The Echo of Silence by Delta Law Milayo Ndou

Had she been there she would have asked them why they were crying. She would have looked each one of them in the eye shaming them to silence with her mute accusation.

Had she been there she would have laughed at their duplicity and poked fun at her aunt’s hysterics – rolling herself on the ground like that as if it would make her appear more bereaved than the rest. But that was just typical of Makhadzi, her paternal aunt, her father’s sister was one given to all manner of theatrics.

She did so love to keep up appearances, beating her generous bosom as if she would flatten her ample bust out of sheer grief.

And then allowing herself to be restrained by the other women only after she had let out another ear-piercing scream to ensure that no one was spared the tumult of her contrived sorrow.

But she was not there.

Had she been there, she would have surely taken the time to remind her aunt of that night, the first time it happened.

She would have reminded her of how Makhadzi herself had locked her in fearing that she might be crazy enough to report the matter to the authorities.

That was always Makhadzi’s fear – that someone would one day break the silence and that only madness would push one to bring such disgrace to the clan.

Had she been there she would have seen her mother, stare blankly at the wall; refusing to have any part with the mourners – keeping her distance as she always did, cocooned in a shell of denial.

It was her mother who had taught her everything she knew about denial; she had raised them to believe in silence.

Her mother had taught them that lesson quite well, she had lectured it to them with the smile pasted on her swollen lips, tutoring them with the sparkle of unshed tears that glistened in her eyes.

Mama had been quite a teacher – priding herself in concealing the bruises and passing on to them the myth of how clumsy she was – always bumping against the doors, the tables and chairs.

So now while they wept, feigning a sorrow they couldn’t possibly feel – mama sat alone, aloof and silent.

Had she been there she would have overhead her father cursing and swearing about the tribulations of having girl-children – look at the mess and the expense of this whole occasion, he mumbled to his brothers.

“I always knew she was a stupid one that one. But to do this? My mouth has been dry ever since I heard, do you hear me son of my mother? I have no saliva left, if I had I would spit in her face and send her off with nothing but spittle on her face!” he hissed in impotence and frustration.

That was always the way with her father – he was a hard man, a man who brooked no argument, unwilling to accept the possibility that his point of view could be flawed in any way or that he could be possibly ever be wrong.

Even now, he refused to believe, to accept that the blame lay with another – for how could any man possibly be in the wrong?

So despite her pleas, her explanations – he had remained resolute, threatening to disown her if she so much as left her matrimonial home, if she divorced or left her husband.

“What insect had entered that child’s head? For her to do this! Stupid. She could not have possibly been mine, how could I sire such a fool?” so he ranted and raved well into the night.

His lips moving incessantly as he muttered, while those who cast glances his way pitied him thinking he was overwhelmed with sheer grief.

Had she been there, she would have seen how that woman lay cuddling herself in the corner – refusing to eat, to talk, to sleep or to drink.

She would have seen the emptiness in her bleak eyes, seen her shoulders convulse with pent up grief.

She would have seen how that woman had aged over night and remembered that it had only been 48 hours since she had seen that face under different circumstances though.

Circumstances that had led to the present gathering and the irony of it all would not have been lost on her.

Had she not been there at that exact time all these people would have had no cause to gather in this sham ritual of bidding a hollow farewell to a woman whose life they had never cared for.

She had been there. She and that woman, the one huddling herself in the corner, trying to melt into the darkness and blend in with the shadows.

But there had been someone else too. And it was them who knew the full story, who knew what had really happened. Had it really been just 48 hours? She had been there.


She stood transfixed. Her heart pounding so fast she wondered why they couldn’t hear it because surely if they could – they’d have stopped by now.

She just stood there watching the whole nightmarish thing unfold before her very eyes – screaming so loudly but finding her throat so tight that the scream couldn’t get past the lump that had stubbornly lodged there.

She wanted to shut her eyes, shut her ears – anything to shut this horror out but for some reason she just stood there – numb and dumb in mute disbelief.

Stupidly gazing around trying to find something that would convince her that her world was not shattering, disintegrating and falling irrevocably apart; the room seemed to have shrunk to nothing but that bed where he grunted like a tired horse and she squealed like a choking pig.

Then she heard it – a loud, long and piercing shrill; slicing into the air and for a moment the pair on the bed froze before he turned around, his hairy behind still in the air in mid-thrust.

He was saying something, snarling at her as if it were she who was intruding; from afar she heard him bark, “Shut up! Contain yourself!” and realised that that crazy scream had somehow erupted out of her, that it was her voice that was shrilling laced with naked hysteria.

And it seemed as if it were all happening in slow motion, she watched that woman slither out of the bed, hurriedly put on her clothes with such haste that she fumbled as her fingers shook with fear and a part of her mind thought it all to be a part of some grotesque illusion.

And him!

He just got up, still erect and walked towards her, with a menacing look in his eyes, his lips were moving again and although she heard what he was saying she couldn’t act upon the words because they seemed so absurd – the whole thing was surreal.

He was telling her to get outside, no telling her to ‘wait’ outside as if she were a servant who had walked in to disrupt the master’s leisure.

She lost it then, rushing towards him in fury, and relishing her anger, brandishing it like a shield to ward off the shards of pain that threatened to engulf her – she hit him hard.

Swinging her shoulder bag like a bat and slamming his face with it, while he swatted it away with ease as if he were swatting a fly – his big hands intercepting her arms and grabbing it out of her reach before he shoved her with such force that her slender frame bounced off the dressing table.

Howling in pain as her shins connected with wood, she got up again incensed and blinded by a red-hot rage that seemed to lend her strength; she jumped on to his back, dug her nails into his neck before sinking her teeth into his exposed ear lobe. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a slight movement at the door and realised that that woman was fleeing half-dressed, sensing danger and beating a hasty retreat.

He was yelling now, cursing her and cursing her mother too – trying to shake her off before she could mutilate his ear.

“Have you lost your mind? Do you have a death wish, by my mother’s grave I swear I’ll kill you,” he roared tearing at her hands with his own trying to pry her off his back.

“You have killed me already you bastard you! You son of a whore, that’s right! That’s what you are! A good-for-nothing-leave-it-dangling-can’t-keep-his-pants-on fool! Go ahead finish me off you coward you,” she shouted ignoring the hot tears that stung her face making everything a blur.

It was as if she were possessed, as if some stranger had taken over her body and for a moment he was frightened but the moment passed fast as he remembered that he was after all the man.

Fortified by this realisation, he swung his feet in a crude tackle and swept her off balance before neatly pinning her with his huge body – sweat glistening from his body at all the exertion – first of the sex and now this – this crazy woman trying to swallow his ear!

Trying to catch his breath at the suddenness of her attack, he was caught unawares when she suddenly moved her knee and made a painfully accurate connection with his exposed groin – recoiling, gasping in agony and doubling over at the excruciating pain – he let go of her to cup his balls with delicate hands fearing for the worst.

Sensing that she had an advantage, she rolled out of reach and rushed out of the room, barely noticing that her blouse was torn, her bra was loose and one breast hung bravely out of the contraption as if challenging anyone to stare.

How could he? The question echoed in her mind, taunting her, hounding her, haunting and refusing to be ignored.

After everything she had done, every sacrifice she had made, after all these years, this was how he repaid her?

Her tormented mind tried to reject what she had seen but the images imprinted in her mind, refused her the luxury of slipping into denial – of wishing away what was.


She wasn’t sure how the idea got into her head but once there, it germinated, lodged and firmly took root. She would end it all. She could end it all. She did not have to suffer any more, did not need to endure any of it.

The thought was liberating, seductive and hypnotising. Suddenly the confusion seemed to melt away leaving in its stead a calm resolve and her face shifted as the shadow of a smile touched her lips.

Walking into the kitchen and shifting through the boxes, she knew it was there. At least she was fairly certain that no one had removed it.

And when she saw it, she wiped away the film of dust that covered the bottle, tenderly caressing it as if she had found a lifeline; again she smiled wondering why she had not thought of it all along.

It was so easy.

Opening the cap she pinched her nose closed with one hand while with the other she held the bottle to her mouth and forced down the foul smelling liquid, ignoring the awful taste.

Instinctively gagging, she threw back her head to ensure that the liquid stayed down and ignored the stinging tears that rushed to her eyes as her body shivered involuntarily, automatically rejecting the alien substance she was imbibing.

Having drank the last drop, she left the bottle on the table, ignoring the ‘keep out of reach of children’ warning written on the side while the thought formed in her head – there were no children left and even if there were; the empty container no longer posed a threat.

She giggled, it was a strange sound; more like a croak. She was not a bad mother was she? She had kept the children out of harm’s way hadn’t she? She had kept it ‘out of the children’s reach’ and she had done all she could to keep them safe.

But it was not enough; in the end she had failed to shield them.

Gloomy thoughts, she chided herself for entertaining them. Walking calmly she went to the bathroom and stepped into the shower, allowing the water to beat her body until she felt numb.

Then she stepped out, wrapped in a towel she went back to the bedroom idly wondering if he’d still be there, half hoping he was and half dreading to face him.

This was her moment of triumph – her chance to have the last say. To tell them all that they could go and fuck off.

The door was ajar and she stepped in feeling some of her earlier boldness slip away until she realised the room was empty.

Empty but in disarray, testimony of the scuffle that had occurred there barely an hour ago, she found herself thinking, “he didn’t even have the decency to get rid of the used condoms.”

The condoms lay discarded, offending and insulting as they sagged with the whitish slime of his semen.

She stepped over them, opening the closet and picking out the outfit she knew would be most appropriate.

The outfit to wear on this most important day of her life, for what day could be more important than one’s last day on earth?

Getting dressed she hummed a tune and made her face up as she toyed with the idea of leaving a note.

What to write? What to say? What was there to say that had not already been said? How many times had she asked for help, called out to everyone, to no one in particular, to all of them?

So now what should she say? Nothing.

She resolved that she say nothing. She would leave it unsaid.

Let them live the rest of their lives with the torture of unanswered questions, let them wonder, let them speculate, go round and round in circles and evade the truth that would stare them straight in the face.

She was done and feeling slightly dizzy. So it had begun. She looked around and wondered if this was a fitting place to spend her last moments on earth. She saw the bed – defiled and thought it appropriate to lie down on it.

It was the scene of the ultimate betrayal after all, the scene of the greatest crime any mother can witness, any wife can live through and any woman could suffer.

So she lay down and unbidden the images flashed through her mind – graphic detail, the ugliness of the truth.

She saw again that woman fleeing in panic, in shame, in fear and in humiliation. She saw again her husband telling her to wait outside while he finished what he’d started, while he buried his throbbing organ into the soft and pliant flesh of that woman.

Then as she began to slip away into unconsciousness, the images merged and the two faces juxtaposed in her mind – that woman and her husband.

That woman with the same forehead, the dimpled smile, the same jutting chin and flat nose as her husband; that woman who had whispered as she ran out of the room, had whispered so softly that she could not understand how she had even caught the words, “sorry mama, he made me do it!”

Perhaps it was years of being a mother, of being attuned to the distress signals of her offspring, having that blind maternal instinct that kept her in tune with her children.

Whatever the reason she had heard her, her own child, a woman now – that woman.
She had heard her, heard the fear, the horror, the humiliation and the shame and wished she could leave a note – at least for that woman. A note to say that she didn’t blame her, that it wasn’t her fault.

But she couldn’t move now... the poison was taking effect and she was slowly fading away – her breath coming in shallow gasps.

No note. Nothing at all. Let it haunt them. Let her death hang over their heads like a dark cloud; let it follow them like a malevolent spirit.

As she breathed her last she remembered words that she had once heard, the wisdom of others cushioned her as she slipped out of this world: “there is nothing as deafening as the echoing sound of the things we leave unsaid.”

Yes, let her death be like that deafening echo of silence.

The Echo of Silence was written by Delta Law Milayo Ndou.

Copyright © Delta Law Milayo Ndou 2010.

I am a wordsmith. For as long as I can remember I have had the uncanny ability to pour the feelings and experiences of others into the malleable form we call words. I am a VOICE - one of those who refuse to be gagged by the traditions that tell me that my womanhood obscures my humanity. Mine is a literature of deconstruction. I am preoccupied by the need to challenge the status quo, to de-construct the stereotypes and the myths about what womanhood entails, particularly in patriarchal Africa.
My literature is a woman's interpretation of the world, and it is a human being's critique of the beliefs and traditions that relegate one set of human beings to inferiority on the basis of their anatomy.

In a world where a woman's voice is considered irrelevant - I choose to use words to break the silence. So like the ironsmith wields the anvil - I too, wield words to break the chains of ideologies that enslave women and deprive them of the space to shape their own destinies, to have a say in matters that affect their lives and especially to forge their own identity; to define on their own terms - what womanhood entails.

So I write because I have failed to buy into the myth that an African woman's silence is a sign of virtue and not cowardice.


I write because I refuse to be counted among so many of my sisterhood - those born with mouths wide open and lips sealed shut!

I write because my anatomy can not bind me, define me, confine me, restrain me or limit me...



To introduce myself in the conventional manner, perhaps a menu of the tags I've worn all my life will suffice and if that is not enough perhaps a catalogue of all of the labels I have picked up as I passed through the varying seasons and phases of life.

Who am I?

I am a member of the human species, an African by race, a Zimbabwean by nationality, black (perhaps brown is more accurate) by color, a woman by sex, a Venda by tribe, a Christian by religion, a feminist by choice, a journalist by profession, a writer by design and an activist by default.

And I have answered to the name Delta Law Milayo Ndou for a quarter for a century now and will do so all my days.

The Identical Twins by Kenechukwu Obi

The evening was cool, and the air carried some dusty smell as a result of the earlier rainfall. Raindrops rattled on the thatched roof of the mud house in which Johnson studied, occasionally breaking into his concentration. As the rain fell, Johnson took a break from studies and peered out of the window. Johnson’s attention was drawn to his father’s grave that was outside. He wondered if the remains of his late father could still be there, getting wet, as raindrops fell on it. Wild imagination, Johnson thought, and quickly cleared his mind of that. He went back to face his studies. Something his father always said came upon his mind before he could take his seat. Johnson could hear those words as loud as his father had said them. “My Children, take education seriously and secure a bright future.” Johnson gently shut his eyes and nodded in appreciation of that advice.

“Father, I will,” he said to himself in a low tone, and began studying again.

Johnson and Tracey, who was his identical twin sister, had an examination to write in a month’s time. But as each day passed and drew the examination day closer, Johnson burned with the enthusiasm to read and excel, while Tracey simply whiled away her time. She was always going out, chatting with friends, engaging in friendships that spared her no time for studies.


An irresistible aroma diffused from the pot of soup their mother had finished making in the near-by kitchen. Johnson took a sniff and got a strong whiff of it.

“Your culinary skills are unquestionable,” he said to his mother, laughing.

“I have to make sure my identical twins feed well,” replied Johnson’s mother, as she made for the little room where Johnson was studying.

“How are you getting on with your studies, my son?” She asked.

“Well, I am doing my best, which I hope will see me through,” was Johnson’s quick reply. His mother was impressed.

“A good education is quite essential if one desires a sound foundation in life,” she said. “You don’t know how much I still wish my own parents knew the worth of education and had given me a chance,” she further said and looked up.

Lots of regret stood in her eyes. Johnson sensed it and quickly turned to his mother.

“All will be fine,” he said. “I will strive to be all you and father never had a chance to be,” he further spoke to pacify his mother.

Johnson saw a smile flash on his mother’s face, brightening it. Then it dulled again, with a maze of wrinkles so pronounced on it.

“What is it again mother?” The perturbed Johnson asked.

“I’m just worried about Tracey your sister. She does not care about studying.” Johnson chuckled.

“Don’t worry again, mother. I will talk to Tracey.” Johnson thought he could talk Tracey into reversing her attitude to her studies.



Tracey tickled with awareness that someone had come into her room, but did not bother to turn around and find out whom it was. She was lying down. Her books were on a wooden table, begging and yearning to be read, when Johnson entered. The first glance Johnson threw fell on Tracey, and then on her books – those that she had not touched for a long time had gathered enough dust, and had become full of spider cobweb. It was all an ugly sight to Johnson, most especially seeing Tracey lie aimlessly and starring at mud walls which her room had. He could not help getting worried.

Johnson sat beside Tracey. “Are you trying to sleep or meditating?” He gently asked. Tracey sat up. She starred at Johnson as if he was a dreaded stranger that had come so close. There was something aggressive about her glare on Johnson. It nailed him with intense ferocity.

“No I’m not,” Tracey who was very good at repartee uttered, “but why are you so concerned?” She demanded.

“Look, Tracey,” Johnson said. He could not say more because Tracey interrupted him quickly.

“You have nothing else to do? And you have come here to look at my face?” Said Tracey, her tone rising.

“You must listen to me, Tracey.”

“What is it, Johnson? Say it fast and briefly! I am not in the mood to entertain a speech!”

Johnson was determined to bring about a change of attitude in his sister. He allowed a wide smile light up his face before sitting closer to her. Tracey seemed to have lost a bit of her earlier aggressiveness. There was however, a sneering look on her face that was so determined not to give way for a smile, no matter how hard Johnson tried.

“Alright, tough sister,” Johnson began. “What is your problem?”

“And you think as my brother, the solution is with you?”

“You answered my question with a question, Tracey. You have said nothing.”

“You want to know my problem?”

“Yes, you are my sister and I should be distressed when all is not well with you.”

“Thank you so much. Thank you so much for caring. I have no problem.”

“You can’t say that. It is clear you are not focused on your studies.”

“When did you become my mentor? I can’t remember hiring anyone.”

“I am not here for jokes, Tracey.”

“Jokes? Well, you met me lying down. I was thinking about my life.”

Johnson immediately felt that Tracey had made it easier for him to express the real contents of his mind by saying she was thinking about her life. He wasted no time at all in asking her why she never took her studies seriously, in a slow soothing tone that carried all the love and concern he had for his twin sister.

“And yet you made us believe you want to be a doctor,” said Johnson. “Please don’t come to believe anything good can be achieved without hard work.”

“What do you want?”

“I am willing to help you in your studies if only you will start now to embrace it.”
Johnson’s offer stung Tracey’s ears like a bee, and got her into a mood that meant she was not ready to listen further. There was a sneering look on Tracey’s face that fully portrayed her resentment.

“Are you through?” She asked, holding back her simmering anger. Johnson uttered not a word, but looked on.

“Leave me alone,” Tracey added in a shrill tone of finality. She gave Johnson no other chance to speak. All his overtures got yelled down.

Johnson shrugged his shoulders and left Tracey’s room, fully filled with the feeling that he had done what he ought to do. Not even words of advice showered on Tracey by invited elders could change her.

What worsened the matter was that a relationship got ignited between Tracey and Tina. Tina was a girl of Tracey’s age—seventeen. Her behaviour was bad. Her romance with the streets of Lagos was a known fact. Tracey was warned to stay off the relationship, but again, she would not listen. Her mother cried often, and Johnson always consoled her, telling her to believe all would be well in the end.


The examination day eventually came. Johnson received it with a lot of confidence. His hopes were high. It was clear to him as crystal that he was quite prepared. He however, made supplications to his sublime creator for further assistance. Tracey on her part was never really understood. She kept everyone wondering why she even bordered to sit for the examination. Not even Juliet, her friend, could convince her to prepare well for the examination.


“I don’t have any peace of mind in that house.” Tracey paid Juliet a visit one day, and began to complain. “It is all about how I am not studying. That is what they keep saying every day. Just about exams and nothing more. Exams! Exams! Exams!”
Juliet wished she was in Tracey’s shoes.

“What your mother and brother are saying is not bad at all,” she remarked to Tracey’s disappointment. “It is in your best interest,” Juliet further said. “They obviously want the best for you.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Tracey thundered.

“I will always tell you the truth as a friend.”

“Meaning what?”

“Your mother and brother are right. Why not heed their advice. That is the right step for you to take.”

“You disappoint me, Juliet!”

“How I wish I had a mother and brother encouraging me. Here I am, wasting my life as a maid who does not go to school. You have the chance to attend a university, and you don’t care about it. My dead parents once told me that those who have buttocks don’t have seats to sit on. And those who have seats don’t have buttocks to sit.”

“I thought you were a friend. Now I know better. You just keep your eyes open and watch how I will succeed if I get to Lagos!” were Tracey’s stern words before she stormed away, her relationship with Juliet having hit the rocks now.


It took a couple of months for the examination results to be released. Johnson was successful. His result stood out. It earned him a scholarship to study his beloved accountancy at the University of Lagos. The scholarship also covered his living expenses in Lagos for the duration of his course of study. It was dreams-come-through for Johnson who for long had dreamt of studying in Lagos. A place he had not been to, but was full of mental pictures of what he had heard about it—the hustle and bustle of the city, its high-rise buildings in Marina, Martins and Broad streets. There was hunger in Johnson to see bridges many miles in length stretched above the Atlantic Ocean, and curved to different directions. He very much wanted to set his eyes on the Third Mainland Bridge and other construction masterpieces that dotted the city.

Johnson’s joy knew no bounds.

“Lagos here I come!” He screamed and jumped up severally in celebration, throwing his hands up. “Father said it. So did mother, that hard work pays. Lagos here I come!”

Tracey had nothing to show as expected. Her lackadaisical attitude to her studies ensured that she recorded the worst result of the examination. It was when the big and demeaning examination failure became Tracey’s lot that she began to think seriously about how to travel to Lagos. But lack of sufficient money was one big obstacle facing her.

Even the wind carried Johnson’s outstanding performance. His mother was thrilled, though her joy was with pangs of sadness as a result of Tracey’s case. Johnson rolled from one end of his sleeping mat to the other in excitement every night. Tracey could not sleep most of the nights after receiving her horrible result. She thought hard of next possible steps she could take.

“You have plans, pretty Tracey,” she kept telling herself. “Examination success is not the only success one can have in life. You have brains, Tracey. You will be successful.”


Johnson counted the days and prepared for his departure. His excitement became bigger when it remained fourteen days for him to travel. He chose to represent the remaining days with short straight lines on sand, a line he cleaned off as each day aged and was gone. He began to stay out late into the nights, watching the moon and imagining himself as a qualified accountant on the staff of a Lagos-based financial institution.

The day for his departure came at last. There was slight breeze that youthful morning, which resulted not in rainfall. And the sun had risen to warm things up a bit by the time Johnson was ready to leave. He never slept much the previous night, being filled with excitement. Johnson left his village a ‘King’. Even the dogs wagged their tails as he was leaving.


Tracey wandered in the village for a while after Johnson’s departure before finding her way to Lagos. Tina had paid her a visit one sunny and bright afternoon. She was alone outside.

“Thanks goodness you’re at home. I had a feeling I may not meet you,” said Tina.

“I’m usually at home at this time. Let’s go to my room.”

“You mean that tiny rat-hole you sleep in?”

“Call it whatever you like. It’s none of your business where I sleep.”

Tracey led the way and Tina followed.

“What have you been doing, Tracey?”

“Thinking of my next move,” Tracey replied and sat on her bed.

“I hope you are not letting the exam thing weigh you down.”

“I will never let that happen.”

“Life is much bigger than that.”

“I like your hair, Tina. It always looks beautiful,” Tracey remarked, as a little smile flickered on her face.

“Thank you so much,” Tina responded in delight. “I’ve been expecting you to praise it. It costs a lot to keep my hair this way.”

“You look absolutely beautiful, Tina. You amaze me a lot. How do you get to look this way?”

Tina smiled and sat on a wooden seat beside Tracey’s bed.

“It’s simple.”

“How? You appear more dazzling each time you disappear and return. How do you make all the money? You are not telling me something, Tina.”

Tina grinned. “It’s very easy,” she said with a smile. “It is even easier than counting ABC.”

“Now what are you talking about?” Tracey who was all lost quickly asked.

“With a bit of intelligence, determination and drive, you are there! Your clients will be all over you like a swarm of flies.”

Tracey remained lost, completely unable to understand what Tina was talking about.
“What kind of clients?” She asked timidly, showing her naivety.

“Oh, Tracey, don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Tina, I don’t, to be sincere. What is it?”

“Now, let me call a spade a spade. It’s all about selling yourself. Prostitution is the name of the game.”

“But why?” Tracey asked with some repugnance, which Tina noticed.

“You will remain in this village until grey hairs flourish on her head. You don’t have to look this miserable.”

“You are wrong, Tina. I won’t remain like this.”

“Listen well. You are blessed with such beauty that can fetch you good money and your hair doesn’t have to look this shabby.”

“What about my dignity as a person? I am not ready to throw it to the wind. I will do any other thing that does not lead to selling my body.”

Tina laughed briefly and got up, her glare hard on Tracey.

“Who talks about that today?” she questioned hard “Dignity my foot! All that matters is to make some money. Money! Money! Just money!”

“I want to make money quickly. That is my desire. I don’t think selling my body is the best way to achieve that.”

“What matters is to make money! The way you make is nobody’s business, Tracey. Be smart! Wake up! You can even buy your own house and a car.”

“Really?” Tracey screamed out of excitement. “Tell me more,” she demanded. But Tina told her no more in the room, but demanded matching words with action on her part.

“Let’s get to Lagos. I will show you how you can buy your house and car when we get there.”

“I don’t have the funds to get there. How will I feed? Where will I stay there?”

“I said let’s get to Lagos. I did not say go to Lagos. I’m not sure you’re not deaf.”
“I get it now. Thanks a lot. I’m ready.”

“What of tomorrow?”

“Good.”


Tracey left for Lagos with Tina without her mother’s knowledge. Her mother worried, wept and got tired. She then took Tracey for a lost daughter. Lagos was all Tracey had heard about it. She was extremely glad to have made it. It took no much time for things to work out for her. Tina had given her good leads and all she needed to lunch out successfully. Good looks, slyness and poise brought her money. Tracey became a proud owner of a well known clubhouse in Lagos within two years. A clubhouse where one’s entry was greeted with a rumble of muffled tones. A curtain at the entrance revealed nothing from outside, but showed a lot about outside from inside. The club had rooms that were always well charged with the smell of alcohol and dripping perspiration. They were also dimly illuminated by red, blue and green electric bulbs and always filled with carousing youngsters overflowing with infatuation and extreme debauchery, with music suggestive of these always played at deafening decibels.


Tracey exploited the dark sides of youth for money, while Johnson concentrated on his studies to excel. He avoided every occasion that could distract his focus. Holidays were times he studied harder without even taking a trip to his village for once. He sometimes took time off on Sundays to get a feel of the sights and sounds of Lagos. He avoided late night parties in campus, and successfully resisted the urge to have a lover. These made him a laughing stock amongst his colleagues. He was regarded as an anti-social student, labelled as one that knew only classrooms, refectories, lavatories, the library and his hostel. Johnson was not perturbed. He had his eyes on his goal. This he accomplished with a first class degree. It was an unprecedented academic performance in his department. Then he got a good job in a bank to show for it, one month after completing his one year compulsory national service. He never stopped relishing the moment he walked majestically to mount the podium of academic excellence, flanked by scholars, hedged in by the Vice Chancellor and other Professors, all resplendent in their academic gowns. His face radiated excellence. Johnson shone. He was a single meteor displaying its splendour amidst a sky of expiring stars.

Johnson was reformed. His handsomeness blossomed like flowers. He looked very hard for searching spinsters to resist. In Johnson’s mind were two things. One of them was to see his mother after a long while, and the other was to let Tracey know that he had plans to turn her life around. Johnson was given some days off by his employers to enable him travel. A cold reception greeted his arrival at his village. He was the cynosure of all eyes, eyes that held sad tales. Johnson’s mother had died a day before he arrived. It was like the source of his life had been stolen away by death. Tears coursed down his eyes. He stood beside his mother’s grave and wept more when memories of her life and times howled like strong wind. He remembered when she used to teach him how to weed with a hoe, how she cuddled him in her hands, consoling him, when a scorpion stung him. These and many more hovered in his mind as he watched his mother’s lifeless body in a casket. He wished he could turn back the hands of time and have his mother breathing again.

The pain of his mother’s demise had barely subsided when he heard of Tracey’s mysterious disappearance from the village. Johnson was shattered. He wept openly like a child. He felt a wide emptiness within and wondered why he deserved such a fate. A ray of hope of finding Tracey, however, flashed, when Johnson’s enquiries had Juliet revealing vital information.

“Tracey said something about going to Lagos the last time we were together,” said Juliet.

“You mean she could be there?” Johnson asked with his eyes wide open, looking very desperate.

“I believe so,” Juliet replied. She then followed it up with a nod in the affirmative.

Johnson was more than determined to get to Tracey’s whereabouts in Lagos immediately the funeral rites his mother were concluded. He had to put up a story of his missing identical twin sister in some daily newspapers. A friend of his who was once one of Tracey’s clients quickly called Johnson’s number on seeing the published story, and asked him to check out the busiest clubhouse in Lagos, otherwise known as “ALL COMERS.” Johnson was very reluctant to go to ALL COMERS. He had heard so much about the notoriety of the clubhouse and believed there was no way Tracey would be there. But when many who responded to his publication said the same thing his friend had told him, he decided to try. People said they had seen a young pretty lady that resembled Johnson at the clubhouse. Johnson was reliably informed as well that the lady owned the clubhouse.


Ignoring all the youths who danced away to the tune of music being played, Johnson walked straight to the man at the bar. He bought himself a cold beer, which he gently sipped.

“I want the owner of this club,” he demanded.

The bartender grinned briefly and ran quick investigative glances all over Johnson.
“I’m not sure you can pay for that,” he hinted. “She is very expensive.”

“Do I look like a man who can’t afford her bills?” Johnson thundered. “All-night with her is my desire,” he announced with emphasis.

“Alright, if you insist,” the bartender replied, and went in search of his boss.
Johnson could not believe his eyes when Tracey came along, beaming seductive smiles at him.

“My informants are right after all,” Johnson muttered as he managed to contain his crumbling composure, though he could not totally stop his eyes from getting wet with tears a little bit. Tracey was so blind to see. Johnson agreed without haggles to pay Tracey’s bill and drove off with her.


Their mother’s old photograph was on the wall in Johnson’s large sitting room.

“What a tastefully furnished room you have here,” Tracey remarked, before her glances found the photograph. She knew it so well. Again her glances fell on her family photograph. Johnson looked away and hard at the floor, not wanting his eyes to meet Tracey’s.

“What is my family doing here?” Tracey asked in a tone heavy with bewilderment. “How did you get these photographs?” She further asked Johnson, who could no longer keep up with restraining himself from shedding tears. He quickly held Tracey by her shoulders. Tracey could then have a clear view that revealed it was Johnson, her identical twin brother that stood. She screamed out of shock, sprawled to the floor and fainted.

“Tracey...” Johnson bellowed, as he quickly bent down, shaking his sister’s body in a vigorous manner, in his attempt to bring her back to consciousness.

“What kind of fate do we have?” His lamentation began. “What is this? What sort of fate is this? Do not die and leave me, Tracey. You are all I have left.” He then stood up quickly and rushed to a refrigerator in his kitchen, returned with a bottle of cold water, which he poured all over Tracey. Some water sipped into Tracey’s nostrils. She then coughed loud at first, again and again, until she had coughed fourteen times divided by two. Johnson saw her breathing had become steady.

“Get up, Tracey!” He urged. “Get up! You can’t afford to die now! Get up!” And Tracey’s eyes opened within seconds. She could not still believe who was with her.

“Tell me I am dreaming.”

“This is real, Tracey.”

“I am sorry you had to meet me this way.”

“I need you to be strong for me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You feel you can get up now by yourself?”

“Yes. I’m okay now.”

“I will still give you a hand.”

Tracey learnt of her mother’s death as well. This made her sober.

“Come on,” Johnson said to her. “Mother is gone and we can’t have her back. You have a future ahead to live she and father’s desire. They wanted us to be educated.”

“She was a nice mother, even though I did not heed her counsel most times,” said Tracey.”

“We have each other, Tracey. My life will be refreshed if you, my only sister, will clean up your life.”

“I will do that. I promise.”


Tracey became dedicated to her studies afterwards. She was able to gain admission to study medicine at the University of Lagos. She was glad like Johnson, to have fulfilled their parents’ lifetime desire, after it seemed like it would not happen. She left the streets, but alas, could not have left without the acquired immune deficiency syndrome—her price for debauchery. Her health took a heavy toll from the disease with time. Johnson became shattered. Tracey was dying. And this meant Johnson’s whole life had no choice but to crumble. With Tracey being gradually tugged away by death, Johnson could no longer put in his best in his job. The result was that he lost it. He saw nothing worth holding onto anymore in life. As Tracey got closer to death, Johnson felt more hopeless. He would not dare to remain alive with Tracey gone. He then paved his way into being in Tracey’s horrible health condition by making love to her. Though Tracey did not agree, but she had no strength to pull off a successful resistance.

“No! Johnson, this isn’t right.”

“I have to do it, Tracey.”

“Don’t you want to live?”

“Live for what? There is nothing in this world anymore without you.”

“You have to live!”

“Be alive and alone? No, Tracey.”

“Johnson, please... don’t do it! I beg you.”

“No I want to be where you are going.”

Johnson hoped to end up with Tracey wherever death would take her. Tracey later died, and Johnson’s death was only a matter of time. And he did not feel bad at all, about how he placed his life in the cold hands of death.

The Identical Twins was written by Kenechukwu Obi.

Copyright © Kenechukwu Obi 2010.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Email Address: kencel65@gmail.com

Snake of the Niger Delta by Chimdindu Mazi-Njoku

They call me the Snake. You see, I had a difficult childhood, but I’ve almost always demonstrated an uncanny gift of coming out of seemingly hopeless situations. They say I am slippery, maybe I am. This is my story.

I was only ten years old when my father took me and my mother along with him to Abuja to buy the goods he sold. It was the first time either me or my mother had made that journey. I guess my father must have come across a huge windfall and decided to use that opportunity to show us the roads without potholes he had always told us about.

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

Snake of the Niger Delta was written by Chimdindu Mazi-Njoku.

Copyright © Chimdindu Mazi-Njoku 2010.

Born on 14th April 1985 in Port Harcourt, Nigeria, Chimdindu Mazi-Njoku hails from Isuikwuato LGA in Abia State, Nigeria.

He had his primary education in Bereton Montessori Nursery & Primary School, Port Harcourt after which he was enrolled into the prestigious Kings College, Lagos, for his secondary education. While in Kings College an insatiable hunger for knowledge, fueled by prodigious curiosity, made him form the habit of reading everything he could lay his hands (and his eyes) on, with a predilection for encyclopedias and novels. On graduating from Kings College he gained admission into Federal University of Technology, Owerri, where he majored in Industrial Microbiology.

Mazi-Njoku describes himself as a realist, pragmatist, an iconoclast, broad-minded, intellectual, egalitarian and a maverick. His favourite past-times include intellectual nourishment, writing, travelling and a bit of chess. He is a self-confessed art lover, aesthete, automobile enthusiast and perfume fiend who finds it excruciatingly difficult to compromise on quality and detail. He currently resides in Port Harcourt where he works and writes.

The Strange Visitors by William Tekede

The year is 1978. More than two weeks back soldiers had visited our school. Chief Zimbiti had sent word around. The Headmaster had reaffirmed it when we assembled towards the end of one day. Everyone was supposed to attend without failure. His last words were “all children dismissed.”

“Away!” We shouted in a chorus and ran in different directions. We each carried the message to our homes.

It was an effective message whose results now lay before us. I had never seen such a sea of people gathered at one place, and so many soldiers too. Then there was also all the cars, trucks, and buses everyone came in; the only moving vehicle I had known other than a bicycle and a scotch cart, was a Rufaro company bus that plied that route occasionally. It used to bring home my brother who would visit mostly once every Christmas. If we were lucky he would also visit us in July during the Rhodes and Founders Day holiday.

We were surrounded by black and white soldiers all wielding guns. In the centre of the crowd was one white soldier and a black soldier, then Chief Zimbiti and his lieutenants. To one side of them was a group of shabbily dressed filthy men. They were lined up in leg irons and chained to one another. The lanky white soldier was addressing the crowd in English and was interpreted by the big physically intimidating black soldier.

Magandanga (terrorists) were the subject. We were told that these were very dirty people who do not bath or comb their hair, men with tails who lived on wild fruits, and who above all were very dangerous. The men in leg irons were then paraded as an example of these captured terrorists. They went on to tell us how these human animals had invaded communities all over the country causing unimaginable havoc. We were told to stay on guard and to report them to authorities without delay whenever they were seen. Such reports would earn people huge monetary rewards. It was a long and intimidating lecture. We were told that because they were very dangerous only soldiers had the capacity to deal with them.

What followed was a display of a range of military weapons and a demonstration of their fire power. It was such a mixed bag. The soldiers claimed all the most effective weaponry. The remainders were condemned together with their named carriers.

The picture of an old woman who soiled her pants after a hail of bullets were pumped into a tree is still vivid in my mind. I am pretty sure there were many more similar cases. This was just an outstanding one. A lot of what we saw and experienced that day is still very clear in my mind, even though I was young then; and had nightmares long after that remained as a constant reminder.

It was late in the evening. We had just finished having our supper. My mother, my sister and one of my niece's were in the kitchen engaged in their usual chores. At the Dare, we sat around a fire, and started the usual story time. But tonight we were disturbed by unusual barking of our dogs. Within seconds, one of the younger dogs ran straight into the Dare with its tail between its legs. From my hunting experiences, I knew that only lions could frighten dogs to that level of submission. The only difference was this time the dogs were barking instead of wincing. Lions had been a menace especially to homesteads where donkeys were kept. Yet we didn’t keep any donkeys so what could it have been?

We reacted to the situation in different ways; my father armed himself with a spear in one hand and a knobkerrie in the other. From the darkness a human figure appeared right in front of one of the several entrances into the dare. The next thing we were escorted into the kitchen. The dogs were still barking but they soon calmed down.

In the kitchen we were subjected to another lecture. They gave us a recap of that dreadful meeting at the school. They told us they were the sons and brothers of the community who had come to liberate us from the many evil deeds of the white men. They gave us an overview of their intentions and concluded that we had to fight the white men together. The whites and their administration were our common enemy. Their lecture was so convincing in its common cause that they earned our immediate trust and support.

These guys did not match the description of the terrorists that we had been given by that lanky white soldier. They didn’t resemble any of those filthy guys who had been paraded before us that day. They carried those powerful weapons the white soldier had claimed. They had no tails. What a contrast. They didn’t do the dreaded demonstration of the weaponry they carried save for the display of one that looked like a wooden snuff pouch.

This was their N’anga. They told us how they would monitor our movements and listen to our conversations through the use of this gadget. We did not doubt them for they had told us everything about the other meeting that took place at the school. They had not attended but their N’anga had told them all, so they said. They told us never to tell anyone about their presence. It was a secret never to be discussed even among those of us who were present. Our neighbours were never to be told anything, even our family members who were already sleeping and did not witness this event were not to be informed. As for all school children, we were told never to write a story or a composition about strange visitors. It is only now that I am writing about them. They played their psychological game well and yet remained socially warm.


A few weeks later there was talk about Vakomana (guerrillas) having been seen here and there within the community. I never said anything. Those who had never met them looked forward to seeing them and here was an opportunity.

It was on a Thursday afternoon and sports activities were now over. Most school children would soon pass through the shops on the way home. I had just played a blinder of a football game as goalkeeper, we had lost by two goals to one. It was time to go home and that defeat was still lingering at the back of my mind.

Upon arrival at the township, we discovered a multitude of people gathered at Chief Zimbiti’s shop. All the other shops had been closed. Vakomana were addressing people. Within minutes of our arrival people were ordered to get anything they wanted from the shop. There was a stampede and the shop was emptied within minutes. The elders were enjoying Shake-Shake beer, and everyone was happy. Chief Zimbiti was asked to take off his jacket and one of the elders of the chief’s council received it. The Chief smiled and everyone cheered. The drama was unfolding.

Suddenly, the cheerful Vakomana switched to unprovoked offensive mood. They asked the Chief to stand and walk away from the crowd. He delayed and was soon hit by a hurled full brick on the forehead. We all went numb and were shocked. None of us had anticipated anything like that. The behaviour of these guys was surely unpredictable.

Just as the chief rose and staggered forward one, two, three steps, there was gun fire. He went down with a groan and was dead. We all stood breathless. They told us soldiers would be coming soon so everybody should rush home. We ran like headless chickens. I thought I was the only one running so fast away but when I looked around I saw I in the middle of a crowd comprising the young and the old, and we had already travelled over a kilometre. Some people were so scared they had fled in wrong direction only to get to their homes the following morning.

Three days after the death of Chief Zimbiti his corpse had still not been moved an inch. The surroundings were littered with an assortment of goods that had been taken from his shop on that fateful Thursday. Some items could be seen dumped several kilometres away from the township. His jacket could be seen hanging from a tree stump near the school. It was rumoured that dogs had begun feasting on his feet. The township was deserted. All the other shops remained closed, and the soldiers had never come as had been expected.

A few weeks after, the school was closed and its walls knocked down into rubble. The chief had finally been buried and we learnt he had boasted about the gun he had been given by the soldiers to gun down terrorists; that was his crime.

Many nasty things happened following this incident. Once in the early days of the struggle the terrorists were sold out, ambushed and three of them were gunned down. The bodies were taken to Karoi in an open truck and displayed along the way for everyone to see. We knew them but no one admitted to any knowledge of them. The fourth one who died from the gun wounds away from the battle ground was never found by Ian Smith’s soldiers and was buried in a shallow grave by his colleagues assisted by a few local boys.

Many battles were fought, and I personally witnessed a big passenger plane come down in a ball of smoke. When it hit the ground, there was immediate gun fire and all the passengers were killed. We had many sleepless nights. People were put into Protected Villages. Many people lost their lives. It was a protracted struggle and was all the work of those strange visitors and the co-operation of the communities that won us the struggle. Independence was finally achieved and Robert Mugabe’s ZANU (PF) overwhelmingly won the election and was sworn in as the 1st Prime Minister. We all celebrated this on the 18th of April 1980.

No here I am, more than two decades have passed and I am telling it all now. How those strange visitors turned out to be our liberators, our heroes, our war veterans, and their prophet (N’anga) they showed us that night was a grenade.

The Strange Visitors was written by William Tekede.

Copyright William Tekede 2010.

William Tekede was delivered on 16 June in the winter of 1967. He was born in the round pole and dagga hut, the family kitchen on Welcombe or Boss Mhosi’s farm which lies west of Karoi town along the road leading to Magunje Growth Point. The farm was popularly known as Mhondoro Farm.

In 1973, William started his primary education at Sengwe Primary School. This was after the family had left farm employment and resettled under chief Nyamhunga in the Hurungwe Tribal Trust Land. One Thursday afternoon in June 1978 the school was closed down at the height of the liberation struggle. This development saw William out of school for two years until 1980 when he resumed his education and enrolling for grade six at the same school. After completing grade seven, I then went on to do my secondary education at Pakame Secondary School in Shurugwi from 1982 to 1985. I enrolled to study Librarianship at Harare Polytechnic College from 1987 to 1989 and went back to further my studies from 2002 -2003. I worked in the Ministry of Home Affairs, Department of National Archives of Zimbabwe from June 1990 to September 2006. After 16 years of continuous service at the Archives, I relinquished my position as Acting Chief Librarian and joined National University of Science and Technology in Bulawayo in the city of kings on 2nd October 2006. In June 2008, I was seconded to run the newly established Graduate School of Business Library (GSB) where I am currently working as the GSB Librarian.

Discovering my potential as a writer came about while I was in secondary school. I used to enjoy writing shona poetry which captured the interest of my subject teacher as well as that of my classmates. This interest was watered down by lack of opportunities to publish until late 1990s when I started writing in English for the National Archives newsletter. That experience was a stepping stone. Before this, I used to write a lot in shona until one day I decided to take some of my works to Mai Chisamba. I remember visiting her at the Examinations Branch in Mount Pleasant and my works instantly captured her attention. This visit led to the canned broadcast on ZTV (AM Zimbabwe) of my presentation of one of my shona piece titled “Munhu hunhu” towards end of 1999. That experience was a great motivator. But due to pressure of work at the time I slithered. One day in 2004 some primary school children visited the National Archives to research on one of our national heroes as a school project. It was embarrassing to note that there was very little information available. It was then that I decided to write an article urging Zimbabweans to consider depositing historical material with the Archives. Fortunately it was published in the Herald on 15 September 2004. I followed up on this one with another one which was also published in the same paper on 23 September 2004. A few more others followed suite. That marked the beginning of my relationship with the press.

When I moved to Bulawayo in October 2006, I continued writing and sending my contributions to Chronicle and most of them are published. I enjoy doing this as a public/social service. Sometime in 2007, I received an e-mail from an ex-workmate at National Archives now living abroad who is a renowned author at Storytime informing me about her publications. When I started reading Sarudzayi Chifamba-Barnes’s works on the internet, my interest to write short stories was re-activated. I wrote three which I sent to Ivor W. Hartmann without expecting much out of it. But when he responded inviting me to join storytime authors, I felt like it was a call for me to unleash whatever was hidden under the screen of my intellectual stone. I feel being published on storytime is a result of my retrospective desire to become a writer that I have turned out to be and think that I can express myself much better in poetry. For now I think I will concentrate in this area and will strive to continue writing verses in English and Shona.