The Crystal River by Bee Ifezue (Book Excerpt)

Chapter Seven

Under the tunnels

When Bru and Mo got to the bottom of the hill, Mo got down on his knees beside some thick shrubs and moved a thick branch back to reveal the opening of a tunnel.

“I hope the moles don’t mind,” Bru said, nervously.

Mo laughed. “Don’t worry little brother; they are not home at this time of the year, they return only after the Haruvian summer is over.”

Mo crawled into the dark hole. He drew out a little ball that resembled a torchlight and tied it to his headband. The dark tunnel lit up. Bru followed closely not wanting to be left behind.

“That is a fantastic light ball. Where did you get it from?” Bru asked. “Your father brought it back from one of his trips, it is very useful,” Mo agreed.

“I never knew there was a tunnel in the village,” said Bru.

“I discovered it by accident. A curious Tiwoq chased a mole into here once and of course the Tiwoq got stuck. I had to pull it out.”

Bru laughed. “How far does the tunnel go?” he asked.

“I believe it goes as far out as the turtle rock,” said Mo.

They crawled through the damp tunnel for what seemed like forever to Bru, after which they finally stopped. Mo motioned to him to be quiet and pointed above the top of the tunnel.

“Are we there?” whispered Bru.

Mo nodded and they crouched, putting their ears closer to the wall of the tunnel. At the ceiling of the tunnel there were roots growing downwards and because the tunnel ran across the river, there were droplets of water on the floor.

They waited a while and nothing happened; everywhere was quiet. Bru wondered whether the Zulaqs had gone into the village. He sat down again because his leg was feeling cramps. Either they were not yet at the camp spot or they had passed it. He seriously hoped that nothing would go wrong this time; he wanted them to get it over and done with because the dark damp tunnel with the entwined roots was quite depressing, and it was giving him the creeps.

Mo tapped his shoulder and he quickly sprang up and re-positioned himself. He heard what sounded like heavy footsteps and grunts.

“We cannot delay any longer Tadamor, we have to make a move,” said a voice that sounded like a squawking bird.

“Calm down Nivaq. All is going according to plan. We have given out the Oron. I meet with Makaya later today and I shall inform him.”

“Tomorrow the new moon appears and the transformation is supposed to begin. If we miss the timing, all is lost,” Nivaq shrieked.

“We shall not miss it my friend. This is the time we have all been waiting for, and we shall not fail,” he reassured Nivaq.

Another voice was heard from the distance: “Lord Tadamor, your lady calls you.”

“Do not worry Nivaq. Prepare everything according to plan and we shall not fail.”

There was a long silence. The boys assumed that the Zulaqs must have either gone away or fallen asleep. Mo motioned to Bru and they quietly headed back to the grazing field.

They made their way through the thick shrubs and Bru breathed a big sigh of relief as he saw sunlight again and could stretch his aching legs. Mo covered up the mouth of the tunnel with the thick branches and they made their way back slowly.

The two boys slumped beneath a tree.

“What do you think they were talking about?” Bru asked.

Mo shrugged his shoulders. “I believe they are getting ready for something. I overheard them the other day talking about a ritual.”

“I heard that Zulaqs have some very strange rituals,” Mo began to explain to Bru. “The wife of the head of the tribe bears one offspring every half a century. This offspring is eaten by the Leader. Legend has it that it gives the tribe immortality and that is why many of them are more than 200 hundred years old.”

Bru stared at him in disbelief. “That cannot be true!” he exclaimed.

Mo carried on. “And it also gives them some magical powers. This rite is done every 50 years.”

Bru’s face was now turning quite pale. “Do you mean to tell me that Tadamor’s wife only bears babies for food? Why doesn’t she make food like other women instead of giving birth to food?” Bru said with a shiver.

“No one sees her. She is veiled and is waited on by only the female Zulaqs,” Mo added.

“These people are known to be a sinister and evil group of creatures, and Makaya should not have let them stay in the village. When I was a little boy my people would say that when you give a Zulaq a chair, he later goes on to take your whole possessions.”

Bru bit the bottom of his lip. “If all this is true, then they are not planning to leave tomorrow.”

Mo nodded his head in agreement.

“They have destroyed a lot of villages, leaving them in ruins.” Bru looked at Mo. “Although that was many years ago, they say Zulaqs don’t raid villages these days. But they do it in a different way”.

Bru agreed. “Only they are more scheming.”

“What can we do to stop them Mo? We can’t just sit and let them destroy Esrom,” said Bru.

“We cannot do anything but hope that they leave after tomorrow’s rite,” replied Mo.

“I must start heading home. It is almost sunset,” Bru said.

“Why don’t you take a Tiwoq; that would be a lot quicker?” Mo put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, and almost immediately, a Tiwoq came galloping towards them. He helped Bru on and bid him goodbye.

Bru held on tightly to the neck of the bird as it raced swiftly across the fields. They went past the sheep in the grazing field, and jumping over the fence they made their way along the course of the river till they finally got to the path which led up to Bru’s house. At this time the sun was disappearing over the horizon and lights had begun to appear in homes.

He got off the Tiwoq and made his way up the steps where Akiya was waiting on the veranda. When she saw him coming she ran to meet him.

“Where Bru go?” she asked.

“I was with Mo. Is father home?”

She shook her head as she went over to stroke the Tiwoq. Bru went into the house and brought out half a water melon and placed it on the ground for the Tiwoq, who gobbled it up quickly. Once the bird had finished its fruit, Bru smacked him gently on the side and it turned and raced back to the fields.

The children watched the bird go as they sat on the steps of the veranda.

Akiya looked at Bru and said, “The Zulaqs are not going to leave village”.

Bru nodded. “I know. They are having some sort of ritual tomorrow.”

“Do you know what ritual is about?” She asked.

“Mo said something unbelievable. He said that they eat their babies; I don’t believe it though.”

Akiya nodded. “It is true,” she said. “They do this to make themselves immortal.”

Bru looked at her in surprise. “How did you know that?” he asked.

“Leah,” she replied. “And they want to bewitch village.”

Bru shook his head. “You are listening to a lot of fables, little sister.”

Akiya stood up abruptly and tugged at his shirt. “Come, see,” and she pulled him along as she made her way to the back of the house and up the path that led to her little playhouse, cleverly hidden behind a thick shrub.

Bru followed her through. He had never really taken notice of the little playhouse; he thought it to be just a pile of leaves that his sister crawled under to play in. As he stepped inside the playhouse he was overwhelmingly surprised to find himself inside a roomy space. It was a little hut built out of twigs and Bansu leaves and was very well concealed by climbing plants. It looked like a thick shrub from the outside but the inside was really a small hut. Bru looked around the hut in complete amazement.

“This is wonderful, Akiya. I never knew your play house was anything like this.”

Akiya chuckled cheerfully.

Bru had to bend his head because the ceiling was a bit low. He gazed admiringly at the little pillows scattered on the floor with toys lined up neatly on the floor and a Haruvian light sitting on a lamp stand emitting a warm orange glow around the walls. “Now I understand why you disappear in here for hours.”

Bru sat on a cushion. This is a very good hideout, he thought to himself. It was very snug and inviting. Nobody would be able to find him in here.

“Come see,” Akiya urged.

Bru crawled to her. She was peering from the back of the hut. He could see what she was pointing at, because their house was built on the top of the hill. As his eyes followed the slope he could see a fire across the fields, yards from where the Zulaqs’ camp was.

“This is amazing,” Bru declared. “I didn’t know that you could see a bit of the camp from here.” He ruffled his sister’s hair fondly. “You are full of surprises.”

On the horizon Bru could see the three large pillars of the sanctuary. This was an open booth (it had three large stone pillars that stood on a large rock base with steps that led up to the stage) that was used during the festival of Rowhak. This was a thanksgiving festival that was celebrated once a year in Esrom in honour of `The Guardian of the village`. Bru remembered the excitement of that day as the villagers would bring different types of food and they would lay them out on tables around the booth.

There would be a lot of music and dancing and so much to eat. The booth would be decorated with colourful and deliciously perfumed flowers, their fragrance could be smelt for miles, and their petals would line the ground like colourful sand. Once it was sunrise, the village would be bustling with activity as cooking and cleaning would be going on and barbeque stands would be set up. Tables would be laid out with fresh juicy fruits, sweet desserts and different mouth-watering foods. Children who went on errands would be given gifts in return. In the middle of the pillars, a fire would be lit in a large chalice and the warm orange glow of the fire would burn throughout the festival, and this would normally go on from sunrise until sunset. This was a very exciting time in the village. Everyone would gather around the booth and would sing the `Song of Remembrance`:

I will look up towards the mountain
To the dwelling of the great Rowhak
That is where we shall find help

The Guardian of Esrom, defender
Keeper and great helper
Took Esrom from the hands of evil
Guided him through the great peril
Was a beacon of light along their way
Brought him to a wonderful land to stay
A land like no other, with all that they need
Esrom lived and made it home, he and his seed

The Guardian of Esrom does not slumber
Esrom’s descendants will forever remember
And keep close to their hearts the Guardian always
Rowhak the strength of Esrom
Rowhak will protect you from every evil and
He will always lead you by the hand
He will forever shield you, as you are going out
And when you are coming in

A song of the origin of Esrom, and the covenant he has with the Guardian. After the song was sung, the whole village would pledge again their loyalty to the Guardian.

As Bru and Akiya looked out from the playhouse, they saw a huge bonfire in front of the booth. Though it was dark, they could still make out the shapes of the Zulaq warriors as they walked around the fire.

“What are they doing?” Bru asked.

His sister shrugged her shoulders. The Zulaqs had been going round the fire for what seemed like hours to the children. As the darkness enveloped the village, the children went back into the house.


The front door opened and Navan walked in, looking quite worn out and slumped into a nearby chair. “Hello father”, said Akiya and she walked over to him and sat on his lap.

“How are you children?” Looking over to Bru, he said, “I hope you have kept out of trouble today.” Bru nodded with a dry smile. “When are the Zulaqs leaving?” Bru asked, knowing what his reply would be.

“Have you not heard that tomorrow is their New Moon Festival, in celebration of the Zulaqs’ New Year. It is a well-known rite of their people.” Navan took off his sandals and continued, “Many of us have been helping them in their preparations.”

“There is a big merry-making tomorrow, and everyone is invited.” He smiled broadly. “They have invited the Granks and the Tilypians from the south country. It will be a great day.”

The two children looked at each other.

“You can both come, providing you behave,” he said, sternly wagging his finger at Bru. He gave a loud yawn and stood up and gave a long stretch. “I better hit my bed. It has been a long day and will get busier tomorrow.” Picking up his sandals he made his way to his room.

The children sat quietly staring into the fire.

“I don’t want to go to party,” Akiya said, shaking her head.

Bru nodded in agreement. He didn’t want to be a part of it either. He wondered why the Zulaqs where using the sanctuary. He knew he didn’t believe the tales about Rowhak, but he felt it was something special to their village and he had always looked forward to the end of the harvest when the whole village would buzz in preparation for the festival. He wondered why everyone had all of a sudden been caught up in the excitement of the Zulaqs’ ritual. It was as if they were all under some spell. What were the Granks and Tilypians doing in the village? Everyone knew that they were known for black magic and sorcery.

There was that humming sound again, Bru thought to himself. Akiya raised her head and looked around the room.

“Did you hear that?” She asked.

Bru nodded. “I have been hearing that for days now and I thought it was my ears buzzing.” They both kept quiet and listened.

It was a light vibrating hum, a little bit louder than an insect. The two children looked around them, but saw nothing. Eventually they decided to go to sleep.

This is an excerpt of The Crystal River (TP Publications, July, 2010), written by Bee Ifezue.

Copyright © Bee Ifezue 2010.

Bee Ifezue is the auhtor of The Crystal River (TP Publications, July, 2010) her first Children’s novel. It has received an overwhelming number of positive reviews from readers. Ifezue hold a BA (Hons) Degree in Fine & Applied Arts from the University of Nigeria; and was the Chief Cartoonist at Outlook Newspaper before she returned to the UK and studied animation and website development. She now works as a Design Consultant, and lives in London with her husband and four children. Her first unpublished short story “The little Stone” featured on a London radio station for Children's Story hour. More information can be obtained from her website (http://www.esromchronicles.com).

Kakoon by Nyambura Kiarie

The earliest memory she had of herself as a separate being, was when she was three years old. She knew then that she was a she and belonged to someone, multiple someone’s, and yet she was not them. She liked it; this place of self knowing that was hers alone, and in it she could be anything, concrete or amorphous. She knew this knowing of self and it was enough. It was important because it allowed her to be separate from her three siblings. Without it she would surely be swallowed up and forgotten by her siblings, who exploded into her horizon in different dimensions all at once; this secret knowing was entirely hers. She looked up at them perched on incredibly long legs, knobby knees and skinny frames. She was round and chubby and she was used to Mum, who was rounded and soft, and Dad, who was rounded and strong. This roundness was comforting, a familiar habitat when they held her.

Her siblings were aliens from another planet, loud, boisterous, always scheming about something or other. In their presence her heart beat faster and she always felt breathless trying to keep out of harm’s way. She had no words for this self knowing, but it was there as a part of her existence. All of her three years, her siblings ignored her, and to show that it was she who was alien and intruded upon their world, they called her It. She had a name of course, and was named after a saint, but only Mum and Dad called her by this name. The fact that her siblings ignored the blessed name of a saint, made her think less of the saint and that name, and she came to believe that It was more representative of who she was.

It did not help that she had a funny way of speaking. Her siblings called these speech mannerisms ‘shrubbing’, and they were remorseless in teasing her because of it. She tended to mispronounce words or invent her own that sounded close to what she wanted to say. Mum and Dad just shrugged it off as baby talk that would wear off as she gained more fluency.

She was four on her first day at kindergarten. Dad proudly held her hand and walked her into class. He didn’t leave until she sat in a little yellow chair among other small beings like her, all sitting on red, green, blue, and pink, chairs. She trembled when Dad left, but was soon distracted by the smell of new paint, plasticine, and cocoa. Better still she liked all the colours in the classroom. She felt all warmed up inside when the teacher said to them, “Today we will begin our lesson by learning letters to make words. Words are good, they can say how we feel.” This teacher was wonderful. She was round like her mother and she had clear eyes that sparkled with kindness. She made her feel safe unlike the saint her parents chose for her with the blessing of the church. She never understood that saint no matter how often her mother told and re-told her stories of virtue. She smiled. She was happy and she liked school.

School brought it with it the challenges of learning to read, write, and make new friends. The latter she found as difficult as with her siblings. Her small playmates teased her about the way she spoke and playtime often ended in tears. She began to dread going to school and her parents and teacher became very concerned. She felt a whole lot of frustration, anger, and fear, which she bottled up inside. And when she tried to express these feelings, the words came out funny, she was teased so much for it that the teacher made her sit next to her, which was humiliating. It got so that she was afraid to speak at all.

Her teacher realised that her speech difficulties were not because she was a slow learner but because she had an Articulation Disorder. She did not understand what was going on and she was rather frightened when Mum and Dad took her to a doctor. The doctor examined her ears with a strange metal thing, made her open her mouth wide and poked around a bit with a spatula. “I need to run some more tests,” the doctor said to Mum and Dad. “Then I will be able to confirm if she has any degree of hearing loss. In the meantime I suggest that you put her in a special school, or a school with a programme that can address her learning needs.” Mum and Dad nodded numbly, a bit overwhelmed, and it was a quiet journey back home.

Dad managed to get her into a special school but it was not a day of joy like the first time. This school was quite different, the teachers sat on colourful mats with their students in small groups and each group had its own activity. Looking at the new school and new faces made her feel afraid; she sobbed, and held tightly to Dad’s hand.

Her new school was very different from her previous one. To start with none of the other children in her group poked fun at her. In the classroom all of them sat together on the floor very close to each other and their teacher. The teacher spoke to each one of them in turn. Each time the teacher spoke to her she looked straight into her eyes and held her gaze and when she was nervous or looked away, the teacher held her hand and made her look right back at her face. This routine was repeated until it became second nature to listen to the teacher while focused on her face and watching her lips and the way she shaped her words. Sitting close together was comforting and when the teacher held her hand she felt calmer and less afraid to articulate words. Soon she settled comfortably into the learning routines and she began to enjoy her new school.

She was four years and six months old when the most amazing thing happened. The letters became words and she could string them together with ease to say what she felt. For four years she had felt a whole lot but now she could truly express herself and be understood, which gave her great confidence and began to dispel the mystery that was her siblings.

Her siblings were astonished. She did not like being an It and she said so and they marvelled. Then they did what they had always done since the day she came home wrapped in a colourful shawl, with Mum and Dad beaming smugly and preening fit to shame a peacock, they ignored her. She raged silently, blowing out her cheeks as far as they would go. They pretended she was invisible.

Later that day, Dad came home from work as usual and picked his youngest child up and swirled her round and round and then sat in his favourite armchair and perched her on his knee. He smiled at her, she smiled back.

“Daddy”, she said, “your sons have been very naughty boys”.

“Have they?” asked Dad, smiling indulgently.

“Yes”, she replied. “Daddy, you said no children of yours were to open their mouths to say bad names. Your sons said bad, bad names the whole afternoon.”

She stretched up pulled on Dad’s collar to get his ear closer and she whispered, “Fuck off bloody idiots,” in it.
Dad was utterly consternated and belatedly tried to cover her ears, beyond the power of speech he put her down and stood up with some force. “Boys”, he bellowed, his voice thundering through the entire house.

They came in running and looked anxiously at their irate Dad.

“What in God’s name is the meaning of this? My boys swearing fit to shame the devil? If anyone of you dare to tell a lie then your sin is twofold. Speak at once,” he commanded.

The boys trembled and hung low their mortified faces. Finally it was the Meshack who spoke up; he being unable to abide any trouble and his entire existence to date having given him plenty practice in the art of extricating himself from any entanglement with trouble, most especially his father’s trouble. “Dad,” he piped up. “We were merely repeating what the old man says when he has to sweep up the compound and cut the grass on the lawn.”

“Yes”, Shadrack picked up effortlessly from where his sibling left off and with a budding confidence began to spin and weave a tale. “We said to ourselves, surely an old man is foolproof, he has enough experience to outwit the devil. He cannot lie and he cannot mislead us. We are like grandsons to him, are we not Dad? We did not intend to do wrong. You can ask him yourself”, he finished with convincing innocence.

Check and checkmate! Dad was practiced enough in parenthood to know when he had been outwitted and outmatched, graciously he conceded the battle lost, but he was a general who intended to win the war. “Boys, I have this to say on this subject. For every bad word you allow your lips to utter you shall write down five new words plus their meaning, and boys, they had better be words of virtue,” he pronounced in a deceptively quiet tone. Having said so Dad retreated to the safety of the living room and pored through the newspaper, a sure sign that he was not to be disturbed unless someone was dying.

The boys stood in a huddled group, taking stock of their victory and finding to their dismay that victory came with a heavy price. Then they looked at the little tattler speculatively and wisely decided that at the moment she was untouchable and they would have to go back to the drawing board and factor her in from now on. It was gulling indeed for three boys to be cornered by an itsy bitsy spider called It.

She had not lived four years in this house for nothing. She knew when silence was not only a concession but an insurance of safety. The next day however brought home with brutal impact a new lesson. Every action must have a consequence. She found her consequence lying on the kitchen table with a nose bit off and both ears chewed to a pink pulp of plastic. Her pretty doll was grievously assaulted and on its forehead it had a big capital tee printed with a black marker. She let off a loud wail. Truly her heart was broken that day. She wept inconsolably and the boys who had not factored such an ungentlemanly reaction were unmanned by her tears.

They looked askance at each other.

“Awww, stop crying, it is only a dolly and it can’t feel any pain,’ said Abednego, which was ignored.

The crying continued unabated and the three no longer felt like Giganto getting paid his dues. She looked so tiny huddled on the floor, leaning against a leg of the kitchen table and clutching her dolly tightly to her heaving chest. She just looked like a little girl not an opponent and that little girl was their sister. They felt bad and they did not like feeling bad, not to mention that if their parents found her like this there would be a lot of trouble. They had to do something, some fancy footwork and some fast thinking.

“I have an idea,” Shadrack said. He pulled his brothers close and whispered furiously in their ears. The other two listened avidly and their faces lit up with excitement. They commanded the little heartbroken tattler to sit still, in truth she did not feel like she could move an inch anyway.

The trio re-entered the kitchen with great drama. Abednego was draped in bed sheets in what was intended to be priestly apparel and he carried the heavy black family bible with a golden cover title. Meshack carried Mum’s crystal flower vase half full of water and a towel. Shadrack went straight to the tattler, picked her up and washed her face in the kitchen sink and held a tissue gingerly to her nose and commanded her to blow. She noisily obliged. Then he made her stand on a chair so she was as tall as they were, well, almost. The eldest stood before the chair facing her with a solemn expression and the other two stood on either side of her.

“Brothers and Sister,” Abednego intoned. “We are gathered here today for a very important reason, to bring the sacrament of baptism to one of our own and give her one of the keys to heaven, with this baptism she becomes as we are and she is bound to us by blood and water”.

“Say Amen,” he commanded imperiously after a pause.

“Amen”, the dutiful twosome chorused.

The little convert stood on the chair, at first she could not comprehend what was going on, but slowly she felt caught up in the spirit of the baptising trio and a sense of importance timidly crept into her very being. She stood up straighter and her heart was wide open to the miracle of believing. Her thoughts were jolted back to the moment when Meshack who had the crystal vase, stood before her and poured cold water over her head.

Abednego intoned, “In the name of the father, the son and the holy ghost, we pronounce you baptised. From this day forward you shall be known as Kakoon. Amen.”

The three boys then solemnly filed past her and each hooked a little finger with her even littler one and sealed the baptism officially in the custom that boys understood. Meshack took her down from the chair and all three smiled at her.

“Hey Kakoon,” said Abednego. “You had better help us get this things back to their proper places before Mum and Dad see.”

The newly baptised one could not believe her good fortune. She felt even happier than she imagined a princess could feel. Her life had changed, in those brief moments and she too was finally a princess with a kingdom, with three princes and a king and a queen. The children scuttled from the kitchen to make the bed that had surrendered its sheets and to put the bible back on its throne in the top most shelf of the living room.

Gone were the tears, gone was the constant ache of a lonely heart. Who would have thought it so, that a name could well be a crown, a home, a friend, and an entire book of song, that would be the unveiling of a little soul?

Kakoon was written by Nyambura Kiarie.

Copyright © Nyambura Kiarie 2011.

All her life Kenyan born Nyambura Kiarie, has had a passion for the written word and the telling of stories. She believes that life is a story just waiting to be told. Struggling with Lupus for most of her life, she is a spirited advocate for Lupus and writing has been for her a powerful catharsis. Words give her wings to fly, to scale the heights and they are the footsteps to her dreams and to God.

Tales from Different Tails by Nana Awere Damoah (Book Excerpt)

Face to Face

The engineer who designed the bus would have surely been surprised to find that one of his handiworks was still on the road years long after the assembly plant had been decommissioned. There was the likelihood that he might not even recognize it as one of those that left his factory. A new guy at Kokompe had left his mark on the old Morris bus. The troski, with registration number ABC 4037.

"Lagos Town, New Town, Circle! Lagos Town, New Town, Circle, ready going!" Akwasi shouted, calling out in all directions, his towel on his shoulder, already soaked with sweat in the 30 degree centigrade sun. Intermittently, he would wring it to squeeze out water.

"Yeessssss ready going. Only two more to go, come, are you going?" Crossing the street to help a lady who ended up going to another vehicle; she was headed for Maamobi rather.

Even though there were six people seated in the trotro, only one of them was a real passenger. The rest were mates and drivers in the Abedi station. Sitting in the bus was a ploy to encourage commuters to join the bus, thinking that it was almost full.

Abedi station was situated in the Pig Farm area, the area's name dating back to the days when a nearby joint was the best place in Accra to get domedo, fried and spiced pork. It was a pork factory. Lines of frying pots could be found at the joint, and one could get the domedo hot, spiced, with accompaniment of ringed onions and pepper powder. The station was managed by the Ghana Private Road Transport Union (GPRTU), an affiliate of the Trades Union Congress. Some called the union Gepretu of Tuk. The executives were usually retired, old drivers. Efo Gayon was the station master.

"Yessssss, Circle, New Town, Kokomlemle, Lagos Town, air-conditioned bus, away bus, ready going!" There were twelve people now, and the other mates and drivers gave each other cues to begin getting off strategically as the bus filled up.

The bus was actually a lorry which had been converted into a passenger bus. The capacity of the bus was written as part of the particulars of the bus on the driver's door: nineteen, which included the driver. In the lingua of the station, the sitting arrangements were distributed sixteen back, two front. The driver's seat was not included in the tally.

The driver was separated from the back compartment by a wire mesh. This compartment contained two wooden benches, arranged parallel to each other such that when the passenger sat, they faced each other. Even though the driver's mate admitted sixteen passengers to occupy the benches, he would insist on sitting as well.

"Master Kojo! Master! The car is almost full, we can go now."

The driver walked slowly to the bus, a toothpick busy in his mouth; he was using it like a ceiling brush to remove scattered cobwebs of meat stuck in his teeth. He had just completed a meal of fufu and akrantie, a specialty of Daavi Ama, who had been operating her chop bar in the station for decades.

"Mate, we are seven on each bench already. Is it not full? Are you going to sit yourself?"

"No, we are not full. It is one-man-one-seat, eight on each bench."

"Ah mate yi paa, what one-man-one-seat? Do you understand what that means? Hahaha!"

The other passengers joined in the laughter. Soon, a new passenger joined the bench behind the driver.

"Mate," the latest passenger, a man dressed in factory overalls, enquired, "there is no more space on this bench. How can I fit?"

Akwasi ignored him and called out for one more passenger.

"Mate, are you not going to answer my question?" The factory guy shouted. "And where are you going to sit, won't you sit on the last available space on this other bench?"

"Ask and ask again, massa," the lady who had asked Akwasi the same question earlier on interjected, "I asked him the same question earlier on and he told me this rickety bus of his is one-man-one-seat!"

A lady who was clearly in a hurry came running and was grateful when Akwasi asked her to sit on the little space he indicated on the bench.

With the touching of wires, the driver got the engine running. At the cue of 'Away bus' from Akwasi, Master Kojo took off and braked suddenly! The dilemma of inadequate space on the benches was solved immediately, as each passenger was thrown in the direction of the driver and the packing was completed!

Akwasi squeezed himself by the last lady to join the bus, half sitting, half perching, with the door slightly opened.

"Mate, I will alight at Robert Motors, how much will that be?"

"Madam, that will be the same fare as if you were going to Abavanna Junction."

"What! Driver!”

"Akwasi, what is the matter back there?"

In troskis, it was usual for the driver to communicate through his mate, like a chief via his linguist.

"Master, it is this madam here who doesn't want to pay the fare!"

"Hey mate, did I say I won't pay? I just questioned the fare from Pig Farm to Robert Motors. Just a stone throw, I could even have walked!"

"Akwasi, change her the fare for Abavanna Junction!"

It wasn't a happy lady who alighted at Robert Motors. And so when Akwasi told her he didn't have exact change for her, she blew her top. Another passenger, a mechanic who appeared to work in the workshop, also alighted at the same spot, so Akwasi gave them a combined change to divide between them.

"Hey, small boy, where do I know this man from? Is he my brother or husband? If you don't give me my change now, you will smell pepper!"


"Why do people chew garlic at all?"

"Adɛn, Auntie, why do you ask that question?"

The lady who asked the initial question tried hard not to look straight ahead, and the gentleman who sat directly opposite her on the other bench also avoided her gaze, electing to concentrate on the front of the bus.

"My brother, poverty is expensive o. Otherwise, why would one have to endure all sorts of smells in this enclosure of a bus?"

"Baaaaaaas stop! Abavanna!"

When the 'garlic' man got down, everyone exhaled audibly. Apparently, everyone knew why the lady asked the question about garlic. Typical of Ghanaians, everybody knew what was on everybody's mind, yet when the question is posed, a question is asked to clarify.

At Abavanna, Master Kojo realized that most of his colleague drivers were joining the Nkansa-Djan-Pig Farm road from the road coming from the Maamobi Polyclinic, instead of the usual route from the Kotobabi Police Station. He got suspicious, and guessed that the police were at it again at the Catholic church junction.

He took off and turned right, towards Abavanna down, via Waist and Power junction.

"Yes, front...froooont, please."

There were two passengers sitting in the front cabin and one of them, a lady, passed her fare through the wire mesh. The note was passed along to the mate. The second passenger turned to look at the driver, who kept his eyes dogged on the road ahead.

"Massa...yes, you in front, your fare please!"

"Mate, my change, before I forget it." That was the lady in front.

Her change was exactly the amount the man in front needed to pay. Driver's mates were experts at what was termed Kweku Ananse mathematics, substitution by shifting around.

"Madam, please collect your change from the man sitting by you, it is exactly the amount I need to give you."

The driver still didn't turn to the passengers' direction at all. The male passenger in front started fidgeting - that was not how things were to happen: the driver was his neighbour at Kotobabi Down and he expected him to exempt him from paying the trotro fare.

Immediately after the male passenger gave his fare to the lady, the driver turned right after the SWAG park, towards the K1 and 2 schools, and for the first time acknowledged his neighbour's presence in the car.

"Ei, Opia, is that you? I didn't notice you had joined koraa o."

Apuuu, wicked man, thought Opio. See his face like a goat! Azaa man!

The troski went past Honesty, so named because the owner of Honesty Transport used to live at that junction, his articulated trucks marked 'Honesty'. Whether or not it reflected his personal philosophy was another matter.

Past the Providence School signpost, Master Kojo stopped at K1&2 for a passenger to alight. At Prempeh hotel, a new passenger joined the troski. Whilst waiting for the passenger to settle, Massa Kojo flagged one of his colleague drivers.

"Dovlo, are they there?" It was obvious to the other driver who 'they' referred to.

"Yes o, ma broda. At the Catholic church junction, just around the corner from Agbajena. They dey there. Today, there are collecting twice the normal rate. Atta Papa just got charged for not having a torchlight in his bus, this hot afternoon!"

"Ewurade medaase! I could smell them from Abavanna!"


"Please, can you pass your money from the left? Please don't give me small notes."

"Why shouldn't we? Shouldn't you have coins for change?"

"Madam, I think it is just a polite request from the boy. Please allow small."

"Mate, I will drop at the Catholic church junction." It was a sleepy voice; the passenger, an elderly man, had gone to sleep as soon as he boarded the troski at Abedi station.

"Oh Papa, we didn't pass there o. We are now at Nkansa-Djan."

"Ah, why didn't you pass there?"

"Papa, I asked at Abavanna whether anyone would get down at Roman, but there was no response."

"It was because he was busily snoring and hitting people's shoulders with his head!" The lady who sat on the old man's right didn’t sound amused. The other passengers laughed.

"Driver, please turn the car, I have to get down at Roman. Driver!"

"Akwasi!"

"Master!"

"Wetin again? Asem ben?"

"Master, is it not this man? He has been sleeping aah, now that we have passed his stop, he wants us to take him back."

"Opanyin," Massa Kojo tried to be polite "you know we can't take you back, not in this traffic, even if I want to do it. I will let you get down right here. Akwasi, open the door for him. Papa, next time, please stay alert."

"Ah, but I need some balance to take a new troski back to the Catholic church junction."

"But you have not even paid me!"

"I paid you!"

"Ei, you this man, you have been sleeping throughout this trip, when did you pay me?"

It quickly became obvious that the old man didn't have money on him. A good Samaritan paid for him. When he insisted that he be given money to take a bus back to his original destination, all the passengers broke down in mirth and called him Papa Oliver. The good Samaritan had to come to his aid, again.


"Mate, why should I pay the full fare to Circle? I am using only half of my allocated space on this bench!"

The speaker was seated by a plump lady; she looked like a Makola woman who was on her way to the market. Her load of dried fish in a basket was placed under one of the benches.

"Owula, are you referring to me?"

"Mate, I say I will not pay the full fare! Take the balance from wherever you deem fit!"

"My view is that some people should pay double the fare, for the space they actually occupy, otherwise they cheat some of us." That was Opia, who had recovered from his anger to contribute to the discussion in the troski.

"True. It is supposed to be one-man-one-seat, but for some, it is one-man-two seats!"

The Makola woman kept her cool, only a foolish dog ran after a flying bird and this was a topic she wouldn't win.

"Lagos Town wo mu o, mate!"

At Lagos Town, Massa Kojo got down to open the bonnet of the Morris troski. A steam of vapor exuded from the engine, and the driver had to step back, almost jumping. Akwasi knew what to do, retrieving a 5 liter gallon from under his bench and crossing the road to get some water.

"Driver, what is wrong? We are in a hurry o!"

"Oh, nothing is wrong!"

"How can it be 'nothing' when we have been here for almost five minutes?"

"It is small 'overheating', we have to let the engine cool down, it is normal."

"Mate! Please give me my balance, I can't wait, I have an appointment I can't miss."

"Oh bra, wait small, we will finish noor, and we will be going."

Soon it was obvious that the problem was more than engine overheating. Massa Kojo took a mat from under his seat and spread it under the car, vanishing under the car. The passengers could hear some hammering.

"Ei Driver! If the car cannot move again, give us our money la!"

Massa Kojo didn't respond. He went back to the front of the car, poured in some more water, and climbed back into his seat. After the third attempt, the troski came to life, and the journey could continue.

"Hey, keep your dirty hands off my suit! You gat me?"

"Massa, watch how you talk to me! Who do you think you are?"

"Who do I think I am? Do you know who I am? You fitters just get out of your workshop and come and sit in cars, can't you change your overalls if you are going out?"

"I agree with you, boss. Hey fitter, see how dirty your coat is. Do you want to soil the man's nice attire?"

"Did I not pay the same fare?" That was the mechanic. "If he thinks he is a big man, he should buy his own car and ride in it!"

"Baaaasssss stop! Mate, I will drop down at Malata!"

When the man in suit got down, Akwasi spoke what was on his mind. "Eish, these myself people! Nsem piii!"

From Malata through Kokomlemle to Circle, the journey was smooth. Almost. The fitter's attire was the main discussion point, and he agreed that indeed he needed to have a spare attire to wear when leaving the workshop to buy spare parts. He was on his way to Abossey Okai.

Just before the station at Circle, around Odo Rise, the Morris troski came to an abrupt halt. Aponkye brake.

Reason? The fuel had run out. Finito.

With one voice, the passengers chorused "One gallon!"

Fortunately, the last stop, the Circle station, was a walking distance and as they alighted, Akwasi retrieved another gallon, he knew what to do.

Face to Face was written by Nana Awere Damoah and is a story from his collection Tales from Different Tails (Bassakoah Publications, November 2011).

Copyright © Nana Awere Damoah 2011.

Nana Awere Damoah was born in Accra, Ghana. He holds a Masters in Chemical Engineering from the University of Nottingham, UK, a first degree in Chemical Engineering from the Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology (KNUST), Kumasi, Ghana, and spent all his Secondary school years at Ghana National College, Cape Coast, Ghana. He speaks fondly of growing up in Kotobabi, and studying at the local Providence Preparatory School.

A British Council Chevening alumnus, Nana works with Unilever Ghana Limited as the Research & Development Technical Manager. Nana is an associate of Joyful Way Incorporated, a Christian Music ministry in Ghana, and was its National President from 2002 to 2004.

Nana started writing seriously in 1993 when he was in the sixth form and has had a number of his short stories published in the Mirror and the Spectator. In 1997, he won the first prize in the Step Magazine National Story Writing Competition. In KNUST, he was part of the Literary Wing of the Inter-hall Christian Fellowship, where he acted and wrote poems. His poems were published in magazines on the KNUST campus.

Nana is the author of two non-fiction books - Excursions in my Mind (Athena Press, October 2008) and Through the Gates of Thought (Athena Press, April 2010), and the collection Tales from different Tails. His story, 'Truth Floats', was published in the anthology African Roar (StoryTime, June 2010).

He is married to Vivian, and they are with their sons, Nana Kwame Bassanyin and Nana Yaw Appiah, and daughter Maame Esi Akoah, based in Tema, Ghana.

Milestones by Natasha Msonza

Brenda slammed her car door and quickly accelerated out of the gate before her husband Simba could catch up with her. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to do nothing but drive around the city with her windows down and the wind in her hair. It helped to relax and clear her head each time she had one of these fights with him. At first she took off at high speed and juddered carelessly over the potholes on her street; confidently flooring her still new Pajero. Once she was certain Simba wasn’t following anywhere behind her, she reduced her speed and cruised at a steady pace.

This bright and sunny Saturday afternoon, Harareans dotted the streets despite the sweltering heat. Children donning colourful clothes ran around happily at the neighbourhood sports ground. For a moment, Brenda wondered what it would be like to be a kid again; carefree and not having to worry about anything. Reality just gnawed at her insides as she assessed what life had thrown at her instead.

She was sure he was the one she had seen kissing some woman at a Nandos earlier. It was an open secret that Simba was an inveterate seducer and unashamed libertine who had married her only for her money. This being Brenda’s second marriage, Simba blamed everything that was wrong with the two of them on her, arguing that she was a difficult, emotionally damaged woman. That, he said, was why her first husband strayed. Tears slowly formed rivulets down her face, occasionally blurring her vision into an inviting yet frightening kaleidoscope of many colours before she quickly wiped them away with the back of her hand. She couldn’t believe he was the same man she met three years ago. She had been sipping on a glass of red wine alone in a hotel lounge when their eyes met across the room. He had walked up to her and asked her name and then later her age, to which she had shyly said, “2012. You are not supposed to ask a woman her age.” They hit it off from there.

Brenda struggled with indecision. Society was one to judge divorced women harshly. If she divorced Simba for all the great mental anguish he caused her, the womenfolk both sides of their families would self-righteously turn their noses up and label her a feminist who took things too far. After she and Robert separated three years ago, her community had silently taken her apart, piece by little piece pretending to sympathise when in actual fact they sniggered and sneered behind her back. The women at church no longer invited her to anything; she only got to find out about parties and get-togethers through the grapevine. She was perceived as a potential home-wrecker, what with all her money and fancy job. Nobody cared to know that Robert had been an abuser. Every time he got drunk and too excited, he liked to do these crazy weird things with her that always made Brenda feel like a cheap whore. When she refused to wear the kinky leather lingerie or allow him to do it to her in the ‘wrong hole’, he would hit her. One time he nearly choked her to death when she refused to masturbate while he looked. Nobody believed her and it soon became difficult to explain exactly why Robert beat her. They were unable to look beyond the privileged confines of her life and discover that under all the layers, she was after all, flesh and bone.

She turned into Enterprise Road. This stretch of road seemed little busy for a Saturday afternoon. With her windows down, she caught the sound of laughter and more happy children playing somewhere in an enclosed yard. Then Simba’s painful words lurched into her mind again. He had said it was abnormal for a woman to not desire children; that it was the kind of desire only prostitutes had for fear of aging and wanting to remain young and ‘in the game’.

He obviously chose to ignore whatever she said. She never said she did not want to have children; just she wasn’t yet ready. She was at the peak of her career and wanted a little bit more time. Hell, she always dreamt of and wanted to have a child. A son, she had imagined she would name Neri: God with us.

But every time they had a fight, her husband had this very annoying habit of choosing to cede the high ground, opting instead to wallow in the swamp of baseless name-calling. It was always at that point that Brenda decided not to humour him or give him that amount of satisfaction. Sometimes she calmly managed to tell him exactly where to get off, but sometimes like today, the highway became one of her closest friends and refuge. In her SUV, she was safe. By getting away like this, she avoided saying the wrong things and hoped it would save her weathered marriage. She thought, wasn’t it Leland Foster who said that success in marriage is much more than a matter of finding the right person; it is also a matter of being the right person? She wiped a stray tear. She was safe in her SUV; tempers would have cooled sufficiently by the time she went back home.

A flash of bright colours and suddenly, there was a thud and a bump. The Pajero swerved slightly as Brenda applied emergency brakes and came to a stop. She shook her head and tried to comprehend what had just happened. Had she hit something, or someone? Perhaps it was a stray animal. She glanced into the rear view mirror and her heart sank when she made out the shape of a body, a woman’s body, flung on the side of the road. Hands shaking, she slowly put her car in park, praying that this was all just a bad dream. On wobbly legs, she jumped out and walked unsteadily towards the body. When she saw the scarlet blood welling in a pool on the side of the woman’s head, Brenda stopped abruptly, suddenly feeling sick and fought the urge to throw up. More blood spurted in powerful squirts from the woman’s arm. It was obviously arterial. Brenda’s first instinct was to turn back to the safety of her car and flee. She felt a hand steady her and gently push her to the ground. When she looked up, ten or so faces peered at her; some were already standing by the body and loudly declaring it dead. A dirty looking young man with an eye patch prodded the body with what looked like a walking stick, and shouted she’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead. Why did he need to keep repeating that like a fool? Brenda thought as she limply dragged herself to lean on her car.

“Aha, where is the culprit?” some other fool asked from nowhere, before he spotted Brenda sitting on the ground. “Oh, it’s a woman?” he asked stupidly, peering at her from under the wide veranda of his Caps United hat. “Mahwani,” he added, referring to a difficult and complex situation.

“Haa, mahwani,” people in the now sizeable crowd kept saying amongst themselves; pontificating how women were such bad drivers.

Brenda just sat there fumbling with her mobile phone, her fingers and brain momentarily paralysed and unable to recall the emergency number. Somebody snatched it from her and before she could protest, the person was talking to someone, presumably the police, giving them directions and telling them to hurry. In the midst of all the confusion, that was the last time Brenda saw her brand new Blackberry.

She was both surprised and overwhelmed by the number of people that had gathered around her and the corpse. Everyone whispered loudly and excitedly amongst themselves. Nobody once spoke directly to her. She looked up and saw the scorn on their faces, some pointed fingers at her and obviously weren’t concerned that this was, after all, an accident. In situations like these, the driver was always wrong.

Suddenly, the one-eyed man ambled closer and poked her with his stick. He leaned over, peered at her silently for a moment and said, “You were speeding, weren’t you?” The full force of his foul breath hit Brenda squarely on the face. Fighting the urge to frown, she stared blankly at him. She could have sworn the now dead woman threw herself in front of the car. But this crowd; it wasn’t the kind that seemed interested to hear that little piece of her side of the story. One-eyed turned to the now sizeable crowd and said, “You see, this is the problem with women drivers. They are so full of themselves and think they are special, heh?”

“True that,” somebody shouted from somewhere within the crowd. “God only knows if that whore even has a licence. That’s all they are good at: buying licences and driving expensive cars that are not even theirs!”

“Where is your license, woman?” a man asked.

“Gentlemen, leave the poor woman alone. She is traumatised as it is. She could even be in shock and needs our help,” another man said.

“Whatever, people. We don’t care whether she is traumatised or what, that will not raise this poor innocent pedestrian from the dead. Down with bad drivers!”

“But we don’t even know what happened people. Who actually saw what happened here?” somebody asked.

Brenda looked up and saw the woman who had just spoken. She looked smartly dressed in a two-piece suit. Perhaps here was someone who was going to be objective.

Police and ambulance sirens could be heard in the distance, possibly making their way to the scene of the accident. Brenda heard a faint sound near her car and quickly pressed the lock button on her remote. The loud murmuring and whispering stopped momentarily at the sound of a sharp peep, peep as the central locking latched into place. Immediately people started chirping away excitedly again.

“No, do you know what? I saw the woman walk into the path of the car, but heish, the car was really speeding. The driver saw her but hit her anyway,” said one of the onlookers. Immediately at that point, the crowd seemed to get incensed and jeered at Brenda. The air was suddenly fusty from tired, unwashed bodies and stale sweat. The many voices sounded like the buzzing of a thousand angry bees.

Slumped helplessly at the back of her car, she struggled to smother her annoyance and silently took in the verbal and mental torture, silently succumbing to several arthritic minds bent on stereotypes and name calling. There was no point in even trying to explain anything. Hell, she wasn’t sure what happened herself.

Other motorists were starting to park on the roadside; one pushed her way through the crowd shouting on top of her voice that she was a doctor and knelt beside the lifeless body. She placed her hand on the unconscious woman’s neck to feel for a pulse and proclaimed that she thought she was dead. Like I need to hear that again, Brenda thought.

Somebody passed a wrapper and the doctor gently covered the body. At this point, the crowd surged forward, murmuring amongst themselves. Before the doctor arrived, no one had dared check for the woman’s pulse.

“Take her to the hospital, how are you certain that she is dead?” somebody shouted at Brenda.

The crowd suddenly started jeering at her again, like it had just had an epiphany - challenging her to take the unconscious woman to the hospital.

“Why didn’t you do it sooner? When you hit someone, isn’t it just right to put them in your fancy car and take them to the emergency rooms? Come on, get up and lift this woman into your car,” an elderly man next to her said angrily.

“Wachekeresa ka, now you pretend to be afraid of blood?” One-eyed asked threateningly; stick shaking menacingly in his hand to emphasise his mention of ritual killing. “These business women, they have to taste innocent blood for their businesses to flourish. Are you telling me you couldn’t see this woman through that big windscreen?” As he spoke, little spurts of saliva shot from his animated mouth and the small crowd around him cringed and drew their heads back subconsciously in unison.

“Which part of she is dead do you not understand, fool? Why does the poor woman have to ruin her backseat for no reason, it’s pointless,” the woman doctor said as she turned to face one-eyed. Dead came out of her mouth as dared. An uncharacteristic hush fell over the crowd momentarily.

“Who are you calling a fool, you stupid woman? You are no doctor-”, one eyed started to shout back, but as he lunged threateningly for the doctor, he farted distinctly. Some of the spectators cackled. The men in the crowd quickly restrained him, some threatening to kick his butt in for disrespecting a woman. At that point the police or ambulance sirens were getting louder and Brenda craned her neck to see the flashing lights in the short distance. She felt a sharp kick in the small of her back and leaned back on her car. Although people were jostling over each other to take a look, she was sure that this was a deliberate kick. She suddenly felt like crying; not because the kick was painful, but because the words being carelessly thrown around stung more.

She realised she had paid an incalculable price for the desire to escape her husband’s vitriol. Up to this point, she had been willing herself not to lose her nerve. It was like a checklist; first get through this then cry later. As tears spilled unrestrained from her eyes, Brenda whispered a little prayer that this ordeal may soon end. She was going to have to live with the knowledge that she had killed someone, probably serve jail time for it too. Wasn’t that enough?

Suddenly, Simba appeared from nowhere and crouched beside her. He had somehow heard the news and came immediately, he told her. The police and ambulance had also arrived and were already attending to the corpse. Simba shouted for one of the paramedics to attend to Brenda too. Can’t you see she is in shock? Simba asked rhetorically as if explaining an elementary arithmetic lesson to an unusually slow pupil. The paramedic came closer, briefly glared at Simba, then peered at Brenda. She looked very vacant and did not seem to comprehend what was going on around her. Wordlessly, the paramedic flung a blanket over her shoulders and turned to one of his crew calling him. His attention quickly shifted to the police as the ambulance head announced to them that they couldn’t carry a dead body, and the police would have to do it. The ambulance team then dispatched, completely forgetting about Brenda.

The crowd started to break away too. Simba slowly helped Brenda to her feet and held her close. For a moment his demeanour was that of someone who cared. Brenda let herself melt into his side and hugged him tighter. They watched as the policemen carefully started to move the body. When they hoisted it and put it in the black body bag, a piece of neatly folded paper slipped out of the dead woman’s pocket.

One of the female police officers bent down and picked it up with her gloved hand; carefully unfolding it like it was lethal. She stared at it, and then glanced briefly at Brenda sideways, sadly shaking her head. The officer stepped forward and extended the note to Brenda. It was a suicide note. People had generally dispersed, the hostile crowd thinning out gradually.

A silent scream scratched at Brenda’s throat, commanding one-eyed, all of them to turn back and hear this piece of news. It wasn’t her fault after all. But the crowd was gone. And the realisation that she had only been an innocent decoy in some strange woman’s suicide mission did nothing to assuage the heaviness of her heart. The crowd had already judged her harshly, and as long as they didn’t endorse that fact, it didn’t matter that she was innocent. As Simba cradled her in his arms, attempting pathetically to comfort her, she glanced momentarily into his unloving eyes and dislodged herself from him. At that point nothing mattered anymore, and she didn’t care about anything. The only thing she cared about was that she didn’t care about anything. That was the decisive moment for her to quit her second marriage.

Milestones was written by Natasha Msonza.

Copyright © Natasha Msonza 2011.

Natasha Msonza is a Zimbabwean human rights activist with a passion for social justice. She has a journalism background and a flair for desktop publishing, design, and layout. She is a blogger and some of her work can be found on Kubatana.net (an online community for Zimbabwean activists) and her personal blog: Stashsays. She is currently working on her first novel and also reading for a Masters degree in Development studies. Natasha is not a feminist.