Trapped by Hajira Amla

She adjusted the lapels of his uniform as he prepared to leave. Kissing her briefly, he walked into the garage and started the white Mercedes-Benz. She stood and waved until his car disappeared from view, then closed the garage door. In the kitchen, her hands trembled slightly as she made her lunch. Mishka began to stir in her cot and she rushed over to pick her up. Soothing the baby as she picked out her clothes for work, she realised just how late she was running. Breakfast would have to take a rain check.

She opened the bedroom curtain and the memory of the previous day washed over her at the same time as the morning sun.


“I’ll fucking kill you, you worthless bitch. Take one step out of that door and see what happens to you. They won’t even find your bones.” The blows rained down on her as she tried to scramble under a table for shelter. Mishka’s cries of distress echoed through the lounge as she tried to shield her mother from the onslaught. The buckle of the leather belt he was lashing out with landed squarely on her tiny face and Mishka’s screams of anger turned to howls of agony.

Yumna enveloped Mishka in her arms and tried to shield her from the blows until they stopped and Farouk’s breathing deepened into hollow sobs of remorse. For some time, the house rang with the echoes of three distinctly different cries.


Dinner was a tense affair. Eyes red-rimmed and her face swollen, she tried to concentrate on cooking but she managed to make the meat too dry and the rice too soggy. She could not meet Farouk’s gaze over the dinner table. She cleared the half-empty plates away without a word, feeling her own incompetence weighing heavily on her shoulders.


She gave Mishka a warm bath and winced as her child cried out when the soapy water touched the welt on her face.

“Sshh, baby. Mummy’s sorry, so sorry. Don’t make a sound my darling,” she pleaded. Mishka’s large brown eyes looked up at her mother, as if weighing up her options. Whimpering softly, she allowed Yumna to finish bathing her. Gently, she laid Mishka down on the bed and held her close until she fell asleep.


Putting Mishka in her cot for the night, she went into the shower, the hard streams of hot water beating down upon the welts and cuts on her back and face, old and new, without so much as a wince. Feeling dead inside could be an advantage at times.

“Are you coming to bed, love?” The call came from the next room. Farouk always spoke so sweetly after one of his episodes.

Clutching her towel, Yumna shivered on the bathroom mat, lost momentarily for words.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” she eventually managed.

Pushing bruised and aching limbs into nightclothes took an extraordinary amount of effort. As she passed by the mirror in the hallway, her eyes fell to the polished tiles, as they did always. Yumna knew every detail, every hairline crack in those tiles in the passage.

Slipping between the sheets, Yumna focused on the blue glare of the television. What she was watching, she couldn’t have said, but it prevented her from looking at her husband lying next to her. Farouk reached over to her and pulled himself on top of her. Yumna dreaded this part. When his grunting had finally ceased, he rolled over and fell asleep on his back, snoring occasionally.

Finally alone with her thoughts, Yumna lay completely still and silent next to Farouk on the bed they had shared for three years. The only indication of the turmoil that raged within her was the single tear that emanated silently from her swollen right eye.

*

The doorbell rang. Yumna opened the door for her domestic worker. She heard the sharp intake of breath as Gladys saw her battered face, and she remembered that she must look frightful. Gladys told herself she should be used to seeing her employer’s face in all colours of the rainbow from time to time, but it always took her aback.

Shaking her head, Gladys stepped inside from the rain and looked for a place to put her dripping umbrella. Calling to Mishka as she went inside, she stopped short at the sight of Mishka’s face. A young mother herself, Gladys felt tears well up in her eyes.

“Haai, no, baby. Haai, look what he has done to you,” desperately, she turned to Yumna. “Please Yumna, report him. Don’t let him do this to your child.” Her beseeching eyes met Yumna’s momentarily before the latter shook her head and walked away uncertainly towards the main bedroom.

Gladys knew better than to argue with Yumna. She knew that Farouk was a policeman. Not just any policeman, but he was a “big boss”. He was a dangerous man. She also knew that Yumna’s family hadn’t spoken to her since she eloped with him three years before. “She is all alone in life,” thought Gladys to herself, clicking her tongue at the thought of Farouk beating the toddler.

Yumna slowly approached the mirror in the hall, as though she feared it too would attack her. Raising her eyes, she forced herself to take in the sight before her. Her right eye was almost completely swollen shut, and her jaw bore a nasty cut from the buckle of the belt that had struck Mishka.

“I can’t go to work like this,” she sighed. She picked up the phone to call the school.

“Morning, Annelise... Not too good. I’m not feeling very well, I’m afraid. Uh, I have a very high fever. No, I will go to the doctor, but right now I just need to sleep. Will you be able to get a substitute for my class? I’m not sure for how many days, but I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you how I’m feeling. No, I’ll be fine, I just need to rest. Yes, I’m sure. Ok, thanks. See you.”

Gladys stood in the hall, waiting for Yumna to put the phone down. “I will give Mishka her breakfast, don’t worry. Just go to sleep.”

“Thank you Gladys. I think I will.”

Locking her bedroom door, she slid down to the floor, eyes staring glassily at nothing. When the clamour in her head threatened to split her skull, she crawled over to the side table. Her hands shook so badly she needed both to lift up the medicine container. Eventually, they managed to get out three painkillers and she devoured the pills hungrily with the help of the glass of water by her bedside.

Sitting on the floor next to the bed, she clutched her wrists and rubbed them against her thighs, muttering to herself under her breath. She felt underneath the mattress and found the knife. It was a knife that she had confiscated from one of her pupils in class about a year ago. She found an odd sense of fascination in the knife, a potential comfort that seemed final and seductive. It was her secret and her refuge from fear. Just looking at it, feeling its reassuring heaviness in her frail hand, made her feel stronger.

As she stared at the shining brightness of the blade, she felt a wave of uncontrollable emotion hit her. She began to cry and her breathing quickened as her hysteria grew. Neon lights flashed behind her eyes and blackness enveloped her.


When Yumna regained consciousness it was with the slow realisation that she was lying awkwardly on the tiles next to her bed. Her head was wedged between the side table and the bed and she slowly became aware of the stinging pain from her arms. She tried to extricate herself from the corner and failed, knocking her muggy head on the corner of the table. The blow seemed to come through layers of thick cotton wool. Everything seemed so sticky and her arms were aching dully but stinging with every movement.

Moving slowly, she managed to wriggle out sideways and saw with horror that her arms and wrists were slashed open and that her own congealed blood lay all around her. The sticky redness was on her clothes, over the floor and in her hair. Moaning with shock, she tried to call Gladys. Then came the realisation that she did not want Mishka to see her like this.

It must have taken a long time for Yumna to drag herself to the en-suite bathroom, how long, she did not know. Her feeble efforts at crawling prompted a wave of fresh blood from her wrists. Shakily, painfully, wincing as every move rent her wounds further, she inched laboriously towards the bathroom.

The door banged. Farouk’s voice seeped through the crack under the door, “Yumna! Open the door baby.” There was a silence, punctuated only by the sound of Mishka playing in the lounge and Yumna’s ragged breathing.

“Yumna! Open the door! Can you hear me? Open the fucking door!”

Lying on the floor, halfway to the bathroom, Yumna felt the will to live drain from her. The coldness of the tiles pervaded through her bones as Farouk began to break the door down.


Yumna woke up some time later in her bed. She saw that her arms were wrapped in bandages and she was in a clean pair of pyjamas. The door hung awkwardly off its hinges and there was a vase of slightly battered-looking red roses on the dresser.

Sinking back into the soft pillows, she stared at the ceiling listening to the sounds of Mishka playing with her father in the lounge. Gladys bustled into the room with the ironing, noticed she was awake and sat down on the side of the bed, her face drawn with worry.

Yumna gingerly touched Gladys’ hand lying next to her own. “Is Mishka all right?” she asked hoarsely.

“Yes, she is fine. She was playing with her toys in the kitchen while I was ironing.” In a low whisper, she said “Yumna, why don’t you just leave him? You can’t carry on like this.”

“Tell me where I can go that he wouldn’t find me, Gladys.”

“Come and stay with me then.”

Yumna laughed ruefully. “That would probably be the first place he would look since you are my only friend.”

“Can’t you go back to your parents then? I’m sure they would take you back.”

“My father told me I must come home in my coffin rather than come home divorced. They won’t even answer my calls. They said I made my bed and now I must lie in it.”

Gladys gave her a deeply troubled look, tears coming to her eyes. “But what about the little one?”

“He didn’t mean to hurt her, Gladys. He’d never hurt her on purpose. She just got in the way, that’s all. He loves her.”

“And you? Does he love you when he does these things to you?”

“He’s a jealous man, Gladys. He imagines I’m having an affair with the principal at school, with the neighbour next door or with the manager of the supermarket down the road. He is paranoid that I’m going to run away and leave him. I try so hard but I can’t ever make him happy with me.”

"Why should you be the one trying? He is the one who—"

“Gladys! Why didn’t you tell me my wife was awake?” Farouk said as he approached the bedroom. “Go and see to Mishka, please. I think she needs to go down for her nap.”

Gladys stood up, a strangled expression on her face. Without a word, she left the room.

Yumna winced as Farouk sat down heavily beside her on the bed, almost on top of one of her bandaged arms. Lighting a cigarette, he exhaled the smoke into her face and studied her. He lifted her chin, trying to make her meet his gaze, but her eyes remained downcast. When she began to resist, he wrapped his hand around her neck. Panicking, she looked up at him as he constricted her airway.

“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at, huh?” He hissed in her ear. “You think you’re going to get anyone’s sympathy by acting like a retard?”

Gasping for breath, Yumna shook her head desperately. The grip tightened and he brought his glowing cigarette closer to her face. “Should I teach you a lesson, Miss Teacher? Should I give you some scars to really kill yourself over? Mess up that holier-than-thou ice queen expression for good?”

“No! Please!” gasped Yumna, her fingernails clawing at his arm.

“It’s too late to beg me. You are worth nothing to me. Maybe I will take a second wife. But first I’ll make sure no man will ever want you.”

Yumna closed her eyes, unable to watch as the cigarette drew closer to her cheek. Waiting for the inevitable, she felt her heartbeat reverberate through her entire body as he choked her. Then, just as her vision began to turn black, she heard a loud bang and felt a jolt. The pressure on her throat eased and Farouk’s body slowly slumped over her own. A warm liquid began to seep through her nightclothes. She opened her eyes and saw Gladys standing over her with her husband’s service pistol, eyes as round as saucers and paralysed with shock.

The gun dropped from her trembling hands and clanged on the tiles. She took a faltering step backwards and then, unable to say a word, ran from the room in terror. Yumna heard Gladys begin to howl and gibber in bewilderment. Then she heard keys jangling and the front door slamming shut. Gladys was gone.

Yumna lay in the bed, her dead husband’s body crumpled over hers, pinning her down and soaking her with blood quickly turning cold.

Although the dropped cigarette was slowly burning a hole in the bedding, Yumna felt unable to move her hands to pick it up. She stared at it numbly for some time until flames rose from the duvet and played around her. By the time they caught the bandages covering her mutilated arms and Farouk’s hair, she decided it was really too late to protest.

Trapped was written by Hajira Amla.

Copyright © Hajira Amla 2010.

Hajira Amla lives in Johannesburg, South Africa, and has had all sorts of interesting job titles; including musician, journalist, newspaper sub-editor, radio news anchor, and PRO. Born in England, she spent two years in the Seychelles before moving to South Africa in 1993.

Her own colourful past is a constant reminder to her that truth is stranger than fiction. She is afraid that if she ever published her memoirs, the Universe may suddenly collapse into a black hole. However, she has decided she is rather fond of chocolate and small furry animals, so the Earth is safe - for now.

Her writing often reflects the stark realities of life in a changing nation and throws a harsh spotlight on the widespread abuse of women and children in South Africa.

The Charitable Smoker by Kenechukwu Obi

Bright red, flickered from a cigarette he gently smoked. Ash followed ash in the same direction, making a fine sprinkle on the sandy ground. His slim body, well tucked into the chair. He was calm. I didn’t know if he was thinking. His head was up, staring at the cloud of smoke above.

The confidence he exuded struck me in successive sequence. I liked the very way he smoked. Especially the way he used his tongue to curl smoke out of his mouth. What an art, I thought. And for the first time in my life, I felt like smoking. His shoes were new. Polished as well. What of his trousers? Oh! Crispy! Very neat! Just fascinating.

I liked him very much going by his composure. Directly behind him stood a four storey building which people were streaming into. People that from vantage position, I beheld that poverty had very well finished with them. Torn trousers, unkempt hair, I saw in numbers. It was also not hard to notice that some of them had never known what bathing water felt like for months. On their faces were however, fading frustration and hopelessness with glimmer of hope in fine medley.

On the building was a bold inscription, THE TAMALE FOUNDATION. It brought my curiosity. Then I walked past the gentle smoker into the building.

“This is the Tamale Foundation,” said a man to me as I queried him to know more. “Haven’t you heard about it?” He said, his eyes widening in surprise.

“No,” I said. The man laughed at my ignorance.

“What is it for?” I further asked.

“It is for the poor. This is the centre for the banishment of poverty.” He laughed again.

“Poverty?” I said, as if that was my first time of hearing that word. Then I paused to look around and saw smiles being put on people’s faces, springboards given to start dreaming.

“Where are you?” I thundered on turning back because the man who spoke with me earlier was no longer there. And I had more questions begging for answers. “Whose brain-child is this?” Again I asked on top of my voice, desperate to hear somebody talk back.

Hands touched my shoulders from behind. When I turned, it was the gentle smoker that stood. An inviting smile stood on his face. “What do you want, gentleman of the press?” He asked me, and we shook hands. “My name is Tamale. I own this place. Can we be of any help to you? The word, help, is what we exist for.”

His calm mien and confidence were nothing else but striking. For some seconds, I couldn’t find words to utter, as if my sense of mission had flown away. A feeling of honour arose inside me afterwards. Not because of Tamale’s charm, but for the chance to file a story I believed it would be a ‘hot one’.

“My name is Ken, freelance writer,” was my terse response.

“Feel relaxed, said Tamale, offering me a cigarette, but I declined. When I asked how he started the foundation, Tamale took five steps away from me, sat on a settee, gesturing me to join him. I did with all pleasure. Curiosity just drove me on.

“This is the realisation of a dream I nurtured since I was a youth, which never came on a platter of gold.” Tamale’s story began. “There is no dream pushing towards reality that does not duel with obstacles. The most difficult times, I believe, prevail when you are very close to the object of your heart’s chase.” Tamale lit up another cigarette, drew a deep breath and went ahead.

He was born alone and bred rich. Lost his mother at the age of five. His father did not remarry. He was so immersed in wealth that it got him bored, fuelling intense hunger in him to experience poverty. He wanted to be part and parcel of the less privileged and the poor in their quest to survive. His father vehemently did not support him. “Why should my son mingle with the poor?” He had asked in annoyance. He would always say to Tamale that it meant demeaning his status. But Tamale consistently cared less enough to not want to fathom, even in the least, how demeaning his quest might have sounded. All that mattered to him was to tune in to the pulse of the poor in his midst. “Would my gladness know no bounds if I had plenty of water in my mouth, overflowing, and my brother’s throat is as dry as a desert? No!” He had argued.

Tamale ran away from home bare-footed, with nothing except the clothes he had on. This was however, after his failed first ever suicide attempt. To him there was no point in remaining alive, living rich without carrying out his mission. He got a rope, tied it firmly to the branch of an orange tree at the lawn behind his father’s house.

Tamale lit another stick, drew smoke hard into his lungs before proceeding with his story.

“I made sure I was home alone to completely eliminate chances of anyone stalling the cold hands of death from tugging me away. And all was set, I bade the world bye. The rope instantly tugged hard at my neck. But, the rope loosened. To date, I don’t know how it happened. I am quite sure I did everything right. Astounding, I must admit.”

Tamale suffered hunger at first. When he had money, most times, he could only eat once a day. Even the odd jobs were hard to come by. He picked potatoes in farms for stipends, cleared animal dung in a dairy farm to eke out a living. In spite of his little disposable income, barely enough for him to survive, he couldn’t help but give away alms. Tears coursed down Tamale’s eyes each time he saw beggars. Many of them at highways that posed untold threats to their lives, snatching a living from the jaw of death. He would give and sometimes forget to keep back some.

“I think we live in a world almost entirely obsessed with the insatiable quest to acquire,” he said. “Pile up, even if the store is filled and overflowing. Why must men have so much and their brothers are lacking? Only to do a lot of wasteful spending in times of their brothers’ death to show off.”

One major challenge Tamale had was his background.

“I know you! What are you doing here?”

“You don’t know me. Go away. I want to concentrate.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“You don’t know me! Get off!”

“I know you. I know the son of whom you are. Behold, heir to a great fortune wallowing in slums? I can’t understand what you’re doing here. You ought not to work, let alone be seen doing so in filthy places like this.”

People would not just leave Tamale alone. He did not believe his life ought just to revolve in his rich father’s shadow. That he saw as extremely ridiculous.

“If my grandfather hadn’t been poor,” he argued, “would my father have thought it necessary to strive and achieve? Most certainly not.”

There was a poem Tamale wrote and recited each day, with which he made his demand on life.

I do not understand you any-more
You overwhelm me by the games you play
For how long will you keep away from me?
My desired goals that I am bargaining for?
Each time I strive to reach the stars
You give me mountains
I am thirsty
You make a desert my home
Is it not you again?
The just employer
Or have you changed since you first saw my face?
I suppose I’m not pouring water into a basket
Look my way for my prize
Life!

Lofti! That was her name. The woman that opened the door of succour for Tamale. As fate would have them meet. Tamale had cleared the drains in front her apartment one evening. She paid Tamale, yet also kept glaring at him.

“Who are you?” That was the first question she asked Tamale, her glare nailing him hard.

Another person who knows me, Tamale thought in disgust. Lofti’s curiosity so intense that Tamale felt uncomfortable. His background became a thing he hated. He had to fake his identity.

“Why should you be doing this for a living?” That was Lofti’s second question.

“No home, no money,” Tamale answered.

“Who are your parents?”

“No father, no mother.”

Lofti was touched. She pitied Tamale on learning of his false orphaned condition. She closed her eyes, looked away in pain. Lofti told Tamale that she too was an orphan. Tamale saw tears moisten Lofti’s eyes. Tears that almost made him confess that he had told a lie. What a flow of emotion his lie had drawn. But he had to keep a low profile, stay out of his wealthy status as much as possible to remain true to his mission.

“Oh! How it pains me to see a young and energetic man like you,” said Lofti, ‘wasting away his youthfulness. Youth is the season of hope. It is like a potter’s clay. You mould it lest it dries up. Youth is today’s child, tomorrow’s man. I will get you something better. You must meet with the man who was instrumental to my success in business,” she assured Tamale.

That was how Tamale got to know a famous American corn merchant in the person of Sir Alex Clinton, who coincidentally was desperately in need of an astute, honest and hard-working young man as his assistant.

Sir Alex Clinton was tall and in his mid fifties. So more carefree than Tamale had ever seen. Never allowed much to bother him. He staunchly believed he grabbed much good luck in life by how many good things he did for people. Never bothered much if he discovered one was cheating him. He just believed anyone who cheated him would be paid in his own coin by some sort of natural laws in nature.

He drank tea a lot. Had no wife, no children as well. He took his children to be all young men and women who worked with him. Sir Alex was glad that he was able to assist young people. That way, he was convinced he channelled their minds away from criminal tendencies. He would say, “A youth you take off the street, helping him to be useful, the entire society enjoys peace which translates to meaningful development tenfold.” That was his unflinching philosophy.

When asked what he had to say about his workers that misappropriated funds, he said, “Well, I’ve tried my best for them absolutely. What and how they choose to be is now entirely in their hands. Posterity will vindicate me.”

He was a man so straight forward and simple in his approach to life. Tamale was inspired and enriched. His resolve to actualise his mission and experienced unprecedented growth in strength. Light of his cause to do charity had never been brighter. If there was anything he would forget, it would surely not be his first meeting with Sir Alex Clinton.

“You are Tamale,” said Sir Clinton with a broad smile. “You owe me no answers. Lofti said it all. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. One of us you are already.” Then he laughed. “Just work hard like I’ve been informed and success will come knocking on your door. Hey! I like taking tea, fifty times in a day is not too much, is it? Let me get you some.”

If Sir Clinton would take that much tea in a day, Tamale wondered how many urination calls he answered daily. When Tamale looked into Sir Clinton’s business account books, it was very easy for him to see that he was filthy rich. All profit details were in bold black and white.

Tamale’s working relationship with Sir Clinton, ushered in further financial success. His gifting began to bear on his transactions in Sir Clinton’s enterprise. He was branded the assistant who almost single-handedly envisioned and created a fatter purse for his boss. Sir Alex Clinton could not hide his delight as Tamale vigorously pursued his goals. There was phenomenal financial success within ten years.

“My instincts can’t be wrong,” said Sir Clinton to Tamale one day. “I knew you had it in you. I will eternally be grateful to Lofti for referring you. Surely, you are one great thing to have happened to me and humanity as a whole. Your faithfulness, sincerity and competence have most rewarded you. I see you going places, man! My grand plan for you is waiting.”

Sir Alex Clinton did what Tamale never expected at all. If a man works more than he gets paid for, sooner or later, he will be paid for more than he works. At first, Tamale had enough money to sustain himself. To eat and drink whatever he desired. The more abundant reward then came. Sir Alex Clinton, oh goodness! He made Tamale. He awarded Tamale a fifth of all profit he turned in. The less privileged became his target. He knew that even a drop of water from an ocean they got, would put a lot of smiles on their faces in distinct ways.

Tamale lit up another cigarette and braced to narrate more.

“I believe that a man reaps abundant bliss when bounties from his sweat under the sun is spread among his fellows,” he began after the first puff. “Otherwise they are a terrible waste. He would be choked while striving to consume them alone. Decay will visit his store house, causing him excruciating pain. I did not need to be told more than ever that it was time to give abundantly and of course, cheerfully. Everything under the sun has time and season. A time to lose, a time to gain. A time to plant, a time to reap. A time to plan, a time to execute. A time to come, a time to go.”

Tamale left Sir Alex Clinton’s enterprise to set up his own. This even made him more famous. A huge part of his resources was channelled to the less privileged. He visited inmates of prisons and orphanages on several occasions. Somehow, his wealth increased as he gave out. His generosity ensured that many beggars started their own corn businesses. It was all so good.

Then there came the time to lose. Tamale’s enterprise ebbed to a lean situation. A time of precarious financial status preceded a complete collapse. His business, ripped apart. No thanks to those that worked for him. He was paid for his liberal and generous approach with large scale misappropriation of funds. This brought Tamale back to how he started out. He sought financial assistance without success. What a thin line between grace and grass.

“Well, Tamale, we agreed to meet this day. But I’m sorry there is nothing I can do to turn around your financial predicament.”

“But you promised to be of help today.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, but...”

“You raised my hope!”

“My business is not liquid enough now to lend you any sum.”

“Not even any amount?”

“I’m afraid. I’m sorry.”

“What am I going through? Oh!”

“I wish you success elsewhere, Mr. Tamale.”

That was Tamale’s darkest hour just before dawn. He shed tears on realising how ungrateful and forgetful, even how heartless men can be. Worst of all, from people he had helped before, who were most unwilling to assist him at a time he needed them most. He pondered his future, reviewed how far he had come. He had to go back to doing odd jobs. And in a mysterious twist of fate, two one-time beggars he helped, got wind of his woes and came looking for him. And with that, came the needed lifeline. Tamale’s corn business took off again. His business savvy and luck brought him some good fortune as his sales of corn tripled in three years. Financial boom came around again for him.

Then an idea flashed in Tamale’s mind. He then needed to set up an institution for his charity works. And nothing was going to stop him. That marked the birth of the Tamale Foundation. And that coincided with Tamale’s reunion with his already frail father, weakened substantially by age. He felt untold joy surge through him. His only son, heir to his vast gold mining fortune was back. And back with a bang! Tamale founded his foundation to encourage and assist the less privileged society folks to create wealth by investing in worthwhile ventures. Tamale the charitable smoker believed no one should be a societal burden. And he envisioned that his foundation will someday have the financial muscle to extend help not only to folks in his native Africa, but the rest of the world.

The Charitable Smoker was written by Kenechukwu Obi.

Copyright © Kenechukwu Obi 2010.

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

Letter to my Son by Joy Isi Bewaji

Under the Dongoyaro tree, there I sold oranges loved by men; oranges they claimed were as sweet as sex.

I had arrived at my spot one morning, only to see the felled tree by the side of the road. I sighed, knowing that my day would be glum as I went in search of a new dwelling for my business. I walked under the blistering sun, my feet burned as my lean slippers slapped the earth. I cried out to my customers still; my voice called out to them to come have a taste of my sweet oranges, those ones as sweet as sex. They hollered back - conductors, trailer drivers, shoe makers, vendors. They caressed my arm and pinched my buttocks... they were my customers, the regular ones.

I remember once I sold oranges to a rich man in a fine car. I was trekking home, my tray placed expertly on my head with only a few oranges dancing on the tray, when I heard a whistle. I rushed to his car. His window slowly came down, and I inhaled plush air. He picked four ripe ones, dug his teeth in one and sucked on it like a hungry baby sucking on its mother’s breast. He smelled of alcohol, the very expensive type, nothing offensive like Ogogoro. He was saying something about trying to kill the stench so his wife wouldn’t be offended. I do not see his kind often. I thanked him profusely, not because of the oranges he bought; my regulars buy more. I don’t know why I thanked him, I think I was overwhelmed in some way by his glaring opulence. His aura smelled like roses, not that I’d seen any my whole life, but aren’t roses reminiscent of sweet-smell, enchanting in its breath? I walked away with the small change he refused to collect, feeling grateful.

When I finally found a building adjacent to a major street with extended roofing by the side, I sighed again; this time out of relief. It had an instruction on the side of the wall, ‘N.O L.O.I.T.E.R.I.N.G’. I didn’t understand what that meant. I looked at the front of the building, it seemed to be a bank. I sat under the ‘no loitering’ command, singing in my heart, and rewarding myself with an orange for this beautiful find. It was short-lived as a brusque intruder marched to where I was.

Your father. He had on brown khaki shorts and a shirt that-was-once-white with a ridiculous tie on his neck like a garrotte. I chuckled and he took offence. ‘Stand up,’ he ordered. I rose carefully. I knew his kind, the very spiteful ones who hated their jobs, hated their bosses, and hated the world for making them lesser beings. I knew his kind.

‘What is your responsibility here?’He asked.

That was the grammar he spoke. I was illiterate. 17 years old and only knew my A-B-C as alphabets but could not coin them into words to make meaningful sentences.
He spoke the grammar again.

‘I say what responsibility is yours here?’

I was impressed. Seriously. Everyone around me conversed in pidgin or Yoruba or Ibo. I have the semblance of a Yoruba woman with my light skin and protruding behind. Yoruba women are aptly blessed with large buttocks; an exaggeration of human assets as some would say, but I was glad I had it despite the fact that I was Ibo and our women came with proportionate bums.

I kept my mouth wide opened. I didn’t utter any words. He was holding a club and his fist got tighter, I was afraid he’d hit me with it.

‘Oya, get away from here,’ he ordered, shouting to impress passers-by; some of them turned to enjoy the scene. I hated him immediately. I picked up my tray and was only adjusting my wrapper, buying time, hoping he would change his mind or ask for a bribe of some oranges and let me be, when his hands pushed me away, back into the burning sun. An orange rolled out of my tray, he picked it up, tore the flesh and sucked on it as he walked away like he was a hero.

I felt exhausted by the blinding sun, tons of pedestrians scurrying around, shouts from conductors, blaring horns, and angry voices. How was I to make it out here in the jungle of life all by myself? As I contemplated my next move, I sighted a building on the opposite lane. It was a primary school, and its roofing was as extended like the bank. I held my breath as I walked towards the building. The maiguard was nowhere around. I could still feel the grammar man’s eyes, your father, poking holes behind me. I raced to the side of the building, and immediately the maiguard appeared.
‘a-beg,’ I pleaded with a silly smile on my face.

He shrugged, ‘I no wan hia nonsense shout por hia,’ he wriggled his middle finger, warning me.

I nodded, and then he let me be. I leaned my back on the wall and continued the routine of peeling my oranges.

At a distance, your father stood at the entrance of the bank, his tiny legs pacing to and fro, hitting his club casually on his knee; tearing off the insides of the orange and licking his lips like a child relishing stolen meat from a pot of soup.

When the rains came, I was left to suck on my oranges as pedestrians dashed for safety, leaving the wet sands behind and going for shelter in their homes and offices. I drenched at the side of the school walls. I wrung my wrapper continuously to get out excess water that made my clothes stick to my body, driving the cold in. The maiguard hid in his cubicle like a crumpled biscuit in a carton. He didn’t invite me in, I knew not to ask.

It was on the third day of the downpour that your father called me. I had stubbornly refused to stay at the place I called home and would trek through the mud to sell, hoping the rain would hide its anger that day but it never did. I was shivering at the corner, holding the edges of my wrapper up to my knees and neglecting the oranges which by now were covered in wet sand. I looked his way and saw his hands signalling to me.

I wasted no time; I ran to where he was.

‘Your oranges, nko?’

I shook my head, my lips unable to bear any words.

He had a post by the side of the bank and ordered me inside.

‘Cover yourself with my blazer.’

I didn’t know what a blazer was so I sat and waited as he ran across the street, with an umbrella over his head, to get my tray of oranges which were now looking like rotten pears. He placed it at the other end of the building on the cemented ground allowing the rains to beat the smudges off. When he came back he dragged a dirty coat underneath the chair I was sitting on and placed it over my shoulders.

‘I can see you meticulously refuse to consent to my phrase. Have you learnt the impeccable reason behind why you should not hawk?’

That was what he said. And I marvelled.

‘Have you learnt your lessons now?’

‘Sir?’ was all I could mumble.

‘Your bush-ness is common but I shall bequeath you with sophistication.’
I swear that was the grammar he spoke. If I lie you can ask him.

When the time clocked 5 in the evening, and the rains had stopped; the day was chilly and darkness arrived sooner. Erosion leaked the earth, potholes formed ponds on every road, and drivers were stuck in bad traffic that seemed endless. The conductors weren’t shouting loud enough, and gloom settled on pedestrians as they trekked home in a rush trying to beat another downpour if it were to occur.

Your father said I should come with him and I did. I carried my tray and we walked for over an hour. It was a clear evening. We talked little as there was no clear way of communication since he refused to lower himself to speak the common street language.
He continued in his jargon.

‘I plea that the government does something magnanimously to the equation of this country, our turbulence is caricatured.’ He spoke verbosely about the politicking in government like he had a seat at the Assembly. I watched his lips form those words. It sounded exotic like something the big man in that big car would say - the one who drank expensive alcohol, whose car smelled like roses.

We arrived at his place. It was a mansion, extremely large with many windows and air-conditioners shooting out from the walls. My mouth dropped; I hadn’t seen anything as beautiful. Your father saw my expression and shook my shoulders.

‘What are you looking at?’ he queried. ‘The abode surprise you, right? Leaving you incapacitated and demonised.’

His hands were flying around. ‘I say I am a part of this success,’ he beamed, ‘because it is only two esteemed men that can come together to live under one roof.’

His own roof was a tiny hut by the corner of the mansion. I sighed. He noticed my disappointment and slapped me hard across the cheek.

‘You are a useless one; I can see it in your eyes.’

I rubbed the spot and frowned. I said nothing as he pushed me into the hut.

It was just as small as his post at the bank; unable to occupy more than two people conveniently. He continued boasting about his accomplishments; he talked about the owner of the house, his bosses in the office... he talked about them as if he drank beer with them at beer parlours, as if he played golf, travelled on first-class flight, flirted with elegant women, spent evenings in hotel pent house, just like them. Yet even in his verbosity, I knew who he was. I knew his kind.

That night, as I lay beside him on a mat in the suffocating hut, I felt his hand rummaging my wrapper.

My cloth was still damp and I slept in it because he had nothing for me to change into. His clothes comprised two uniforms to work, and one ankara blouse and trouser. He tied the only wrapper he had around his waist after brandishing his tiny penis all over the room, it moving up and down so that the thing danced like a frightened animal. The crickets sang too loud and mosquitoes fed on us freely in that dark and stuffy room, while his leaky lantern soaked on a newspaper close to the head of his lean mattress as we laid like sardines in a can.
I pushed his hand aside and he slapped me. This time I turned around and slapped him back.

‘What is wrong with you?’ I said in my language. ‘Ogini?’

He slapped me again, pushed me towards the wall and climbed on top of me. I kicked his knee, and he reached for my breast and bit it. It hurt. He forced his way in and rode gallantly on top of me while I suffocated beneath his weight. Within seconds he was out and was panting by my side.

I used my wet cloth to clean traces of semen and closed my eyes to catch some sleep.
‘Weak,’ I muttered.

I didn’t see another slap coming as little stars bopped before my eyes. He was panting and sweating by my side.

‘What did you just say?’

‘What did you hear?’ I spat.

He grabbed my hair and was sending blows to my back. I freed myself and seized the leaking lantern threatening to hit it on his head.

He let me be, but only for a while until the sun came up and he was grabbing my breasts again and pinching my buttocks like my customers do. It lasted a little longer this time, and he whistled triumphantly around the hut, humming like a heroic leader as he prepared for work.

‘Er, it will be pleasurable for you to occupy the position beside my abode in my office, you know...’ he was saying but I wasn’t listening.

I was thinking of my oranges, and the area I needed to comb if I was going to make any sales. The weather was brighter today and it seemed the sun would stay longer.

I picked up my tray and headed out.

‘Wait!’ he called; I flung my hands indicating he should get lost.

A month later I returned to him at the bank.

‘I get belle,’ I announced.

He took me to his mother’s house in Wilmer. The old woman looked at me and asked, ‘na boy?’

I chose to stare at my feet instead of answering.

‘I say na boy?!’ she shouted this time.

I looked at her and saw her wrinkles fold, forming lump-like flesh. She was serious.
‘Yes ma.’

Was that not what the old woman wanted to hear? That her son was manly enough to bestow her with a boy as her first grandchild? She said something in Yoruba, then shooed me away.

‘Go and join the others outside.’ She said, referring to the girls who sold akara for her in front of the compound.

There was no ceremony to usher me into their lives as a wife. I stayed with mama at Wilmer and sold her akara. It was a shack near the compound, it served as the neighbourhood kitchen for all the students, bachelors, lazy mothers, and whoring spinsters. She was making enough money to take care of herself and keep the young girls, who lived with her, busy. We shared a room – Bisi, Tayo, Bidemi and I, while mama kept another to herself. They spoke mostly in Yoruba and I pretended I didn’t understand a word of it.

Tayo was planning to run away with Baba Shile – the caretaker of the compound we lived in. He was a man with two wives and six sons; he promised her a better life in his village where he planned to set up a farm. Bidemi had asked her about the other wives and their children, if they all would be coming along. Tayo frowned, and did not answer.

Bisi grumbled about mama and some money she owed her, ‘I don live with this woman tay, ten years now, surely I am entitled to some kind of compensation.’ She was planning to give the money to Sule, her fiancée, an okada rider, as an investment for his new pure water business he was about to start. ‘Then we will get married,’ she added, hoping it would make the other girls green with envy.

Bidemi was being wooed by Iya calabar, the proprietress of Shalamar Inn, two streets away from ours. Shalamar Inn was a brothel, a very popular one. The girls wore lycra skirts with slits riding up to their private parts. It was a feast of stretch marks and flabby thighs. They drank too much, and partied hard. But, they were well taken care of by Iya Calabar and their customers were men of a better class.

Iya Calabar started off as a mistress to a soldier. He was one of the big boys in the political camp back then. He had a temper; he would tie her up and beat her silly, but he gave her money the kind she had never seen before. She saved all she could, and then stole a bundle from him one night and fled. He came after her but she had cleverly started sleeping with a ‘bigger’ soldier who stood as a barrier to his intentions. Before long, she started picking up girls for soldiers who showed their appreciation in cash; her money naturally multiplied as the men sought the comfort of young women.

Your father continued manning the doors of the bank, visiting mama’s place every other weekend. He was earning five thousand naira every month. The bank paid fifteen thousand naira and the security company took over 75% of the money. On many occasions, mama made more than his whole salary in a day, but she spent a fortune on ogogoro and was in the most part beleaguered and worn by its effect. The rest of it she spent buying the latest lace that she tied around her chest. She was always positioned on the balcony, chewing on a chewing stick and screaming towards our direction; instructing us on what to do and who deserved an extra ball of akara for their relentless patronage. Mama had terrible mood swings and threw tantrums at the slightest provocation. Plates were flung in the air when she was upset or irritated; and the girls knew not to come close, and they hung about in neighbours’ rooms, or visited a boyfriend until her anger waned. Bidemi lingered at Shalamar Inn when mama spat venom. She had a few friends there from whom she got clothes they weren’t interested in wearing any more, for free. Iya Calabar liked her and would give her some food whenever she visited.

It was on the day of your arrival that Bidemi finally moved into Shalamar. Later she would come around to visit wearing shiny lace just like the type mama wore around her chest when she bragged in front of the house. Bidemi had hers sewn into lovely skirts and blouses. Once mama saw her approaching the compound, she picket up a bunch of broom and chased her around with a bowl of hot palm oil threatening to destroy her cloth along with her ‘ugly skin’.
We were all aware we had no future living with mama. Your father wasn’t making enough money and he stopped visiting regularly. I needed to provide for myself and for you my son, Oluwadurotemilehin. I wanted to go back to my life, selling oranges and being able to buy little things like soap and pomade. Mama never shared her money with anyone, I was only entitled to eat from the trade – two akara everyday, and no more. She hated the idea of a working woman, hated young girls looking beautiful in expensive attires. I wanted my independence from her, and I had stayed long enough to know it wouldn’t be easy getting it.
During my pregnancy, I vomited everyday, the smell of her ogogoro... I hated it. I hated her; and I hated the toilet roll your father brought every other weekend too.

‘What is this for?’ I asked him one day, while I rocked you on the courtyard.

‘It is for you and the kid.’ He called you like you were some goat.

‘Are we supposed to eat it?’ I hissed, looking into his eyes to see if there were any signs of manliness, or shame.

‘Clean his mess with it,’ he spat ‘what is it; don’t mama feed you here?’

‘Do you give her any money to take care of us?’

‘You cook akara everyday, lucky you, I have to hold doors from morning till night,’ he said.

‘You need to get a job.’

‘I have a job,’ he said and stormed off. I knew he’d be gone for another month

Mama was chanting ‘ashewo’ when you clocked 6 months and I was dragging my bag out of her house.

‘You have finally grown a penis,’ she spat. I strapped you behind my back and she clapped heatedly. ‘Take your bastard away!’ She was drunk as usual.

We trekked a long distance; and when you cried, I sat down on my luggage under a bridge and breast-fed you. I got to your father’s hut at dusk, you were fast asleep and my feet burned. His door was ajar, there were empty bottles of alcohol littered on the brink of the door. He was snoring aloud. I pushed his arm with my foot; he slapped my foot away like it was a mosquito and turned to face the wall. I pushed him again, and called to him, ‘daddy Duro’.

He looked up, cleaning traces of saliva on the side of his cheeks.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

I told him I wanted to do my own thing, he shrugged and went back to sleep.
There was a mango tree in front of the house where the rich man lived, where our hut kissed his mansion, there I resumed selling my oranges with you at my side; those oranges that were as sweet as sex.

Letter to my Son was written by Joy Isi Bewaji.

Copyright © Joy Isi Bewaji 2010.

Joy Isi Bewaji is the author of EKO DIALOGUE; a collection of short stories on the intrigues of Lagos, interpreted on stage by The Crown Troupe of Nigeria.

She is a writer and editor, and has worked with many celebrated lifestyle magazines in Nigeria – TW, Genevieve, Spice; and had at one time published a community magazine called Festac Breed.

She is a 2006 winner of LEAP Africa Awards. She was a part of the 9 writers, 4 cities tour 2009 in Nigeria, and is currently working on her second book, Oh! Beatrice.

Joy contributes weekly to a couple of dailies in Nigeria on the Arts and Review pages. She is presently also engaged in celebrity PR and lives in Lagos with her family.

The Cell Phone by Nigel Jack

The first time he saw her, he had visited his barber for a haircut. From the mirror in front of him he could see her without her recognising she was being watched. He could see her contours and curves clearly like a farmer watching his wheat plantation from a glider. Her features were loud and her smile exuded a lot of confidence. The even pieces of ivory that decorated her full lipped mouth was her other major source of facial beauty besides her cat eyes that blinked slowly and graciously.

His heart screamed like a baby asking for a change of diaper. He could hear it throb like a sub-woofer. The central part of his physical manhood rose in anger. It was that kind of anger which is natural and unstoppable. He was lucky that he was wearing new pair of boxer shots inside, they were still tight and could not allow any misbehaviour, otherwise he was going to leave holding low the broadsheet newspaper that he had just bought from the street vendors.

When he got back to his office Samson tried to concentrate on a pile of papers that were on his desk but he failed. His heart was not in the office. The hairdresser had stolen the day. He took out his cell phone and dialled his barber’s number. He could hear the phone ringing but no response. He was cross - it was not easy to connect; almost everybody in the city had a cell phone and airtime was a thousand times more affordable and available than bread.

For a quarter of an hour his phone was giving him automated text messages like, ‘error in connection’, ‘wrong number’ or he could hear a fast computer voice telling him, ‘the number you have dialled is not reachable at the moment, please try again latter.’ When he was almost giving up he got through. But that was not enough; his barber was supposed to answer. Tension grew hairs on his skin and his front teeth sat heavily on his lower lip as he waited impatiently to hear a live voice.

“Hello boss,” Givemore responded. He called all his male clients by that title.

“Ah, Givy,” Samson was not amused, “why do you take time to answer when you know the network is drunk.”

“Sorry boss, the phone was on charge, away from my corner.”

“Ah...” Samson wanted to continue complaining but Givemore interjected.

“How can I help you Boss?”

“Okay listen, this is between you and me.”

“What is it boss you know I’m always at your service? I’m your most humble servant indeed. Say a word and it will be done.”

Givemore’s spontaneous responses and willingness to execute a duty he had not yet learnt of, gave Samson little creeps. But his fears were no greater than his passions. Fears could make him freeze for a moment but passions were capable of making him burst forever. He shut his eyes and paused for a moment.

“Givemore,” Samson enunciated.

Givemore had never before heard his name called with such gravity before. It was too solemn for a man of his disposition.

“Yes Boss,” this time his response was not rushed.

“Who is that girl I saw today wearing a yellow top and jeans.”

“Oh, wait Boss; let me move away a bit, just a minute.”

Samson could hear Givemore’s footsteps. He could not wait to hear what he was going to say. His blood was overflowing. There was one thing he was afraid of hearing. He was afraid of hearing that the girl was a wife, a mother or both. He had been in the dating business for long and he had not been lucky. In most of the cases he had been the one to call it quits because of his picky tendencies. He was always looking for the one and to him the one was Miss Right. Most of his dates would fall short on one or two qualities and he would not take that. He was looking for beauties, the outward and inward, he wanted both and there were no exceptions. And now at 27 the search was tense.

“Yes Boss, sorry the bird was just close to me that’s why I had to move away. I’m outside the shop at the moment. We can talk.”

“Tell me, what’s her name?”

“Diana, don’t tell me you don’t know Diana, she has been working with us here at She & He for almost three months now.”

“Then she blossomed rapidly in the three months, is she married?”

“No, ah no Boss, she is very much single. She has one or two male friends but they are not her boyfriends. I talk to her at times; I think she is not bad. Besides, she has the goods- I think you could see that she is loaded, a fertile potato farm ha.”

“No I’m not looking for that, do you have her number.”

“She has two; I’ll page them to you.”

“Great, please try and do it in the next five minutes,” Samson was happy with the information he had just gathered, “told you this is between you and me ha?”

“It’s between you and me Boss.”

That afternoon Samson commenced his betrothing on the phone. It was not that much of a hustle as he had anticipated nor was it a walk in the park, but somewhere in the range of careful talking. He enjoyed every minute that he was on the phone with her; to him it was pure entertainment. It was intriguing talking to someone for the first time on love, neither theorising nor abbreviating it, but confessing a desire to practice it. What was difficult was trying to capture the passion in words and on the phone where responses could be very liberal.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

This was not an easy question for Samson. Saying he had never been in love would mean there was something wrong with him and he was not lovable. If he would say he had a girlfriend, then he was automatically confessing infidelity. And if he was to tell of a break-up, the reasons were supposed to be provided.

“We broke up,” Samson said knowing what was to be the follow-up question.

“Why?”

“I discovered she had been cheating on me so I decided to part with her. I’m afraid of the virus; I think you understand that nowadays you need one partner.”

“Did you use to have sex with her?”

“No,” it sounded foolish but there was no much of an option.

“Why?” she was inquisitive.

“Why, why what?” Samson had never heard such a question from a girl before, “I’m not immoral, I’m not the kind of person who sleeps around.”

“Have you ever had sex before?”

Samson felt like the earth was crushing down on him. He had no immediate answer for this question but it was expected from him so he stammered.

*

In a space of a week the contents of the humiliating first day cell phone conversation was spiked. Samson was on the driver’s seat, moderating the pace at which the affair was moving. He was beginning to wave off illusions to get the true picture. Diana was no special to any other full bodied girl. Her outward beauty was average only that it was enhanced by artificial attachments. She had a good choice on clothes and her light skin had a way of exaggerating her beauty.

In-fact it was very disappointing for Samson to discover that Diana was shallow in thought. Apart from clothes and hairdressing she knew virtually little. It appeared she had last read a book at high school and the only writing that she could do was on her cell phone. Samson knew the affair was not going to last but he had to hang on a bit, at least to hold on to something while searching for something better.

Many times Samson would find himself condescending to her level in order to communicate effectively. Little did he know that an understanding of that nature would bring her closer? One day Diana visited Samson at his office, and she perched herself on the desk. That could have been a problem if Sam was sharing an office with someone. The office was all his. He was a buyer for an uncle’s supermarket in the countryside. The supermarket had credit accounts with three network providers in the country and Samson was responsible for managing them. Thus he automatically got involved in the new street phenomenon called BACOSSI.

BACOSSI (Basic Commodities Supply Side Intervention) had been introduced by the illegitimate and beleaguered government of Zimbabwe as practical propaganda to safeguard its rural support base.

In fact it was reported in one weekly paper that, “Rampant inflation which the Reserve Bank this week said clocked 2,2 million% is set to hasten towards the 100 million% mark by year-end following government's launch of the "BACOSSI to the People" Project. The Reserve Bank has splashed millions of United States dollars in its latest quasi-fiscal undertaking, the National Basic Commodities Supply Enhancement Programme in which rural and urban dwellers will receive groceries at heavily subsidized prices.”

So the story read but no urban dweller received BACOSSI. They were called traitors and deserved to die of hunger. Everything went scarce and supermarkets had nothing to show but empty shelves. One business was thriving and it was selling money. Banks turned into halls of informal deals. People like Sam would receive a bank cheque of say 10 trillion Zimbabwean dollars and use it to purchase cell phone recharge cards that they would sell for a total of say 5 billion cash money. The cash money could buy them a hundred United States dollars, which was an amount worth 40 trillion or 50 trillion the following day on the street market. When selling the United States dollars they needed electronic money transfers and it was usually done by big companies who were in desperate need of the foreign currency. The circle would go on and on until such an individual would have a substantive amount to buy a car, and some other basic commodities. Formal employees were getting it hard, they would receive their salaries through the bank and in most cases it was less than a billion Zimbabwe dollars. This means they had less than 10 American dollars for salary the whole month. This forced members of the police force to defect to street deals and there was confusion. The value for money was lost. The idea of selling goods at a ridiculously low price in order to get cash to exchange for hard currency was called BACOSSI by the streets. The term also meant getting whatever you need for free. It became synonymous to confusion.

Diana had learnt of all this, and she knew Samson was one of the key-holders of BACOSSI. She wanted him to go further. She wanted them to explore each other. She pulled up her skirts but Samson pretended not to have seen, he continued packing trillions of Zimbabwean dollars that he wanted to use to buy hard currency.

“So, how long are we going to continue like this?” Diana asked with anger written all over her face.

“Like what Baby?” Samson responded, and when he did not get an answer within the time he expected he turned his head to look straight into Diana’s eyes. They were shining with tears. His heart melted. He rose from the chair and held her tight in his arms.

“What is it?” he muttered into her ears.

“You told me that you love me,” she said and started sobbing.

“Yea, yea I did, is anything wrong with that?” he quickly let off the tight hug and held her on the shoulders looking her in the face, “Is there anything wrong with that baby?”

“No.”

“So?”

“Then why are you avoiding me?” she asked with her eyes fixed on his chest rather than his eyes or at least his face.

“Avoiding you, what do you mean?”

“I mean exactly that,” she raised her voice a bit.

“Okay, okay calm down. I am not avoiding you, I’m just doing my job. You know this is not a bed-room, besides I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t? Are you not my boy-friend?”

“Yes I am, but I’m not your husband.”

Her phone started ringing. She took it out and answered. The conversation was precise and it was mainly about time.

“Who was that?” Samson asked nonchalantly.

“It’s one of my clients.”

“You told her five o’clock, will you still be in the salon by that time?”

“Sometimes we stay up to seven or eight depending on the hairstyle. Most of our clients go to work so we don’t have an option?”

“How do you go home around that time, I understand in most places the mini-bus operators would have knocked off.”

“My brother picks me up, most of the times”

“And when he doesn’t?”

“I look for my own means.”

“Okay, you said you stay in Borrowdale- I forgot to ask which part of Borrowdale?”

“The Brooke.”

“Wow in those hills, your brother must be filthy rich.”

As usual Samson called her girlfriend soon after supper. This call would last more than two hours. BACOSSI airtime was as affordable as free. What was difficult was to get connected and once connected the conversation about nothing in particular would last.

In the middle of the conversation Samson remembered he had just bought a new line for his other handset. A cell phone line was very expensive and hard to find, so Samson was very excited about it. He wanted to tell his tell his girlfriend then he decided to send her a text message on her other cell phone using the new line.

“Hi,” was the message.

“Hi, who is this,” she responded.

Samson found the response very funny so he thought of delaying to tell her who he was and decided to page a compliment, “I saw you in your salon today and I liked what I saw on you.”

“So what are you doing right now,” Samson asked on the voice conversation.

“I’m preparing my supper,” she responded.

Samson’s phone indicated a received text message and it was from Diana. It read,
“Ah, who is this, who gave you my number?”

Samson smiled and asked on the voice conversation, “Are you watching Television right now.”

“It was written on your mirror,” he responded on the text conversation.

“Hey, please hold on, I need to check my pot,” she said

“Okay, what is it that you saw on me and liked,” read her text on the other phone.

“Your king size hips, your full boobs, brown thighs, healthy hair and your soft hands,” the reply was inviting, just what a girl needed to hear in order to loosen up.

“My soft hands, who told you they are soft?” the response came shortly.

Samson was starting to get a mixed feeling of anger and excitement. He was angry to discover her girlfriend could still entertain separate and intimate conversations with some other males out there. He was excited to accidentally find himself in a position where he could learn more about her girlfriend without her getting to realize she was being spied on. He had never been in such a position before and he was learning to contain the mood. The opportunity had an effect too subtle to be defined or described by words. It was like ale - when you start drinking it, sweetness is distant but one sip leads you to another until the mind gives up the guard of reasoning.

“I saw them.”

“What is it that you saw that told you they are soft?” she was now hooked.

“Hello, hello,” she was back on the voice conversation.

“Yea, I can hear you,” he answered while busy typing something on the other phone.

“I saw them applying a chemical to a client’s hair, it was painful to watch,” is what he wrote and send.

“What was painful about that?”

“I wished that was me, being given those strokes on my back while leaning back on the hot boobs,” he explained without any misgivings, the platform called for that, besides his heart was starting to run out of moral reservations.

“Hey baby, how much I wish you were here with me,” he said on the voice conversation while waiting for a text message from her other phone, “I miss you so much during the nights that at times I feel like coming over there, just to hold you and hear you breathe. Do you feel the same way?”

“You’re so funny, do you have a girlfriend?” is what he read from the other phone.

“Of-course I do, you know I love you so much,” her voice was shaking so she didn’t have to say much.

“Not a serious one,” Samson responded to the hot question on the text conversation.

“I’m not surprised, so what do you want from me,” was the response.

“What about you. Do you have a boyfriend?” it was time to fire back.

“Not a serious one,” what goes around comes around was the inspiration behind the response.

A lot of sweet nothings were being muttered as the couple kept their fingers busy with typing secret questions and answers. Both their voices had lost natural flairs. But that wasn’t that important to them, the other conversation was.

“Perfect, do you go clubbing?”

“Not that much, my boyfriend doesn’t like it. I only go when he is out of town.”

“Who do you go with?”

“Friends.”

“Can I come pick you up today?”

“Not that fast brother”

“Why not, after-all it’s just clubbing, nothing else. Can I come?”

“Hey Sam,” Diana said on the voice conversation, “I can’t continue talking to you right now. I need to sleep, last night I slept late doing my sister’s hair. I’m sorry darling, I’ll call you tomorrow morning or I’ll come to your office. Goodnight.”

“Its okay baby, dream about me. Goodnight.”

On the other phone the conversation was still on.

“That is if it’s okay for you.”

“What’s your address then?”

“Come to Warren Park One shops and call me when you get there. Our house is adjacent to the shops. What time do you think you can be there?”

“In 30 minutes, I’ll be there.”

“Okay.”

Samson switched off his new phone and slept.

The Cell Phone was written by Nigel Jack.

Copyright © Nigel Jack 2010.

I’m -a budding yet prolific poet among my peers- a novelist and journalist who is now best known for my vivid portrayal of the contemporary ‘third world’ Zimbabwe in my debut novel, Naked.



My passionate, imaginative, seemingly simple yet intellectually complex art is reminiscent of the unadulterated African lifestyle of the Shona people in Zimbabwe. I use coyness and mock modesty to address anomalies within the complexity of the race –my race– of which I’m so proud ‘and that which I love I chastise.’



Born in Mt Darwin on 16 November 1979, I began my primary education in 1986 at Dandamera Primary School in Concession. I attended four more primary schools, before reaching high school, during which time I experienced more than I comprehended.



I attended forms 1 to 6 at Oriel Boys’ High School where my mind and experiences fell prey to an indisputably well read English Literature teacher who had an unquenchable desire for intellectual supremacy. I Nigel, his ‘guinea pig’, innocently went through the process of intellectual revolution without conceiving any suspicion of its irreversibility.



My parents held my penmanship in sufficiently high esteem to send me to the Christian College of Southern Africa (CCOSA) from which I emerged, in 2001, with a diploma in communication and journalism. During the two years I spent in college I developed the hobby of writing and reading poems to my classmates.



I later decided to gather all the poems together - and came up with a manuscript that I entitled; ‘Yet you love them and other poems.’ I lost this, my one and only manuscript, to a prominent writer whom I had asked to peruse the document pending its despatch to a publishing house.



In frustration I gave up poetry and seasoned my mind to concentrating on my journalism profession and, in January 2002, joined a Bulawayo based newspaper, The Chronicle, where I worked as a junior court reporter. In 2003 I joined the Zimbabwe Broadcasting Corporation, where I was employed as a scriptwriter and researcher.



While I was at ZBC I experienced deep pangs of poetic nostalgia but frustration would supersede the intransigent passion that had, some time ago, earned me nothing but repentance. However, art is not a job it is a calling - I eventually gave in to the passion but this time I would try prose.



Within a fortnight I completed a novel that I entitled ‘An apology for the life of Sean Quincy.’ I thought about my work and found it an incomplete history so I started writing another novel that I entitled ‘Trapped.’ Later I joined the two books and the work became ‘Naked’.




My first book, Naked, was tailored for the reader to discover the common intent of meaning. This I deliberately fashioned without expressions of personal purpose and I’m at liberty with my conscience to dearly pardon oneself and apologize to others if such is therein occasioned. However a common secret I wish to divulge that one's life is bedrock upon which all expressions and impressions are derived. Single or several of them may be disapproved, disaccorded or even discarded by the reader but the fact remains that art is a journey in self discovery and discovery of the world.



Today, the stories that I write are pieces of historical fiction that people will read rather for assortment of matter and for profit of profile, than precision of figures and meticulousness of dates and numbers. They are sincere compositions and substances of my responsibility to myself, and the reading society, above all they are mirror images of my unalloyed commitment to art.

Main by NoViolet Mkha Bulawayo

Main. Main Street standing up straight and adjusting the rainbow-coloured wrap skirt that threatens to slide down her wide waist, black blood boiling in her veins. Bustling throbbing writhing street. Everything moving: cars, voices, ambitions, money, dreams, feet, smoke. Just moving moving moving — like a wind.

This story has been selected for the StoryTime anthology African Roar 2011, please go to the African Roar site for more info.

Main was written by NoViolet Mkha Bulawayo.

Copyright © NoViolet Mkha Bulawayo 2010.

NoViolet Mhka Bulawayo considers herself a storyteller first, and a writer second. She loves both so much that she is pursuing an MFA in fiction at Cornell University. Her short story, Snapshots, was a finalist for the 2009 SA PEN/Studzinski Literary Award, and she won the Caine Prize 2011 for a short story Hitting Budapest

Waiting for April by Damilola Ajayi

On a cool evening in April, behind the fancy glass frames of a reputable eatery, a young lady waited. It was obvious from the way she shuffled her legs and shook her hands that she hated waiting. Waiting, to her, seemed more like a passive hide and seek. Rummaging through charted memories in search of an expectation, with all the emotional rigours of unveiling unsightly experiences, was not exactly her idea of pastime, so waiting was not a joy, but it was something she had to do.

This story has been selected for the StoryTime anthology African Roar 2011, please go to the African Roar site for more info.

Waiting for April was written by Damilola Ajayi.

Copyright Damilola Ajayi 2010.

Damilola Ajayi is a penultimate medical student who co-publishes the online quarterly literary magazine, Saraba. His works have featured both in notable print magazines and literary websites. He lives in Ibafo, Nigeria, where he manages his father's fish farm.