Haruna drew lines on his forearm with his left index finger as he waited for Yobe to finish his prayers. Haruna had stopped praying after his wife and three children died during a cholera outbreak in 2013, what was he praying for? For life? For his sins to be forgiven? What was the point? Continue reading →
Perhaps the only reason she was still in Nigeria was that Luther Vandross died while she was still a teenager. She would have sold a kidney, rode on the cargo hold of a plane, if it would take her to Murica where her idol lived. Continue reading →
Her muscles began the second round of begging for forgiveness, this time they sang the names of the gods of her fathers and mothers asking them to forgive the sins of her ancestors. It couldn’t just be her own sins she was atoning for as she pushed them with such cruelty. Continue reading →
There were several scenarios Sebastian Okonkwo had figured would play out in his life when he was forty, he expected several cars in his garage, a house in the city and a bigger, fancier one in Obizi. He had expected to have travelled to several countries and to be able to wear a suit without feeling awkward. There was a time he had been foolish and thought he would be married to a beautiful Mexican woman with her long hair brushing her buttocks when she moved, but he mentioned it to his mother once and the memory of the knock she landed on his head just before saying tufiakwa was still strong in his head, that incident knocked out the silly fantasy. Continue reading →
It’s been a month, a year, a century since I last heard your voice.
I don’t know if I miss you, I just know my heart grips the walls of my chest like a multipronged pair of pliers when I think of you. You drive through the highways of my mind at night with headlights on full blast, as the fumes of your exhaust fade, I clutch my chest and swallow my tears.
When the child was given to you, placed in your belly by the father of gods even though you chose to thank the man with the white robes, messenger of the strangers’ god. We hoped you would remember to teach her about us. We watched you through the veil, as you pressed your fingers on beads and prayed for a godly seed. We wondered how you could not tell you were carrying a god.
I’m sharing an excerpt from something I’m working on. I really hope you’d like it.
Wake Me Up
Pamela was thinking of ginger as she waited for the kettle on the ring to boil, not ginger the spice but the verb. No! it was the adverb – gingerly, it described her actions in the house since Jerry’s mother arrived yesterday, the only things the woman hadn’t complained about were the things she hadn’t seen yet. Continue reading →
Maimuna opened the door and enfolded her in a hug that should made her flatter than an ATM card, Dr. Ibrahim was smiling as he walked past them into the house, his arms laden with the fruits he’d stopped to buy at the market. Maimuna guided her inside and settled her on her favourite armchair – the one Yohanna had called her throne. Continue reading →
It was the way his khaki moulded his buttocks that first caught her eye, they weren’t big- the buttocks, they just seemed very firm. She imagined they were soldiers on sentry duty, each of them facing opposite directions, resolute in their calling to hold him upright. Her eyes trailed down to his orange jungle boots with its black base contrasting with the red sand of the market floor, she wondered briefly if the NYSC had given him this pair of khakis that were so tight that she could make out every muscle on his calf and thigh or if he had stood in front of a tailor, telling her to make them as snug as possible. Continue reading →
The last time I did a proper fiction series has to be in 2016, since then I’ve done a couple of random series that went nowhere. I’m starting a new series as promised in my last post and it’s set in Bida. It’s about a woman who has to make very tough choices at a difficult time in her life.
Enjoy the first episode and I hope you’ll enjoy the series and the characters I’ve created.
She hated the white walls of hospitals, why couldn’t they paint them something cheery and less sterile? Something like cotton candy-pink or purple like ripe wine grapes. Perhaps the colour of the wall wouldn’t bother her so much if this wasn’t the place where people came to die.