to how pressing the author was. The Put Away ‘’PA” labeled mails however were doomed. Those were collected periodically and off loaded to akara sellers for wrapping hot bean cakes.

Mustafa had related how shocking it was that after taking in a heap of files into an SA’s office to treat. You hear the bell a short while later requesting that you come and carryout the files. Work has been completed. He got to find out later that the SA’s hardly opened the first page of the document before either designating it as KIV or PA. The only proposals that got serious attention were from those who had the right connections.

The next day Tunji arrived at the office of the SA on works. The night before, he had spent hours before sleep coming against all forces of KIV and PA on his proposal. He spoke in tongues. He had just learnt how to do that at his new Pentecostal Church. That morning before stepping into the SA’s office however, he had found himself reciting the Hail Mary. His heart was tearing through his chest. He didn’t walk, he floated in. He floated out shortly after. His proposal was still on the SA’s table. He as advised to return later in the day. When he did, he was told the proposal had moved again. This time, to the Director of Planning.

That was yesterday. Tunji had hardly slept that night. He didn’t know whether to feel happy or sad. His proposal had gotten neither a KIV nor a PA. Did it imply the ministry was buying his idea? Of course they should Tunji had tried to reassure himself. What he was proposing was a fool-proof way of permanently handling the problem of refuse disposal in urban Areas in the country. It was a model, he was certain would attract world attention if well implemented. It was even more. That was his ticket out of poverty and into fame.

“Good morning ma” Tunji bowed like a Catholic priest in front of Miss Agnes’s table.“ I was informed that my proposal was sent to the Director yesterday and….”

She interrupted him with the wave of her hand in the air. It was like saying I have heard enough of your rubbish. Without speaking, she pointed at the whistling Mr. Ekpo. Tunji’s eye followed the direction of the pencil on her hand. By the time his eyes made the journey back, her hand had resumed the lining of her eye brows.

Tunji turned around and walked to Mr. Ekpo. The whistling stopped as he gave Tunji the what can I do for you look. After explaining, Mr. Ekpo picked up and tossed a hard cover notebook marked “Incoming Files” across the table towards Tunji.

“Check for it inside there” Mr. Ekpo directed.

Just as Tunji was about flipping the bulky book open Mr. Ekpo spoke again.

“Did you say it is a mail or a file?”

Tunji noticed another bulky notebook which had lost its back cover marked “In coming Mails” at the other end of the table. He wasn’t sure which it should be.

“Sir, I am not sure. When I submitted it at the minister’s office it was a mail. I don’t know if it has been entered into a file before reaching here”

“Where did you say it came from?”

“SA on Works sir”

“When?”

“Yesterday” Tunji wondered if he hadn’t just said all these in his initial explanation.

“Go back there and tell them to check if it left as a mail or as a file. If it is a file, copy the name of the file and the file number. Makes sure you see it with your eyes in their out-going book that it came here. I don’t want anybody to come here and give me unnecessary trouble this morning abeg.”

Mr. Ekpo sounded more like he was in a quarrel. Tunji found himself blurting out an apology before spiriting out of the office. Two other ladies had come to see Hajia Jumai. They were bargaining to buy the gold chains and earrings just out of Mecca.

The SA’s office was on the first floor. The Ministry’s large generating set was humming in the distance. Tunji took the elevator. He shared it with two women. A tiny baby with a running nose held on to one of the women. The baby yearned for her mum’s attention. But her mum seemed to need some attention herself. She was complaining to the other woman. She was close to tears. Her salary had not been paid for two months. The new e-payment policy had consumed her salary. Tunji wished he could help.

The door to the SA’s outer office was open. Mallam Musa hugged his table as he slept. Tunji looked from him to Mrs. Njemanze who was admiring a pack of lace material. The seller had obviously just left. It was she he met yesterday. He walked over to her his eyes pleading. She seemed happy. It was probably the lace she had just bought. The proposal was now a file. Tunji got the name and the number. As he rushed out, he wondered if it was saliva he just law flowing from Mallam Musa’s mouth unto an open file.

Tunji's breath came in heaves when he got back to the office of the Director of Planning. The elevators were engaged so he ran upstairs. Miss Agnes’s chair was empty. She had been making up to go out. Hajia Jumai was pointing out something about a gold bracelet to one of her customers. She insisted it was 24 karat. Tunji walked to Mr. Ekpo who was whistling again. Few minutes later, he was flipping through pages of the bulky “In-coming files” booklet.

After locating the file in the “In-coming file” register, Mr. Ekpo asked him to do same in the “Out going file” register. The file had not been entered into the "out-going" register.

“The File is still inside” Mr. Ekpo declared looking in the direction of the Directors office.

Tunji felt weak in the knees.

“But sir... My God!, what kind of rubbish is this?”

“Please, don’t come here and ask me any yeye question. Do I look like the Director?”

“Can I see the Director?”

“What for? Your file is on his table and when he is through with it, it will come out. The problem with you people is that you are not patient at all. You want it now now. Don't you know the Director is a very busy man?”

“Sir, you don’t understand. It’s been over a month now since I submitted that proposal. How can they just be tossing me up and down like that?”

“Young man, you don’t know how the civil service works. You don’t just do things. Everything has to follow the due process.”

Due process. Tunji repeated those words in his mind as he left the ministry building. He wondered if the due process also entailed a Director not reporting to work even at 2.00pm. He had thought he was doing government a big favour when he developed his proposal. Now, it was obvious he had just signed up for a protracted jamboree. Government business was a protracted jamboree. Due process was the word to justify it.

It was another two weeks before the Director of Planning got to treat Tunji’s file. For every day of that period, Tunji had come to the ministry. He started the day at the security post with Sikiru. They had become close friends. Tunji got to know that Sikiru had seven children. The only one who was being educated was his last son Bode. Bode was in the NDA. Sikiru said he wanted his son to be an officer. He fancied Bode would have a better deal as an officer than he had as a mere illiterate recruit. He even hoped that one day, his son could lead a coup. Civilians were messing everything up he said. His pension was yet to be paid.

One morning two weeks after, Mrs. Agnes ushered Tunji into the Directors office. The thick bald man sat with his protruding stomach against the edge of the large office table. Tunji walked in feeling inadequate in his t-shirt and jeans. Had he been pre-informed of this meeting, he would have worn something better. A long shirt, trouser and a good tie would have done. The Director stood up to shake his hands before asking him to sit down. This was it Tunji thought. He could remember this scene in his dream.

The Director congratulated him for such a brilliant proposal. If every young man in the country was as enterprising as Tunji, then the nation would indeed progress, he praised. He then asked Tunji to explain certain aspects of the proposal which according to him, “were not too clear”.

With the fervor of a professor let loose from an Ivory Tower, Tunji proceeded to deliver a talk on the Integrated Waste Disposal System for Cities. It was his document. He developed it from scratch so he knew every detail. As he spoke, the director made notes on a writing pad. He kept nodding his head like a lizard. At the end, the director thanked Tunji once more and promised that they would get back to him soon. A memo needed to be prepared and presented to the minister on the issue. These things take some time. The director offered Tunji N2000.00 as a token for transport.

The N2000.00 was all Tunji ever earned from that proposal. As he left the office that day, his heart alive with floods of joy, the Director made a quick call to one of his boys. Here was a proposal that could turn him into a billionaire. The opportunity he had been waiting for had finally come. He wasn’t going to act sleepy on this. His boy copied verbatim all that was in Tunji’s proposal and resubmitted it with a different name. The Ministry gave approval a while later.

Tunji waited on end to be called by the Ministry. That call didn’t come. After a month of waiting, he returned to the ministry to find out what was happening. The Director of Planning was on leave. No one could say anything about his proposal. There was no trace of his file. On one occasion, he had insisted on seeing the Minister. He was going to fight the injustice being mete out on him. The minister's secretary said no. Tunji raised his voice and had to be thrown out of the building by baton wielding policemen.

A few months later Tunji saw a news item in the newspaper. It was about the award of a huge contract on Integrated Waste Disposal For All Nigerian Cities. In the picture accompanying the news was the Minister smiling like a school child. Beside him was the representative of the foreign company that was awarded the contract. The face at the far end of the picture looked familiar. It was the Director of Planning. He looked pregnant in his unbuttoned suit.

Tunji Proposal was written by Sylva Nze Ifedigbo
Copyright Sylva Nze Ifedigbo 2009.

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo was born in Abuja Nigeria in November 1984. He attended School for the Gifted Abuja and holds a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine degree from the University of Nigeria. In 2007 Spectrum Books published his debut novel “Whispering Aloud”. His essays and short stories have appeared in Nigerian dailies as well as online.

Quarterback and Co. by Chuma Nwokolo

2nd August, 2004. My name is George Franz. Although I am not entirely sure, I suspect that a disastrous fate has just overtaken me. I will set down the bare facts: about ten minutes ago an insect probably settled on my temple, extended its proboscis, and sucked approximately a quarter of my brains out. To set things in proper perspective, and to remind myself, I should mention that I am an efficiency analysis manager at KwoiTech, an FTSE company that hires its management very carefully and polices their health just as solicitously...



This story has been selected for the StoryTime anthology African Roar, please go to the African Roar site for more info on the book.

Quarterback & Co was written by Chuma Nwokolo
Copyright Chuma Nwokolo 2009.

Chuma Nwokolo, Jr. is an author and attorney. Called to the Bar in 1985, his calling to writing was somewhat earlier, having published his first novel with Macmillan in 1983. He has a passion for the short story and his African Tales at Jailpoint (Villagerhouse) appeared in 1999. He has published four novels, a short story anthology, a collection of essays, and a poetry collection. Married with four children, he divides his time between the UK and Nigeria.