Roses and Bullets by Akachi Adimora-Ezeigbo (Book Excerpt)

Ginika watched the man drive off in the pickup truck and disappear round the corner of the dirt road. She surveyed the brown envelope he had just delivered to her and felt a slight tremor in her heart. A folded scrap of brown paper, no doubt, but intuitively she felt it possessed the power to pulverize her peace. The threat was not the letter but the one who produced it, she thought. In the distance, some children played in the grass. They looked so charmingly happy; free as birds released from a cage and allowed to take wing.

Children would be happy anywhere, she thought, as long as their parents were around, as long as they had other children romping around them. Ginika lifted her eyes as if she was searching the sky. The sun was shining; the weather was fine. The July sun, she mused, was always sweet to the skin, its heat moderated by the ever-present rain clouds. Certainly, a time to be happy, but many things had gone far wrong in the land and war had just broken out...

Ginika turned and entered the house. It was the biggest of the many bungalows tucked away down a street of mango and cashew trees on the outskirts of town. These were the staff quarters of St Augustine’s College. She was the sole occupant of one of the five rooms in the house. She slipped unobtrusively into it to read her letter. Gingerly, she opened the envelope as if it was a letter bomb waiting to go off.

“Ginikanwa, I want you to come home immediately. I want my family to stay close together. Your brother has returned from university. I wonder what you are doing in Enugu and why you did not come straight to Mbano when schools closed. I wish you were here without waiting for my letter. Sometimes I think you act wilfully just to annoy me or get me in a temper. Don’t I deserve to be treated with filial affection and respect? You are my only daughter and I care for you more than you realize. I doubt if what I say sits comfortably with you. Anyway, get your things ready; I will come over to pick you up as soon as I can get away for a few days. Kindly show this letter to your aunt and her husband. I am sending it through Doctor Ufo Ndefo, a friend who is returning to Enugu...”

Ginika stopped short; there was little else to read, anyway. Just his name written in full, rather than signing himself ‘Papa’ or ‘Dad’ as she thought other fathers would probably have done.


Ginika was about to change into her nightdress when her mother-in-law called her to her room. A few minutes earlier, she had tidied the table where they had dinner, which was served later than usual because her father-in-law had returned late from where he had gone. She had wondered if he still saw Nwoyibo, for he often came home late since the refugee woman had moved away from Ama-Oyi with her children. If she was indeed in Ogboji – as people said in the camp – then she was not far away, as Ogboji was close to Ama-Oyi. Her father-in-law could go there to see her if he wished.

“Sit down,” her mother-in-law said. She was sitting on the armchair in front of her dressing table and chewing a stick.

Ginika sat on a sofa which was pushed against the wall opposite the door and waited. Her mother-in-law scrubbed her teeth with the long chewing-stick and intermittently opened her mouth wide to gaze at her teeth in the mirror. She grimaced. “This war is terrible; one can’t find a tube of toothpaste anywhere to buy. I’m tired of it all.”
Ginika shook her head to show her empathy, but did not speak.

“Did you and Ozioma tidy the kitchen?” her mother-in-law asked, looking at her for the first time since she came in.

“We did, though Michael is still there doing the dishes.”

“It is now three months since Eloka returned to his battalion, is it not?”

“Yes, it is.” Ginika wondered what she was getting at.

“I’m sure you know why I called you?” Her mother-in-law glanced at her before putting her chewing-stick on a saucer placed on the dressing table.

“No. I have no idea why you sent for me.”

Her mother-in-law gave a mirthless laugh. “I asked you this question before and I want to ask you again because of Eloka’s visit home. Are you pregnant? Did you do what I advised you to do when I talked to you on this matter?”

“I’m not pregnant.” Ginika felt anger rising inside her but she didn’t want to give it room to grow. “Mama, I thought you and Eloka discussed this matter when he was here? Why do you bring it up again?”

“You are asking me why I bring it up, eh? My daughter-in-law asks me why I want to know if she is pregnant. Aru, abomination! Why do you think we married you – to come here and stare at us in the face?”

“Mama, I’m going to bed. Good night.” She got up to leave.

“Sit down. I have not finished with you. You have not tried to see things from my point of view, have you? You listen to Eloka and allow him to have his way in this matter. He is a man: what does a man know in a matter like this? I’m amazed at your lack of common sense – a woman who is not anxious to have a child for a husband who is a soldier! Do you know tomorrow? Do you know what can happen even in the next minute? And you allow Eloka to go away again without at least attempting to get you pregnant.”

Ginika was very angry and knew she would lose her temper if she did not leave the room immediately. Without another word, she walked out.

“You have no sense,” her mother-in-law’s angry voice pursued her. “You want to make me childless. I will show you, anu ohia, bush animal. You will see something in this house.”

Ginika paused long enough at the door to hear her shout, “I said it when I first saw you that your beauty is skin-deep, ocha ka omaka. If only Eloka had agreed to marry the girl Adaeze found for him, I would not have been put in this condition.” Her mother-in-law began to sob.

Ginika ran to her room, sat on the bed, thinking. What was she going to do? She felt like running away from the house, but where would she run to? Her father and stepmother would not receive her. He would blame her for disregarding his advice against getting married. Going to Eloka was not an option, as he had expressly said she should stay with his parents. She couldn’t go to her aunt who was weighed down by her own worries and found it difficult to feed her family. Ginika would be another mouth to feed. How would she be able to continue to live with her mother-in-law who now regarded her as an enemy?


No one told Udo that they were close to the war front. They had been driving for about an hour, it could be longer – he did not have a watch to check time. But he noticed the lorry was moving slowly and without light. There was darkness everywhere. Udo felt something like smouldering fire ravish his stomach and he pressed his belly with both hands. Then involuntarily, he stretched one hand and felt about until he found Ubochi’s hand and held it. Ubochi also responded by pressing Udo’s hand. They sat motionless until they were asked to get off. Communication was now in whispers. The corporal’s garrulous voice had turned into a whisper.

When eventually they had been deployed to their positions and told what to do, Udo clutched the gun he was given and lay on the clammy soil of a shallow trench, alongside three other soldiers. Was it a Mark IV or a Madison they gave him? He was not sure. He did not know how long he lay there – whether a day or two days. The sound of small arms and shells which had been muffled before now became more distinct, louder. As each shell landed and exploded, Udo shut his eyes and prayed, remembering he had not prayed regularly since the war started. “God, I didn’t forget you, please don’t forget me,” he prayed. “Save me.” He tried to prevent his mind from focusing on the present terror by thinking of his mother, his sisters and Sister Ginika. Would he see them again?

Then bedlam erupted, as shells began to rain down into the trenches, as if the machines and guns were guided by an unseen power. Each shell that exploded took lives with it. Cries of men rose and commingled with the sound of explosion. As Udo lay trembling and calling on his mother, a solid but wet object fell on his back and rolled down beside him. With the gentlest of movements, he stretched his hand and touched it. He gave a stifled cry – it was a human head severed at the neck which still nestled in the steel helmet that it had worn when it belonged to a body that was intact. His hand and body were covered with blood. Udo discovered himself shivering and no matter how he tried, he could not stop his body from shivering. Then he lost consciousness.

He came round at dawn, opened his eyes and heard nothing. Everywhere was quiet. Where were the men in the trench with him? They had abandoned him when they retreated, thinking he was dead. He lay still for a while, afraid to get up in case there were vandals lurking in the surrounding bushes. Cautiously, he raised his head and saw the mess around him – the head in the steel helmet, pieces of human flesh and shrapnel littering the trench and the surrounding. He felt his body and saw that though he was covered in blood, he was not hurt. He picked up his gun and was sure it was a Madison. Gradually, he sat up, came out of the trench and looked around. It was a terrible sight to see dead bodies lying about and holes dug by exploding shells, but there was no movement anywhere. Gingerly he stepped forward and began to walk away, cautiously, at first and then swiftly. He didn’t know where he was going, but he kept moving in the forest, keeping away from roads and hugging the anonymity and the eternal silence of the jungle. Even animals seemed to have fled, for he saw none in his way, except a few bush rats and squirrels.


They assembled at an agreed location in the market. Ginika placed her bag on the ground in front of her and stood close to Eunice and Nkeonyelu. She was pleased with all she had bought – salt, rice, beans and tinned fish. She had even bought a packet of sugar and tea which she was sure her aunt’s children would love. They would drink tea with the dry milk Janet had given her the previous week. It was the evening of the second day and they were ready to set out for the return journey.

“Carry your loads,” Achara instructed.

Ginika tried to lift her bag but it was so heavy she needed help. One of the guides came to her rescue. Soon everyone carried his or her load. By the time they entered the forest, darkness had descended. They walked in a single file in total silence. Ginika felt the weight of her bag, as it pressed down on her, but she didn’t mind. She trotted behind the person in front of her in absolute concentration, as she didn’t want to stumble and fall.

They had walked for about an hour when shooting erupted from the right. Kakakakaka! Kakakakaka! Ginika was too shocked to think and stood trembling, not sure of what to do.

“It is an ambush,” she heard someone cry, but was not sure whether it was Achara or one of the two guides. “Run for your life.”

“Let us meet where the fallen tree is.” She recognised Achara’s voice and it seemed to yank her out of her confusion and inertia.

There was a stampede followed by cries of pain. Ginika knew some of the traders had been hit by bullets. She started running to the left, following the sound of feet making rustling noises as they crushed the dry leaves littering the forest. The bag was impeding her movement and she threw it down and belted away like a comet. She stretched her hands in front of her, so that she would touch any obstacle in her way before she crashed into it. Steadily she followed the sound of pounding feet. She fell when her feet touched very soft ground and suspected she was in a marshy area. She got up immediately and pursued the fleeing feet. She heard the sound turning right and swerved to the right. After an hour or more – she was not sure – the feet stopped abruptly. Ginika stopped, trembling.

“Who is following me?” she heard a strange voice ask.

With her body shaking like a leaf, she whimpered, “It’s me, one of the attack traders.”


Her terror increased when they entered the army camp. They took her past the hall where she had rehearsed Mammy Wota with Eloka and the other actors. The sergeant opened a door with a key and they pushed her in. She found herself in a room with a dusty floor and a window which was permanently shut because a block of wood had been nailed across it. There was no furniture in the room. She shook from fright, wondering why they had brought her there.

“You go dey for guard room till you tire for here or you can die if you like,” he spat. “If you make noise, I shoot.”

“Sergeant, sir, I beg you, release me,” she pleaded, her face flooded with tears.

“Believe me, I never asked Sergeant Sule to get himself circumcised. Why should I do that? I have my own husband.” Her voice tripped over the word ‘husband’. Could she really say she had a husband now?

“You be bloody liar, rebel woman,” he snarled.

“I’m not lying,” she protested, one of her hands pressing the floor on which she sat. “Sergeant Sule and I were not even friends...”

“Shut your dirty mouth,” he bellowed. Turning to the two soldiers, he said, “Wait outside.”

She saw his face break into an unpleasant smile, as he approached her. His eyes were cloudy with lust. Her eyes widened with horror and she was about to scream when he said, “If you cry out, I go kick you to death.”

“Don’t touch me,” she said, “or I will report you to the commander of this camp.”

He laughed derisively. He lunged forward to grab her but she shrank away towards the wall. The room was not bright but there was enough light for her to see every move he made. He began to unbutton his trousers as he inched forward steadily. Horrified, she shrank away further to another part of the room. He followed her like an animal preparing to pounce on its prey. What would she do? No one would help her. No one knew where she was. The sergeant could easily overpower her and have his way, but she intended to put up a fight this time.

When he was ready, he leaped forward, grabbed her around the waist and pressed her body hard against his. She was repelled by his dark ashen skin and his thick wet lips. Remembering the self-defence tactics Captain Ofodile had taught her and other special constables, she kicked the sergeant’s groin and heard him cry out. He abandoned her and staggered backwards. His eyes were full of hate. He turned to the door but it opened before he reached it and the two soldiers came in, their eyes questioning.

“Hold the witch,” he barked. And as they pounced on her, and held her hands, he picked up his gun, which rested against a wall, and aimed it at her head. “I go kill you now,” he roared. She cried out in terror. He changed his mind, swung it before her and then hit her ankle with the butt. The pain caused her to cry out again. After he had returned the gun to its former position, he reached for her body and tore off her blouse, exposing her breasts. Her skirt suffered a similar fate and soon lay at her feet.

She struggled to free herself but they held her and pushed her to the ground. She screamed and one of them clamped a rough hand on her mouth. Divesting himself of his clothes, the sergeant grabbed her legs and prised them open. He entered her with force and as her naked body heaved under his, he stretched his hands and squeezed her breasts until they were sore. As he strove to reach his climax, his thrusts became frenzied and he taunted her. “I go fuck you, ashawo. You kill Sule. He be better man pass all your rebel brothers. Dat thing you no give Sule, I go take am today. Ashawo!”

She whimpered and groaned, unable to cry out because of the strong hand covering her mouth. Her eyes popped out like those of a rat gripped by a cat. At last, she felt his body shudder and then he rolled off her. She felt bruised all over from the pressure of his lean hardy body. Her body sweated profusely.

He glared at her and grinned cruelly. “Make you do your own,” he said, pointing to one of the soldiers. Ginika sobbed, as she watched helplessly. It was the soldier who had not said a word since the cruel drama began.

The man shook his head and said, “No, sir.” He turned his face away.

“If you no do, I go deal with you.” The sergeant’s nostrils flared in anger. “I go come back to you.” He turned to the other soldier – the one that had identified her in her aunt’s house. “Make you do your own.”

The soldier leered at her and, as he pulled at the button on his trousers, Ginika gave a throaty cry and lost consciousness.

Roses and Bullets was written by Akachi Adimora-Ezeigbo and is an excerpt from her book of the same name.
(Jalaa Writers' Collective, April 2011)

Copyright Akachi Adimora-Ezeigbo 2011.

Akachi Adimora-Ezeigbo is a professor and former head of the English Department at the University of Lagos, in Nigeria. She has published several books including five novels, four collections of short stories, three collections of poetry, two plays and twenty children’s books. She has won several literary and academic awards inside and outside Nigeria. She was a Commonwealth Fellow at the Scholl of Oriental and African Studies at the University of London, a Research Fellow at the University of Natal, Pietermaritzburg, in South Africa, a Visiting Scholar at the Centre for African Studies at the University of Bayreuth in Germany and recently a Research Fellow at Royal Holloway, University of London. She was named Best Researcher in the Arts and Humanities at the University of Lagos in 2005. Adimora-Ezeigbo has won at least six major prizes in Nigeria including the Nigeria Prize for Literature which she jointly won in 2007 with Mabel Segun, for her children’s novel, My Cousin Sammy, and Heart Songs, her first collection of poems, which won the 2009 Cadbury poetry prize. Seventeen of her short stories have been published in journals, magazines and anthologies and four of them won prizes in short story competitions. She has also published fifty academic books and scholarly papers in local and international journals. In addition to her literary and academic work, she is a committed activist for women’s rights. Akachi Adimora-Ezeigbo has travelled extensively in Africa, Europe, North America and Asia.

Mules of Fortune by Samuel Kolawole (Part Two)

SUE

Major Red Wings loved to talk whenever he slept with Sue. The more he talked, the stronger he remained. Talking to him was an aphrodisiac of some sort. This was never good for Sue but she had no control over the matter. Her role was submission. Her role was passive. Her role was pain. After Major Red Wings exhausted himself and fell into snoring sleep, Sue would clean her private part with all the mundane ritual of someone washing her hands off some plague. She would then splay her reed-thin legs apart and incline her body at an angle to drain out his semen.

Rose told her if she did it right, the seeds, no matter how stubborn, would trickle down her thigh with ease. Rose also advised her to take some carbonated drinks mixed with potash. Rose herself had been a bush wife once. When the warlord got tired of her, sent her packing and her family rejected her for consorting with rebels, she became a prostitute.

Rose became a regular visitor at the camp, giving pleasure in exchange for looted items which she sold at Lane street market; a row of makeshift structures where rebels and civilians sold plundered goods and drugs. Sue often wondered how she always had her way with the rebels who picked any girl they wanted from anywhere and did whatever they wished with them. Sue was two years older than Rose, but she was less experienced. Sue admired Rose's courage, her arrogance, her supposed knowledge of a woman's body.

Sue became pregnant despite all she did and what Rose told her to do. In no time, her legs became swollen and her stomach bulged. The rest of her body, however, shrivelled. It was as though the nourishment she received was always passed on to her unborn child, and instead of looking like an expectant mother, she resembled a kid with kwashiorkor.

Her distended belly was at odds with the rest of her painfully thin body. Sue chose to make lemonade out of lemon. She fed herself with cassava and boiled edible leaves. She scooped dirt off the surface of her drinking water before drinking it. She pricked herself with thorns in search of wild fruits to consume. She scavenged for what little nutrients she could find for the life in her womb. She protected her baby the best way she knew. When she was alone and captain Red Wings was not ordering her about or gasping on top of her, she spoke to her child in soft tones. She sometimes sang to keep the baby quiet and still. The baby kicked a lot, so she concluded the baby must be male. She had heard Rose say once that males trouble their mother in the womb more than females.

Her pregnancy did not stop her from cooking and cleaning for the rebels, nor did it curb Major Red Wing's appetite for intercourse. One hot afternoon, the rebels returned from their regular patrol, two members of the group were dragging a decaying cow with them. Scrawny and belly bloated, the creature could have easily been mistaken for one of the cows in the biblical Pharaoh's dream. Its pale tongue lolled out of its twisted face as the two boys dragged it by its legs, flies swarming all over the place. Major Red Wings led the procession, cradling his Kalashnikov, his naked torso glistening with sweat. His stride seemed pompous with his head tilted upward and his chest pushed out so that the curve of his back resembled a hunter's bow, his filthy Detroit Red Wings shirt hanging carelessly over his left shoulder. But then that was his posture.

The team walked briskly to base, their faces though clammy and exhausted, bright at the prospect of a good meal. The dead ruminant was dumped in the middle of the wattle and tin structures that made up the rebel base and with repeated blows of the machete, a boy hacked off one of its hind legs from the thigh. Sue was summoned at once to cook while the rebels lit their marijuana and promenaded.

Sue plunged into action, even though she did not have the strength to cook that day. She feared that she might get a taste of the Major's horsewhip if she wasn't up and doing. So her culinary activities were carried out under immense strain. She sliced and scrubbed, then sliced some more. She fanned the embers of her smouldering firewood till her eyes became red and mucus oozed out of her nose. Her legs trembled from fatigue, threatening to give way beneath her. Her bloated womb seemed to carry more weight than her body could bear. Her head ached. She felt nauseated.

Eventually she finished, plodded into the room, slumped on her wafer-thin bed and drifted off to sleep. When she stirred from her sleep a little later, Major Red Wings was lying on top of her. He grunted like a pig and belched as he fumbled at Sue's skirt. He reeked of marijuana and filth and was naked except for an amulet made of bullets and a string tied around his neck. He lifted her skirt, parted her thighs and forced his way into her, running his foul mouth all over her face, panting and slobbering. This time he was too drugged to talk. Sue shut her eyes as always. She waited. She took her lower lip between her teeth. A few moments and it would be over. She willed her mind away from the pain, clutched to pleasant memories of the past, memories that were fast becoming bleak, and soon enough it was over. The Major shuddered, stiffened and was spent. Red Wings unrooted himself, rolled off, hitched up his trousers and stumbled out of the room. A few seconds passed and another figure lurched in. It was one of the boys, picking his teeth with a little piece of twig. The boy couldn't have been older than Sue. It was bad enough that Sue was Major Red Wings' sex slave, but opening her legs for his boys to her was unimaginable. This was the first time it was happening. It was the first time the commander was rewarding his boys that way for a good day's job.

Sue jerked into full consciousness, her black startled eyes defensive and fearful. The boy tossed the twig away, removed his camouflage shorts and rolled up his filthy vest before approaching her. Sue kicked and scratched like a wounded tigress but the boy held her down. Her mewling seemed to inflame the boy more and make him want to get on with the task. He was inexperienced. He was awkward and really hurt Sue.

Hardly had the boy finished when another came in. This time Sue moved from where she was lying. She crawled to the corner of the room as though to a refuge. She could feel strength draining from her body. Her heart sledging hard, she fought desperately for breath. The other boy, whose phallus now protruded through his trousers, dragged Sue by both legs and began to rip her skirt off.

She offered no resistance to the fourth male. She couldn't even make out his face although she was staring at him.


Sue lost her baby. She became ill afterwards and would have died had Miss Milton, a white humanitarian worker whom the rebels captured on the rice fields and brought to the base not intervened.

Miss Milton told Major Red Wing's of impending death if Sue did not receive medical care and the rebel leader reluctantly agreed.

While Miss Milton treated Sue, they devised a means of escaping from the camp. Several months later, their plans having crystallized, they escaped one night. The rebels were drugged that night and wanted sex but the women were gone before they reached them. Miss Milton left her under a tree and said she would go get help. She didn't come back. The G-string battalion found Sue. That was before she discovered she again was with a child. Major Red Wings' child.


ETTY

Etty and her mother Sarah worked in a red light district. It was so called not because of the sex trade, but because it once had traffic lights and the wardens were not working because they were not paid by the government. So it was not uncommon to find those areas jammed with trucks, cars, old battered buses and hawkers and beggars and pickpockets.

Hawkers sold firewood, charcoal, boxes full of small batteries, trays laid out with candy and chewing gums, rat exterminating drugs, love potions, drugs to improve erection and wipe out every disease both documented and yet to be discovered. Some, like Sarah and Etty, were general merchants, selling anything that could be exchanged for money. They dug into people's refuse, recycled their waste in the best manner they could and tried to convince potential buyers their goods were valuable. They scavenged bushes for edible leaves and fruit to trade for meagrerations of raw rice and cooking oil. They picked up liquor bottles from the rubbish heaps and turned them into palm oil containers.

Being general merchants also meant having to impersonate sometimes. Sarah was the blind mother in need of crucial medication, which if not received in three days would result in inevitable death, and Etty was the tear spilling, nine year old daughter who loved her mother too much to let her die. You needed to provide something compelling if anyone was going to part with anything at a time when bordering towns were under rebel attack and the economy was sagging.

The duo occasionally succeeded in wringing out money from pedestrians, but it was never enough to meet their basic needs so they had to also rely on the meagre wages from the rubber plantation where her husband Matao worked.

Sarah was leaning over the cement tables built in the fish market, haggling with a bulky fishmonger over a bowl of fish with Etty beside her, when the news came. The transaction ended and Sarah and the trader chatted for a few moments. The fishmonger first said something about bailing out, processing her papers to relocate to America. She claimed a catholic organization recommended by her parish would sponsor her. After that she said “Did yor hear that the rubber plantation catch fire, the rebels attacked it?”

Sarah gathered her belongings, grabbed her daughter's arm and headed home without saying goodbye. They found her husband sitting on his big brown sofa, tears tumbling down his face. He refused to eat and kept to himself for the rest of the day. In the evening, Matao went out to drink away his misery. He came back late in the night, stumbling over things and shouting “where there is life there is hope!” Trying to make a rhythm out of the statement as though humming a tune he had composed. He knew it was coming but ignored it to protect himself from thinking about its inevitability. Now he had to find a way to sustain his family in the midst of the crisis. After a few days of quietly pacing outside his wood and aluminium structure, Matao announced to his wife “I will join the government troops.”

That was when things began to fall apart. Sarah knew that it was just a matter of time before the government forces came for him even if he didn't want to go. She wasn't sure if Matao's decision came out of cowardice or self-sacrifice for his family. Matao told Etty he would be back but Sarah knew Etty would not see him again. The troops came to pick up Matao in a Toyota Land Cruiser pick-up in a camouflage colour. Etty wept and clutched her mother for comfort but Sarah did not shed a tear, at least not that day. She just waved goodbye. The days following the event saw Sarah swinging between two emotional extremes. Sometimes she would be as calm as a graveyard, at other times she would be loud and violent like raging fire, snapping at everything. Sometimes she would talk to herself quietly, saying something about what could have been or couldn't have. If Matao had been around, other times she would curse Matao aloud for leaving them alone to suffer, for embracing death. Sometimes she would nurture the feeling that her husband had gone to work and nightfall would bring him back home, other times she felt like a widow.

Soon, Sarah began to meet scoundrels at back alleys and sniff cocaine in the room corner. She would scoop the fine particles into her nose with the surface of a broken piece of mirror. She would sniff a bit and cry like crazy before sniffing again, as though the drug was causing her pain. Her tears would drip on the mirror surface till the white substance turned into paste. She would take it all in, tears and all. Before long she began to invite the scoundrels to her house to spend the night when she couldn't afford to buy more drugs to keep up with her new lifestyle. She stopped cleaning up. She stopped using sanitary towels, which turned her customers off. But then she went after them like flies after shit. She reduced her charges. She even gave it for free to those who could offer some cocaine. Sarah shrivelled before Etty's very eyes. She cursed Etty whenever she was around her.

“Go! Carry big big guns like papa, you are of no use here, get out, out.” Sarah told Etty one day. She was sitting on the edge of her spring bed, naked, smoking marijuana and drinking palm wine, her body glistening with coital perspiration. Her client stretched nude on the other side of the bed, face down, snoring and farting. The room stank like many dead rodents. Etty detested her mother for what she had turned into. She longed more and more for her father's love and company as her mother grew worse. Her longing stayed unsatisfied like a wound refusing to heal.

The incursions intensified as explosions became more frequent and the air carried sounds of guns from afar at night. Soon the gunshots came very close. People huddled in their shelters like snails, fearing stray bullets from rebel gunfire. Some gathered their personal effects and fled the County, unsure of their destination or where the enemy was lurking. Little children walked about, seeking their lost parents. Hungry babies wailed for want of their mother's breasts. Old people stood on their veranda s, waiting and listening to the radio as the president ranted about how everything was going on according to plan. Fathers came running from their workplaces to fetch their families. Mothers panicked as they ran toward schools, rivers, football pitches and water taps to look for their kids. Transportation halted and food became a scarce commodity.

The ECOMOG forces and two UNICEF trucks arrived a week later. It was first the sight of red dust rising in the horizon, then the sound of heavy vehicles. Green Military vehicles with ECOMOG flags fluttering from their fender ground to a halt and men in khaki uniforms and rough-surfaced helmets with chin straps, spilled out like disturbed ants, cocking their guns. A man, the leader of the platoon, emerged from a dusty Range Rover. He scanned his surroundings and produced phlegm from his throat, spat it out and crushed the glob under his boots. He was a tall man with a thick moustache extending down to his jaws on both sides and a large nose. His face was rough. It was as though tiny holes had been punctured into it. His camouflage jacket and trousers bulging with grenades were dirty and frayed.

The soldiers brought out their stuff from their trucks. They drove big nails into the ground and tied fat ropes around them. In no time, they finished erecting a large tent made of green tarpaulin. After that they filled their sandbags with earth. They dug out soil and created a very tall heap before filling them in the bags. The soldiers used the sacks to make low walls upon which machine guns were mounted. They unloaded brown sealed cardboard boxes: boxes of medications and toiletries, white bags labelled in blue.

They worked under a thick leafed tree that provided shelter for them to distribute the relief materials to people. They distributed nylon bags containing T-shirts, soaps, sachets of shampoo, toothbrushes, biscuits and packets of Vitamin supplements. The nylon bags smelled nice so people kept sniffing them.

Sarah's hands became unsteady as she held her bag and drifted back home. Small beads of sweat studded her skin and she shuddered at intervals as though she had fever. Those who supplied her drugs were gone, scattered like frightened birds, but the craving in her body didn't leave her. Etty tagged behind Sarah, observing her mother, tears begging to burn themselves down her face. At the back of her tear filled eyes was the pain of helplessness and loss. Since Matao left, Sarah and Etty seemed to have drifted apart. They moved about like an estranged couple. They hardly communicated and when they did, it was always about Sarah cursing her, telling her to join the government troops like her father.

“Fucking Amerikans! They tink they can bribe us, fucking Amerikans. They caused the war, they want our diamonds!” Sarah ranted when they got home, the veins of her neck sticking out. Flecks of spittle smeared her quivering lips. She shuddered more often now and sweat made her blouse cling to her wet body. The room stank of sweat, staleness, saliva and unwashed menses.

She dug into the content of the bag, spilled them on the spring bed. She opened the mouth of the nylon of her rice and stew. But then the tremor in her body became unbearable and she dropped the meal and sprang into the corner of the bed. She coiled up like a wet puppy as the spring bed rocked and squeaked.

Etty stood there, watching her mother for what seemed to be eternity. Though her eyes were wide open, they were almost motionless except for the blink that dislodged tears. Her tears now tumbled freely like her mother's perspiration. The tears blurred her vision, slipped into the crack of her mouth. She ignored its salty taste, did nothing to stop its entry.

“Whaaaa-at are ya looking at?” Sarah stuttered, “Leave, I-I don't want you h-here.' Her voice was harsh, the muscles of her face now bulging with rage. Etty was still staring, rooted to the ground. Outraged, Sarah grabbed one of the objects on the bed and hurled it at her. The object struck Etty's temple before she could twitch a muscle. Another one flew at her, but missed by inches, bouncing off the wooden wall. Sarah pelted her with what she could lay her hands on, raising her voice, cursing and crying. Pain surged through Etty's head as she stumbled out of the house, choking back fresh tears.


THE MULES

The sun heated up the earth upon which Tolbert had been walking for hours. He had to walk fast like the others but it wasn't easy for him. He could not support the load he was carrying with his hand so he balanced it on the arch of his shoulders, his head drooping. The burden being borne; a jute sack bursting with coffee seeds strained the veins of his neck until they jutted out from under the skin, long and sinewy as ropes. Because he moved with one arm, his body tilted at an awkward angle, streaks of perspiration crawled down his face and chest and disappeared into his shirt.

His brown rag of a shirt which lay open at the throat, and showed his body to be withered and worn, was soaked dark with sweat and where wetness did not conquer, red earth dominated. Sometimes, the two crossed paths and charted a soggy route through his frayed shorts and down to his pair of thin plastic flip-flops.

Had Tolbert known what was coming, he wouldn't have joined the G-string Battalion. He joined them to get even with General Bloodthirsty, who was formerly known as Captain Tennis Shoes. Though, it had been twelve months since he escaped from Thambo, the memory stayed fresh in his skull like an embalmed corpse. He relived it over and over again. He remembered how he ran through the dense forest, wadded through mire, wheezing and panting, wet blades of grass tickling the stub of his severed arm. How thorns sliced his skin and thistles clung to his clothes and the hair on his body. How he cursed and fumbled and prayed and cried. How he starved for days and chewed wild new leaves to sustain himself. How he met a dying old man in the jungle who told him about, the G-string battalion, a rebel group who were enemies of the National Patriotic Front.

Tolbert joined the G-string battalion to fight, rise through the ranks and go after General Bloodthirsty. It was as simple as that. He wanted him for all he had done to him, for his family, for Captain Goggles, for his right arm. He wanted to cut his body into pieces till there was nothing more to cut. He wanted him to plead for mercy even though he would not grant it. He wanted his pound of flesh.

The Commander of the battalion, General G-string, an individual who took pride in wearing female underwear which he claimed he seized after sleeping with a beautiful British lady and never hesitated to prove the authenticity of his claims by pulling the lingerie through his trousers to show that the label had “Made in London” on it, did not give Tolbert what he wanted. He told him there was no place for a one armed man in battle, or rather that there was a better place for him.

“Move! I say Move!” the escort said to Sue in a warning voice. The procession immediately halted as though they had been waiting for the opportunity to do so. Then they carefully got their load off. They knew it was going to take a few moments to get the girl back to her feet and they needed the time to rest their legs and aching bodies.

“She is hungry,” Sue said to the escort and without caring what the consequences would be, pulled out her breast and stuck it into the wailing baby's mouth. The infant choked, then began sucking quietly. Sue turned her face to her baby, away from the escort who now stared with large, angry eyes. The escort, tall, skinny, chiselled face, sunken eyes, crooked nose, with roughly plaited hair, held a rifle. A bandolier stuffed with bullets crossed his chest. The escort's eyes widened and with one swift movement he pulled the baby from the mother's grip, plucking her from Sue's breast. The babe screamed; Sue scrambled to have her child back. The escort stepped back. Sue dropped to her knees, lifted her chin and clasped her hand, pleading.

The others made their way quickly towards the escort, appealing to him the life of the baby. They knew what the rebel, any rebel was capable of. After a few moments of screams and pleas and cries, the escort mumbled something unintelligible and spat out phlegm.

“Everybody, move!” he growled after handing the baby over to the mother. The porters went back to their sacks of coffee, cocoa and kegs of oil and continued their tedious journey in the bush. Sue piggybacked her whimpering baby while she tried to shush her, and at the same time prevent her wrapper from coming undone. A woman came to her aid. She helped her fasten the baby firmly to her back and lift her keg of oil. Sue became calm when her baby drifted off to sleep. She supported the keg on her head with one arm and wiped her clammy face and runny nose with the edge of her wrapper, with the other.

The baby's presence was a disturbance, one that could well jeopardize the successful transfer of their goods. Her cries could attract the enemy and bring them to swift deaths. The escort was conscious of this. He would do anything to deliver his goods safely and Sue knew that. Sometimes she wished she were dead and maybe then she would have peace from her troubles.

After three hours of walking the porters made another stop. An elderly individual tossed his load on the earth and began wriggling in pain, clutching his right leg. He foamed in the mouth and before they knew what was happening he grew still. Beside him a lustrous black serpent slithered off, merging into the thick foliage. The old man's corpse was dumped into the bush but the escort, who already on edge, had to decide how the dead man's burden would be borne. The escort walked among his prisoners, his eyes roaming, fingering his rifle in apparent perplexity. Every step or two, he put his hand to his temple to rub his head, not to wipe away the dew of exertion but the moisture of jangled nerves. The look in his eyes and the manner in which he discharged his duties testified a deep seated fear.

The occurrence became an example of how fickle their life was. How one can be living one moment and dead the next.

“You! Carry! Quick!” The escort handpicked Etty who was already carrying a keg of oil. The sack was hauled on her head and her keg of oil placed atop it. The poor girl groaned, staggered, spread her legs to maintain balance then plodded along. Her head ached and her neck felt like the weight of the load was suspended on it. Sweat poured on her face freely. The load compressed her body, constricted her breath. The burden however was not to be compared with the misery that bore down on her soul; the loneliness, the uncertainty hovering around her head like a cloud of bats, the face of her parents that sat heavily on her memory. She did not know if she would ever see her father again, if her mother would ever reconcile with her, if her mother had not withered like a leaf with its roots plucked out. She did not know how long she would survive, what kind of death she would meet.

Etty ran out of the house the day of the unpleasant episode with her mother. They never saw again after that. She looked for her, though. “Have you seen my mother?” she asked a familiar street beggar. The one legged man was sitting on a concrete slab with a blank expression.

“Your mother?” He smiled wryly, “I don't know.”

“Have you seen her?”

“I wouldn't have known if I had seen her.”

The beggar was right. At ordinary times maybe someone would have been able to recognize her. But it was a time when nothing made sense. Everyone on the streets looked the same, everyone wore the same masks: fear, pain, surrender, hopelessness.

Etty roamed congested streets for days till she happened on a group of people with blaring megaphones and two rickety Lorries telling people to evacuate to a safe place.

When the lorry stopped after a few hours' drive because of a cow standing in the middle of the road, the members of the G-string battalion spilled out, killing and capturing.


The sun's heat abated and the trees from where birds chirped, danced to the quiet wind as the porters moved along the sinuous path amid trees and shrubs.

The porters arrived at a deserted border post where a rope hung across the road beside a stall with thatched roofs yawning with holes. Two men in sunshades, clad in loose shirts, reclined against a parked pickup beside the stall, smoking cigarette.

The transaction was fast. The men spoke French but the escort didn't understand a word. The escort did not say anything to them. He only nodded at their words. The waiting vehicle unloaded metal boxes of ammunition and brand new weapons and the bags of food supplies were placed into it. The two men jumped into their rickety car and the driver connected the two naked wires that served as the ignition. The engine coughed, roared into life and the vehicle zoomed off.

Darkness descended heavily as the sun sank beneath the horizon. Flocks of birds flew home and nocturnal creatures began to poke out their heads. The porters camped under the border post stall for the night. They dumped their exhausted bodies awkwardly on the concrete floor of the stall like a pack of frozen sardines and drifted off to sleep almost at once, snoring, unaware of the plague of mosquitoes droning over their heads.

For a few hours, the escort kept vigil. He paced back and forth with his gun in the dark. Now and then, he rubbed his eyes with the back of his free hand to stay awake. It was not long before he sat down, still trying to stay awake but he fell asleep and his mouth caved open in exhaustion. His finger however held the trigger of his gun which was cocked. Several moments later, the escort sprang up at the sound of a bird flapping it wings noisily overhead and his gun fired a shot, the sound of which galvanized him into a more furious action. He began spraying everywhere, firing at an imaginary enemy. It was too late before he realized what he was doing. The sound of frantic footsteps, pleas, prayers, incomprehensible words erupted amidst the rattling of the gun.

The ricochet of a stray bullet against one of the metal boxes of ammunition caught the shooter in the neck and sent him crashing down, his gun still discharging bullets. The barrage of bullets ceased as blood gushed out through his neck. He coughed and choked on his own blood before expiring.

Everything became quiet afterwards, except the sound of Sue's infant howling. Heaving chests had now become still. Mouths locked open in half snores, dangling heads with dreamy smiles still on their faces. Some lay sprawled some distance away from the heap of bodies, their hands stretched out in a futile struggle to escape the gunshots.

Tolbert laid flat on his stomach under the heaviness of a corpse. For a moment he thought he was dead but a sharp pain seared through his neck and he coughed. Then he heard the cry of the infant. That made him fight. She was just a baby and she was alive. Tolbert twisted his body and tried to wriggle out of the body lying on him. His head pounded. The pain in his neck intensified and blood spurted out of his mouth as he coughed and gasped for breath, feeling as though something had knocked air out of him. He used his only arm to flip over the body, but it was too heavy or rather strength had leaked out of him. He tried again this time using the weight of his own body, summoning what was left within him and the corpse moved. He dragged himself out of the pile of bodies, muttering and cursing. He groped around like a confused soul, gasping and coughing and muttering.

He crawled towards the direction of the noise where the baby was wedged between two corpses and plunged into a laborious attempt to pull her out. He used his legs to push one of the bodies away. He tugged and kicked. When he finally got the baby out, Tolbert hoisted the wailing infant to his chest supporting her with the stump of his severed arm and clasped her against his blood soaked shirt .

He broke down in tears, at first barely audible and broken, like the sobbing of a child, but then the weeping quickly progressed into one long, loud, and continuous scream, a wailing shriek, such as might have risen only out of hell. He was in hell.

He screamed till he thought the veins of his neck would snap. He screamed to release his agony. He screamed because he was alive. Now he wanted to die. It was better to die. Tolbert's screams subsided but the baby was still wailing.

“Blessing! My blessing!” Sue called out weakly, trying lift her body. Tolbert placed the baby gently on the floor and again crawled about to find Sue. He rummaged through the bodies, checking for any sign of movement, any sign of life. That was how he found Etty, gasping for breath, her right shoulders bleeding.


BLESSING

Etty crushed bush leaves and Tolbert held the baby still, while she squeezed the liquid into the infant's mouth. Sue watched as they fed her baby with the bitter substance, her naked breast dangling like two withered fruits on an abandoned tree, her face swollen with tears. Lack of nourishment and unavailability of water had sufficiently taken its toll on her ability to lactate. Blessing had drawn off the last of her mother's milk and suckled her breast for more. Sue continued to nurse her baby with her dry breast, hoping it was not dry till her nipples became sore and the poor infant began to take in blood. Etty tried to be a wet nurse but failed and now they fed her with herbs.

Blessing kicked and screamed as Tolbert held her mouth open and allowed the fluid to drip in through her lips. Flies swarmed all over her wet body and dry yellow mucus smeared her nose and mouth. The dark spots covering her plump face and her rheumy eyes showed signs of ill health.

The four survivors, delivered by the mysterious game of chance had journeyed in the bush for days, trying to find any form of safety. They had avoided the roads and muffled Blessing's cries. But then Blessing's well being was of utmost priority to them. Their past struggles were dissolved into one purpose. Revenge, longing, despair merged into one. It was the bond that yoked them together. The beautiful creature was a symbol of new life. It was the only good thing they knew, at least for a long while now, the only innocent thing.

“What is her name again?” Tolbert asked Sue as though just meeting the infant.

“Blessing,” Sue answered feebly.

“Blessing?” Tolbert said.

“Yes.”

“Why Blessing?”

“I don't know.”

Silence engulfed them for a long time. They seemed to be brooding on something, like some past happenings were groping in all the corners of their memory. The baby drifted to sleep. The temperature of the air plummeted, the winds gusted making trees and herbs sway from side to side.

“You hear that sound,” Sue said.

“What sound?” asked Tolbert.

“A truck?”

“What truck?”

“I dan know.”

“Hide somewhere, I go find out.”

Mules of Fortune was written by Samuel Kolawole.

Copyright © Samuel Kolawole 2011.

Samuel Kolawole’s fiction has appeared in Black Biro, Storytime, Authorme, Eastown fiction, Superstition review, Sentinel literary quarterly. His story collection The book of M will be in stores soon. A recipient of the Reading Bridges fellowship, Samuel lives in Ibadan, southwest Nigeria where he has begun work on his novel Olivia of Hustle House.

The Pride of the Spider Clan by Odili Ujubuonu (Book Excerpt)

“Welcome, Dara Isikamdi.”

Isikamdi dropped his gourd instantly, turned and faced her. “How are you?”

“I am fine.” Her lips unfolded into a smile. “Grandfather wants you.”

“Eze Kambite wants me?” He gazed at her. She was gap-toothed, and this stood out from the rest of her features.

“Yes.” She nodded. Her one hand fondled the anti-convulsion talisman around her long neck. Her other hand swung slowly beside her as though controlled by a mind detached from the one answering Isikamdi.

“Where is he?”

“In his obi.”

“Tell him I will be there soon.” He lifted the frothing gourd. Some wine spilled as he hurried away.

“O.” The girl ran out of the large compound through the adjoining small side gate.

Isikamdi had just returned from the morning rounds on his raffia palms, which he tapped for wine evenings and mornings. He hung his climbing ropes on the wall of his hut, went behind the house to wash his arms and mud-stained feet.

Why is Eze Kambite so eager to see me?

Moments earlier, on his way back, he had been informed that Kambite wanted to see him. Hardly had he entered his hut and the little girl rushed in with the same message. Isikamdi hoped that nothing bad had happened. Whatever it was, he reasoned, must be of essence.

Eze Kambite rarely engages in useless matters.

“Your meal is ready.” His wife hurried into the hut carrying his breakfast.

“Keep it for me. I will be back soon. I want to quickly meet with Nna anyi.”

“O.” She lowered the akpara, woven tray, on the bare floor, cast a sly look at the calabash containing the meal and adjusted her wrapper thoughtfully. She sensed worry in her husband’s strides and shrugged. With her index finger, she wiped the tiny beads of sweat that dotted the tip of her nose like morning dew on the skin of calabash.


Ezechukwu's compound sat on a prominent spot in Umuaro. Family lore had it that the founder was the leader of the first set of Aro who settled in Mbaozo. As the progenitor of the clan, he had ensured that everyone lived together. The largest household, Isikamdi’s home, had the family obi. This was the central meeting place for the entire Aro in Mbaozo. Other uncles of his lived in homesteads surrounding his compound. The closest among these households was the home of his father’s only brother, Eze Kambite.

“Dara Igiligi,” Kambite welcomed Isikamdi.

“Ezeakaibeya.” They shook hands. The last time Eze Kambite had invited him with as much urgency as today’s, was six months earlier. It had to do with Isikamdi’s mother. Thinking back to when he was a child, Isikamdi could not recall witnessing both adults quarrel. It was unsettling for them to begin now. His mother had recently made some strong allegations against Kambite. Isikamdi was yet to find the courage to go either to verify them or to ask the old man. He pushed the nagging thought out of his mind and focused on the likely reason for Kambite’s summons. Instinct told him his uncle had something else to discuss with him other than his mother.

Could it be Ijenna’s inability to get pregnant?

This was one of his mother’s most potent missiles against Kambite. She accused the old man of forcing a barren osu on Isikamdi to serve his personal interest and undercut her son’s social status. Isikamdi did not agree with her. His family, and indeed the rest of Aro, did not subscribe to the osu social caste system. He could marry from wherever he wanted except from a family of thieves, epileptics and lepers. Moreover, Kambite did not force him to marry Ijenna. He only asked if Isikamdi would like to be son-in-law to his young friend, Odidika.

“Sit down, my son.”

“Thank you.” Isikamdi sat on the outer end of the mud dais. “How is your wife?”

“She is in her hut, doing one thing or the other.”

Kambite lay face up on his reclining chair. The seat shone like everything else in his personal obi.

“Your servant does a good job on your furniture. How does he make these chairs shine like this?”

Eze Kambite gurgled. He examined the reclining chair as if confirming Isikamdi’s observation. “He is a skilled young man. His father was a carver and had shown him some herbs. Apart from that, I think he is very serious-minded.”

“You are right. The last polish he applied to the stools in the big obi still gleams.”

Kambite called his granddaughter.

“Yes, Grandfather,” she answered from somewhere behind his hut.

“Bring my goatskin bag.” He raised his voice and added, “We are moving over to the large obi.” He signalled to Isikamdi to come along.

As the older man stood up, a sense of foreboding descended on the younger one. Isikamdi detected a distant look in Kambite’s eyes. He was tempted to ask if there was a problem. He did not ask. Why pinch a parcel that would be opened?

His granddaughter met them seated inside the large spacious hall.

“Nna a, here it is.” She handed over the bag to him and was about to leave.

“Come back here,” Kambite barked. “Don’t you know that I may still need your help?” He hissed. “Take.” He gave her a piece of kola nut. “Go and wash it and then bring us water to wash our hands, Nwaokorie Ukato.”

She giggled as she sprinted out of the large obi.

“Children.” Isikamdi smiled. “Always in a hurry.”

“Her own case is a disease,” said Kambite. “This one forgets that she is a woman and that grace is the condiment of a good wife. How can she be behaving like Nwaokorie Ukato, the tanner, who rushes things like he would die the next minute?”

They both walked out of the obi. Isikamdi carried the chalk platter along with his left hand. He placed it before Kambite who began and he joined him in drawing white lines outside.
By the time they returned to the obi, the young girl was waiting.

“How are you?” Isikamdi rubbed her hair, affectionately, with his unstained left hand.

She handed him the washing bowl. “I am fine.” She lifted the platter containing the kola nut and followed him.

Both men washed their hands.

While still carrying the plate of kola, the girl went down on both knees as she handed it to her grandfather.

“It gladdens my heart whenever you take your time to do these little things.” Kambite smiled.

“Oh, it makes me dream of hundreds of bags of cowries.”

The girl smiled shyly, tilted her head to one side and ran out of the obi.

The adults laughed. The sun brightened as if enlivened by the rush of the wind.

“I would have broken this kola in my compound but the issue for which I have called you is an obi matter.” He picked the red stone-coloured nut and looked at Isikamdi. He was more than Kambite’s nephew. He was, in fact, his son.

“You go ahead and break it, Father.” It embarrassed him whenever Kambite made it clear to guests that the large obi belonged to Isikamdi. It also did today as the old man repeated it even though it was just the two of them.

“So be it,” Kambite said, clearing his throat. As he raised the nut, his ever-watery eyes faced the empty sky. “Ibinukpabi, Ani Mbaozo, and Ogwugwu Mbaozo N’Abanta.” He cleared his throat and continued. “Ezechukwu, Nweke and other ancestors draw closer. Yesterday was yours, today is ours and tomorrow will be yours and ours. We have broken into a new day, as the chick cracks through the eggshell. As we live, give us enough to sustain us.”

“Ise,” Isikamdi chorused.

“If mother hen ceases to kwom-kwom can her chicks discern her voice?”

“It is not possible.”

“So provide us with what to eat but protect us from what will eat us.”

“Ise.”

“May Ezechukwu continue to prosper.”

“Ise.”

“As we increase, may we not be as populous as the ukpaka leaves that run in millions but cannot wrap even a grain of corn. Instead, may we be like the plantain leaves. They are few but each is large enough to shelter a man from rain.”

Isikamdi nodded.

“Guard us, guide us for we know nothing. We are like the little girl who only washes her stomach when asked to bath herself.”

“That is true.”

“May we live to see several Eke, Orie, Afọ and Nkwo market days.”

“Ise.”

“In unity with your love and trust, we will be cheery and we will be merry. I say this with ofo and ohi.”

“Ihiaa.”

The kola nut was broken.

“Ezeakaibeya,” Isikamdi cheered his uncle’s adroitness.

“Igiligiegbuenyi.” Eze Kambite dipped his hand into the goatskin bag by his side. He fished out a cob of alligator pepper, tore the fibrous leaves off and began to dispense the seeds into the kola nut plate. With a lobe of the nut in his hand, the old man stood up and stepped outside. He broke it slowly into little pieces and sprinkled them on the earlier drawn lines as he muttered some prayers.

When he returned, they ate their shares with alligator pepper and drank palm wine. Isikamdi could not recall the last time Kambite conducted such an elaborate ceremony in the obi.

“My son, the toad does not jump about in the wild sun for nothing,” he began. “I called you for a reason.” Kambite carefully avoided Isikamdi’s searching gaze. “There is nothing amiss and yet, there is something amiss. However, there is nothing the eyes see and shed blood instead of tears. If the stomach were not properly fitted, it cannot be ahead of the rest of the body.”

Isikamdi listened weighing every phrase, every word.

“Would you do anything for the honour and growth of this family, Isikamdi?”

“Father, you have been speaking in parables. You very well know I would, but a man does not say yes to a proposition he has not yet heard.”

Eze Kambite’s gaze was expressionless. He reclined on the chair and then sat upright again. He would choose his words carefully. If properly handled, Isikamdi would say yes to his plan. If he failed, the family’s fate would hang precariously in midair. “Isikamdi.”

“Nna anyi.”

“You remember the death of Ugobi?”

“Yes.”

“You must have been told about the deaths of my other wives. And you know about the deaths of my two daughters, Ifenna and Adaeze. Adaeze died on the day of her marriage.”

“Yes, my mother said so.” Isikamdi’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Every one of them died in mysterious circumstances. My father died when I could hardly tell if he was dark or fair-skinned. As if he knew that he would not live after my birth he named me Kambite, ‘let me live long,’ but did he live long?”

Isikamdi shook his head. He could tell that Kambite was heading towards a family puzzle.

“It took Nweke, your father, almost a lifetime to have you. He lost so many children. Not long after you came, he died. He left you to grow up, just like I did, without knowing your father.”

Isikamdi’s eyes were now glassy. The conversation was searing his heart in two. He hoped that Kambite would just get to the core of the matter.

He did not.

A lizard scurried to the white ritual lines and began to feast on the ants that had congregated on the libation wine.

“For several years, I have searched for a male child – the one to inherit my barn of yams, sit in my obi and answer my name when my bones would have been gathered to my ancestors – but I did not succeed. I consulted several diviners and medicine-men but none had the solution. I sacrificed to different oracles but none opened the door to a male child. My son, when it became obvious to me that I was challenging my chi to a fight, I gave up the search. I gave up the search for a male child, but I did not give up the search for why I failed to have one.” He looked directly into Isikamdi’s eyes and said, “If a man does not fight, the road that passes through his compound will forever be used by strangers. Also, if a man does not know the exact spot where the rain started beating him, he may never know where and when it stops.”

“That’s true,” Isikamdi whispered.

“By asking that we discuss this inside the ancestral obi is to let you know that you are not insulated from the problem. It is what is harping in the home of the rat that is harping in the home of the hare.”

Isikamdi felt a weight on his shoulders. He had always feared, even when he was growing up, that there was something wrong with his family. Something no one would discuss but each carried in his mind.

“Can you, my son, bear the weight of the secret of what I have discovered? Why Ijenna your wife has not missed her monthly flow of blood? And can you pay the price to save our family from extinction?” Kambite shot the last question with so much force that his nephew knew he did not want no for an answer.

Isikamdi was face down. He waited, thoughtfully, before asking, “Father, what is this all about?” Kambite had spoken for long and yet had said nothing. “Is there any problem?”

“Yes. There are problems.” Kambite’s brows furrowed.

“What are they, Father?”

“If I tell you the revelations, you will die just like I already know that I will die.”

“What will happen?”

“You will die and I shall follow suit. But your wife would be pregnant and your child would live.” His voice echoed a renewed vigour. “Your name shall be and your honour shall transcend the boundaries of Umuaro. Should you accomplish successfully what is expected of you, then Ezechukwu would attain a different position in Mbaozo. But, above all things, you have a choice to either refuse to know and let things be the way they are or hear me out and participate fully in its change.”

A hawk on a palm tree outside the compound flappped its wings.

“What is this all about, Eze Kambite?” Isikamdi was uncomfortable. He could not place what his uncle meant.

“Isikamdi, you have one week to think it over. If you want to receive the secret then come back. Don’t discuss this with any living person. It is the beginning of the search for who you are; you must do it alone.” His voice pitched on a final note. He bent over and picked another lobe of kola nut with some seeds of alligator pepper and threw them all at once into his mouth. Some alligator pepper seeds escaped and one bounced on his knee and fell on the floor. It rolled mechanically, as if choosing its paths, until the tip of Isikamdi’s foot wedged it. He did not notice it for his mind was far.

A light wind shook the ogirisi tree in front of the obi and a dead flower fluttered down. It landed on the altar stone outside.

Isikamdi had smiled believing Kambite was broaching a problem that had secretly bothered him all his life. At the end, the old man wanted him dead. All his life he had believed that Kambite would do anything for him to live. Kambite had indeed saved him in the past. What went wrong today? Did it have anything to do with his mother? Isikamdi searched the older man to know if he really said what he just heard. The old man was the same – his eyes watery, his look distant. Isikamdi trembled inside. Not from fear. Not from anger. More of uncertainty.

What if Kambite were correct?

A gustier wind shook the ogirisi again and one of the purple flowers landed on the ritual lines. Isikamdi’s eyes followed it this time. A large green snake had captured the lizard on the ritual lines and was patiently swallowing it. The lizard’s head went first. The forelimbs followed, then the reptile’s trunk. Maybe moments later, the hind limbs and the long tail would go. Isikamdi felt like the lizard. “I have heard you.”

He left the obi more miserable than he had ever been all his life. From that moment onwards, Isikamdi could hardly think of anything else but the ominous subject raised by Eze Kambite.

The Pride of the Spider Clan was written by Odili Ujubuonu and is an excerpt from his book of the same name.
(Jalaa Writers' Collective, April 2011)

Copyright Odili Ujubuonu 2011.

Odili Ujubuoñu was born in Ukpor, Anambra State Nigeria. He has a degree in Political Science and an M.A in History from the University of Nigeria, Nsukka and University of Lagos. Odili has been referred to in several quarters as one of the few heirs of the Achebean tradition. He is the author of Pregnancy of the Gods, (2006) ANA/Jacaranda Prize Winner for 2006 and Treasure in the Winds (2008) ANA/Chevron Prize Winner for 2008. The book was also a nominee of the Nigerian Prize for Literature same year. Odili has worked in the business of Advertising as a copy writer for over twenty years. He lives in Lagos with his wife, Chinelo, and their children.

World Crimes Day by Louis Ogbere

Tabare woke up to the sound of the television. He lifted his head and scanned the room; he’d had his fair share of surprise visits. There was nothing unusual. He fell back on the pillow and closed his eyes.

As if on a mission, the alarm clock on the wall jingled. It was 8 a.m. He groaned, ran his hand across his pimpled face and got out of bed. He dug his fingers into his hair – it had become a habit since the day he decided to keep an afro. His nails touched something solid; he yanked at it. When he realised it was just a piece of his mattress, he sighed and threw the foam-bit away — once he’d found a tiny black insect stuck between his nails. On the screen, a lady in a grey suit was saying something behind a crowd. She pulled back her brunette hair as she steadied the microphone in her hand.

“...Now the situation has become worse in San Francisco after the...” Somebody pulled the SBC crested microphone from her hand, as it fell on the tarred road the crowd scampered for it. At the background just behind the bedlam, the camera focused on some group of people entering a supermarket. Two of them held shotguns clutched by their sides, and a third a big spanner. Tabare chuckled: another episode of Candid Camera. He sat on the wooden table in front of the television. The scene shifted to a lady dressed in blue embroidered boubou gown, in what appeared to be a studio. She turned to the camera as soon as she saw her image on the big screen television behind her.

“And now to the Middle East. Our correspondent Evore, reports...” Tabare jerked as he saw an image of a woman on a dusty road wailing. The dust settled on her black robe, as she continuously hit her hands on the ground. After some time, she leaned against a mud wall and covered her face with her hands. The presenter began to move away from the scene. Tabare switched to another station.

“...And now to our major headlines,” said a man dressed in brown kaftan. “The United Nations has declared today World Crimes Day...”

The rest of the words floated in his head. Then he let out what he considered to be an appropriate reaction “No... Why? What in heaven’s name!” Satisfied with his reaction, he sat back on the table and allowed bits of the announcement play hide-and-seek in his head.

At twenty-three he was still struggling to escape under the wings of Madam Cash, his benefactor. From the day he accepted her offer as a bartender, he’d continually nursed the hope of someday running his own business. Each time he thought of independence; he felt the shadows of her wings extend slowly beyond his imagination. It felt enchanting, encapsulating, and he always fell back with deep resignation, forever strung to the woman’s benevolence. As he sat back now, he thought of the idea of giving this whole independence obsession another shot. He got up from the table and walked over to the corner of the room. His clothes were scattered about in heaps. He dug into one heap and drew out his towel. He carried a half bucket of water outside, and headed to the bathroom he shared with five other tenants.

The potholes on the street still held the residue of the previous night’s rain. Tabare hissed when he saw the water-logged street. With an ingenious navigation in mind, he began to hop from this side to that, sucking in his breathe with every jump. The sweet smell of elephant grass wafted through his nostrils as the stems dangled to the light breeze. When he made the final jump across a big pond of dirty water, he flipped the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. He had an appointment to catch up with.

Makoko looked empty as he walked to the bus stop through its interconnected streets. On normal days, the streets would be filled with shoppers and hawkers of wares, which ranged from roadside cafeterias to car-boot boutiques. Together they formed a major contribution to the noise pollution the town was famed for. The major road too, was almost deserted, except for a group of boys he saw running. Some food hawkers were chasing them. One of the boys ducked into a wooden kiosk, just as a stone flew past him.

“God go punish all of you Thieves! Go look for better job do!” One of the hawker-girls cursed. She had lost about seven wraps of moi-moi to the boys. Some wraps of the ground and boiled beans lay on the side walk. Tabare bent to pick them up. The girl hurried towards him her brow furrowed, but she smiled when she saw he meant no harm.

“Thank you, brother.” The girl said and offered him two wraps. He declined with a shake of his head. In a nearby store, a woman ran out and threw herself to the ground. She began to roll sideways as she cursed whoever it was that had stolen a pot of vegetable soup she left on the fire.

Tabare arrived at the hospital on time. The nurse on the morning-shift had just started when he entered through the lobby.

“Hey, big boy” She greeted, “I’m sure she should be awake by now. But hey, don’t go increasing her blood pressure today.” She smiled and flung her blue coat on her desk.

Tabare reduced his pace almost to a tip-toe, to avoid sliding, as he cut into the corridor that led to the ward. The strong smell of disinfectant from the recently mopped floor made him hold his breath. He quickened his pace as he felt his stomach growl.

Her bed was at the far end of a row of metal beds. His mother lifted her head to see who had entered. “Good Morning Mama.” Tabare greeted, as he walked closer to her. She rolled to the other side of the bed and propped her back against the wall.

“My son. Come. Come and sit here.” His mother called out. Tabare sat on the space she had created, his back to her. She touched his face as soon as he sat down. Her hand was warm on his skin. He turned to her and held her hand with both hands, and kissed the wrinkled skin.

“So how are you feeling today?” Tabare asked.

The old woman tightened her face and slowly withdrew her hand from his. “Bare,” She called, “I have been thinking...”

“Again? I thought they told you not to be thinking again?” When she did not smile, he added, “So about what this time Mama?”

“My son, I don’t want to bother you too much. I think you should inform my brother.” She said and gently slid backwards on the bed. Tabare sucked in his cheeks and reached for her hand.

“Mama, if it’s to see him about the bill then, forget it. Madam Cash has promised to assist me with some money.” The last thing he would do was to beg a relative, who hardly knew he existed.

“Bare... for how long have you been saying this? My son...” She coughed, jerking slightly from her bed. “My son, it is good to try both avenues. Please promise me you would go and see my brother.”

“Okay Ma... I will talk to her again today. If nothing, then I will go and see Uncle.” He assured his mother. He was sure Madam Cash would assist him. Working for her had brought so many privileges. The free meals, tips, and even free accommodation, was enough evidence of the woman’s magnanimity. Why can’t Mama just relax for once, he thought.

He sat with her in silence and thought about when she was first brought here. He had objected to her being admitted in the hospital. He’d argued that her illness could be treated with the bark of the dongoyaro tree⁽¹⁾. Something she had been using before; only that now, he reasoned, she had refused to keep to the medication. But the doctor said she’d suffered from a stroke – a mild one. And that she would need orthodox treatment. It was more than just dongoyaro treatment, the doctor had warned.

He rose after awhile and left her with promises to visit her the next day, and went in to see the doctor. When he came out minutes later from the doctor’s office, his earlier enthusiasm had dissipated.

As he walked past the road that afternoon, Tabare pondered on what the doctor had told him. He felt insulted by his cheap sarcastic and sexist remark “We that have penis between our legs should not fret to take chances.”

Ahead of him was a line of shops on the left. He noticed an electronic sign-post that read: WELCOME TO AMADI SUPER STORES. As he got closer to the store, he had no idea of what he came to buy.

The inside of the store was illuminated by a single bulb that dangled loosely from the ceiling. Shelves stuck with tins of Bournvita, Milo, Nivea cream, and other provisions, created a hallway in the middle of the rectangular store. A man was hunched over a drawer, counting packets of five hundred naira notes. His stomach sagged under the hem of his white singlet as he bent forward to move a counted bundle almost out of reach. He quickly closed the drawer when Tabare coughed.

“Uhn... Good afternoon. I want to buy... Alabukun⁽²⁾.” He wiped his trembling hands on his trousers.

The man walked toward the door, his eyes bored into Tabare’s. “We no get am.” He spat out.

Tabare walked out of the store, his eyes searching for an invisible object on the ground. He crossed a Pharmacy store some blocks away. He did not bother to check there for Alabukun. There was something about Amadi’s store that made him feel uneasy. He looked at the store one more time as he cut the bend into St Michael Street.

The compound was empty, except for Madam Cash’s children and some neighbours that were playing ten-ten⁽³⁾ outside. He watched for a while how one of the girls pushed out her legs before the other. She jumped in victory and smiled at him when their eyes met. He smiled back then walked to the boys’ quarters.

He fell on his bed and tried to shake off thoughts of the hospital bill, but he kept battling with them until he dozed off.

When he awoke, he stretched his hand over the side-table and picked up his wristwatch. The time was 9:16 p.m. Tabare got up and walked towards a heap of clothes. The dagger was hidden underneath them in a brown travellers’ bag. He took the dagger out of its sheath and tested the blade on his left thumb fingernail, saw it cut through the nail easily, and put it back in the sheath and into his trouser pocket. The hairy hides of the sheath scratched his skin through the pocket’s material. As he stepped out of the compound that night, he looked forward to a successful mission.

It was cold that night. Tabare rubbed his palms together and blew hot air into the cupped palms. From the distance, he saw the red lit neon sign of Amadi Super stores, and noticed a big cargo truck. As he approached it, he heard a female voice mumble “...put am… hmm… Put am”. A florescent bulb in front of Amadi Super stores blinked and then went off as he got closer to the store.

He hid in the shadows and when all seemed quiet he moved to the front of the store. A big silver padlock hung on the door. It was unlocked. He hesitated; looked round to be sure he was alone. When his instincts gave him the assurance that he was, he touched the padlock, which clanked against the metal door. Just as he was about to drag open the door, he heard a husky voice shout “Hey! Hold am there!” He turned around and took a heavy blow to his jaw and staggered backwards. He saw first the stomach of his assailant before he could make out his face.

Tabare reached for the dagger in his pocket but somebody grabbed him from behind. He was roughly pushed face down on a thin concrete slab placed across the gutter, his dagger dropped into the stagnant water. The hand of his assailant squeezed hard on his shirt collar, as he was lifted off the ground.

“Wait”, He began to say, but another blow crunched into his nose. Blood splattered on his shirt.

“Mugu⁽⁴⁾.” He heard Amadi say. “I know you go come today but no be this late.” Another blow landed on his bloodied nose, trapping air from his windpipe. The man released more blows that blurred into one long agony. He felt a warm wet wave slide down from his throat to his chest. The bell at the Sabbath Church rang from a distance. The last thing he remembered was the reporter’s voice as he said: “The United Nations has declared...”

People gathered early that morning in front of the compound’s rusted gate. They were looking down on a man’s body with a battered face and torn clothes. From inside compound, Madam Cash began to wail when she approached and recognised the bloodied body on the ground.



1) Dongoyaro: A native African medicinal drink made from the dongoyaro or neem oil tree.

2) Alabukun: A popular pain reliever produced in Nigeria.

3) Ten-ten: A game young girls play involving the movement of one’s legs to score points.

4) Mugu: Nigerian slang for a foolish person.

World Crimes Day was written by Louis Ogbere.


Copyright © Louis Ogbere 2011. All Rights Reserved.

Louis Ogbere grew up in Oron, Akwa Ibom State, Nigeria. A graduate of Banking and Finance from Madonna University, Okija. He has published fiction in The New Black Magazine, The Sunday Independent Newspaper and elsewhere. He currently works in a commercial bank in Nigeria and divides his time between posting cheques, hanging out with friends, and writing.

The Runaway Hero by Uche Peter Umez (Book Excerpt)

I slid down so fast from the wall that I landed flat on my chest. The fall was painful, like a blow. I couldn’t stand up at once. So I lay still on the ground, allowing the pain run its course.

I was in the compound. My plan was still on track. I felt glad that everything seemed to be working just fine. The next step was to tiptoe to the shed. Unlocking it wouldn’t be much of a problem; I had my penknife on me. I crawled to the back of the shed to see if there was a window: it was boarded up with planks. It would take me two hours or so to take out the planks with my penknife and a stone. I didn’t have that much time. I slipped back to the door, hoping the girl had not been spirited away on foot while I was waiting for nightfall.

‘I’ve come to get you out,’ I whispered through the keyhole. ‘Just be quiet. You hear?’

I didn’t hear any response. She must be asleep. As I repeated those words, I heard some shuffling. I laid my head against the door. I nearly jumped when someone rapped on it.

‘Get us out of here,’ cried a girl.

That must be her. But she had mentioned us. ‘Is there any other person with you?’ I asked, hoping she would say no.

‘Yes,’ she replied.

Yes? I froze up a second. How was I going to save two persons?

‘We are five in here.’

‘F-five?!’

‘Yes, five!’

My legs would have given way if I hadn’t managed to control myself just in time. This was far more than what I’d expected. I didn’t have any problems with saving one person, but five?! That was way past my limit. ‘Why didn’t you all scream?’ I asked.

‘We’ve been screaming,’ said the girl. ‘Nobody hears it. This place is more of a no-man’s-land. Even so, any scream and the giant gatekeeper will slap you so hard your teeth will rattle.’

How was I going to free five children? I should have stayed back, minded my own business.

‘I want to see my mummy,’ a boy sobbed.

‘Shut up,’ I said. I didn’t want him to wake up the gatekeeper lest we all get caught.

I began to shake the door knob. But it was firm. I put my penknife in the keyhole, in the way I had seen a spy do in a movie. In the same way I’d done a couple of times when I went to the food store. I didn’t hear the usual click as I twisted it around the keyhole. I pushed the door. The lock still did not give. I twisted the penknife some more; it was totally stuck.

I gripped it with both hands, wedging my feet against the door. I pulled and pulled. I began panting. The door had failed to open. If the square clip could unlock the door to the food store, then the penknife would do just fine. But this was not the case. It was proving much harder than I thought. Tired out, I bent down to catch my breath.

‘Please help.’

‘Open the door.’

‘Don’t leave us.’

The children were beside themselves now. Someone banged at the door from inside.

‘I’m trying...’ I gritted my teeth, frustrated. ‘Give me a little more time.’

‘You think you have the whole night?’ said the girl.

I wanted to reply. But the words got caught in my throat as I saw the glow of a lantern, the long shape of the gatekeeper in a window of the main building. I tried to pull my penknife out of the keyhole. I couldn’t. So I left it there, stuck.

‘Get away from the door,’ I whispered. I dived to the ground just when the gatekeeper held up the lantern. My heart shrank as I stretched out. I hoped he wouldn’t see me once he swept the light around. I wished I had hidden behind the drum standing some feet from the shed. The gatekeeper stood still at the window, as if too sleepy to even care. The room was dark again. He must have crawled back to bed. I reached for my penknife once more. ‘You almost got me in trouble,’ I said. ‘I can’t help anyone, if you all don’t shut up.’

‘How long will it take?’ the girl asked. She sounded rude; I said nothing. If I should try to speak back to her, I might end up not helping anyone.

I went on picking the lock. After several attempts, the penknife came loose. I yelped in excitement. This time I pushed the penknife into the keyhole, more carefully than ever. I was turning it this way and that, when I heard a small click. Still, I went on turning it until I heard another click.

My breaths came out in quick puffs as I waited for the lock to give. Finally, the door squeaked open. The children crowded around, pushing me away. I staggered, but I didn’t fall. I felt somehow giddy and fancied myself floating on the cool night breeze.

‘Come back here,’ I called as a pig started to squeal.

I almost seized up when a ray of light came on again. The gatekeeper had appeared in the window once more. The boys were already at the gate. Grabbing the girl by the wrist, I pulled her towards the drum. I turned as I heard some noises. ‘Why are they moving like that?’ I asked, wondering why the boys were hopping around the gate.

‘Their legs are tied,’ the girl said.

I quickly ran to the boys as they began to shake the gate.

‘Stop, stop it,’ I said in a rush. ‘Let me get that off your feet.’ I squatted and cut the cloths at their ankles. ‘There.’ I pointed to the gap under the gate. ‘Down there, lie flat, squeeze your body through it,’ I commanded as if I were their leader.

The girl screamed. My eardrums tingled.

The gatekeeper was stamping over to her, his lantern swung back and forth. He looked like a giant, though lean. Terror gripped me. Blood pumped hard in my head. Then he swayed around in an abrupt yet drunken way and went after the boys. I ran back to the girl to cut her loose too, before the giant could turn.

‘Let’s roll the drum!’ I said.

‘Why?’ asked the girl.

‘You talk too much! We roll it to the wall-’, I broke off as I heard someone scream.

The gatekeeper had grabbed a boy by the leg. But the other boys had made it through the gap. I panicked. But, with the timely help of the girl, I rested the empty drum against the wall. She shot me a startled look when I told her to get on it. ‘I can’t climb,’ she cried. ‘I don’t climb.’

‘Go on top, now!’ I shouted, leaning my back against the drum.

She held me by the shoulders and, gingerly, lifted herself onto the drum. ‘What do I do now?’ She appeared shaky.

‘Hey monkey, where you think say you dey go?’ asked a roaring voice. ‘Come down, yeye girl!’

I started as the gatekeeper came at me. He was dragging the boy after him along the ground. Then the girl leapt so high I feared she would slam her jaw into the wall. But her hands caught the edge neatly. She screamed out, even before she could pull herself onto the wall. I turned to see what had made her scream. And the gatekeeper sent me flying backwards with a heavy blow to the shoulder. I landed on my back.

The pain was so severe that it knocked me out for a minute. When I opened my eyes, the sky glared down at me. I tried to sit up, but was shaken by a roar.

‘Who be you? Wetin you dey fin’ for here?’

I couldn’t place the voice. I could only make out a shadow over me. It gave off a strong sweetish odour as it asked me more questions than my mind could hold. I blinked, thinking I had begun to see double.

‘Who send you?’ asked the roaring voice.

I shut my eyes as a lantern came close enough to burn my face. Then I figured out who the shadow was. The gatekeeper had caught me. I reached out a hand to feel for my penknife so I could scare him off with it. But my heart broke. It was nowhere close by. I had saved all the other children, yet I did not save myself.

The Runaway Hero was written by Uche Peter Umez and is an excerpt from his book of the same name.
(Jalaa Writers' Collective, April 2011)

Copyright Uche Peter Umez 2011.

Uche Peter Umez is the author of Sam and the Wallet [children’s novella], Dark through the Delta (poems), and Aridity of Feelings (poems), and Tears in Her Eyes (short stories). His collection of children’s stories, Tim the Monkey and Other Stories, is forthcoming from African First Publishers.

His awards include: winner, 2008 BSU Creative Writing competition; Highly Commended winner, Commonwealth Short Story Competition, 2006 and 2008 respectively; winner, ANA/Funtime Prize for Children’s Fiction, 2006 and 2008 respectively; finalist/runner-up both for the 2007 Nigerian LNG Prize for Literature, and the 2007 ANA/Lantern Prize for Children’s Literature.

An Alumnus of the International Writing Program (IWP), USA and the Caine Prize for African Writing Workshop, his short fiction, poems, reviews, children’s stories and non-fiction have been published on-line and in print.

He has been selected as a laureate for the 2009 UNESCO-Aschberg Bursary for Artists.

The Reluctant Urchin by Patrick O. Ochieng

I first saw him from across the parking lot at Bank Square in Kisumu. Hands folded on his chest, he kept shifting his weight from one leg to the other, the hood on his red windcheater fluttering in the morning breeze. He stood out from the other four boys, his manner less aggressive. Each time a car angled into the lot’s marked spaces, and before the driver could roll up his side window, one of the boys would rush to its side and say, ‘Sir anything even a shilling. I haven’t eaten in two days’.

This story has been selected for the annual StoryTime anthology African Roar 2012, please go to the African Roar site for more info.

The Reluctant Urchin was written by Patrick O. Ochieng.


Copyright © Patrick O. Ochieng 2011.

Patrick O. Ochieng was born in 1961. He attended school in Nairobi then studied abroad, and holds a degree in Economics and Law. He was short-listed for the 2010 Golden Baobab Prize and published in the Munyori Literature journal. He lives with his wife and two lovely sons a few meters from the Lake Victoria, and practices law in Kisumu.

Blackbird by Jude Dibia (Book Excerpt)

Black men dressed in spotless white kaftans balanced glasses of champagne and canapés on trays, while weaving their way round the separate groups of people chatting by the poolside or close to the stage, where a live band had just started up. Nduesoh was more absorbed by the brilliantly flashing white teeth of the waiters — teeth as white as their kaftans — than the prospect of making her way to join one of the groups of women and men.

Edward had led her to where the wives of an Australian delegate and a Lebanese-American property developer were standing, and then excused himself when he spotted the senior delegate from the South African embassy. The American woman, Bridget Jaafar, who seemed constantly fascinated by everything African and who could not keep her mouth shut for more than a minute, riled Nduesoh. This was not their first meeting, having being introduced at the country club months before.

“Aren’t these just dee-vine?” Bridget chirped in a thick Boston accent, referring to her own coral earrings and matching necklace. “Ahmad got them for me from Badagry.”

“Oh, they are beautiful,” the Australian woman said. She lifted the necklace to stare at the polished red stones.

“It’s marvellous what these Africans can do,” Bridget continued. “Ahmad and I visited the...”

“Excuse me, please,” Nduesoh said and, with a smile, walked away.

She was not prepared to listen to a recounting of a visit to some Oba’s palace. Nor was she ready to hear about some shanty town full of hungry looking children dying of malaria or whatever disease was making the rounds, or of scoundrels threatening to dispossess terrified whites of their belongings. And yet, this was what these women felt at ease discussing. After years of being subjected to wining and dining with their sort, Nduesoh found nothing amusing about white people who came to ‘Africa’ and insisted on being taken away from anything that vaguely reminded them of their urban comforts, wanting instead to be taken to what they believe was a truer reflection of Africa, the rural slums. Then they come back with pocket full of pictures of malnourished natives and plenty anecdotes. The first time, Nduesoh had smiled ruefully at these stories, amazed at how undisturbed her own people were about the way they were being depicted as backward and uncivilised. The second time, she stopped smiling entirely when she noticed the way some of the other women looked at her almost with pity, almost as if they sensed that she too had come from such a place. Nduesoh had experienced Bridget before, and knew she was the type that would nudge you, with her witty tales, to concede that your people and ways were oh so primitive, but cute in a native kind of way! Nduesoh was not prepared to be one of those locals who put up with the degrading comments made about Nigerians and Nigeria. They got on by pretending to be totally dislocated from the people and situations being discussed, helping to paint a darker, more cynical picture than the average white man was willing to paint on his own, unassisted. These stories often ended up being recounted in one form or another, around pubs in London or coffee bars in New York or even on CNN and the BBC. She knew them well, the so-called enlightened Nigerians who indulged the fancy of white foreigners.

She stood in a quiet corner, soaking up the ambience of the venue. It was not the first time she’d been to the Deputy High Commissioner’s home, but it had indeed been a long time since any party had been hosted in its grounds. Around the pool, immaculate white tents had been erected to accommodate beautifully-arranged dining tables with gleaming cutlery and polished glasses.

As she quietly took in the scene, thankful that she’d been left on her own, Nduesoh heard a female voice begin to sing a strangely haunting song:

“Wandering shoes/you have no place to sleep
Footpaths of lost dreams/your tired sole weeps
Vagrant soul/like a blackbird/soaring through life searching
For that place called home/a place called hope...”

Nduesoh swivelled round to search out the source of those words, the singer whose voice was like nothing she had heard before, deep, earthy, rich and yet sublime and almost dreamlike. A fusion of Ella Fitzgerald and Anita Baker—old mixed with the new. On stage, was a stunning black beauty, in her late twenties, in a long dress made out of a cheap looking orange and brown batik material of the type Nduesoh would have worn before she became Mrs. Wood.

“Little blackbird
Left all alone
On a dry broken twig
Soar high into the night sky
Vagrant soul...”

The singer’s only accompaniment was the equally soothing sound of a trumpet being played by a slightly overweight, bald-headed man in dark sunglasses, picking out parts of the tune and echoing them behind her.

“There you are!” Edward was by her side and holding her waist. “I was wondering where you’d wandered off to.”

“I was just enjoying the music,” Nduesoh confessed.

“Yes, beautiful,” he agreed. He turned to look at the singer and his eyes lingered there just a fraction of a second too long before glancing back to Nduesoh and saying, “I think we should be joining our table now before Her Ladyship gets too agitated.”

Edward took her by the elbow and led her to their table, and to Nduesoh’s dismay, Bridget was seated at the same one. She was engaged in an animated conversation with the other people sitting around the table, who included her husband, Ahmad, Wale Johnson and his American wife, Monica, and Chief Badmus Arebi and his wife Ireti. The Arebi family was Lagos royalty and owned prime land on Lagos Island and Mainland.

Nduesoh felt the chills of a long, dreadful night ahead of her as Edward pulled out a seat for her.

“Darling,” Bridget addressed her, “I keep forgetting you are married to Edward. Isn’t this just a delightful table? So cosmopolitan... so United Nations. Before you came, we were just talking about the awful situation in Eldorado.”

“It is interesting that you have a growing population of—let’s just say the wrong kind of people—living at such close proximity to people like us,” Ahmad Jaafar said to the table at large.

Nduesoh noticed from the corner of her eyes that Wale Johnson was bobbing his head up and down in agreement. The only couple who remained non committal were the Arebis.

“I wouldn’t so much call these people the wrong kind,” Edward said, carefully choosing his words. “We can’t escape the fact that Sambo—this is where you're talking about, isn't it?—is bursting at the seams with the influx of people coming in every day. The government has to address the issue of urbanisation—but it doesn’t seem to know how.”

“The problem is quite easy to resolve really,” Ahmad interjected. “Just move the damn people to an area more suited to their kind and everyone will be happy.”

“I agree with you on that, darling,” Bridget said, placing a cigarette between her lips and turning her head so that Ahmad could light it for her.

“So do I.” Wale jumped into the conversation. “Call it elitist or whatever, but people should know their place in society.”

“And what would you propose we do, Mr. Johnson?” Chief Arebi asked. “Get rid of them just like rodents?”

The table went quiet. Everyone was looking at Wale, whose eyes seemed to grow bigger under his spectacles.

“No one is suggesting such a thing.” Ahmad came to Wale’s rescue. “My firm has come up with an elaborate plan to develop the slums of Sambo and we can assist the government in the resettlement of the... people who live in those parts.”

“It’s only fair that we feel safe in our neighbourhood,” Bridget added. “I’m sure you’ve all heard about the murder of Katherine Cole last month.”

“Oh, that was just dreadful,” Monica sighed, “I was playing bridge with Kath at the club only a couple of weeks before. They say she was raped as well. It was in the autopsy reports.”

“A very unfortunate incident,” Chief Arebi said. “But a lot of us believe that there was something not quite right about her death. Katherine was a very... em... generous woman and...”

Nduesoh noticed how Ireti stiffened as soon as the Chief mentioned Katherine’s generosity. Yes, everyone was well aware of Katherine’s generosity, except maybe her husband. The Chief’s sudden defensiveness and Ireti’s reaction made Nduesoh wonder whether the good Chief himself had been a beneficiary of her generosity. It was clear to her that men had no issues with infidelity. How different, she believed, it was for women. It was not possible for women to treat unfaithfulness with the same detachment as men. Men just objectified the female form to a point where it all boiled down to legs, breasts, buttocks and vagina. There were no emotions. It was just physical. Not so for her. Emotions would always play a role in her life—love, hate, revenge, spite...

“Nonsense,” Bridget said, cutting the Chief short. “The house was burgled. It was the work of common thieves.

What do they call them again, darling?”

“Area boys,” Ahmad volunteered.

“Yes, that's it,” Bridget said, smugly. “Area boys.”

The table went quiet again. All but the Jaafars seemed to be aware that it was disrespectful to silence a Chief when he was speaking and, even more so, to openly disagree with him. Nduesoh stole a quick glance at Wale and noticed relief on his face. She guessed he was glad he had not caused the unease at the table this time.

Just then, there was a clinking of spoon against glass and everyone’s attention was drawn to Lilia Macarthur, the Deputy High Commissioner’s wife, who was standing on the stage with the singer and band.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Lilia sang gaily into the microphone. “I would like to thank you all for coming here this evening to help us celebrate Paul’s birthday.”

There was an approving murmur from the crowd and someone at the back shouted, “Hear, hear!”

“Dinner will be served in just a moment,” Lilia continued. “But before that, let's all join together in wishing Paul a happy birthday.”

Even ‘Happy Birthday to You’ sounded good as the female singer began to sing it, but her voice was soon drowned out by everyone else’s voice as they joined in.

Then a line of waiters appeared from nowhere, placing the first course on the tables. Everything seemed well planned and meticulously executed. Bridget laughed aloud in delight as a fresh bottle of champagne was placed on their table.

“Lilia does know how to throw a party,” she shrieked.

Nduesoh was not listening. Her eyes discreetly followed Edward’s until they finally rested on what had captured his attention—the beautiful black female singer as she walked off the stage.

Blackbird was written by Jude Dibia and is an excerpt from his third novel of the same name.
(Jalaa Writers' Collective, April 2011)


Copyright © Jude Dibia 2011.

Jude Dibia is the author of three novels; Walking with Shadows (2005), Unbridled (2007), and Blackbird (2011). Dibia’s novels have been described as daring and controversial by readers and critics in and out of Africa. Walking with Shadows is said to be the first Nigerian novel that has a gay man as its central character and that treats his experience with great insight, inviting a positive response to his situation. Unbridled, too, stirred some controversy on its publication; a story that tackled the emancipation of its female protagonist who had suffered from incest and abuse from men. Unbridled was awarded the 2007 Ken Saro-Wiwa Prize for Prose (sponsored by NDDC/ANA) and was a finalist in the 2008 Nigeria Prize for Literature (sponsored by NLNG).

Dibia’s short stories have been featured in the Caine Prize Anthology, One World: A global anthology of short stories and various literary journals. Dibia was a recipient of a Commonwealth Highly Commended Award for his short story Somewhere in 2010.