Aunty Chioma..Part one
Chioma stood by the roadside in front of campus. Her bag hung on her hand, midway between elbow and wrist. Her high-heels boosted her height, by some whooping four-inches. The make-up on her fair face could be used to paint a small kitchen window! Her appearance was completely feminine, blond hair, pink top and blue-rugged jeans (the type of jean that had follow-come tears). Her clothes hugged her tightly, so tightly you might think she wore nothing, if you saw her in the dark. She seemed to be restless, or rather, worried. She was getting late for Nick’s birthday party. Ten more minutes before the party started, and she was still in front of the University, which was about a fifteen minute drive to Nick’s house where the party was holding.
Chioma wouldn’t miss that party for anything. Nick was a big boy who lived downtown . Fathered by a politician, and born by a medical doctor, things couldn’t have gotten better for Nick. He had a car, and lived large. A popular artiste was even going to perform tonight in his party. Chioma’s favourite artiste at that.
Five more minutes to the party, Chioma still stood there waiting. Being a friday, the school environment was somehow deviod of people. Then she saw him coming. Same guy that wouldn’t let her be. She wasn’t in his class. She wondered if he could even pay for her hair-do, which was roughly four thousand Naira. What angered her was that he was a ‘churchy’ too. A ‘churchy’ is one who follows the tenets of christainity to the dot. No parties, church service instead, no clubbing, TDB instead. TDB stood for ‘Till-Day-Breaks’. Read your books overnight. Chioma could go on and on to list his flaws. he wasn’t always coming to preach to her, no. He wanted to date her. Whenever Chioma’s friend taunted her with that, she would whirl her hand over her head, and mutter ‘tufiakwa, God forbid’. She was going to teach him a lesson today if he tried to bother her again. She checked her wristwatch, three-minutes more. She bit her index finger with her front teeth. And then he spoke up..
Part-two coming very soon
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The Upper Room
Chapter 1 page 2
Both men stood up to their feet immediately.
Ojukwu was first to speak.
‘Chai, This her vomiting has started again? She almost didn’t survive it last time’. Before he finished this statement, he had started running, towards his house.
Okoro starts to head into his compound, before he moved the second step he stopped, made to follow his brother’s fast disappearing shape, but stopped himself, and continued again into his house. All that stood between his house and Ojukwu’s was a hundred metre space of land, on which Kenneth and Chidi cultivated potatoes.
If you put the old fashioned nature of the house aside, the house tends to be one of the very best in the commuinity it stands, thanks to his brother’s constant rennovations. The house bears a U-like shape, such that each side has two rooms. A kitchen and a store is on one side of the house, while the bathroom et toilet are built on the far end of the compound.
He goes straight to a basket in the store and starts to look through its content. He finds what he’s looking for and hurries to his brother’s house. As steps into the compound, The sight of his brother sitting on the tiled floor probably sends a text to his head. Other people standing quietly also helps to tell him was just happened. He gets the hint, and drops the medicine in his hand to the ground.
Perhaps without Mazi Okoro’s consent, his two hands found their seats on his hairless head.
‘Ojukwu!’, he begins. You could tell he was shaking. He continues:
‘Can you please tell me what is killing our wives? My wife died around this time last year…What is happening?’
Ojukwu says nothing. He just sits and stares like a deaf man whose only cow just died. His elder brother’s wife had died exactly 365 days ago. Funny thing (No one can really prove this is funny anyway) is, she died under the same circumstances. Vomit blood for a month, get healed, and then continue the month after, and then give in to it.
Though being devout members of the Bishop of Rome’s denomination of christainity, the two brothers had gone the traditional way and ‘asked why’ or if you like, did some ‘research’ as to what caused her death, when the eldest of them lost his long time spouse the preceding year. Their findings revealed nothing. If it was some unnatural force that killed her, the force was smart enough to kill, or perhaps ‘out do’ all the fingers that may point him out also.
To be continued. Comments are welcome
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The Upper Room
Chapter 1
A little about them
The sun had almost completed its daily fashion parade, and was begining to recoil to its shell. The atmosphere was cool. Almost any 6year-old could guess it was going to rain in umueze town later in the day.
Ojukwu and Okonkwo are sitted (under the mango tree their late father planted forty years ago, when Ojukwu was born,) enjoying the cool evening breeze mother earth had to offer, as a quarter filled ten-liter gallon, containing palm wine sat gallantly on the ground close to a small table. In this part of the world, palm wine was the king of drinks. Weddings, burials, naming ceremonies- and the likes didn’t hold in the abscence of it. Except if only women were invited anyway. In umueze, a glass of undiluted or adulterated palm wine was all you needed to calm down your raging creditor for long enough for you to be able to convince him to give you some time to pay your debt.
Three tumblers also sat on the table before the brothers. They drank silently, shaking their heads in the process, ending the ‘head-shaking’ with an ‘ahhhhhh’ to show that the wine was a strong one. Only an African who hasn’t seen his grandfather and his friend drinking palm wine after a day on the farm will see anything strange here.
Ojukwu, the younger of the two brothers, is a trader, whose trade based mainly on palm oil. In his days, only a few of his mates could do the business, as it involved a lot of stress and capital. Ojukwu had three children, two boys, and a girl, at the middle. Going by the definition of rich, as conpounded by his townsfolk, he was a rich man, and was among the first few people to use a special type of corugated sheets in roofing his house.
Okoro, on the other hand was a palm wine tapper cum farmer. He is the ‘give-me-my-daily-bread’ kind of person, who had no time to worry about anything, so long as his stomache was full. Atimes, he was broke to the point that his brother had to pay his only child’s school fees. Four of Okoro’s children died before they clocked seven, with only the fifth, Kenneth, surviving.
The two brothers, during their parent’s days, always lived on the other’s neck. They quarelled at the slightest provocation, notwitstanding everything their parents tried to do to tie that loosely hanging nut between them. Things took a drastic turn when their father on his death bed made them swear never to fight again. Magically, the hatred between them turned to love immediately, and existed until both joined their fathers.
Kenneth and Chidi run past them and Mazi Okoro speaks up.
‘Look at them. What can they do? Other than to eat and play? Imagine, Kenneth cannot make ONE fine yam heap, without complaining, or squeezing his face.’
At the mention of ‘one’, he raises his index finger, and stresses the word. Mazi Ojukwu drinks from his tumbler, at the same time shaking his head in disdain before speaking up. His tone sounds like he’s reading a poem.
‘Oh! Children of nowadays. Very lazy, and cunning.’
He stops and raises his tumbler to his mouth to resume his drinking, while Mazi Okoro takes over the talking.
‘Playing is not the problem. The problem is the kind of play they play’, he pauses, tilts his head, the way some people may do if they need to hear some faint sounds from a direction clearly. He resumes talking, with his head maintaning its position.
‘…Wait oh, Ojukwu, is that not your son, Chidi’s voice am hearing Or are my ears decieving me?’
They both stop talking, glasses in hand and listen. One of the boys that just ran past returns, still running, but looking worried. He runs to Mazi Ojukwu and stands some feet away. Hands on his knees, amidst panting, Chidi manages to speak.
‘Papa! Papa!!’,
He holds his chest and continues.
‘Uhm, uhm, papa…’, He stops again.
Mazi Ojukwu’s tumbler took a trip to his mouth, leaving some of it’s contents in his mouth.
‘Chiiidi!, what is the problem? Who is pursuing you?’, asked a seemingly non-challant looking Ojukwu.
By now, Chidi had his hands to his knees. He struggled to talk between pants.
‘It’s mama o, papa. Mama is, uhmm, vo-mmiting, er, blood.’
Both men stood up to their feet immediately.
To be continued…Comments are welcome
Friend of the dead
He silently wished people would die.
Else he himself would die of hunger
He the crafted the space they’ld lie.
He did his job with the spirit of a worker.
On his shoulder, lied the corpse, Like groundnuts on the head of its hawker.
Nothing could fall it, no matter the force.
Nothing else could make you more sober.
All he was required of was six feet.
His products were used with flutes
Tell your parents you once crossed his feet, And all you’ll get is a dozen rebukes.
His tool? Whatelse but his knife?
Like all man, he had only one life.
But he was unthinking.
Thats why he didn’t carve his own coffin.
Off the edge of this world, he has slipped. Now he sleeps,
As his wife cries
So even the grave digger dies?
Whoever made this place we’re in,
You should revere Him.
We plan, He replans
We plan, God replans
I’ll buy a range rover.
Ma kids will school overseas.
I’ll never throw away left overs.
I’ll give’em to those in need.
My wife? She’ll be hell pretty. We will have fine kids.
Everything will be ‘effizzy’
Mine are the brightest of dreams.
I read hard so I’ld be good
I don’t party,
Though my mates say I should.
My plans, I’m busy drafting.
It is left for Jah to give His ‘yes’
What if Jah wants to say no?
He knows best,
So my face shouldn’t loose its glow.
If I had a gun…
I’ld kill my ex first,
Then every other killer,
so they’ld be just one killer; that is, Myself.
I’ld kill all the prostitutes,
A billion girls will die by my gun.
Dey’ld be no fake tires,
No quack doctors,
Not even one vector.
For I’ld always give them
a bullet each,
In the left part of their head.
Just one second,
And they’ld be dead.
I’ld kill many musicians,
I’ld spare no politician,
Without a second thought,
I’ll send many clerics to hell,
I’ll be hated by many mothers,
Coz I’ll end a million adolescent lives,
I’ld burn many churches,
Oh God, please gimme a gun.
But my gun is not an all rounder.
Many things would still be wrong,
When am done,
I’ld be the only one in the world…
And am gonna be seriously bored.
Professorval 