The Saxophonist by Anengiyefa (Part Two)

I stepped back, closely observing Moses' face. The body language suggested that something was not right. The woman came closer, she had seen us and was coming straight towards where we were standing, now a few feet apart. They greeted each other but the greeting was short, as of two people who know each other well and spend a lot of time together. Later on while thinking about this I thought Moses had handled it quite well, as he had calmly introduced me to her as a friend.I stepped back, closely observing Moses' face. The body language suggested that something was not right. The woman came closer, she had seen us and was coming straight towards where we were standing, now a few feet apart. They greeted each other but the greeting was short, as of two people who know each other well and spend a lot of time together. Later on while thinking about this I thought Moses had handled it quite well, as he had calmly introduced me to her as a friend. This woman was his wife. I was taken aback at first, because he had given me not even a hint that he was involved in a relationship of this magnitude. But then I could not hold this against him, because, after all, the time that Moses and I had spent together since we met would in total amount to no more than an hour. It was I who had allowed myself to become so hopelessly infatuated with someone who I hardly knew and about whom I knew next to nothing. This however begged the question, why had he reacted to me in the way that he had done the first time we met a few days ago, and since?

Anyhow, since three is a crowd even in the best of circumstances I knew that the sensible thing was for me to withdraw. And so I did, wondering when the next chance would come for me to be with this man again. I greeted Mrs Moses courteously and excused myself, quietly leaving them. I was careful not to look at Moses as I left, because I was fearful that my eyes would give us away, especially as I had heard all those stories about women and their intuition. I had chosen to come to the Shrine on my own tonight and I felt alone. I knew that in this huge crowd gathering outside on the street, forming itself into queues, there would be people I knew from the university campus. But I wasn't in the mood for raucous banter. The person I really wanted to be with was somewhere inside this building behind me. And he has a wife! The realisation of how untenable my position was suddenly hit me. But even his wife could not stop me from watching him while he was on stage. And that is what I did, having joined a queue, paid the entrance fee and made my way to exactly the same position beside the stage where I had been last Tuesday when we had first met.

I had been standing there for about 15 minutes, sipping a Guinness from the bottle when Mrs Moses who I later learned is called Grace, brushed past me. She turned to say sorry and then her eyes lit up when she realised who I was. "Oh, its you", she smiled sweetly at me and I smiled back acknowledging her, although feeling a bit awkward. It was clear to me that she was here for the exact same reason as I was, to watch her (or was it 'our') man perform on stage. Forward of where I was standing were some seats. At the Shrine there were only a few seats arranged close to the stage, but in truth there was hardly any need for seats in this nightclub, since most people just stood and watched and danced and jumped when the show got going. But there were seats arranged in rows at the front, many of which were reserved for special guests. I watched Grace from behind as she made her way to the very front row of seats and perched herself on one of them, delicately, in a way that only a woman can. There was an air of importance about her, sedate, demure, and the feeling that went through me at that moment was a combination of admiration and envy. Envy because it was this woman who got to enjoy Moses, the man with whom I was so besotted.

The show went on as usual. Predictably my eyes hardly left Moses, but I would take the odd glance at Grace who herself seemed to be enthralled by the music. She remained seated, calm and composed, but from time to time she would sway with the rhythm. At break time, I looked up expectantly at Moses and saw that he too was staring at me. I noticed that Grace had left her seat and gone in the direction of the ladies room at the far side of the hall. Moses left the stage and came straight towards me, as he had done last Tuesday. But as he approached me I sensed his uneasiness. He searched my face as he drew closer but I smiled reassuringly, my heart leaping as I now knew without a doubt that this man wanted to be with me as much as I wanted to be with him. Seeing my smile, his uneasiness visibly vanished and again without saying a word he took me outside, holding me by the hand. I suspected he was taking me away from Grace and others.

We did not stop when we reached the street as we had done the last time. Instead we walked through the crowd outside, Moses acknowledging greetings from a few people he knew. We pressed on and continued down the street, still holding hands, him leading the way determinedly. The Shrine is located in a residential area, such that once away from the immediate vicinity of the club it was dark and quiet with cars and vans belonging to the local residents as well as visitors to the Shrine parked on both sides of the road. We were a good way from the lights and noise of the Shrine when Moses led me behind one of the vans, the rear of the van facing away from the direction of the club. Here we were completely hidden from everyone and it was in this dark place that he pulled me into his body with an urgency that surprised me. We embraced tightly and kissed for the first time. We stood facing each other, close together, our arms wrapped loosely around each other's bodies as we talked in low tones, almost whispering, staring into each other's eyes, an urgent fervour to our actions. He talked about himself and his life and many other things. And we kissed again. I just listened to his voice, wishing that this dream moment would last forever. Then we kissed again, and again... And I never felt such excitement in my life...
*

And so it was that Moses and I were hidden in this dark place, the only place where we could be alone for those precious minutes before needs be must he return to his job, and his wife. We held on to each other, both of us acutely aware of how fleeting this moment of joy was. I stroked his face and his moustache and ran my finger across his lips. Moses grabbed my hand, pressing it against his lips and kissed my fingers. "I want to be with you always, Moses..", the words spilled out of my mouth before I even realised that I had said them. In response Moses pulled me closer and hugged me tightly. I clung to him my cheek brushing against the stubble on his chin. "How can we baby?", he asked, whispering into the back of my neck as he held me, his breath causing a tingling sensation. "You understand the way things are, don't you?"

"Yes", I replied, my head resting on his shoulder, "I do understand, but.." I did not know how to say what I was thinking. Indeed, I did not even know what to think. Here was I with a man who I had met only a few days previously, but with whom I had become almost totally obsessed. In the last couple of hours I'd found out he has a wife, but I had also learned that he is just as interested in me as I am in him. Where would this lead us?, I wondered. But just then, as if he knew what I was thinking, Moses whispered again, "Don't worry baby, it'll be alright. We'll work it out somehow." In reply I said, "I don't wish to cause you trouble, you know...but the truth is that nobody has made me feel as I do now..."

Moses responded by pulling back and looking into my face. In his eyes I saw that this man felt exactly the same way as I did. Then suddenly, reality came crashing down on us. Moses had to return inside the club to join the band. Oh, how time flies when you least want it to. He kissed me on the forehead then we smiled into each other's eyes like two conspirators, the feeling of guilt was mutual. Ours was a secret passion that was to remain just between the two of us, a passion not to be shared with, or revealed to the other people in our lives. And so as we walked back to the Shrine we made a conscious effort to appear innocent. I knew that after this brief but enjoyable encounter with Moses, there would not be another chance to be alone with him tonight. He understood that I lived in a student hostel on the campus of the university and I knew that he lived with his wife. So the only chance we were going to have to be together again would be here at the Shrine, on another day. It was clear to me that I would become a regular visitor to this place for the foreseeable future.

At the end of the show that night, I lingered inside the club not wanting to let Moses out of my sight for as long as I could manage it. He was good. He would steal glances at me, but I knew he was being careful because Grace was right there, up front by the stage. Apparently, she was well known by the staff and the other musicians, which was lucky because chatting with them kept her from noticing that Moses was not concentrating fully on what he was doing with the musical equipment. I slowly moved towards the exit in the now near empty hall and turned to wave goodbye to Moses. With my hands I signalled that I would be here again next Tuesday. He nodded and smiled. I knew I was in love with this man.


It was the last week before the start of the end-of-semester exams. I had failed that dreadful compulsory Psychology course two semesters running and I was to resit it this semester, again. And there were all the other final-year courses and that all-important Project, (as the dissertation was known at undergraduate level). I knew that I was behind with my coursework and that this week would be the only chance I would have to put myself back on top of my academic work. I had to put my head down and study; and study I did, whenever I could get Moses out of my mind. This was in the days before the Internet and mobile phones, the days when telephones were a luxury. There was no way of knowing where he was or what he was doing, or who he was with. And I just sat and thought and wondered about this man and the magic that had developed between him and me.

The university is located on the shore of the Lagos Lagoon. The water of the lagoon is at the rear of the campus, such that the shoreline is far removed from the centre of campus life. At the lagoon front is an expansive grass lawn and just at the water's edge on the far side of the grass is a long quiet road along the shore, which leads up to the Vice Chancellor's residence. Palm trees line the road and wooden benches similar to what you would find in a park are placed under the trees close to the water line. It was in this lovely and quiet place that I would spend long lonely hours, looking out over the calm water of the Lagos Lagoon, wondering if Moses was thinking about me too. None of my friends and acquaintances on the campus knew that I was not straight like they were. For them life was good, girls were aplenty. I did not know anyone who had the same feelings as me and there was nobody I knew with whom I could share this thing that I was feeling. This was a time in my life when being gay felt to me like a curse. There was nobody to talk to, but there was Moses, on my mind, always...

And so it was with much anticipation that I approached the Shrine on that Tuesday as I turned the corner into Pepple Street, the small side street where the Shrine is located. A group of men stood in front of the club entrance engaged in a conversation of sorts, one of them waving his arms about agitatedly. In my eagerness to see Moses again I had arrived rather too early, because it was obvious as soon as I turned into the street that there were only a few people about. I felt a bit awkward, but surprisingly among the group of men standing by the entrance was the man I was here to meet. We must have spotted each other at exactly the same moment, because the reason I had noticed him was because there was a sharp movement of his head. He jerked upwards, slightly, in the way that one does when one suddenly notices something of interest from afar. Our stares locked, before he turned away quickly and muttered something, perhaps an excuse to his colleagues in the band with whom he was standing. I slowed my pace and came almost to a standstill, not sure what to do. But Moses left his colleagues and came towards me, looking genuinely pleased to see me. He extended his hand, which I shook in the way that I would any friend. Those in the group whose backs were turned to us, turned around to see who their colleague had left them to meet. But their curiosity quickly disappeared when they saw me, the nondescript unremarkable young man that I must have appeared to be.

It was awkward indeed. It was quite early in the evening and Moses had things to do before the show started. He clearly hadn't expected to see me at this hour and I felt a bit guilty for being the cause of his discomfiture. I apologised to him for turning up this early and confessed that not seeing him had become unbearable. He looked at me in that way that makes you think that he can see right into your mind and read all of your thoughts. I knew he understood. It was annoying that I was not allowed to throw my arms around him right here and now, because this is what I would have loved to do; to feel the warmth of his body against mine, to be held once again by this man. We were standing in full view of everyone around us but there was no denying it, I was helplessly in love. Moses said he was expecting Grace to arrive any minute now. The last time we were together he had told me there was always a seat reserved for Grace at the front, because he liked to see her while he was on stage. He needed to know she was safe, he'd said. Moses asked me if I would like a seat in the front tonight, and of course I was not going to refuse the first thing ever offered to me by this man. Besides, the idea that he even wanted to have me constantly in his sights was exciting. So of course I said yes. At least, I too would get an undisturbed view of the man I had come to the Shrine to see. I will take in as much of Moses as I can tonight, I thought to myself. Enough to allow me bury my head in my books until Friday when I will undoubtedly be back here again.

Leaving me, Moses rejoined his colleagues and shortly afterwards they all entered into the building through the stage door. Outside, I wandered around for a while. It was too early to gain entrance to the club as the gate was still locked shut, so I moved further down the street and found a quiet spot. I sat on a bench by the roadside under a tree, a place which I assumed was a hangout for local residents, where ayo a traditional board game was played. From where I sat, I had a clear view of the Shrine and it was not long before a taxi pulled to a stop in front of the club. Two women alighted from it and I immediately recognised Grace. I couldn't help noticing how elegantly she carried herself, a true African beauty this woman and I could see why Moses had married her. Both women disappeared into the club through the stage door.

As night fell, the street became noticeably busier as more and more people poured into the area. I realised that I ought to return to the entrance gate in order to claim my position in the queue as one who had arrived early. The gate eventually opened and when I entered the club I made my way straight towards the front. And I had not been there long when Moses emerged from the backstage. He seemed preoccupied with his duties, walking around the stage, then saying a few words to one of his colleagues and then to another. They were doing all those things that members of a band do with their instruments before a performance. I hoped I was not being a nuisance. Moses looked out across the hall where a few people were already milling about. He didn't notice me straight away, so I made myself more noticeable by moving into the light and within his line of sight. Moses acknowledged me with a nod and then went back into the backstage area.

I went to one of the kiosks that was just opening and bought a drink. As I turned around to return to the front I saw Moses coming towards me. We smiled at each other and following him we went together to the front where he showed me the seat that he had reserved specifically for me. I was unused to the VIP treatment, indeed, such had never happened to me before and I was unsure what to make of it, or how to react. Anyway I sat down, although all of the other seats were still empty. Turning around, I saw that the crowd was rapidly increasing in size behind the seating area and I wondered if anyone I knew from the campus would see me sitting at the front like an honoured guest. It wasn't long before the seats around me were occupied by others, strange people quite unlike the sort of people I was used to seeing at the Shrine. These were respectable folks, not people who jumped and danced wildly to the music when the band was playing. Well, I felt important and I was just adjusting myself to this new status when to my astonishment Grace wafted past in front of me and sat down next to me. I wasn't sure if I was excited, or if I was horrified. She smiled at me, obviously remembering me from the last time. I greeted her politely, secretly hoping that this woman would not even conceive of the idea of striking up a conversation with me. Thankfully, she didn't, and to my great relief the band emerged on stage just then and the show began. If only this woman knew what her husband and I were up to. In a way, I felt in a superior position, because I was sure she knew nothing about the erotic relationship that her husband had with me, nor was she aware of that side of her husband that craved the love of a man. I knew her man better than she did.

The Saxophonist was written by Anengiyefa.


Copyright Anengiyefa 2009.

I grew up in a suburb of the city of Lagos, Nigeria in the 1970s and spent all of my childhood and formative years there. That city more than any other, is my home. I fulfilled my childhood ambition of becoming a lawyer when I was admitted to the Nigerian Bar sometime in the mid 1980s and went straight into law practice. But it was not very long before I became disillusioned with the system in Nigeria. I persevered for as long as I could, but seized the opportunity when it came to relocate to the UK in 1996. I have been living in London, UK since then and have since re qualified and been admitted to the Roll of Solicitors of England and Wales. I enjoy the challenges thrown my way in the work that I do and my profession is a big part of my life.



But then I've also discovered another love, a new found love of creative writing. In February 2009, I surrendered to a long held desire to start a weblog. In writing the blog I gradually drifted towards writing stories, episode by episode, making up the details as I went along. The stories I have written and the ones that are still at the embryonic stage in my mind are all based on real life experiences and situations, of myself personally or of others I have known. But the accounts are fictionalised.



I stumbled upon ST while on one of my web surfing expeditions. I was moved by the fact that several other African people were similarly motivated to write creatively such that I felt a compulsion to join this group of African writers. And I was pleasantly surprised when Ivor Hartmann read one of my scripts and thought it good enough for me to be admitted as a ST author. I have never had anything published previously, save for the odd contribution here and there to Nigerian and British newspapers and magazines, usually one strong opinion or the otherr. ST is the first venue at which my creative writing is published and I cannot say how pleasing this is. I know this is supposed to be an autobiography, but I was not going to let slip the chance of expressing my immense pleasure.

The Diary of an African Child by Chika Onyenezi

Africa reigns forever, children shall still form our future. Our tales shall live at all odd times. It shall live from generation to generation; in the moonlight, beside the fire, beside the bed, in the media, amidst whispers, with scoundrels, with moralists, and with all.

It was a season of harshness; the sun shone as though to remove melanin from people’s skins. The rain fell to flood the country. The government of Nigeria left only their deaf ears with the compatriots. It was the reign of the brutal general; Sani Abacha: the only candidate nominated to contest for presidency by all parties. In this harsh economy and weather: patriotism was left for the media to waggle mouths with. Hunger and pestilence invaded the nation.

Upon this harshness, some people still found themselves squatting in squalor ghettos. One of these squalor ghettos was in Owerri; a place called Mint. There when the rain falls you can’t come out of your house: but if you wish, you can go get a canoe or be ready to swim. The drainage system of the city has been blocked by debris of used materials. The governor does nothing about this but to drink champagne with his fellow aristocrats instead of cleaning the city. Almost every house in this squalor poised like a dog ready to bite. The aerial view will show you nothing but rusty roofs.

A house at the beginning of this marshy street resided a boy called Chidi. He was a child full of wit. He did little things in outstanding manners; he could read well unlike most ghetto-dwellers. He was about to enter secondary school; his endeavour’s had merited study at Lampton College Owerri. He opened the wooden window of their house; cracks on the wall testified it was purely a red mud house before they plastered it with cement. When the rain fell you would see him putting buckets at every corner of the house. Even with all these precautions some water would still come in and with a broom he would sweep the water away.

Today was his birthday, but he doesn’t celebrate it. In his heart he knew that he was born on that day some years ago. Birthday celebrations are only for the rich he told himself. He and his father lived in a two room apartment his father rented one room to a tailor. Yesterday when his father came back he gave him a book with blue cover. A gift father received from a carpenter friend. He thought it useless so he gave it his only son, Chidi happily took the book from him. But as he opened it today, he noticed no words inside. He decided to write his own words, maybe in those pages he could live beyond this squalor. He opened the first page and wrote:

August 1st 1997
Some years ago, at this date, a child was born. That child is me. I appeared on this world with a smile after all struggles. The sun was shinning and spiritual wise men visited me with their own gifts. The creator opened a book and wrote a script called destiny which I shall act. Since no harm befell me that day, none can take me outside the creator’s purpose. I have lived for thirteen years on this earth. I thank God. Since my childhood God has been taking care of me he is the best father ever. But mystery still remains mystery in my life. He will raise me up for my nation to see. On mountain Zion will stand; the mountain that nearly touches the sky, all men shall see me. He will make me strong, I shall never be afraid of falling.

He closed the cover of the book, and tucked the book away in his dirty bag. Chidi was a child of difference; most of his mates that grew in this squalor are always wild in character and in manners. But he was well behaved in character and in manners; owing to the fact that he reads books instead of whiling away his time learning tricks of ghetto boys. He watched how the people in TV movies who behaved in an orderly manner, lived in orderly houses and did orderly things. He prayed that one day he would live an orderly life. Their black and white television was his only companion even with its mechanical faults, corrected by beating the television with his palms.

The next day his father took him by hand and they walked far, but he would not complain nor show any sign of weakness in front of his father. Any form of weakness exhibited would be attributed to his dead mother. His father would say "your mother died a weak woman, she couldn’t even cut cassava stems. Oh! Happy I am she died". Each time he heard this something grew inside of him, something he couldn’t speak to any ear, hatred. It fermented and brewed in his mind, this hatred for his father and his callous manners. His father would always walk faster than him, expecting him to equal the pace.

Soon they arrived at Lampton college. The school is a large one with two big fields and many classrooms. After registration, his father dragged him to his assigned classroom. Before he left he said, ‘Now I have done the best I can ever do for you, if you don’t read, you fail! I don’t care! My only concern is me and me only. If you follow the children of rich men, you are an idiot! You better walk with your poor type. You hear me.’ This day Chidi received his limitation; a sign written boldly in his heart, poor. Anything he tried to do that would uplift him he would fail because of the emblem poor written in his heart. That was the best advice his father ever gave him and it created the worst disaster in his life. A disaster called an inferiority complex. In class if he was asked to answer question, his father words held him from answering. So he failed then by and by, and didn’t mingle with his fellow students.

Upon a Sunday; after the service he opened his dairy and wrote:

August 16 1997
The log has to be broken, my problem doesn’t have to weight me down, and I will put them down first. My load must be dumped by the riverside. I seem to have crept into my shell, but I have also gained access to wider knowledge, truly no knowledge is a waste. This would one day be called the diary of a great man but if I don’t make it in life, let it be called the dairy of an African child. Slowly I will tender my approach towards life, the slow and steady wins the race.

He closed the cover and placed in his dirty bag. From that day he decided to make something out of his existence, to come out to the word and say "Here is Chidi a great man among you". His countenance in class changed; form that of a dull person to that of a sharp happy boy. He joined those who had the same spirit as him; to make it big in life, like Daniel. Daniel was his classmate and the same height as him. He was the son of a wealthy man and had many expectations. He was highly gifted in thinking and always telling stories of great men. They could spend the whole break time talking about the legends of Africa. Like Dr. Nnamdi Azikiwe; the first ceremonial president, a nationalist and a patriot. After their first discussions he wrote this down in his dairy:

August 20 1997
Today I learnt about Zik of Africa, a great man and a patriot. He fought for the independence of his people. I learnt that he studied abroad to gain such vast knowledge that enhanced him to lead many political parties. I wish to study abroad also, so that I can gain the knowledge that will help me lead Nigeria.

From that day he started to nurture a dream, and like a new born baby he let it grow slowly inside of him. The liberation of his shackled Africa. Together with his other friend, Ifeanyi, he started to plan how to leave the shores of this land. Ifeanyi told him of his plan to study in London.

‘When I told my father he welcomed the idea and said that he too has been thinking towards that angle. That he would do everything to see that I study there, have you told your father?’ Ifeanyi asked.

‘No’ Chidi replied quickly as though the question has no long reply.

But it did have a long reply, when he told his father he said, "You are a fool, a very big fool, how much do you think I am paid? To waste money on a weak boy like you. Don’t talk to me about your stupid dreams, you better think for your self". He dare not tell Ifeanyi how negative his father was about the matter.

That night, it rained heavily. He removed his diary from its dirty bag and wrote:

August 21 1997
A stage is page in life, I realised that indeed time waits for no one, it only moves forward. Sometimes I wonder if I could turn the hands of time, I once tried it, but it only made my own clock wrong. With each second, a change occurs in my body, a new idea comes into my head. Time is passing! Time is passing! There are many things I fear to lose. But time keeps telling me ‘let go of it.’ With time a child is born, with time a man will die - many things happen every second. I learnt in church that ‘a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the arm and poverty will attack... a plant may not take a second to produce fruit. But it takes a second for the fruit to be plucked.

So he learnt about the essence of time in his life. He needed to leave this sick life he is living and do something for his nation. But gradually he must trot down the road of life.

After his secondary education his father called him and said, ‘Chidi you have now acquired the education that would lead you for life. If you like take care of your self, if you like, don’t. I have done my best to give birth to you. I hope you know that impregnating your mother wasn’t an easy job-’. Chidi didn’t wait for him to finish his statement, he grasped his father by the throat and pushed him to the wall. Held him firmly and said to his father ‘don’t ever, don’t ever speak bad of my mother till you die. You thought me a weak man, but I am strong!’ and then threw his father to the floor. Shame and fear gripped his father and showed on his face. Chidi quickly packed his few possessions and darted away before the panting man could lift a knife to slash his throat. Like a mad dove he flew into the world of wondering.

He wondered round Owerri and when it became dark, he found a dark corner and he laid his head on the debris of materials that littered there. Someone shouted at him, ‘Stand up you!’ It was a man with a big stick in his hand protecting the debri that was his shelter first. Chidi realised the man was mad so he ran away. He finally sought refuge in some thick bushes. He felt like Atlas of the Greek mythology, but the world on top of him was too heavy to carry and breaking his back. His dreams seemed broken before him like an earthen ware scattered on the floor. If suicide was easy he would have committed it. But that would not make him the hero he wished to be, rather he would only serve as an object of laughter for his father, and he was determined to make it in life. Early the next morning he opened his diary and wrote:

June 2 2003
Maybe I was born to find my own way. Maybe I was created to be an African boy of suffering. So be it. My father has rebuked me, it's time to fend for myself. I have no friend on earth. My only friend has travelled abroad to further his education, he wrote to me once but I haven’t replied him. He told me how easy it was for the rich to pass through embassies, and how the embassy officials treat the poor with disdain and reject their application even if they have their correct documents. First of all let me find a way to help myself then I would then think about going back to school.

In the Ibo tradition when your father rejects you nobody will accept, so he didn’t bother to seek refuge with his relatives. He went to the park and there he eventually managed to pick up a job as a bus conductor, till he made money to travel out of Owerri. He left for Port Harcourt, maybe he would get his lucky six in his dice throwing. He knew Port Harcourt was a Nigerian oil city where expatriates reside in large numbers. He doesn’t know anybody there, but he still believed he could make it big.

He got the Port Harcourt in the afternoon, and with his dirty bag in hand he walked into a restaurant. There he met the strangest character; a man with dreadlocks, heavily bearded, well built and tall. He wore expensive clothing, drinking his liquor in a reckless manner. As he raised his hair away from his face Chidi saw he had tribal marks drawn across his cheeks like whiskers, he looked more like a reptile than a human being. The thought that flooded Chidi’s mind was, this must be a criminal, I rather die than to join this type of a man. The stranger looked at him and said to the bar woman ‘Order! Give this poor boy a bottle.’ and bent his head into darkness again. A cold beer was placed in front of him. He couldn’t reject this gesture from this strange fellow so he thanked him and drank the bottle. The fellow came closer and sat in front of him, ‘who are you young man?’ He asked in a polite manner.

‘I am nobody, just wondering this earth’ Chidi said politely.

‘A wonderer, you pose like a destitute without hope’ said the man smiling at him, ‘would you like to follow me?’

‘No, no’ said Chidi in a harsh manner to tell him that he doesn’t want anything to do with this criminal and would live an upright life till he dies. But the fellow could read his countenance and knew what he was thinking about him.

‘Young man I am no criminal. I am just a victim like you. I decided never to cut my hair again nor comb it. The rich squander their money and give the leftovers to dogs. Our oil money resides in the house of the aristocrats leaving the destitute to suffer. Our government has ignored the youths feeding only their stomachs. Left our universities in ruin and sent their children abroad to study. Tomorrow their children will still want to climb the presidential seat. The poor become poorer the rich, richer. Of what use is democracy to the empty stomach? That’s our fate boy!’ he said bitterly, though a smile hung on his face.

‘Who are you?’ Chidi asked.

‘A sailor, I live on the sea, deep sea fishing’ the strange fellow said. Chidi had learnt about men that fish in the deep sea; the urge to join the sailor quickly built up in him.

‘I wish to join you’ Chidi said.

‘Ah! Out there is fun, you can visit the whole world and see the beauty of the sea. Hear the endless music that plays in the sea. Anchor at London, South America, and Asia. It will take a year before we sail back to Africa again’ he put an arm around Chidi and drew him closer, ‘I don’t like coming here, it gives me incessant pain. It builds memories like the death of my parents’, tears like clouds filled his eyes. ‘They died for nothing. Murdered by the military men, my father was an activist. I can’t fight the soldiers. I am the voiceless. I will be happy to be buried in the sea, that’s why I choose to be sailor. That’s why whenever we anchor in any Nigerian port I drink heavily. When I saw you, you reminded me when I had to run away from my father’s house and lived like a destitute. So what your own story?’ he asked Chidi. Chidi told him every bit of his life and how he came to be like this. He told him about his dreams to change Africa.

‘Be strong boy. Dreams die here. Dreams are trampled upon here. Lookie boy, let me talk to you. Those dead bodies you see in Somalia had dreams too, their dreams died with them! The hungry boys in Rwanda have dreams too, their dreams died like a burned out candle. They die! They die! And serve as nothing but an eyesore for foreign media. Come with me’ the fellow offered. Chidi said ‘but I don’t know your name?’

‘Ah boy, I am nobody. Just call me Sea’, he relied.

The strange fellow took him to his room at a hotel. At that night he opened his diary and wrote:

September 16 2003
This day I met a strong activist. The silent one. Though he is a fellow of strange character I understood him well. He asked me to join him in the sea. I am eager to behold this world devoid of land. I am eager to behold marine life. All didn’t work with education. But if I make it as a sailor, I will use my money and train myself in university. Africa still needs me, Nigeria still needs me. I am a patriot, even when my government is unpatriotic. Maybe one day I will turn into an activist and fight for the voiceless like Wole Soyinka who fought for a better Africa. Soon I will reply to Ifeanyi, though I still feel ashamed to talk to him.

In the morning they left for the sea. At the seaport, the strange fellow took him to a large ship and introduced him to a white man whom he called ‘captain’. A passport was prepared at the immigration office by the fishing company. Though there was no vacancy in the company for the sake of the strange fellow, they offered him a job as a cleaner on a ship.

‘Bring him next tomorrow. We will sail off,’ said the captain with an air of tiredness. The strange fellow showed him a cabin he would be sharing with him.

Afterwards they returned to the bar were they met and drank much liquor. The strange fellow said to him, ‘once the ship sets sail, boy you are a sailor!’ Chidi was happy to hear that. He read about these sailors in Moby Dick by Herman Melville maybe they would also hunt white Wales like Captain Ahab. He became full of thoughts about the sea.

‘Yes a sailor. Sailing round the world’ Chidi muttered to himself.

A day gone, they returned to the sea port. Chidi wore the new cloths the strange fellow bought for him. How the fellow wasted money showed him sailors are rich men. On the day of departure the captain stood on the deck; smartly dressed with a binocular to his eyes earnestly searching for something. He walked round the deck searching deep into the sea. All the crew stood their waiting, expecting to hear something from him. The strange fellow whispered into Chidi’s ear ‘he is searching for a dolphin, if seen, it then means we will sail. It’s an order from the goddess to sail. But if a squid, he will not move this ship cause is a bad omen. It is believed that squid is a sign of ill luck to the sailors.’ The captain turned to his assistant and said ‘confirm.’ The assistant said ‘confirmed.’ The captain said ‘hurray! Today we sail again like fraternal brothers. Let’s welcome on board a young sailor. Chidi I want to tell you that today we no longer set sail, we run engines and sail deep into the sea.’ Chidi wanted to say, aye sir, like old sailors does, but he said ‘thanks sir.’ All the sailors then welcomed him on-board.

Soon they lost sight of land, the ship sailed deep into the sea. Chidi carried out his cleaning job to the admiration of the white men and other sailors. They came to love him so much; for his hard work. One evening the captain invited him to his cabin. There they drank and discussed about Africa, slave trade, the Berlin conference that led to African partition, the first and Second World War. The captain admired his sense of wit and asked him his story. Chidi told him everything from day one to the voyage. The captain came to love him very much that he swore 'upon my blood, I will send you back to school, you don’t belong here. You are better than a dozen professors.' He lamented saying ‘instead your rich men will open scholarships for their people; they derive joy in squandering on nothing.’ That was the young man's luck: a promise from the mouth of his master. That night he wrote in his dairy.

September 20 2003
I am overwhelmed at the laudable gesture of my master. He told me today that I can still make it in life. Maybe if we anchor at London he will send me to school. Even with my salary I can fend for myself there. I am full of hopes now that light is coming into my life. Success lies at that port. Oh! How happy I would be to be learned and addressed as such. This day I forgive my father for all he did to me. I hope he will forgive me for my anger upon him. I leave God to judge.

The ship sailed deeper into a landless world. Something happened, Chidi’s health started to fail. First they took it as normal sea sickness for a first timer. Everyone on board showed him love; the strange fellow cared for him. But soon he was bedridden. The captain directed that everything should be done to see him back to health. One day he called his friend the strange fellow to help him see the sun again. He gently helped him to the deck. There he stood; looked into the wonder of the sky. He asked his friend to get him his most cherished possession; his dairy. With the last of his strength he wrote:

October 1 2003
I can see glory this day. I can see it in the sun. Several wings are there. Africa can be free. Yes they can be free. But we need more men to release the continent. We need men who are ready to sacrifice their life for a cause. The nation needs real patriots, we are not the wasted generation it’s our fathers, they let corruption burrow into us, they killed our school system, they spoiled our electricity, they taught us bad things. Today they call us the wasted ones, they feel uncertain if we can rule this country, but we can. There are still some good Africans left in this world. You are one of them! You are Africa!

He gave the dairy to the strange fellow and said ‘inside is the address of my friend studying at London. Help me pass it to him, and also read it for the sailors to hear.’ Then he died. The whole crew mourned his exit. Owing the fact that he didn’t have next to kin they buried him in the sea. The captain stopped the ship in the middle of the sea for a day; to mourn his exit. He spent a day reading Chidi's diary. On the day they resumed the journey, the captain called the whole crew and quoted from the dairy ‘today they call us the wasted ones, they feel uncertain if we can rule this country, but we can.’ He then said, ‘Chidi was a good man. He was a boy full of wisdom, blessed with wit. I shall make sure the diary of an African child reaches the benefactor.’


Ifeanyi has finished his university education. He secured a job as a banker in London. He still remembers his friend and wonders why he has not replied to his letters. He still remembers the good old days at Lampton College in Owerri. But he had long dropped some certain urge he called ‘unrealisable’ liking changing Africa, changing his country. One evening he was in his house when some post brought a package for him to sign. He saw that it was from his long time friend. When he opened it, he beheld a dairy and a note that read.

"From Captain Barry jack,

Your friend is dead and buried in the
Sea. He requested that his diary be
Brought to you. That was his dying wish.
I honoured it to the last.
His best friend from the sea."

His good friend is dead, he died without seeing the four walls of a university. After reading the diary he didn’t eat for days; he grieved for this hero, a patriot, and above all a good man. He saw the reason why some men stand in front of the White House in America to protest for their rights.

The diary of an African child, made him to research more on the African child. He found out that the African child has been abused; physically, morally, ethically. They have posed as picture of modern poverty for the foreign media to savour. Two weeks after he quite his job to fight for the right of the African child. He respected his friends wish; he fulfilled his dream of becoming an activist. Ifeanyi dedicated his time to this cause, you will see him in NATO meetings within a picture of the African child, you will see him UN gate with the same picture. Any place the world leaders are gathering, you would see his campaign, of every paper in Nigeria carried Ifeanyi’s article on the African child. He meditated with the diary throughout the rest of his life.

The Diary of an African Child was written by Chika Onyenezi.

Copyright Chika Onyenezi 2009.

Chika Onyenezi was born on the second December 1986, he is an editor at AuthorMe a popular international literary magazine and currently studying Computer Science at Caritas University, Enugu.

He is a peace activist, and a member of Green Lake Peace Network founded by Dr. Claude Shema-Rutagwengwa.

He is currently in Nigeria and writes from the city of Owerri and Enugu and blogs at Grey Scale

Silent Night, Bloody Night by Ayodele Morocco-Clarke

I am standing at the edge of the Lagos Bar Beach with the waves roughly beating at my feet; hard and fast. The sea looks stormy and I half turn to catch a glimpse of one of the warning flags - that tiny piece of cloth on a stick - which has been put up to inform people about the temperament of the sea. The flags could be the difference between life and death if heeded. White flags mean “come on in,” giving a calm, safe and inviting sign for even the not too good swimmers. Yellow flags say “be careful,” indicating that something might be brewing in the belly of the sea. Red flags scream “Danger! Danger!! Keep away,” warning about waters boiling over with ferocious waves sometimes rising up to seventy feet high and strong undercurrents that could drag and overpower even the strongest of swimmers.

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

Silent Night, Bloody Night was written by Ayodele Morocco-Clarke

Copyright Ayodele Morocco-Clarke 2009.

Born in Lagos, Nigeria and descendant of kin from the West Indies, Sierra Leone and the Republic of Benin, Ayodele Morocco-Clarke is a Nigerian of mixed heritage currently living in the United Kingdom.

She is a multi-award winning Solicitor and Advocate of the Supreme Court of Nigeria who is devoted to the written medium. She likes to describe herself as stubbornly unconventional.

Ayodele’s short stories have been published and are forthcoming in anthologies of short fiction and literary journals or magazines.

She is currently finishing work on a short story anthology of her own and has recently started work on a novel which she hopes to publish in the not too distant future.

Lose Myself by Uche Peter Umez

Solid high heels clicked against the hardwood floor. Tall and curvy, she smelled like meatloaf, with a dash of mustard. She had just glided by. Now she stood in front of the table which displayed assorted wines, spirits, lemonades, and mineral water. Curtis, the host, had assumed the role of unofficial barman behind the table mixing drinks; his smiles seemed too generous you wondered if he was familiar with melancholia.

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

Lose Myself was written by Uche Peter Umez.

Copyright Uche Peter Umez 2009.

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.

Thinking Aloud by Nigel Jack

We used to play hop-scotch (pada) in our backyard watching the sun steal away where the earth ends. Our noises would sink into the early evening breeze like the lovely voice of cheese in our little mouths. Girls tugged their size one skirts into their innocent under-wears as they hopped with spread legs on the boxes marked on the ground. Their whole front look was almost as plain as ours just that their pretty faces used to keep us on the edge of our juvenile curiosity and the ribbons on their young hair would radiate our semi-ignorant hearts. We were never love-slaves, just passive artists.

Even when mothers and maids announced, time to bath from the window, parting was usually as painful as the pockets of urine stench that the bottoms of our counterparts puffed into silent air. Parting at first call was unheard of. To us parting was meant to come naturally like the movement of stock birds in summer. There was an indulgent perception boldly endorsed on the canvas of our minds that life was the present. Our prospects were limited to the indicators of what was to us given. Our desires never instigated blueprints but regrettable mischief. Some of them were not even regrettable, just forgettable, like being caught learning to mate while standing under the cover of long linen on the wash line.

We were raised by the best. We grew up feeling we were the first; we recognised but never acknowledged the prowess of the rest. It was always like we were hosts and others were guests. Our parents were everything even though they had nothing. The good thing is that we never realised then that they were the small fry. And how could we have realised when all we needed was a morsel of Sadza served with a substantive amount of relish. That would allow us to play hide and seek under moonlight or positively solve primary school arithmetic lying on cold cement floor. Our homework books were inspected before retiring to bed. We used to take sleep for granted so we could dream dreaming and wake up with swollen eyes covered in wax. In the morning our minds were very expeditious, we could dream thinking or think dreaming, the difference was the same.

Here I am today and It is so amazing that it is in this same life that I was once a pint sized being sitting cross-legged on rural red soil watching with profound awe, Gwenyambira’s dreadlocked grey hair shake rhythmically to the sharp sound from his deze while humming deep tunes of remote yesteryears from the aged walls of his smoke smeared throat. His pauses were only a result of an unquenchable craving for bute, the fine powdered tobacco that smelt of the past and uncompromised nativity. He would pull out his gonan’ombe from somewhere in his ragged outfit and deftly tap it against his left palm like it was a salt-shaker. Wearing a dare-devil face, he would close the small mouth of the portable wooden container with a chicken further and return it to its place before dexterously squeezing the powder with the tips of his fingers. The usual next thing was to use a whirlwind from his dusty nostrils to haul the powder down into his lungs. Sneezing was not an option. He would continue to play sitting under the eaves of my grandmother’s round kitchen while leaning on the rough mud poll wall. Sometimes in the evenings while at the stock pen, tying notorious bulls to corner poles, I used to hear his voice racing with the smoke smelling wind. The metallic chipping of his self-made instrument and the sea-deep humming from his raspy voice used to make my mind spread like the sky into thoughts too way out of range.

I would lose myself into a plethora of sharp toothed imaginations. Facts turned into opinions and opinions into discoveries. From the supporting poles where I usually found myself clumsily perched, clad in my extremely and imperatively casual outfit -wild thought would catch with me spontaneously like breathing. I wanted to know what life was all about. The routine was too redundant and absurd for me. Surely it couldn’t be all about waking up to a dish of hot porridge hearing cattle mooing, birds chipping, cooing and hooting, watching dew melt away from green blades of healthy grass while appreciating the scent of a youthful morning as her skirts were being gently pulled up by the sun. I supposed it was not only about the senses; there must have been something more to it, something too hidden to be found in a hurry. I wanted to know if I was immune to death. Just the thought of death brought an immediate and imminent sadness that left me tired and hopeless. I did not want to die much as I did not want to think about the possibility of me dying. The funniest thing I did not possess any such suggestive handsome fortunes nor had I any emotional synergies as can be built by titular cleavage like Mr. or Sir, the mistake that I had for a reason was having started living. I was too addicted to life and I could blame it on the parties that were involved in the irreversible event of making me. Now the forgettable event had turned into a complex process that I could lose sleep upon thinking of losing it. What used to baffle me even now is the uncertainty of returning it. I want a voice from the unseen to assure me of the unseen. I am coward for life.

Now I’m a full man and I realised that in life there are some things that the human mind chooses to ignore at least to attain solace even when it is for just but a while. There also things that the mind chooses to keep in oblivion but each time they reoccur, especially death, there rises a corroding anxiety deep within. News of death is a tip of an iceberg -it causes the mind to once again reflect on a larger picture called life. The pain of such undesirable but inevitable assimilation in the fabric of the grey cells is indescribable and horrific. Perhaps religion regulates the magnitude of the fear.

I’ve heard and read about the Arabic Jihad and wondered how one can be tutored and seasoned in the doctrines of sheer value to believe one could murder oneself and members of other races through suicidal bombing and still instil in oneself hope for an attainment of blissful full life beyond death. It’s unfortunate such ones never get to realise that those who recruit them stay behind to live full lives and die natural deaths. It's shocking how one is made to spend years and years in tertiary education institutions to master the most challenging of disciplines -for example aviation- so that such a one would graduate by stirring a plane into a building. All the distilled litres of knowledge acquired would at once crush and burn together with hundreds of victims.

But this is not a Jihad.

The truth is that I’m peeping outside my window to see how a dying dog speeds. He is the biggest dog in this yard but that doesn’t count anymore. He ran in front of a speeding car and got his front leg broken. Since then he has never found joy, he receives the best of meals but the appetite is gone. Now he stays under the dark shadow of a big Acacia tree from morning to evening, from dusk to dawn patiently awaiting the touch of death. He can hardly move out of this yard, and even in this yard he seldom moves away from that point, he is a pity but I can’t help it.

It’s giving me a lot of strange pains watching his ribs move up and down in motions too frequent for comfort while he groans from a closed mouth, eyes cold with despair. I can see he misses the good old days much as he wishes this cup to pass. And now I regret being a spectator because that makes me involved. I don’t want the dog to die but I think its best that the dog dies. If he dies there will be no unnecessary investing of emotions and there will be no sounds of death. Just the smell of death will linger for an instant. Eagles with white necks are already celebrating in the sky above the dog as if they are vultures, maybe they are just enjoying the liberty that the dog doesn’t have and will never have.

Ah no. Wait a minute. The dog is now looking at me with eyes red with anguish. His piercing pair is virtually starved of shame. He is slowly raising his head and the younger dogs are once again running away. Terror has risen. He could be an ancestor by now or maybe he is a living ancestor, alive but dead. Ancestors don’t have a heart, they are insensitive to mortal matters and so is the old dog. His barking is now deafening but I see no intruder.

Everything here is confusing, a thousand bleak hours for a moment of bliss that tarries. Most times one has to bear the burden of creating just that moment which is just a negligible fraction of happiness for happiness in its full measure is virtually unattainable and the furthest one can go in pursuing it is to feign it. The problem is when feigned happiness is sin. Most times we pretend we don’t mind the dog stays in the yard but we keep indoors and look for something soft to slowly munch on while waiting to hear the airwaves go sane with silence again. All we want is to forget our woes.

A woman can do the magic. One evening I described her using musical instruments as if she was a piece by an orchestra. She smiled with her eyes fixed on the floor like she was a dub-poet trying to remember a lost line. I told her that her hair was a new violin that I played from a heartbeat, that her lips were a flute that drowned me with a fine sound. I told her that her breast was a piano that I could play the whole night without losing my fingers. Her buttocks were drums that I could rhythm whenever I got bored or tired of other instruments and her middle was a saxophone that has a noble sound but needed to be played with all carefulness and fulfilling passion. I told her she was a delicacy. She was a mature wine that could only be served to the king on special banquets. I told her she was an addictive drug that I could hardly live without. She lifted her head, silenced my mouth with her point finger, held my cheeks on both palms and reached for a deep, full and lengthy kiss that left both of us trembling and weak. Her irises were looking a bit averted like she had slept the whole night on a bowl of highly intoxicating grapes. Her features had instantly blossomed and the guard of reasoning seemed nullified. I had a feeling my chastity was in danger and my principles had been brought to a test but I would be glad to fail. I had not vowed to practise a life of celibacy but I just wasn’t sure of wearing a completely new feeling. I could see she wasn’t sure too, but a look into each other’s eyes send us ripping off each other’s apparels. We found ourselves working by instinct. Sooner than anticipated we were playing deep tunes without having gone through a rehearsal. We wanted to sing more but the tune was too new; so we quickly retreated to the comfort zone where notes do not injure the throat. We could still sing some other day and perhaps try high codes.

We were not in a hurry. We were happy. As happy as watching a handsome blind man who is singing about love and the beauty of beauty, amazingly painting the mysterious emotion in colourful colours that he has never seen. His eyes of lesser blink wide open to the world and the world can see the hinges of his heart. After the last elastic note that tears through his humble lips, he smiles to the audience already immersed in tears and they wish he could see how much they appreciate him. They ecstatically scream his name that he gasps; he wishes- more than before, he had eyes. He then clutches his trembling mouth with both hands and contributes a loud cry into the noises. The other contestants in the singing competition are crying too- their hearts have been nabbed by the air. If the competition is to be made to continue nobody will pay attention, everyone is fighting tears and hoping to recover a stolen heart. The mind too is paralysed. After the show people are sleep-walking home.

At home, the wounded dog is hurting. He has gathered all the bones to himself and he is playing it hard on others. He can’t stand watching them gnaw at liberty. Now, they have to struggle to put something in their stomachs. Its not that they are afraid to put up a fight but it’s against their nature to fight and old unrepentant dog that is already knocking on hell’s door, it’s cowardly. Whenever an opportunity presents itself they steal away from the yard to scout for food from neighbours or afar off in the woods fraught of many dangers. For a while they feel good far away from the maddening dog but safety is not guaranteed. Those that remain behind see no good times. With the passing of every hour they get leaner and leaner while watching the old dog is waxing fat and growing oily furs. It’s unfair.

When the gate is opened, the old dog is standing right in the middle of the driveway barking at the oncoming car. He is now the stupidest dog in the yard, it could that old age is playing foul on him. Others are down the driveway watching the proceedings with eyes weak with hunger. They just don’t care what happens.

“What’s up with this dog?” my cousin is worried.

“What about him?” my uncle who is in the driver’s seat responds with a question.

“He is ailing but he can’t stay away from trouble,” the remark is too general.

“He misses good old days I think it’s a pity he can’t realize how old he is,” he shakes his head and he adds, “Its not his fault dogs don’t think they do everything by instinct. Instinct tells them yesterday is today and tomorrow.”

Slowly the car is driven in avoiding to run over the stupid old rabid dog. His barking is deafening and irritating. But he never used to be like this when he was young. He was adorable and his mouth was void of vain trumpery. Whenever he barked everyone would pay attention and check the yard. He could get along well with other dogs and could share with others. He was selfless and teachable. But now he is big-headed and very selfish. Everybody hates him.

Thinking Aloud was written by Nigel Jack.

Copyright Nigel Jack 2009.

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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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




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



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