SHAME

It's called writers block, that point where you are unable to write. You see a blank page, and you just stare. Ideas run through your mind like an angry storm, and you can't seem to grasp a hold of just one to develop. People have writers block for different reasons. Mine usually arises when am ashamed of something. When I can't put down my feelings, because I am so ashamed to write them. And, I can't lie on paper. I can't form a story. I can't write what has not been whispered to me by my muse. I can't just do it. My writers block, usually appears, when I disagree with my muse, and refuse to write what has been whispered to me, either because I am too ashamed, or feel very strongly about it. That's my reason for not posting for a week now. Shame! Shame! Shame!
When am brave enough to stumble out of this disease called writers block. I may decide to write about that thing that makes me so ashamed, but for now, do say a little prayer for me.

AN EXCERPT FROM COOKING NOVEL

CHAPTER NINETEEN
It didn't happen, until two months after - the nightmares, the late night sweating, the fear.
 'The baby is chasing me'. I told the Reverend father, as I knelt on the confessional.
'Calm down'
'I killed a baby'.
I had waited till the last person left the church, I wanted us to be the only one in the church; just I and the priest.
'Forgive me father, for I have sinned greatly'.
'Whose baby did you kill' he asked.
'My own baby'. I replied. 'It was an abortion' I added.
'Are you truly sorry'.
I nodded, even though he couldn't see me. It was dark, the church light was dim. I don't know if they did it on purpose, so no one could see the terrible weight of sin that sagged peoples faces as they walked to the confessional.
'Yes father, I am truly sorry'. If only he knew how sorry I was. If only he knew that I was on the verge of running mad.
'I forgive you, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Go and Sin no more.'
He said.
'What is my penance father' I asked.
'Go and Sin no more'. He said with a tone of finalty
I walked to altar, and lay on the floor. In the last months, I had lost weight. The baby and the voices followed me all about. Ujunwa told me it was my imagination. 'It's not even a baby' She said. But, in my head, in my dreams. It was more than a baby. It was a gripping image of myself. A baby that had my eyes, crying and chasing me, with hands stretched forward. Was it madness, was it a figment of my imagination or was it actually my baby? Whatever it was, it was possessing me. It was unsettling my innermost being.
The confession would help, I said to myself as I ran to church. The priest would forgive me in the name of Jesus, and like sun shining on debris after rain, my soul would smile again. But, as I lay on the floor, in the silence of the church. I felt weak, I felt like shutting the pain, the confusion. I wanted peace. I wanted to shut out the voices inside my head that always talked loudly. The voices that always contradicted each other. If only they could stop talking, if only they would shut up and give me absolute silence. If only I could switch off my thinking button. Maybe I would feel peace. My head turned like nylon in a whirlwind. I looked at Jesus on the cross, I wanted that relief that they so much talked about. 'Give me peace Lord' I begged. 'They said if I kneel in your presence and ask, you shall give me. I need peace'. I cried. I waited, for seconds, then minutes, then an hour, for peace. I didn't find peace. God had rejected me. I left the church, worse than I came in. Those voices in my head questioned my existence. Everything seemed, nothing actually was. Is there really a God? Where was the miracle people talked about? This God! Were we just his game guys, things he could crush and destroy. Did he play with us in his free time. Did he twist us to the point of insanity to see how we would react. If we would cry or laugh. Did he dispose us when we bored him, like we dispose toys we have outgrown. And I hated this God, he was playing with my head. People make mistakes, people do things that are wrong. He asks us to forgive, why couldn't he forgive me. Why did he send things to talk in my head, why was the baby I aborted, in my dreams, in my head...crying. I walked through the small path that had grasses springing out. I walked through the lines of shop. I walked past children playing and laughing. I walked past the beggars that sat on the street, and I noticed nothing, because I felt nothing, and like sudden thunder, it hit me; the solution to my problem. For the first time, the voices in my head were of one accord, they had one firm standing agreement 'End it' they said 'Kill yourself and have peace'. And like a blind man that had just regained his sight, I saw the light. I saw hope for peace, for silence, for absolute peace.

WHAT'S IN BETWEEN MY LEGS

'Is that all you know? Sex this, Sex that'.
'I don't understand you again o!'
'How would you understand, when all you think about is sex'.
'Dozie, it have do for you. Don't insult me'.
'You are mad for spitting that rubbish out of that your pit latrine of a mouth.'
I was aghast. Meaning what nau? Look at this idiot o! I began dressing up. He lay down on the bed, with his dirty boxers. All I could think of was how I have suffered in this Lagos.
'Please give me transport money'. I asked him, standing akimbo. If he wanted trouble, I would give him fire.
'Which transport money?'
'Go and ask your prostitute mother in the village that question. If you don't want hell fire to fall on your head now, better give me 20,000.'
'20 what?' He screamed, jumping from the bed with great alacrity.
'Try me now, just try me'. I held my shoe on my hand, and turned the 'Koi Koi' so he could see that it was long and pointy enough to make a very deep and painful hole in his brain.
'Ashawo, Ogbanje, Mammy water spirit' he cursed as he counted 20,000 from the bundle of two hundred naira bills he collected from his pocket.
'I hope this money is complete', I said, waving the notes in his face. 'Idiot, you want to do osho free'.
I could see his face turning red, he tightened his fist in anger. I banged the door. 'Fool' I muttered under my breathe.


I scrubbed my body thoroughly, washing away his touch, and his smell. I smiled, a loose smile, he wanted to use me, but I reared my ugly head in his face. No man can ever use me again. The first time I was dumped, was the last time, and would remain the last. Any man who finds himself between my legs must pay, in cash or kind, preferably in cash. Even now, as I ran my hands all over my body, I could still remember his little kisses, that sent waves of shock to my body. Ikenna, the name that was once like butter in my mouth. My hands roamed around my big buttocks; he loved it, he used to sleep with his hands grabbing it.
Ikenna showed me pure desire, he showed me what it was like to crave, to deeply want something. I was addicted to his laughter; the marks that appeared on his face when he laughed, the way he flipped his head to the left and held his belly. Ikenna laughed with his soul, and I loved him for it.
He was the first man I loved. I gave him my heart, body and soul. He feasted on my body, like a parasite. And when I was almost dizzy with love for him, he knocked me back into reality. Every waking moment reminds me of his betrayal. I remember the day, he turned my world around.

'I am pregnant' I said, shaking in fear.
'Whaaaat' he screamed, 'for who?'
My breathing stopped, goose pimples invaded every part of my body.
'Ikenna, you know you are the only one that I have ever been with.'
'Shut your stupid mouth, before I shut it up for you. I don't know what you are talking about. You better go and look for the father of your bastard'.
'Why, Why' I cried, as I fell on my feet. 'Please, Ikenna don't do this to me'.
'Leave my house'.
I fell at his knees, and grabbed the edge of his trousers. 'Please, I don't know what to do'.
He kicked me in the stomach, 'Get out'. I squirmed in pain, and he kicked me again.
'Leave my house, and don't let me see you here with anybody'.
'Please Ikenna, let's settle this' I said, in between coughs and snorts.'I would abort the baby, I just need some money'.
'Get out' he screamed. I ran out to the streets like a mad woman. The pain I felt overcame shame. I ran faster than my legs could carry me, with my slippers on my hands.
 I died in that moment. It was betrayal in its deadliest form. At 16, he deceived me and  abandoned me. It was in that moment of confusion that a car knocked me down. All I could see was blood, and people trying to help me. I lost my baby, I lost myself.

It's been ten years since Ikenna, but it still feels like yesterday. I don't hate men, I just feel nothing for them. Everything they say, everything they do is for one ultimate goal - What's in between your legs.

ME AND CELINE.

I have friends that like giving advice, even when I don't ask for it. 'Esther, your are bald, this hairstyle wouldn't be nice on you, Esther you shouldn't wear that gown, it's making your legs look endless, Esther that dress color doesn't suit your skin color, Esther this your boyfriend doesn't fit you. He is too short'. I can go on and on.
The truth is that they don't actually give me advice, they just yab me, and make it sound like advice. Now, I would rather be yabbed, than be given bad advice.
Of all the useless yabbings and advice I have received, one has proven more useless than the rest, In short, it has destroyed my sanity. I am not ashamed to say it. Ok, maybe a little ashamed.
Here is my confession:
Sometime in my puberty years, I was crushing on this guy. To me, he was a god in human body. To my friends, he was an arrogant, not too fine boy (but you know how girls are naa. I can swear with my left eye, that they were all tripping for him).
I was very confused, I liked him a lot. Of course, my friends all liked him and i couldn't ask them for advice. So, I let it go. I just kept dreaming of the day he would notice me, and chyke me. My dreaming ended after listening to CELINE DION and BARBRA STREISAND'S 'Tell him'. I would love to write the lyrics here so you can understand better, but I don't have strength - go and download the song.
While I was thinking of how to makes this hotness of a human being notice me, Celine dion came with her advice:

'Tell him, Tell him that the sun and moon rise in his eyes, reach out to him, and whisper, tender words so soft and smooth, hold him close to feel his heartbeat, love would be the gift you give yourself'.

Let me warn you, Love will not be the gift you give yourself, disgrace will be the gift you give yourself, shame will be the gift you give yourself, when you decide to tell a boy that the sun and moon rises in his eyes.
I can remember that day clearly, I ironed my school uniform till I could hear the material scream for help. I even applied lip gloss (which was an abomination in my school) I really didn't care about the punishment. What was four strokes of cane, compared to the love I had for this boy. I was nervous when they rang the bell for short break, but it was the only time I had to really tell him how I felt. I stalked him till he was alone, and I opened my big mouth, and told him that 'the sun and moon rise in his eyes'. I went on and on about how much I loved him. He just pasted a funny smile on his face. I waited for his reply for days, only for me to read a text message he sent to his friend saying 'That Esther girl with long awkward legs, is really weird.' (Another of my friend that loves giving me 'advice' was the one that hunted down that message and showed it to me.)
That was my first heartbreak. The second time my heart was broken, it was still because of this advice. I guess I had forgotten about my first experience. Six years after, I really liked a boy, and I decided to go all out and tell him how I felt about him...If it turned out well, I wouldn't be writing this article.

Celine Dion, gave me the worst advice ever. This is Nigeria! Our love here is a funny kind of love. A girl doesn't hit on a boy first. It's not right. If you like a boy, you have to hold it with all your strength. Make sure he doesn't notice. If he chykes you, do shakara till you can no longer take it. Girls don't, I repeat, don't tell a boy you like him first. Don't listen to Celine dion, this is Naija, not Oyinbo land. Don't be a victim.

MY ADVICE ON ADVICE

Recently, I watched the season ten of 'Greys Anatomy', and I learnt something exciting. I don't even know If it works, but it is something I have adopted anyway.
If you have seen 'Greys Anatomy' thumbs up. If you haven't ermmmm *No words*, just try to follow anyway.
Dr Bailey, the nazi, gave Derek, the guy with the awesomest hair in the world advice about advice. She said (not her exact words though) if someone asks you for advice, give them a metaphor. Yes! Any damn metaphor at all. You know why? Most of the time people already know what they should do, what they want to do. They just ask you for advice because they really want you to say what they already have in mind. If you give them a metaphor, they automatically interpret into what they already have in mind. Just say it with a stern voice, and a serious face, that would do the trick.
So am going to leave you with one metaphor, and one actual advice today, ' Failure is like having chewing gum stuck in your hair.' And the advice: watch Grey's Anatomy.
DID I MAKE SENSE AT ALL?
#OKBYE

WHAT HAS BEEN DONE THAT CAN'T BE UNDONE

It started with the body odor. 'Honey there is something I want us to talk about'.
'What is it'. He asked, squeezing his nose in that way, that showed he didn't want to be disturbed.
'Come a little closer'. I said to him, as though if he actually came closer it would reduce the intensity of what I was about to say.
'Say it please, am busy'.
'Ok' I said, I took a deep breathe. This was hard, telling my husband that his body had an odor so fetid that I had been taking drugs for the way my tummy churned anytime he came close.
'What I am about to tell you right now, is very sensitive'.
'What'
'You need to see a doctor or something about the way you smell. You have body odor'. I felt as though a big stone had been sitting on my chest, and it had just been pushed off. He was silent like he didn't hear what I said. He was typing faster and blinking faster.
'Nkem' I called, and he didn't reply. He just kept punching the keys on his laptop.
'I am sorry' I said.

Four months after, he still refused to speak to me. Even though he had done something about the way he smells, he just ignored me. And I felt, what the hell, if it's because I aired my mind about something that was almost threatening to my health, that he is going to sulk like a baby, he should sulk on. So when, the voice on the phone said 'Mrs Douglas, I need to talk to you about your Husband'. I was half listening and half stirring the pot of soup on the gas stove. 'This man and his wahala again' I thought.
'You need to come down here Mrs Douglas, your husband is in a terrible condition'.
'Where, What is wrong with him, Where is he, Is he fine.' The questions rolled out of my mouth in panic. The man gave me the address to a hospital.
I had never driven so fast in my life, I kept sounding the horn, and moving into lanes that weren't mine.

'Where is he' I said to a lanky nurse sitting at the reception.
'Where is who?'.
'My husband.' I could almost feel my heart exploding.
'Calm down madam. What is your husbands name?'
'Mr Douglas'.
'Ok madam.' She looked into a big book.
She called another nurse and asked her to direct me to my husbands bed.

'Nkem.' His body was extremely hot, he looked thinner than ever.
A doctor came into the room. 'Are you Mrs Douglas?'
'Yes'
'Please I would like to see you in my office.'
My head twirled in confusion as I walked down the hallway. Seeing my husband, lying on that bed, in a pool of his own sweat, motionless, did things to my head. What did I miss, how could I not have known he was this sick.
The doctor pulled out a chair for me, his face was contorted with pity, and his eyes sank in with grief. I was stiff with fear.
'Mrs Douglas, your husband is dying.'
'What do you mean?'
'He has a very bad liver'.
'I don't understand' I cried 'He is fine, we were together this morning'.
'He is not fine madam, he has been ill for more than five months'. The doctor said, I was sure he was wondering what kind of wife I was.
'You can treat him right' I asked.
'That is why I called you in, your husband doesn't have up to a week to live'.
'Liar' I screamed, 'Are you God, ehnnn'
'Madam, calm down'
'Why should I calm down, who are you to say that he would die in one week, are you God?' The tears flowed, this time. I fell to the floor, and let it out. He won't die, I kept saying to myself. I felt so much bitterness towards myself, my insensitiveness towards the only man that I had ever loved. If only I had asked, he would have confided in me.

I ran to his bed, 'Nkem, I am sorry, Please wake up'. He didn't stir, he was in a coma. I was devastated. How could I not have known that my husband was dying. The body odor must have been because of the excess sweating, since his liver was bad.
I had to pray, God must wake my husband. I prayed and cried, asking for another chance. I prayed until I could no longer utter a word, I cried until I could no longer move. 'Nkem please wake up'.

It was one week, and he still hadn't woken up, but he was still alive and breathing. God was answering my prayers. Then finally he woke up. I wanted to pause in the moment, and relish the pleasure of hearing him say his first words, in one week. 'My love'.
'Nkem', I cried 'You are awake'.
'How are you'. After four months he was speaking to me.
'I am fine my baby'.
He requested for water, and I poured water into the pipe I had been using to feed him for the past week.
'I love you' he said to me.
'I love you too baby'. We held hands in silence, looking into each others eyes. How I had missed him. He looked alive and well, his face glowed, and he had a big smile on.
'I am sorry about everything baby'. I said, holding on to him tightly.
'I am sorry too love, I didn't tell you because I didn't want to bother you'
'How can you even say that, you can never bother me. You are the most important person in my life. You would be fine now, everything would be fine now'.
'Call the doctor' he said to me.
I stood up reluctantly, I was too scared to leave him all by himself.

'Doctor my husband is calling you' I told him.
In the one week, that I had been sleeping in the hospital I had grown to hate the doctor and his guts.
'That's not possible, madam, your husband, can't be awake, talk little of talking'.
Anger burned my heart. Is this man stupid.
'Come and see for yourself'.
He followed me to the room.
'Nkem' I called, he didn't answer. His eyes were closed.
'The doctor is here' I said.
The doctor checked his heartbeat.
'I am sorry madam' he said.
'Sorry for what' I asked, dreading the worst. 'He was awake now, he just spoke to me'.
'I am sorry madam' he repeated.
'Sorry for what' I shouted 'My husband is alive, he just spoke to me'.
'Your husband is dead'.
'My husband is not dead'
'Nkem' I screamed. Two nurses rushed into the room, and that was the last thing I saw.

Everyday, I hate myself. When he was suffering, I wasn't talking to him. When I was supposed to hold his hands, I was ignoring him. When he was taking heaps and heaps of drugs, I was complaining about his body odor. When he was going on countless visits to the hospital, I was going on shopping sprees so I could frustrate him.

There are mistakes that can't be undone. These mistakes are like mushrooms, everywhere you turn you see them; Staring at you in the face, tormenting you, scolding you. Eventually these mistakes grow into monsters and eat you up slowly, and slowly till you vanish, till you are just a shadow of yourself.

MY AIRPORT EXPERIENCE

There was something about the woman that made me look twice. I don't know if it was the glassy sadness in her eyes, or the way her shoulders dropped in defeat, or the deep dark circles under her eyes.
She was staring at three children playing around in the waiting lounge. Her eyes scanned the mother of the children, as though she was comparing herself with the woman, as though she was questioning God about something. The woman made me curious, there was so much sadness emanating from her.
She looked about forty years old. I could tell she was a very rich woman from the way she was dressed. She sat down, legs crossed, lips pouted, straight faced. She looked like a queen. She looked like someone who was trained for royalty, but still she looked incomplete. I didn't know if anyone noticed but I did, it was glaringly obvious that she had a problem. Though everyone at the waiting lounge in the airport looked like they had a problem, hers was different. Was it sickness I thought, was it marital problems. Then I saw her eyes lit when a baby on the mothers shoulder smiled at her. Her eyes lit for a second, for a second it seemed like she was a different person entirely. She smiled so heartily. Then her countenance changed, she remembered something and a heart breaking, mind drenching, brain bursting sadness filled her face. Her eyes glistened with tears. The sadness came back again but this time harder and stronger. I could see her body vibrate in pain. Her hands shook terribly. That moment I caught it, I knew it. I knew the woman was childless. I knew she was barren. I knew the reason why she looked incomplete. I knew the reason why she looked at the mother of the three children with so much envy. She had an emptiness inside her, that emptiness that can only be compared to losing someone you love, that emptiness that can kill you, that emptiness that you can't do anything about no matter how hard you try, that emptiness that won't go away, that emptiness that forces you to cry in public places, that emptiness that makes you give up on life, that emptiness that makes you question God, that emptiness that makes you feel alone.

I wondered how long she had wanted child. I wondered if she had a supportive husband. I wondered if her in-laws were on her neck, I even wondered if her husband married a second wife who has children for him.

I wanted to go talk to her, hug her and tell her everything would alright. But her flight was called, she was going to Abuja, I was going to lagos. As she stood up and walked towards the departure hall. My eyes lingered on her back.
A childless woman is a broken woman. Worse still a childless woman who knows she is the cause of her childlessness.

GOD'S TIME

'You are alright, perfectly okay; the both of you'. I have said this a hundred times, I just wish you can stop coming here, and wasting money on check ups'.
'Thank you doctor'. My husband said. He held my hands tightly. I sat there, stiff and motionless.
'Madam I know your plight' the doctor said. I looked at the frame standing on his table, and the one hung near his bookshelf. Three girls and a boy. He has four children and he is saying, he can understand my plight. I wanted to scream. I wanted to pull at my hair, and use his beautiful polka dotted tie to squeeze my neck. I wanted to push everything on his table to the floor, climb over the table, pull him forward with his tie, look into his eyes and say 'You don't bloody know my plight'. But I just sat there and listened to him say what he had been saying for the past ten years. 'Mr & Mrs Ezeugo you have to put this matter in God's hands'.
We walked to the car in silence, small beads of sweat form a half moon line on my husbands face. 'Kamara, everything would be fine' he said to me like he always did. I nodded a non chalant nod. I didn't want him to console me, it made everything worse.

We got to Rapuluchukwu's house in Lekki peninsula, she was having her childs naming ceremony; she already had five. I knew I was better that Rapulu; I had a husband who wasn't a drunkard and a woman beater. Yet, I still felt jealous of her. In our university days, she was notorious for her hot pants for men. She had five abortions that I know of, but she still has children. And me? Good girl, best student in my class, best student in law school, Harvard law graduate on scholarship, Virgin till 23 and i was barren, twelve years of marriage and nothing to show for it.
'Sweetheart', Rapulu said, as she threw her hands around me in such an ostentatious manner, it made me sick. I smiled, trying to match her fakeness. 'Congratulations my dear'.
'Thanks God o! He is the one that keeps blessing me'.
'Yes thank God' I said. She walked us into the big garden were the celebration was taking place. Sitted in one corner of the garden were her friends dressed glamorously, in red suede wrapper and gold blouse with matching gele. I walked fast, I didn't want them to see me, but Rapulu, with her big mouth asked me to sit with them.
'I would sit with my husband, you know how he hates being alone in public'.
'Larry, would survive without you for 30 minutes, and that corner is reserved for my friends'. I pinched Larry, hoping he would come to my rescue.
Finally, I went to sit with them. We exchanged pleasantries. I knew all Rapulu's friends because we all attend the same church. 'How is the family, How is business, How is your mother' they asked. I kept saying fine, I felt my mouth would get stuck saying it. I pulled a chair to sit down when Chiwendu, the leader of the catholic mothers association said 'Kamara what are you doing?'. It was difficult to comprehend the question. 'I am sitting of course'.
'You can't sit on this table',
'Why, if I may ask'.
'This table is for mothers'.
It was as though someone slapped me in the eyes.
'Rapulu said...' I stammered, then stopped. I could feel the tears building up. I pushed the chair back in place. I waited for a minute, for any of this church women, who gave large donations in church, who carried Rosary and Scapula everywhere they go, to say something that wasn't spiteful, but they all sat there like demons.
'It's not the way you see it, it's the rule'. One of them said, I didn't look up to see who. I felt humiliated and frustrated as I walked to the car. Larry followed me outside.
'Babe what is it' he said, as we got into the car. 'Nothing'.
'Don't tell me nothing, you are crying'.
'Rapulu just humiliated me, she knew that table was only for mothers, and she asked me to go and sit there.'
'Is that why you are crying?'
'Why won't I cry, goodness gracious, Larry, I am getting to forty, forty years and I don't have one single child. I can't even boast of an abnormal child. Nothing! I am just a piece of flesh and bone walking around.'
'Don't say that babe, you are the most intelligent person I know, the best goddamn lawyer in this country. You are awesome.'
'It's nothing without a child, I feel so empty, I am not awesome'.
'Gods time is the best.' He said. 'Let's get out of here.
We drove home in silence, in all the years of our marriage, I have never been able to understand the man I married, he was an enigma.
'What are you thinking about?' I asked him.
'How much I love you'.
'Funny you'.
'I am serious, babe, I don't think I could be with anyone else',
'I love you too baby'
'Can you do me a favor'
'What hon?'
Let's forget about this baby issue, please don't ever bring it up'.
'Hon, I try, I try so much.'
'You have to try harder babe, you have me, and God would give us a child when he deems fit'.
This wasn't normal, how could he always be like these, so undisturbed about my childlessness. He hadn't spoken to his mother in six years because she told him he had to choose, Me or her. And he choose me.
He was no longer the 30 years old Larry that swept me off my feet, he was a now a man, who was always thinking. I squeezed his hands, as we listened to the music playing on the car stereo ~ Luther Van dross, I'd rather ~
'I'd rather have bad times with you, than good times with someone else' He said to me.
For the first time that day I smiled a genuine smile. Fuck Rapulu, and her wife beater husband, and fuck those Stupid women. I had love.

SAVE ME

It had to be a dream. It couldn't be happening. 'Stay with me baby, just stay with me'. He was shaking uncontrollably, blood was gushing out of his head. 'Jesus please save my baby, don't let him die'. I wanted to cry but I couldn't, my heart was going to shut down from fear. Oh god, the blood, it was everywhere. I tried to move my legs, but I couldn't feel them. 'Mummy' he whispered. 'My head'.
'You would be fine baby, just hold on, just stay with me'. I could see blood dripping from his head. I feel dizzy, everything was falling apart right before me. I wanted to sleep, but I couldn't leave my son. I couldn't die and leave my baby. I wanted to hug him, but I couldn't feel my legs. I was really tired, my eyes were closing. I didn't want to sleep. 'Somebody help us'. I screamed. All I could hear were the chirping of birds, and the growling of animals. We were in the middle of nowhere bleeding to death. My damn phone, i stretched my hands to get them, and I slept off. All I could see was nothing, darkness.

NEW SERIES ALERT!

Hello peeps,
'I’m not saying I’m gonna change the world, but I guarantee that I will spark the brain that will change the world.'
    - Tupac Shakur

I want to say a big thank you to y'all for reading my blog *Shines teeth* *dishes out hugzz*. I am most grateful. It would definitely be frustrating if I write, and post the links on my facebook, twitter, bbm etc, and I stalk my page views and see that no one has even mistakenly opened it! Trust me, it would just kill me moral. But, reverse is the case here o! Even though you guys don't comment (plus I have fixed it, you can now comment with anonymous).
I want to inform you guys that as from tomorrow, I would be posting a new series. I would officially release the title tomorrow. I would be posting the stories bi- daily, and I would make it as short as possible so you can enjoy reading. Till tomorrow *dancing Skelewu*

BLOOD IS THICKER THAN BLOOD

He is your brother, not just your brother, your twin brother. You shared the same womb at the same time, suckled the same breast at the same time. Was it not plausible that you die at the same time, in the same space, breathing the same air - just the way you came into life. You feel like all the life in you has dried up at once. You feel like a tree in a dessert, because life holds no meaning for you. The only thing you believe in - Love. Has left you, because of you. Yes! He died because of you, and in some way, you think, you killed him. If only he had listened, a little longer, been a little more cautious, maybe he would be here, with you, in Somali, saving lifes.

It started with the 'Igbo', not the normal one, this one was darker, and stronger. Mayor called it 'Skunk', but you preferred calling it Igbo; Skunk made it sound dangerous. Mayor, your mother's younger brother, used to bring it home from work. All of you; you, Chimezie and Mayor, would go to the back of the house, and like ants gathering a cockcroach that has fallen on its back, three of you would gather around the Igbo. Chimezie, knew how to wrap it perfectly; He knew how to do everything perfectly. He would spread the rizzler - which was like a special kind of paper - pour a certain amount of Igbo in the middle, then he would wrap it, slowly and carefully, after which he would lick the end with his tongue, so that his spit would seal it. He used to say wrapping Igbo was an art, and you agreed with him, because you used to try, but you always failed to make the tip thin and pointy like Chimezie's. Mayor taught you and Chimezie how to do so many things aside smoking Igbo. He taught the both of you, how to drink kai kai. But, of all the things he taught you and Chimezie, the one you were good at was stealing. After smoking Igbo, the three of you would go to the market, were people swarmed in and out. Mayor, who somehow knew where people kept their purses or wallets, would tell you 'Chidozie, see that man, the one wearing blue. He has money in his back pocket, go and collect it. You know how I taught you'. You would nod obediently, because Chimezie had collected his own, and nothing happened to him. You would walk gently, fear gripping you legs. On getting to the target, you would take a deep breath, you would think of Chimezie the perfectionist, your twin brother who did everything better than you, then as always you would try to be better than him at this one. And, you were better than him, at picking peoples pockets. You always did a clean job. Using just two fingers, your middle and index finger, you could lift any kind of purse or wallet from any kind of pocket. At last, you too had found your art.

It wasn't too long before Mayor took you and Chimezie to work. His office was an uncompleted building at the towns outskirts. He had three co-workers, Jumbo, Yaya, and Sniper. The first day you met them, you almost bolted in fear; especially Sniper. He had too much of everything; he was too dark, too tall, too fat. His eyes were too big, and he was too scary. But it was Sniper that was by far the kindest. You remember that day you were scared, and couldn't pull the trigger on a policeman that was chasing you. That was the day they took you and Chimezie on your first mission. Sniper did it for you, he shot the man in the back of his head with his own gun. Even though the mission was successful, when you got to the office that night, Mayor was furious. He had given you a hard slap at the back of your head, and said 'So after spending my time teaching you how to pull a trigger, you couldn't shoot an ordinary policeman. So you want to die abi. I have told you several times, this game is for the fit, not for babies'.
You had cried that night. You cried because of that policeman. You cried because you had disappointed your Uncle Mayor. Chimezie crawled next to you and hugged you. He made you a promise, he said 'If you don't want to kill, I will kill for you. Whenever we go on a mission, and you have to shoot, but can't shoot. Just call my name, and I will come and save you'.
You never needed to call him on any mission, because as time flew past, you became stronger at heart. On missions, you would shoot anyone that threatened your life. You and Chimezie, became very rich. The biggest and most notorious armed robbers in Enugu. Sniper retired, so did Uncle Mayor, Yaya and Jumbo. You and Chimezie had your own gang - Fidelis, your cousin joined the both of you. Nnamdi, your childhood friend was also initiated. You and Chimezie built a house for your mother in the village. You decided never to get married. You had Chimezie, his love was enough for you. Moreover, a woman would ask questions. You hated questions you knew you couldn't answer.

Your life was moving in the best way possible, until you went on that mission that changed your life. It was the mission that was supposed to give you the money you had always wanted. You planned as usual, smoked plenty of Igbo. Your guns were in the right places, your team was on top of their game. You hugged Chimezie, as usual. If you had known, it would be the last hug, You would have held on longer. But, you didn't.
It was mid afternoon when you entered the bank, walking casually. Your guns were neatly stacked in your pocket. The banks metal detector couldn't detect your guns, because Nnamdi had paid the bank a visit the previous night. Chimezie strolled in next, then Nnamdi, then Fide. You said a silent prayer, that you didn't have to kill anyone. You entered inside the bathroom, and wore your mask, so did Chimezie, Nnamdi and Fide. Everything went as planned. You waved your gun in the air and calmly told everyone to lie down and keep quiet, they obeyed. You saw some shivering, some peeing on their clothes. You had outgrown feeling pity for your victims. Nnamdi and Fidelis, got busy throwing money inside the big 'Ghana must go' bag, while you and Chimezie, made sure no one moved. It took 30 minites to get everything done. It was when you were set to go that you heard the police siren, they were bursting in on you and your gang. You were scared. There was a back door, all of you exited through the back door. The police sighted you, and they began to chase you, you ran inside the car and Chimezie sped off. Two police vehicles were behind, you wished he would drive faster, but you didn't say, so he wouldn't panic. You could hear your heart drum out of your chest. Chimezie said he had to park the car, because there was a check point in front, and he was sure the police had alerted them. Nnamdi was crying, Fidelis was blinking hard and fast - the way he behaves when he craves Igbo. You all jumped down from the car, and ran inside a thick bush. The police was closing in on you, you didn't stop running. Your legs vibrated in pain. You heard gunshots but you kept running, there was no one in sight, and you didn't care because you were scared. Then, you heard a voice, calling out for Chimezie, you didn't know if it was Nnamdi's or Fide's, fear had contorted the voice. A few seconds later you hear a gunshot, and you hear Chimezie, screaming in pain. You heard him call your name, then you heard another gun shot. And, in your heart, in your bones, in the blood that flows through your veins you knew that Chimezie was gone. The air became stifling, the clouds became darker, and you felt the trees crashing in on you. You fell to your feet and began to cry, because you knew that Chimezie ran back to save you. You knew that he thought you were the one calling out to him, and like he promised years ago 'Just call my name and I will come and save you'. He did come to save you, only that it wasn't you, It was Fide that the police had caught, it was Fide that called out to Chimezie, and he ran back thinking, that once more you were 15, and needed him to save you, thinking that he couldn't leave his brother to die. In the blink of an eye, Chimezie left you...in a world that no longer made sense to you.

Now, you are in Somali, spending all the money you stole on sick children. You will never hold a gun again, and for Chimezie's sake, for God to accept his soul in heaven, you will travel round Africa, helping sick and impoverished children. And, every night before you sleep, you hear his voice, that one last time he called your name and you wish you had died with him.

YOU CAN'T KNOW WHERE IT PINCHES EXCEPT YOU HAVE WORN THE SHOES

I grew up in a family were we always had tea and bread for breakfast. My mother always bought novels and books for me and my siblings and forced us to read them. As a child, myself and my siblings always waited for my daddy at the door post every evening, knowing that the first person to take his bag, would always get the promo meat roll (gala) inside the nylon of the loaf of bread, along with the compulsory cheese balls biscuit, and yogurt ice cream he always bought for all four of us on his way back home from work. We would lick the ice cream sluggishly, looking at each other from the side of our eyes to know whose ice cream would finish first. In the home I grew in, we ate rice and stew with chicken every sunday and on Christmases, Easters and birthdays we had additional salad and Vita malt to go with it. In the home I grew in, going to church was a culture, I attended block rosary every evening and knelt down with bare knees on the concrete floor in penance for my childish sins which to me then were very terrible. I received Holy communion regularly and went for confession every month even though I had nothing to confess. My mother taught me to love God. My father taught me to love myself. My parents were far from rich but I had a comfortable childhood with rich memories.
Even though things have changed. Even though I have experienced so much more since then which had changed me, the days of my childhood are still the days I relish whenever I want to get in contact with my real person. The days of pepper snacks and speedy biscuits, the days of Zobo and kunu drinks, the days of baba dudu sweet.
My childhood days formed me, they made me who I am. It is a vital part of my life. It is part of my lifes story. Everybody has a story. I turned out the way I am because of how I was raised, because of the people around me, because of my parents, because of the wonderful experiences I have had, which I hold on very tightly to. Some people aren't as fortunate as I am, Some people have worst childhood days. Some people don't know the meaning of family because they have never had one. Some people have lived all their lives homeless and hopeless, sleeping under bridges at night and wandering during the day. Some people have never had anyone buy them biscuit and ice cream. Some people have never read a single book because no one bought or encouraged them to read. Some people have never seen the four walls of a school because they couldn't afford books talk little of tuition fees. Some people have been sick all their lives. Some people have never been told about God. Some girls were raped and abused as children. Some boys were taught as children, that the way to survive in life was to steal and kill, by people who their childish heart trusted. Some people have watched their siblings and parents die because of poverty. Some people have gone days without food begging on the streets with tattered clothes and lice filled hair.
Everyone has a story. A story that makes them who they are. A story that has moulded them into what they are. A story that broke or made them.
Never Judge a person without knowing his or her story. Never say you are better than someone if you haven't been in his or her shoes. It's only the one who is wearing or has worn the shoes that knows where it pinches. Never look down on people. Never conclude about people, because behind every man or woman there is a story. A story that might shock you.

THE BRIDE

'It is your marriage but their wedding' My aunty Nene told me when she noticed my deep frown. I gave a quick nod and busied myself with blowing air into balloons. 'Kpa', the balloon bursted and it jolted me into reality.
'You do that a lot' she said 'When you are angry you just shut everything out. Do you think that is a good strategy? You should learn to tell people how they make you feel'.
'You want to know how you make me feel? Mad! Just let me be' I exploded.
I stumped out of the room with the busted balloon in my hands looking like my broken heart.

My head was a mess. I lay on my bed, the smell of my pillow brought back childhood memories. How could I not have been grateful then. When I had nothing to worry about except what socks to wear to school, and what type of hairstyle to wear. The door creaked, my mother stepped in smelling like fried beef.
'Can I come in' she asked
'You are already in'.
She came in and sat at the edge of the bed. Her hair tie sat loosely on her head. It so badly irritated me. I never could understand why one could not properly tie a scarf and would rather prefer it sitting on the head like a frog about to hop.
'What is the problem? Why were you screaming at Aunty Nene'
I thought of several answers to give. I tried to figure out the shortest and simplest answer, one that won't lead to my mother's usual series of advice and talk on how a decent girl behaves.
'I didn't mean to shout on her, but you know how she likes making a big deal out of nothing'.
'That has not answered my question yet'
'She annoys me, with this useless it is your marriage but their wedding. Who is their. What nonsense is that? You know what annoys me more? I know where she got that line from. I saw the movie with her. She just keeps saying that to justify the fact that she is trying to make my wedding hers. She wants the theme color to be gold. She thinks it's better I do a buffet serving. She wants the cake to have the shape of a Palm wine keg? She is just too nosy'
'Why do you hold so much anger inside? You shut people out when you are angry. It's hard for you to say how you feel and when you let it out. It's shocking for the other party'.
Tears streamed down my eyes as the true reason for my frustration clicked. Aunty Nene wasn't my problem. The poor woman was just excited about the wedding.
'I don't want to marry him' I said in a quivering voice. 'He is a good man but I don't love him, I don't even like him' I cried, burying my face in my pillow. My mother looked askance at me. ' I don't understand you at all. Do you know you are the one that brought him to this house? What exactly is your problem?'
She spread her palms apart and began a long harangue. I heard her of course, but I refused to listen. I knew she went on about how I would later come to love him. She would tell me that I should be happy with the fact that I was going to get married at this age. Then she would refer to my cousins who were striking menopause, and are still unmarried. She would end the speech with a low tone, wide eyes, her hands on her hips, and her head stretched forward, saying 'Time is never on a woman's side. You have to grab the chance of marriage while you still can'.
When she left I heaved a sigh of relief. As though the devil just wanted to frustrate me further, my phone rang.
'Hello'. I said
'Baby how are you'
'I am fine'
'This one you are sounding like these, hope there is no problem' he asked.
'I am fine' I repeated 'Could you call me back am in the middle of something'
'Okay my baby, I would call you when I get home from the market'.
I dropped the call before he could say goodbye. How can I marry someone I can't even have a conversation with. Someone who pronounces 'picture' as 'pishur'. Someone who carries a bag around his neck like a fish seller. What was I even thinking? What? How did I allow it get to this level. The plan was to just indulge him for a while, now, I was two days away from wedding him. 'Jesus help me' I said almost bursting out in tears. Even money could not blind me this time. I can't spend the rest of my life with him. I might just kill him in his sleep. I needed a plan.

It is my wedding morning, my phone is buzzing continuously, my friends are everywhere in the room, caking their faces like they were the ones wedding; selfish idiots. It's time to execute my plan. Ralph, my supposed to be husband is in the opposite room dressing up. My mother walks in with a big smile on her face, she hugs me ostentatiously. Her is gele almost touching the roof, her face looks like a make up accident. 'You look beautiful' she says to me. I smile, I try to pity her, but I can't, she too is selfish, all of them are. I send a text message. In three minutes my plan would have been executed. 'Excuse me' I say to the hair stylist. Nobody notices me walk out of the room to the car park. I sight him, he is in a 2.2 Toyota camry. I enter the car and he speeds off. I am a runaway bride.

EXCERPT FROM MY COOKING NOVEL

Mud splashed on my blue jean. 'Waka' I shouted at the man who was sitting comfortably in his Honda highlander jeep. He didn't even notice how furious I was which infuriated me more. My day really wasn't going to get any better I thought. It was going to rain soon. The clouds were already looking moody. People where walking helter skelter trying to reach their destination before the rain begins to pour. I was waiting for a bus at the junction. I had been waiting for about 15minutes when a woman about 30years old walked up to me. She looked desperate, tired and unkept.
'Aunty please help me, I am going to owerri and I need transport money. I don't have money. Please aunty help me'. I felt pity for her, I really wanted to help her but I didn't have enough money. I pretended I didn't hear her and went on to press the buttons of my handset like I was sending an important message. She lurked around for a while then she moved to a man standing beside me. Whether he gave her money or not I didn't find out because a bus came along and I struggled into it like it was or do or die affair.
'This girl you are a tiger' the boy sitting beside me in the bus said. I didn't bother replying. What I really wanted to say was 'Please shut up you bloody idiot' .I was cranky and uncomfortable. The woman sitting beside me was fat. She took up the so much space, and to make matters worse a little girl was sitted on her laps. The little girl was carrying a bag on her laps also. The bus was really jam packed
'Madam you go pay for dis pikin wey u lap' the bus conductor said to the woman.
'Pay gini' She shouted 'isi adiro gi mma,your head is not correct' .She hissed like a calabar woman.
'Madam na your sef u dey tel, your money na #100, beta come down now,if u no go pay' the bus conductor told the woman who was already adjusting her wrapper in preparation for a fight.
The driver of the bus, turned to talk to the woman 'Madam abeg pay your money', before he could finish the bus hit a stagnant trailer. 'Bang' and someone shouting 'Jesus!' was the last thing I heard. The last thing I saw was the little girl the fat woman had on her laps, hitting her head on the rod separating the drivers seat from the passengers seat.

 I woke up, I heard noise from every corner. 'This one is alive' one man said. My vision was blur. There was a sharp pain in my stomach. I wanted to sit up but I couldn't. There was blood mixed with sand all over my body. Then I saw the little girl lying on the floor, her body smeared with blood, her skirt was no longer on her waist. She looked dead. She was holding hands with a headless body. The woman who was preparing to fight with the bus conductor no longer had a head, she no longer had a life. Lifeless bodies were all around me. I was confused. Why so much blood. The sight was horrenduous. I went into coma again.

I woke up again, I saw a woman standing beside. Wearing white, my vision was blur. I couldn't be in heaven, her white overall wasn't white enough.
'Nurse I don't know this people from Adam and I brought them here out of pity, I don't know where you expect me to get deposit from'
'Oga they can't get doctors to treat them if you don't deposit money. You have to deposit money before we begin treatment, if not they would die. If you don't have the money, leave me let me face other people, as you can see this place is jampacked.'
The nurse said. She was getting very impatient.
'Madam Nurse, I don't have deposit, God knows I have tried by bringing them to the hospital, with my car and fuel.' He walked away, the nurse hissed and walked away also, leaving as hanging between life and death.
I could taste my blood in my mouth. The man lying beside me groaned in pains. I wanted to help him but I needed help myself. Another nurse passed us, a doctor passed us. Everyone passed us without stopping for a glance. We all easily blended into the choking number of people who were lying helplessly, sick, and agonised in the waiting room of the hospital. I could no longer hear the groaning from the man. I knew he was dead. They let him die, and they would let me die also.

'Kasie' someone said. I couldn't recognise the voice. My head ached.Where was I? Oh! That smell. The smell of a hospital. I hated hospitals.'Nne' I knew for sure it was my mother. No one else calls me that. 'Mummy' I said 'where am I,what am I doing here?'
'Relax, you were involved in accident' she replied 'God saved you,Chukwu daalu' she raised her hands to the ceiling in worship to God. My whole body ached. It was as though I was cooking in a pot. I felt hot inside and outside. I remembered the blood, the little girl, the bus conductor, the loud bang and the scream. The thoughts terrified me.
'Mummy my head is paining me' tears ran down my cheeks. They felt hot too.
Everything was hot. I needed to be inside a deep freeze. 'Ndo Nwam, Sorry my child' My mother said. I knew she was trying so hard not to cry. I could tell from the way she pouted and blinked fast. There were deep lines under her eyes. She hadn't slept well also. Her hair was a mess. Chidalu came in with a bag in her hands. At first she didn't know I was awake then she met my eyes 'Jesus' She shouted 'Thank God' She threw her hands around my mother 'Thank God' She repeated.

I was discharged after five days. My body was in good condition but my mind was messed up. I had trouble wrapping my head around the fact that I had come face to face with death a second time. What tormented me more was the little girl and the fat woman. One moment I was cursing and biting because the woman was taking up more space than she paid for and another moment she was headless. I couldn't get the image out of my head and I wondered about the little girl .Did she die too? Did her family find her? Do they know she was involved in an accident? Then the man who died because the nurse at the hospital wanted a deposit first. I also thought about the hundreds of people that lose their lives in such situations. The country's health sector was in a shambles. I would have lost mine also. I didn't know who saved me. I was too thankful to God to ask any one. Too thankful to hate the nurses that came into my room frequently, either to change my sheets, drip or give me injections for killing that man and thousands of people they have rejected because they had no money.
At a point I felt if I had given some money to the woman who begged at the bus stop maybe God would have averted the accident.

A PLACE OF NOTHINGNESS

She knew today would come, the day that is for the owner. What she didn't know was that, that day, would be today. He gives her a hard kick on her stomach, but she is determined to not squirm. She would show absolutely no pain. No one can see that she is scared. 'Shift like this' he shoves her head, 'Oya face the camera, thief like you, Oloshi'. He screams, pushing, and kicking her. The pain from his kicks are intense. They are touching her ribs, but she can't show it. She shifts closer, facing the camera. She keeps a straight face, that face she had so often practiced for this day. She hopes her hair is still in the tight knot she had put it. This is the picture that would determine how the world would see her. It would grace the pages of different newspapers. Both people that know her, and people that don't would see her, some may pity, some may insult, some may care less - What is important is that she can't look helpless. She is not helpless. She is not ashamed either. She stares into the camera, the sharp flash of light dazes her and causes her to see clouds of circle. She is a thief and a murderer, and she isn't ashamed of it.

The policeman, a tall dark man, with a deep tribal mark on his left cheek. His dark is disgusting, like soakaway water. She stares at him eyeball to eyeball. 'Witch' he says 'Why you dey look me like that? You want make i slap you. Thief like you, Ashawo Oshi'. She doesn't reply, she doesn't want another slap. It has been 20 slaps since she was arrested. Her face is burning, and her bruises are attracting the swarm of mosquitoes in the prison. They feast on her open wounds and she cannot wipe them away, because her hands are behind her back, in a rusted handcuff. Her ears are sore from the noise; the shouting of the police men, the crying of the prisoners, the sound of gunshots. She hates noise, she hates it so much that right now, her veins puff out in anger, as she watches this poor excuse for a man cry like a sick baby, 'Oga abeg' he pleads ' I get four shildren, and na me be the only pikin wey my mama born'. So he didn't know that this day would come, the day that is for the owner. Didn't he know? Did he think he is invisible? She wants to tell him to shut up. She wants to tell him that only those who are strong at heart should become thiefs. It's his type that would beat their wives, scream at their mother, boast and brag. Now, see the idiot, crying like a man less man. She? cry? Never! God forbid. She would carry her heavy cross with dignity. This is the prize she has to pay for killing that boy. Even though she had told herself it was a mistake, she didn't see him coming, she still killed a ten year old boy. She saw him everywhere, she saw him in her dreams, she saw him in her bathroom, her kitchen, her sitting room but he didn't enter her bedroom; that was her shrine. Her place of absolute peace, the place that was so silent that it almost deafened. He knew not to come there. She felt sorry for him, but she won't cry. It is his destiny, that she kills him, like it is her destiny to become a criminal. After all at the age of ten her parents killed her in the worst form of killing one could think of. They abandoned her, in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere with #100. 'Find your way Shola', were the last words she heard from her father. Those words, even in the silence of her shrine, still echoed in her head. She tried in the first years to find her way, but, men always found their way inside her instead. At ten, with #100, no guardian, no food or water, she was asked to find her way.

They walk them to the cell; the policemen, with guns that look too heavy for them. She imagines a quick escape, she knows can beat the hell out of the three policemen at once, they look hungry and tired. The bones on their neck stick out of their flesh, it's almost painful to look at. She doesn't want to escape, there is nothing to escape for. She has no where to go.
She sits on the sticky floor of dry urine and spit, mosquitoes fly around her ears, at least this time she can smack them. She massages her wrist, the handcuff had made deep mark on her flesh. She feels the women gazing at her, their piercing eyes almost stripping off her dirty clothes. She ignores them. They look hungry, and defeated. The policemen had decided that they would move her to where criminals of her type are tomorrow. Today is the last day she would spend with this women, that stared at her as if she was an enigma. She doesn't want to go that cell, she doesn't want to stay in this cell either, she wants silence, absolute silence. Somewhere she could hear nothing. It would end today she says to herself. Her stomach sings in hunger. It's been two days since she tasted food or water. The shitty beans they serve her always ended up inside the small hole near the window that looked like the window of a bird cage, they call pit latrine. She feels the knife inside her trouser. She had hidden it so perfectly, even after so many search, the policemen couldn't find it. Her back aches from sitting upright all day.

The fall of every person, begins with a little mistake, a little slumber, a little carelessness, a little fear. Her own was a little slumber. One moment of confusion that made her pull the trigger on a sleeping child. If she hadn't killed that boy. She would have escaped the police on the mission, she promised herself would be her last. She was fast. Twenty years on the streets had taught her to be sharp, and on the alert. But it took one little slumber, to deadened her abilities. If that mission was a success, she would be in Ghana now. Starting all over, because she has a reason to. A reason to live again. She is pregnant, with a child. At first she thought of abortion, but, it made her feel like the people she had grown to hate.... Her parents that left her to the cold arms of life. She decided to have the baby, she was not her mother. She won't abandon her child. But, sitting in the police station with nothing but blighted hope. She knows she can't bring a child into this her world. A world full of bitterness and pain. They would go together; she and her child. To a place of absolute peace.

It is time, she hopes she doesn't feel too much pain. She isn't scared of pain, but she is scared that her baby might feel the pain. It's dark. Everyone in the cell is asleep, snoring loudly. She wonders how they could sleep to the extent of snoring, in this place that smelt like death. The knife glistens in her hands. She uses her finger to fill the spot were she would put the knife, the base of her skull, the back of her neck. The bone is thin there. It would cut her spinal cord and quickly paralyze her. She would die silently, no screaming or smacking. Plenty of blood though, but she wouldn't see it. She would be in a place of absolute silent. A place of nothingness.

THE EYES OF THE SPIRIT

My grandmother sits on a stool stiff necked. Her face so wrinkled that it is difficult to decipher if she is frowning or she is straight faced. Her shoulders are high up. I know she is not guilty, she had loved Papa even at his worst moments. The Dibia sprinkles something on everyone while dancing to some unintelligible humming, the cowries on his legs clinking and adding rhythm to his hum. The chicken by the corner looks askance at the Dibia, like my grandmother it disapproves of the whole ritual. It knows any moment from now, its neck would be cut and squashed, and its blood would gush into a cup which the Dibia would use to make a mark on everybody.
My mother sits close to my grandmother, earlier she had tried to show some affection but mama eschwed her, mumbling something in Igbo.
Papa was the chief of the community for years before his death. His 'Nkolo' were we now seat was where land disputes were settled, where husbands and wives tore at each other, girls came to report their fellow girls for stealing their suitors. He settled all the community disputes, and those which were trivial he handed to his lower cabinet. Marriages which were not endorsed by Papa were null and void. Papa was not only just respected, he was worshiped. His wisdom was known far and near, from the villages of Apkulu, Ndi uno, Agueke, Obi agu. His words were like the sunset, consistent, true, and beautiful. He spoke proverbs even his peers could not understand. Papa was the greatest hunter of his time. His meats were the best in the whole of Awka North, and his barns over flowed with yam. He had lands here and there. Papa was truly a great man.
Papa was a hero and like all hero's he had a flaw. Papa's penis couldn't stay in his wrapper. He went from having wives to concubines and even at that his eyes would still follow the rhythmic movement of well rounded hips and the rise and fall of arrogant looking breasts.
Papa was a great man, and great men do not show any sort of emotion except anger or defiance. So if Papa scolded you more than necessary, it means that he loves you. Open display of love was a show of weakness and weakness was definitely one feature nobody could attribute to Papa.

'Dike! Agu! Mmuo!' The Dibia hails, he is clad in white wrapper, tattered with red and black pieces of cloth. He is covered with dotted white chalks and a big round circle is made with chalk on his right eye. On his neck hangs a thread of cowries that makes a noise as he moves. Two chicken feathers are tied to his head with a red piece of cloth. He says some incantations as he continues to dance. Almost every member of the family is gathered in Papa's 'Nkolo' except my immediate elder brother, Nnamdi, who wet his pants when he was warned that the rituals wasn't child's play, and he could go mad or even lose his life if he didn't adhere to instructions. Of course, my Uncle Peter who was formerly called Nwafor before he gave a standing order that anyone who dared to call him by that name would put their leg in the same trousers with him, blatantly refused to hear anything of it. He was a Jehovah witness member. After many years of following Papa to give sacrifices of all sort to the gods of Amadioha, Ani and kalawa he had decided that there was a better 'Chukwu' and worshiping our gods was fetish and barbaric. My mother told him in her bid to convince him to be at the ceremony with her hands pulling her ears 'Peter give Caesar what belongs to Caesar and give God what belongs to God'. Everyone calls him Peter except my grandmother who called him a 'Mad Bushmeat' for saying such nonsense. She would always complain that the white man's civilization was a thief that has stolen the minds of people, teaching them how to be stupid. 'How can they say that there are three persons in one God? Is that not rubbish talk? Is it because we are black and they are white, they feel we can't think? All this is a strategy to control us. I can't believe such nonsense.'
When Uncle Peter was told that as Papa's first son he had to be at the ceremony, he bit his lips and called the elders 'Heathens, who were ignorant of their misdeeds'. They didn't try to convince him any further, they already expected such answer. 'Just know you have sold your birth right to Okenwa'. They told him as a matter of fact.

Okenwa is the person standing close to me now. He holds my hand. I whisper to him that I am scared and he tells me that he is going to die first before he allows anything happen. He is tall, handsome and has eyes to die for. People say he is Papa's doppelganger. Maybe that was why Papa loved him the most. My childish eleven-years-old heart is in love with Okenwa, so is almost every female member of the family. Everyone wants to please him, which isn’t a hard goal to achieve because Okenwa is very easy to please.
It is midnight already. Tiredness is far from my mind. Curiosity burns my soul. I am adamant not to lose sight of anything. I watch as the elders whisper to each other and shake their heads. This night, I think, is going to be a remarkable one. The purpose of the ceremony is for Papa's spirit to be conjured into the body of the person he trusts the most so he can tell who is responsible for his death. The ritual is usually performed for titled chiefs who die mysteriously.

Papa's death was a shock to the whole village. One night he just slept and did not wake. It was an insult to the whole village, a great man cannot just sleep and refuse to wake. It was no way for the greatest man in the land to die. It was simply a taboo. The elders organised a meeting and an agreement was reached; Papa must tell us with his own mouth who killed him.

The place is brightly illuminated by candles, lamps and burning fire in the calabashes that sit at every corner of the 'Nkolo'. Horns and Antlers are littered everywhere, hanged at the entrance of the 'Nkolo' is a skinned bear, Papa's first big game. At the far end of the room is a shrine; Papa's shrine, a red cloth is used to cover the wall of the shrine which has three wooden images of gods decorated with beads. The images look grotesque with oversized eyes, no nose at all and lips that are as wide as the face. I remember Papa used to come to the shrine every morning and pour a tiny quantity of schnapp on the floor of the shrine. He would do it three times for the three gods, hailing them, and praying to them in deep Igbo words I could not understand.      
Though it is midnight, nobody seems tired, they are eager to know who killed Papa. Some say it is my Mama because she didn't shed a tear during Papa's burial, she didn’t even mourn him like his other wives. She is a strange woman with strange ways. Some suspect Papa's brothers, Udodi and Obidike connived with some of Papa's wives to kill him so they can inherit some of his property before death comes knocking on their weak doors. Some blame Mama Nkiru because her father is the greatest Dibia in Obi Agu village, and she has easy access to kill anyone she wants. All of the suspects look angry not guilty. They are sure that the spirit isn't going to point at them. This system is unlike the ones I watch on T.V in the city were a man wearing a funny cap with black overall, sits on a high chair away from the audience, banging a wooden stick on the table which is a sign he wants order in the room, could actually acquit a person who is guilty and punish a person who isn't. In this system the guilty is punished and the just liberated. Unlike the white man's system of judgement where one has to rely on evidence they can see, this is a spiritual matter, one that human mind cannot understand and naked eyes cannot behold. One that never makes wrong judgement.

I begin to feel papa's presence, his smell fills the room. The hair on the back of my neck stands. I feel a tingling sensation in my premature breasts. My belly sinks into my dusty shoes and rises to my mouth in an instance, goose bumps ravages my skin. Silence falls on the room, and if a pin drops it can be heard from a distance. The Dibia says in Igbo that Papa has come, that the great lion of Akpulu village is with us. I tremble with fear and excitement. I clench my legs together. It is known that when the spirit is roaming, before it enters the chosen person, if it passes between the legs of a person sitting or standing ajar that person would lose his life.
The Dibia begins to shake hands with all Papa's friends who he feels Papa trusted while he was alive as he makes abscure incantations. Papa doesn’t enter the body of his best friend Uncle Umeadi, it is a sign that he didn't trust uncle Umeadi. The Dibia shakes hands with four of Papa's friends and Papa doesn’t enter any of them. Papa's spirit is getting impatient. It hovers around the 'Nkolo' causing the lights in the calabashes to go off. Then the Dibia dances close to me as though led by the spirits. I am scared out of mind. He stares at me long and hard, as he stretches his hand towards me, my heart skips a beat. I think he wants to grab my hands then he suddenly grabs Okenwa’s hand and Okenwa moves sharply like he is hit by a strong force. The lights in the calabashes come on. I flinch. Okenwa's expression changes, he looks like Papa more than ever. He walks with the same grace Papa used when he knew people were staring at him. He sits on Papa's chair and places his two hands on the arm of the chair, showing of his arm muscles exactly the way Papa did. The Dibia welcomes Papa and asks him how the land of the spirits is. Papa replies that he doesn’t have much time, and he didn’t travel all the way from the lands of the spirits to make petty talks. Okenwa's voice was now Papa's voice. Papa's voice just like I remember fills the room as he scans the place. 'My family, my friends, my people, I left unplanned, I left without saying goodbye. I left before I could hold my first great grand child'. He looks at Adaora's belly. My eldest sister who has just got married. Everyone is surprised, nobody knows that she carries a baby in her, I doubt if she even knows, perhaps he is Papa’s comeback. Papa is now a spirit he sees the things we couldn't see with our physical eyes. He continues 'The god's allowed it. I can't question the gods. But an atrocity was committed against the gods and before I put sand in the eyes of the dog, Obidike, i sold a land to you’ he said pointing a finger at Obidike 'but you have refused to pay or inform my family about it’. Even in death Papa is a man of few words , he continues 'before you step a foot into that land again, you must pay the money to Anyafulugo'. He says looking at Mama's direction. A smile escapes Mama's lips. Even in death, he still puts her first. Everyone notes that Mama is still on his good sides which means that she didn't kill him. Obidike bows his head in shame. Obidike was one of Papa's close friend. Having flogged that issue Papa points to his fourth wife. 'Stand in the middle of my Nkolo' he says to her. She does as she is told, fear gripping her legs as they move wobbly 'If Okpara is my real son, lift my 'Nkporo'. He said, referring to his staff of authority which held a skull at the top.
She doesn't lift it. She doesn't dare to. She is going to die if she did because Okpara wasn't Papa's son. She had been with a man a night before Papa savored her woman hole. She stands there like a snowman; Speechless and motionless. Papa isn't going to waste his spiritual time on her. He knows that after now the 'Ndi Nne' who handled infidelity like this would take care of her. He then goes to the business of the day. 'The pest that consumes the egg plant is within it. After flying the termite would fall to be eaten by the toad.' There is a long silence then he continues 'You cannot bite the hands that feed you. Our elders say that a child that wouldn't let his mother sleep, would lose sleep also. Nothing is hidden under the sun and one can decide to run but can't hide. The flesh makes us ignorant. We don't know more than we know, and the scales of ignorance can only fall off our eyes if pushed away by death. I ate in the house of the one I trusted and he served me the food of pain and death'. Everyone gasps. ' Umeadi my trusted friend put a knife through my heart. It hurt my soul more than it hurt my flesh'. Everyone screams, someone grabs uncle Umeadi by the neck, and restrains himself as he caught Papa staring at him. Uncle Umeadi is shaking like a chicken that has just been dipped into cold water
Papa stands, stretches his hands forward and the lights go off again. He had completed his mission. Silence falls again. The hairs at the back of my neck no longer stands, the goose bumps disappear. The atmosphere is back to normal except for the tension arising from the news we just heard. Papa had left Okenwa's body, and Okenwa lay motionless on the floor. His mother run towards him and places his head on her laps, he twitches and opens his eyes. I am overwhelmed with joy. It is possible that someone whose body was possessed by another spirit could not return because his own spirit might have wandered off and forgotten its way back.

Everyone exists the 'Nkolo' stiffly, shaking there heads, and cursing, men saying 'Aluu e mee', women saying 'Tufiakwa' . It is early morning and the cock had begin to crow. No one looks at Uncle Umeadi or say a word to him. Shock grips them beyond words. Tomorrow is for the thief.
But tomorrow is too late. Uncle Umeadi had hung himself on a tall tree before they could get to him. He is not buried. It is an abomination to soil the land with the body of someone who took his life with his hands. Uncle Umeadi's dead body is mutilated, his hands are caught off and sharp objects are used to make deep wounds on his face and body, so he doesn't come back as an evil child. His body is thrown into the deepest forest in the whole of Ugbenu town were evil spirits dwell.

DEATH PLEASE

She feels the big lump between her legs. Pain sears through her waist to every joint in her body then it ends as a heave in her belly and starts again in the same process. The pain is familiar. She moves from one side of the bed to another. She feels queasy as nausea hits her causing her to hiccup and clench her belly.
Her wrapper soaks the blood that runs down her legs. A sharp pain hits her waist as she tries to stand, and she slumps back on the mud bed, using her hand to rub the back of her waist. She blows air through her mouth and tries to breath through to reduce the pain. She feels pressure on her waist and rushes into the bush at the back of the hut. She squats and pushes it out of her. It falls wobbly on the green grass, accompanied by watery shit and hot urine; a greyish sac that holds her baby at 10weeks, with eyes, mouth and little feet. She examines it closely and uses her finger to poke it. Tears build in her eyes as the pain hits her again. She walks unsteadily to the hut and drinks the concoction 'Agbala Nwanyi' had mixed for her. The pain subsides and she falls into deep sleep.

'Kata Kata Kata' the sound of the rain on the basin outside wakes her. She had known it was going to rain, she had smelt it in the air earlier. It was what she could do best, smell things in the air; smell trouble, smell fear, smell death. When she woke up this morning, alongside the smell of rain was the smell of death. She had just had a miscarriage, and she expected the smell of death to have cleared, but it still hovered in the air, strong as ever. Agbala Nwanyi's concoction had worked just fine as usual. The pain in her waist had changed to a dull throb. She throws the blood stained wrapper into the basin as she sets off for the river to wash it.
'Mama Nnukwu, Big mother daalu' the children playing under the rain greet her, she replies with a weak smile. She takes sluggish steps towards the river. The rain is having its fun with the earth. One minute it pours hard, the next minute it drizzles.
Rain water dramatically rolls from her forehead through the center of her nose and ends like a kiss on her lips. It tastes like salt, like her sweat. Her eyes follow the snakelike shape of the flowing water in a little gully. Every step sends sharp pains to her waist. Her big well rounded buttocks which used to be a center of attraction and a charm to men is now a burden to her.
Trees hung out to form a canopy as she approaches the river. It is empty, the rain has stopped people from coming. She places the wrapper on a dwarf rock on the river bank and fetches some water. The feel of cold water sends chills down her spine. The river is quiet except for the chirping of birds, so she notices the excited splash of a little fish that seems to be thanking the fish god for the rain. Her waist hurts again as she bends to wash her wrapper. 'Ukwudiya' which means ' Husband's buttocks' is a nickname given to her because of her large back size. It is known that through out the seven villages of Ugbenu town no woman can compete with her in that aspect. The sight of the blood stained wrapper, brings tears to her eyes.
She remembers vividly the first time she had a miscarriage, that was in the third year of her marriage. It took three years for her to get pregnant . Which didn't surprise anybody. It was no news that Ukwudiya was an 'Ogbanje'. A curse sent to her family to frustrate and torture them by coming to life and leaving just as fast. When she lost her pregnancy the first time, she almost went bananas. She ran to 'Agadi Nwanyi' the only female dibia in the village. 'My baby is gone' she cried as she flung herself on the floor in Agadi Nwanyi's shrine. The woman stared at her for a while and asked her to hush her mouth in a loud voice. 'You are in the presence of Otokoro, the gods of our fathers, your cries are upsetting him'. She rebuked.
'Yes I want him to be upset' Ukwudiya said 'I want him to be very upset! I want to ask him why mine must be different. Why is my life filled with sickness, torture and frustration?'
'Shut up woman! Otokoro cannot be questioned by a woman. Shut up before I curse you with chicken pox'.
'I am sorry great one, please pardon me. I am...'
Agadi Nwanyi interrupts. 'I know why you are here, you don't have to explain.' She said. 'I told your mother when she came here looking for a child twenty years ago. I told her she shouldn't try to have a child, but she insisted. My child Otokoro can't help you.'
'Why Why' Ukwudiya cried.
'Stop questioning Otokoro, I won't tell you this again woman'
'I am not questioning Otokoro. I am questioning you. What happened to my mother? Was she an Ogbanje like me?'
'Your mother wasn't an Ogbanje but she was destined to birth an Ogbanje, not just an ordinary one but the Queen Mother. I advised her to stop trying to have children but she was strong headed like you. She wanted you and she died getting you'.
Agadi Nwanyi's words stung Ukwudiya. She knew her mother died giving birth to her but she hated being reminded about it.
 'So not only am I an Ogbanje, I am also the Queen Mother?'
'Yes my child and you are still alive because I dug up your 'Iyi Uwa' and cut your connection with the other world. It's your destiny never to have a child. Stop trying, your people in the other world would keep trying to force you to come to them by sending you children that won't stay.'
Ukwudiya stared in agony as Agadi Nwanyi continued, 'You were supposed to complete your mission and return on your thirteenth birthday, but I dug up your Iyi Uwa before that time, and so there was no connection, they couldn't take you'.

She had stormed out of the shrine cursing the gods, cursing her chi, cursing her mother for giving birth to her. Twenty years later, she wished she had not tried at all. They usually say what you don't know won't kill you, unfortunately she knows now what it feels like to be a mother. She had felt the warmth of her child's cheek close to hers. She had given birth to her own child and she named her 'Onwubiko'. She hoped the name would pacify death since it meant 'Death Please'.
 She prayed every day to her old god 'Otokoro' and her new God, the one they say, has a son who came to earth to die for her sins. It was the new God, that gave her Onwubiko. She had prayed and fasted for one week to Him and he answered her.
When she felt heaviness in her breast, she had rushed to her husband's hut, and knelt down by his side 'My love' she said 'I am with child' . He smiled at her and asked her to sit on his lap. He kissed her stomach and asked if the baby was a boy. 'No my love, she feels like a girl'. He laughed like a drunken man and drew her very close to him. They made love in the hot afternoon.
That was the first time after her four miscarriages that she had told her husband she was with child. She always tried to save herself the embarrassment of explaining to her husband that the baby in her womb was now a big lump of blood that lay somewhere between grasses at the bush in the back of her hut. The man that told her about Jesus had told her to have faith in Him. She asked if she needed to sacrifice a goat. 'This God doesn't need any sacrifice all he needs is for you to believe in him and have faith in him'. She was surprised. Such an easy sacrifice she thought. She did just that and it included telling her husband. Telling him was a confirmation that the baby was going to live.
When for the first time in her life she held a baby she could call her own, she cried. The joy she felt was indescribable. She never let her out of her sight. She guarded her like a mother hen guards its chick. Onwubiko was a very beautiful girl. The village stood in awe of her beauty. She had the loveliest eyes and when she smiled the sun was envious because her smile out shined it.
On her fifth birthday Onwubiko who by then was the only thing her mother loved more than her life came down with 'Iba'. Ukwudiya didn't sleep that night she sat close to Onwubiko who lay on the bed shivering and crying, and prayed all night. She touched her skin with the back of her palm at intervals to monitor her temperature. At a point she felt so tired, she closed her eyes for a few seconds and fell into a deep sleep. She had terrible nightmares. When she woke up, she was holding a corpse in her hands and screaming. Her daughter was dead. She screamed so hard that it almost vibrated the compound. People gathered in her hut. Her husband tried to pacify her but she was implacable. She cursed both her old and new gods. She shook her daughter vigorously, pleading with her to come back. But the corpse was stoic. That was the worst day of her life. Her husband had called 'Agadi Nwanyi' who suggested that her daughter's corpse be mutilated, so she doesn't come back into the family as another child. She had gone bananas on them, threatening thunder and brimstone if anybody does so much as touch her daughter. She cried the whole day without sleep nor food, refusing to let go of her dead daughter. When she finally slept off. Her husband collected the corpse and carried it to Agadi Nwanyi who mutilated the corpse and burnt it to ashes. She never forgave either of them.

She rinses her cloth in the river and places it back in the basin. She sticks her hands into the soil and fills it with mud, on impulse. Raising her hand to the sky. she calls out to her Chi;
'You have cursed me with a childless life, you have made me a frustrated woman. I have lived a life filled with sorrow and pain. In this river I have washed out the blood of my unborn children. Ten times I have been with child. Ten times I have cried for you to save them. Ten times I have been rejected and ten times I have come here with a basin of blood stained wrapper on my head to wash away the blood of my children. What is a woman without a child? People laugh at me wherever I go. My husband no longer wants to see me except to satisfy his sexual urges. He calls me furniture, a useless woman. I have been called a witch that eats her children and in all these I stand innocent. I have never hurt anyone yet all that happens to me are things that hurt me. They call me an 'Ogbanje'. They say I am from a world I know nothing of. Today, I accept my fate. I go with the hope that where I go, there is a better destiny for me'.
She unties her wrapper and steps into the water. Series of thoughts run through her mind. She walks gently, deeper and deeper into the river until her legs can no longer touch the ground, until water covers her head, until her forced breathing forms bubbles on the surface of River Kalawa.
Hundred years later, the River kalawa is renamed 'Mmiri nenyenwa' 'water that gives children'. It is a common belief that any barren woman who visits the river with tears in her eyes is thereafter blessed with a child.

THE BURIAL

'You can't marry an osu'. My mother had drummed in my ears when I was about getting married to the only man I had ever loved. 'There is more to marriage than love, in short, the fact that you love him this much is enough reason for you to run for your dear life' She said, placing her hands on my shoulders. 'I have been married for years now so you should know that I have a great deal of experience in matters concerning marriage. Marriage is not what you think it is. It is tough. There are times when you contemplate committing suicide, so you can get away from all of it. There are also the good times though, plenty of it, but to add getting married to a man who is considered a sacrifice to the gods, a man who is ostracized from the community, who can't build a house in his village, that's terrible my dear'. She pauses and sips her coffee.
'Mummy, really, I don't know what to say to you. How can you judge a man because of a stupid law some ignorant illiterate dead people made. Okenna didn't do anything. He was just unfortunate to be born into a family that people think is cursed. Mummy you are professor, it's hard to believe that after all your days in Stanford you still can't understand that all this things are superstitions and total bullshit'. My emotions were getting the most of me.
'You know what is bullshit' she asked. 'Your childishness is total bullshit, you have refused to grow up. Don't you think about the children you would have? If you are okay with your husband being an Osu, that's okay. But do you think your children would love it that their father has no identity. Use your head my child, emotion leads one astray. There are issues were you have to jettison your emotion and use your head, this is one of them'.
I had stared at her with so much disgust, that not even the best artist in the world could get the deep mark of my frown.
I went ahead with the marriage.
After ten years of marriage, we had three beautiful children; Ngozi, Jidechukwu and Ndidiamaka. Before Okenna died, no woman could have been happier than I was; with three lovely children and the most caring husband in the world.
Sitted on a stool with one bad leg, mosquitoes buzzing in my ears, all those memories are totally gone. They had become dreams, my reality was right before me. Pinching me, calling me.
'We can't bury him and that is final' Nna anyi Dinta said, his booming voice, defiant.
Tears gathered in my eyes, I couldn't look at him, anger seared through my veins and visual clips of me dashing towards him and strangling him till I see the last of his tongue, raved through my mind.
'That's true' another of the Chiefs seconded ' Your husband was an Osu, you married him and you are now Osu, your children are now Osu. In as much as your husband helped the community, it doesn't make him a less of an Osu than he is. We simply can't offend the gods, an Osu can not be buried in our land.

As I drove down the tiled road, great pain filled me. Okenna built this road with his hard earned money for a village that has refused to bury him. He wanted them to accept him. He wanted to wipe off the taint that he was Osu. Oh! Those greedy things. They accepted his presents with open arms and smiling mouths. That he was Osu didn't matter to them then, that he shouldn't be shaked, hugged, didn't matter to them, since he brought them bags of rice, baskets of tomatoes, gallons of oil, tubers of yam. Okenna spent millions of naira building their roads, their bore holes. He so desperately wanted to belong. While he was alive he was a haunted man. Being rich, famous and intelligent didn't matter to him. He would always say 'A man without a place to call home is no man'. I would cry and plead with Okenna. I would often say 'Okenna look at me, look at this children, we are your home. You don't need a bunch of illiterate village people to call you brother.' He would reply ' Baby, it didn't matter if they accepted me or not until all of you came into my life. What if Ndidiamaka and Ngozi wants to get married? Would their Husbands people bring palm wine to our house in the city? What of Jidechukwu, what will I tell him? That he is not accepted in his village. That he can't buy land and build a house for his wife and children in the village. That is if at all anybody agrees to marry any of our children.'
'You are just like them. So freaking traditional. All those shit don't matter Okenna. Village, land, wine carrying, they don't matter. Love would find our children the way I found you, and Osu or no Osu, love conquereth all things.'

Burying him in this land was his last wish and they have refused, the same Chiefs that strolled in and out of our house asking for favors.
Okenna's body was arriving from the hospital to the village the next day. Since they have refused to bury him, the plausible thing to do is to bury him in Enugu, in the government cemetery like a man with no identity. I made a quick phone call. 'I want him to be brought in quietly, no sirens, no long cars.' I told the mortuary attendant that was escorting the body down from Enugu general hospital were Okenna had died.

'Kenechukwu open the gate' I shouted. The car drives in, a big black jeep that carries the corpse of my husband. I greet the men, and usher them inside. They eat rice and stew with chicken, I offer them beer also. I am so grateful to them, they carried out my instructions perfectly. No one knows my husband's body is in this village. No one except me and Kenechukwu, my younger brother. They leave an hour later, after carrying my husbands corpse into a room I had specially decorated for him; with flowers, beautiful satin materials. They lie his coffin on the bed and they leave. I am alone with Okenna's corpse. I am too scared to open it. I sit beside the coffin and cry. The thought that my bubbly Okenna was inside a coffin, motionless, dead as dead could be was frightening. How would I live without him. Yes, he made a lot of money for me and the kids, but I need what money can't buy, I need Okenna. I cry for a few minutes. I take comfort in knowing that I am going to give him something, after all the love he showered on me. Okenna deserves what I am about to give him.

When I told kenechukwu my plan, he called me a mad woman. I didn't refute, I didn't deny. I was a mad woman for Okenna. I could be anything for Okenna. It's midnight already. I and Kenechukwu drive to the spot. To the spot where he had dug up the day before. Okenna's body is at the back of the car. We drive slowly, carefully. We reach the spot and we gently carry Okenna's corpse out of the car. He is really heavy, but Kenechukwu is strong, I am strong too. We drop the corpse close to the six feet hole, Kenechukwu and some boys had dug. I don't know how he did it. I don't know what he told the boys he was doing with a hole as deep and as wide as this. We try to lower the Coffin into the hole but it is heavy. 'This is crazy' Kenechukwu says with a strong whisper. I ignore him. What does he know? The coffin rolls inside and lands inside the hole and I hear a big thud, I fidget. The coffin is inside the hole, but it has been turned upside down. I don't care, what matters most is that, it isn't open and it is six feet under the ground. I tell Kenechukwu to wait for me. He is scared, it's 1pm in the night and he is with a corpse. He doesn't refuse, though he is scared he would never admit it. I hurry home. Ngozi, Jidechukwu and Ndidiamaka are patiently waiting for me. I had told them of the plan earlier. They hurry into the car with their flowers, candle lights and the papers were they wrote a tribute to their father. In ten minutes we are back with Kenechukwu, he is safe. I officiate the ceremony. We pray in low voices. I pray for my husband's soul, I pray he finds peace where ever he is. I pray that he is praying for us too. Ndidiamaka begins first, she reads her tribute to her father, she ends saying 'Papa, if there is such a thing as a second life, in that second life, I still want to be your first daughter'. I don't know if she is crying, but I am. She loved Okenna. I know she died inside the day Okenna died. Jidechukwu goes next, but he doesn't finish, he begins to cry loudly, I try to pacify him. Then my last daughter reads her tribute, hers is short. 'Daddy I miss you so much, You are my hero, my gem. I think of you everyday. I hope you think of me too. Sleep like an angel daddy, because you are an angel.' Tears flow down my cheeks. It is my turn. I don't have a paper. 'Okenna, Sleep well, You might be dead, but you live on in my heart, in the heart of your children. Your last wish was to be buried in your own land. Osu or no Osu my love, I have given you your last wish.'
We all drop flowers on the coffin. Jidechukwu drops his favorite teddy bear and whispers, 'Daddy, I don't want you to be lonely'. I feel like crying again. We all pick a shovel and begin to throw sand on the coffin, till our hands begin to ache.

ESSAY COMPETITION

Hey peeps, below is a link for an essay competition on corruption in Africa 'How to make corruption unattractive in Africa'. Click, try your luck. I wish you success and myself too, because I am trying. Cheers!

http://www.fundsforngos.org/africa/anticorruption-youth-essay-competition-corruption-unattractive-africa/  

A TRIBUTE

Our love was like coffee with plenty of cream in it - bitter sweet, but more of sweet - You were something I couldn't do without. You were always there for me, loving me, teaching me, guiding me. You were a bright light in the darkness of my heart, and yet I didn't try to value you.
It's not that I didn't love you. It's just that I didn't realize how much. It's not that I didn't dream of your kiss, your touch...It's just that I didn't value them. I felt you were mine forever. I didn't think for a moment that it could be possible for you to be gone forever...until you left me on that sunny sunday afternoon.

Obim, they said you were a thief, that you were carrying illegal arms and you tried to attack them. How I cried when I heard this lies against you. Obim, you were a masters degree holder. We didn't have too much but we had enough to make us happy; your father left you a good inheritance. You were a christian, a staunch catholic not a thief, not a terrorist. You couldn't hurt a fly. You always cried everytime we watched Titanic. Obim, you had never stolen a thing in your life, yet they called you a thief because you refused to give them #100. Why? What is #100 compared to your life? Why didn't you settle them like thousands of Nigerians do? Obim, I always told you to jettison this your 'save Nigeria' ideology. I told you that you should think of surviving; that's how Nigerians think. I told you that, you alone, can't fight corruption in Nigeria. I told you that people have tried before you, but they faced the same fate. I told you of Dele Giwa, of Ken Saro-wiwa.
What makes my throat sting is that picture of your corpse on the Newspaper; a bullet wound in your head, your handsome face a lagoon of blood, your tongue stuck out like a goats, your eyes bloodshot, deep bruises scattered all over your body. Obim, you were naked in that picture and that Newspaper had a caption above that picture 'POLICE KILLS ARMED ROBBERY SUSPECT'. What should have been written is ' 'POLICE KILLS INNOCENT MAN BECAUSE OF #100'. I couldn't read the whole story because I was shaken. I cried at the injustice meted out on you, the ignorance and incompetence of the journalist that wrote that article. I cried not only because you were gone but because you died an undignified death, a death so painful that it made my brain shrink to think about it.
Even more so, you left without a sign, without a goodbye, without eating the rice and stew I cooked for you that sunday (I added curry leaf because I know you loved curry leaf).

Its been months now, but every time I think of you, my body is invaded by goose bumps, my heart beats faster, and tears flow uncontrollably from my eyes. Writing about you in past tense is hard because I still can't fully accept the fact that you are gone forever, that my dreams of bearing your children will never be reality, that I wasted my imagination thinking of the day you would make me your wife. I don't accept this. I wanted to shout, kick, bite, scream, and even sue the police but, Obim, am sorry that I don't have your spirit to always do what is right. I am sorry that I have joined the crowd of Nigerians who keep quiet when they are stripped off their rights by people who should be upholding them. I am sorry that I am among the bandwagons of Nigerians that bribe the police at every check point. Obim, I am deeply sorry that I can't fight your fight because my mind has been corrupted by the fear of dieing your death. I am sorry that I can't do anything but soak my pillows in tears because I know that even if I speak up nobody would hear me and if unfortunately I talk too much and the wrong people hear me Obim, I might die your death.

I keep beating myself up for all those days I went to bed without telling you how much you mean to me. Regretting all the times I didn't love you enough.
I miss you so much. If you can read this (if it's allowed in heaven) I want to tell you the things I always forgot to tell you while you were alive -I LOVE YOU and I VALUE YOU. Sleep like the baby you are Obim! My love! My heartbeat!

*Dedicated to all those who have lost their innocent loved ones to such barbarism, especially to the recent one (Apo killings by officials of SSS) and the old one five years ago (by the Nigerian policemen). May their souls rest in perfect peace. Amen.