My favourite story by me.

People have asked me which of the short stories I have written is my favourite. Well, while it would be very difficult to pick just one, based on sentimental value alone, I'd pick "The Totem" It is the very first of my stories to get accepted for publication by a literary magazine and remains very dear to my heart. It is also a very strong example of the type of stories I enjoy writing, those ones I don't get bored trying to force out. If I have my way, I would only write stories in this kind of setting. To let you onto what it is all about...

 The Totem

always had a morbid fear of snakes. Even as a child I shied away from the harmless green ones that are abundant in my village, which are actually seen as an assets for they help control the rodent population. They abound all around the village, either basking in the morning sun or coiled like bundle ropes, with scales reflecting light in kaleidoscope of sparkles, generally revered as totems of  gods, to be killed at ones peril.

My fear of crawly things is not borne out of any unpleasant experience, at least not any that I know of. I feel it is inborn, a feeling of dread and revulsion that my family legend say must definitely be handed down from my grandfather on the father side, whose reincarnate I am said to be. Please do not ask me how that came about for I know nothing about that life (consciously that is) to convince you of the truth in reincarnation. Just accept the elder’s words like we all do.

As I said before, I hate snakes, and usually go out of my way to avoid them. I will not even touch a dead one not to talk of tasting their meat, which I hear say is the sweetest of meats – if the words of my snake eating cousins are anything to go by. Pampered buggers, my cousins, with two years separating them, born after a succession of twins who were unfortunately thrown into the evil forest and left to die as tradition demands. A break in a circle, you may say, since their mother went ahead to birth another twin set after them and had to go to the evil forest herself. Their father thinks the world of them and gives assent to their barest whimpers, and do they whimper? They eat only the best of things; fresh soup when the choice meat and fish are still in large supply, and even then, only the best part, white yam only, not water yam that lacks flavour, no. Also, do not make them taste goat meat when the succulent deer meat is in the trap. Please take their word on snake meat, because they truly know what they are talking about.

Well, everybody that is anybody in my family knows about my hatred for snakes and respects my views on them. They even try their best to keep the communal green ones from my hut, planting snake repellent plants around it and blocking all holes that stubborn ones may want to force their slithery way through.

It was this respect for my hate, I think, that caused one of my crazy cousins to rush into my hut that hot afternoon.

                                         ***

It was just a few moons past my fourteenth birthday, at the height of the wet season (which I hate too). I lay spread-eagle in the cool hot dozing off the effect of a very hot meal, hoping to put off until the last minute, the inevitable trip to the palm forest to retouch the wine gourds collecting wine on father’s palm trees. A trip that was as important as it was dreadful, taking all the wet dark leafy places my great enemies may lurk into shivery consideration.

Anyway, my cousin, the crazy one, rushed in and affected me with his panic.

“Kadim, Kadim!” he called, using my common pet name. I pretended not to hear, for I knew, as usual, that he was on to another mischief, which I must tell you, still remains his middle name.

“Kadim, you sleepy headed son of Madu, how long are you going to pretend to be asleep? You know that I know that you know that I know you are awake, or do not the eyes of those who sleep deeply twitch? Or are you so unconcerned as to ignore the peril that hangs over your head?” he said, too loudly for the little hut.

That is my cousin Okwu, noisy as ever. We joke in my family that only an adult woodpecker can challenge him in a talking contest, only the woodpecker could never hope to peck wood with the speed at which Okwu pecks words. Knowing he would not go away until I had listened to his news, I opened my eyes and yawned wildly, with all the appearance of one waking from a deep slumber. As expected, Okwu was not fooled. He smiled at me in his sly way and laughed in his high-pitched voice.

“Our grandfather thinks Okwu is still a baby, when Okwu had breathed two moons worth of the earth’s air before he was born, anyway you know that I know that you know that I have news for you, and my, my, are they heavy news? Only wait till I tell you the half of it then…”

“Okwu,” I said, cutting off his breathless tirade that would have continued nonetheless, “Say your say and be gone for I need to rest before heading to the palm forest, father’s wine needs checking.”

“Aha, the palm forest, I don’t think you will be going to the palm forest today grandfather…” he paused uncharacteristically to gauge my reaction as I fought to control an exhilarating emotion that jumped in my chest at his words, ‘no trip to the palm forest? What relief, thought I, but since I know that he only calls me grandfather – a reference to my being an incarnate – when he was up to some mischief, especially when I am the main target, I kept my face unreadable, or almost, for the sly bastard wasn’t fooled

“Oh, I have his attention at last. Tell me was it the palm forest? Never mind, like I said before, you don’t have to bother your head about the palm forest, today that is, for the elders are meeting in Da Okoro’s Obi this very minute, and guess who the main topic of discussion is?” Okwu’s beady eyes shined with mirth and something else, triumph maybe.

“You know I can’t do that, I wasn’t there, and don’t tell me you’ve been snooping around the business of the elders?”

“Yes I have.” he said pointedly “or how do you think I would have gotten the information I came to give you? Now, about that information, if you keep interrupting me I doubt if I can get to the telling of it before this day closes. You always find ways to take the sting out the telling Kadim.”

“Ok,” said I “I won’t interrupt again.” by now my interest had risen though was yet to soar to its peak.

“Well,” he said, “I overheard the elders talking about totems, they said that a large sacred python has blocked off the Iyi stream and so prevents water from flowing down for the village use.”

“What!” I screamed, mad that he had used up my time as well as tried my patience only to tell such tall a tale, I lunged for him in anger, not that I had ever been able to defeat him in wrestling for my cousin is a rather stout fellow who made up with brawn what he lacked in brains. He cowered from me, not necessary out of freight, but as a token of truce. I stepped back from him as he motioned for me to wait.

“I swear it is true, Chi went to the stream earlier today and returned without any water, people now go as far as Ota stream to get water.”

“To Ota, But that is ten shadow lengths away?” I said incredulous

“Yes ten shadow lengths through the hills; for no one is allowed to pass through the shorter cut which you know is through the Iyi route.” Okwu said

“Ok, let’s say you are telling the truth, how come I didn’t know about it, I was at Chi’s mother’s hut just before the sun climbed overhead and now it is not three arms past the middle?” I asked, seriously wondering how something of that significance would have occurred without my notice.

“That is easily answered” he replied, “no one wants to mention snakes around you, especially large pythons” a sly light was shining in his eyes.

                                                  ***

I must not forget to tell you that my cousin does not know fear – not my kind of fear anyway. He particularly likes catching snakes with his bare hands, and was the culprit of several hateful pranks played on me when we were much younger, most of which involved his hiding the sacred green snake somewhere and conning me to reach out and touch the hidden horror. All these pranks had petered out as we grew older and he found other people outside the family on which to practice his now more advanced pranks, without fear of being scolded by our mothers.

As for the pythons, they have always been here, protected, like many others, by the patronage of one god or the other, at whose shrines large numbers of them could be seen at any given time. In some clans, it is the crazy rhesus monkeys that reign supreme, while in others, the pygmy tortoise gets the highest patronage. However, in my village it is the giant python that reign supreme. At times, they are seen lumbering down one village path or the other looking for cool places to hide from the sun’s heat. As you would have guessed, I keep well away from them, unlike some of the younger children who, waiting until the pythons have swallowed their fortnight meal of goat or chicken – depending on the particular python’s capacity – take rides on their broad backs. That, to say the least, is not for me.

                                                            ***

 Okwu would have told me more had we not been interrupted by my father who came into the hut unannounced to stare at him with angry eyes.

“Okwu, what are you doing here?” he asked suspiciously “I hope you have not being sneaking around where you are not wanted?”

Okwu tried his best to look innocent, a thing he could not quite manage, being out of character. He managed to mumble something before slinking out of the room after he suddenly remembered something he was supposed to do for his mother. His attitude, quite comical I tell you, caused my father and I to laugh aloud.

Though I had not forgotten about the issue of the python, it did not cross my mind to ask father about it, probably to protect my nosey cousin or because I felt, I was not involved. How wrong I was as future events would prove.

I followed my father at his request to visit his elder brother, who I had always been drawn to and felt closer to than anyone else, well, apart from my mother. As we made our way towards his house, situated at the outskirts of the village, I noticed the peculiar way people were looking at my father and me. Some would shout out his praise name or call out my grandfather’s name, to which he would insist I respond to. This I did by raising my hand in silent salute, a large smile on my face, for I rather liked the title of Ogbuagu (the lion killer).

My uncle was waiting for us when we got to his compound, a cluster of huts arranged in a semicircle behind his massive Obi. Impressive, as befits the first son of a great chief.

“My father,” he usually greeted me this way “you have come.”

He turned to my father and cocked his head. To which my father shook his head negatively in respond and my uncle nodded; apparently, in agreement with whatever it was they referred. It was then that I knew that my father had met with his brother earlier, the significance of which did not hit me until later when we had settled down in front of the Obi eating fried breadfruit and Nsude palm nuts – the best combination if there ever was any.

“My father,” my uncle had begun, “I want you to do something for me; it is something you may not like. No, it is something you will not like, but something that must be done. A thing that only you can do, but something you must be willing to do in order to succeed.” he paused and looked towards my father who nodded his head in affirmation.

“Yes, a grave thing indeed for the clan and disastrous for our family.” he added, a solemn look shadowing his face

At about this time I must confess that my mind was doing some additions and heading towards a conclusion that I did not like one bit, so it did not come as much of a surprise when the issue of the python was brought to light.

To cut a long story short, my uncle spelt it out to me that the python blocking the stream was my totem and tradition demanded that I, I alone, go to the stream and plead with it to move away from the stream. According to my uncle, the totem was annoyed at my snobbery all these years. Was I surprised? I seriously was.

Yes, I thought my uncle’s speech had something to do with the python but I did not know I was that involved, as such, you could imagine my horror and helplessness.

As my uncle said, I have to do it not for myself alone but for our family, which would be held responsible for any negative outcome of the python’s anger.  I did not say a word, but the way my head was shaking from side to side must have said more than any word I could have uttered. No! Me, face a snake, a large one, alone. No!

                                                  ***

 Having been reminded of my history and the antecedents of the man whose name I bore and tutored by the python groove chief priest who I never liked anyway, I set out for to the stream with my uncle, who promised to stay as near as he could when I confront the python.

Locating the python was not hard because it was a big one and the forest was not that dense near the stream, on account of the tall trees that obscured the sunlight which would have given strength to the smaller plants. As such, apart from the occasional shrubbery, the forest floor was as clear as a well-kept garden, it looked very much like a place one would gladly spend a lazy afternoon if not for the danger posed by cobras and other fang and stinger crawlies that abound in the wet season.

The smell of rotting vegetation and countless fungal growths nauseated me, but the song of birds that fluttered above in apparent enjoyment, ignorant, it seemed, of my fear and loathing, gave me some form of comfort.

I came upon the great snake suddenly, much closer than I had imagined it would be. I had known it would be a big one from the account of the elders and the priest, and the traces of its passage where last night’s rain could not reach to wash off traces, but the sheer size of it assaulted my mind. To have called it big was an understatement, what came to my mind was ‘gigantic’ for it was larger than three huddled men in the smaller neck region and could comfortably swallow an ox – not the fabled ox of the plains herdsmen, but our indigenous black ox that stand half the height of an adult man.

It was coiled across the stream, successfully damming it with a double fold of its middle. Only a trickle of water escaped to seep into the muddy riverbed where tadpoles and few catfish young flip-flopped, with some unfortunate ones becoming food for birds brave enough to hunt where the python ruled. That its size and apparent intellect awed me would be another understatement, I was terrified and rooted to the very spot, while I wondered at how the snake seemed to have thought its actions through – it was directing the excess water towards another channel with its tail, an intelligent move that sent shivers down my spine.

I stood on the slight incline, within a patch of forest floor where the python’s passage had flattened grasses and shrubs, unable to move, until it appeared to sense my presence and lifting its head, looked towards my direction.

All my previous fears returned then in a flood that washed over me in unending torrents. Soon, when it continued to stare at me with bead like eyes, courage returned, no, not to stay. I turned and would have beat it out of there in a great haste had my uncle not called out to me from his hiding place further back.

“Ogbuagu,” he called out. “Does the lion killer fear the harmless python? Go to him my father and appease he whom you have wronged.”

At his words, my will returned and I began to make my way gingerly towards the python. After a few shaky steps I stopped, still some meters away, turned back to look at my uncle who waved me on. Turning back to face the python whose massive body was directly in front of me, I reached into the oversized goat skin bag strapped on my back and pulled out the wrap of fourteen eggs that was supposed to represent my earthly seasons and placed it, unwrapped, before him while whispering the incantations the Chief Priest forced me to memorize. The priest told me to look into the python’s eye as I did this, and after I over came my initial queasiness, I found it easier than I had expected it to be for the eyes were kind, though without the sort of intelligent spark you would find in an adult. It was more akin to the eyes of a child.

I do not really know how long I stood there or when the first coils entwined me, I only recall being lifted off my feet with the sort of violence only one of with such strength could manage. I think too, that at that point, I think, my uncle screamed my name, but I am not sure for everything was wheeling crazily then.

There I was face to face with my greatest nightmare. The musky smell of the snake choked me and I felt the power in its muscles. I would have screamed had I the breath to as the python was then squeezing me, tighter and tighter until I felt my heart quickening.

I knew I was going to lose consciousness even before everything blacked out.

I woke up in a dark place, I knew I was still me but I knew also that I had a different name. There was no light but I could see quite well. There were others there, some who had been longer than I and others who came after and I could feel, but not really see others arriving. A great multitude, some leave immediately they came, others appear not to be in any great hurry to do same. I wait; I do not know what for, but I feel the need to wait awhile. I do not know how long I waited in that all seeing darkness but just as I knew I had to wait, I suddenly knew I had to leave and quickly too. Not knowing why, I headed toward the direction through which those that were leaving went. I pass a door. It was dark outside too, but not the dark of inside. Beyond the door was a river, I walk towards it overtaking others who left before me in my haste, some murmured their displeasure, I ignored them. By the river a boat stood. As I came up, the last passenger entered and the boat started to pull out. I ran but it was moving fast. I noticed that the river was black, dark enough to stand out in the gloom. My haste overtook me and I tottered, my flaring hands encountering only icy water as I fell into the river, which unfortunately was too powerful for my untrained body. I was been swept away by strong currents. From the boat came movement. Longish body, serpentine, dived in, coming swiftly, towards me. My strength failed, I was going under, I felt a great tug, I was been pulled against the current towards the boat, the boat was there, suddenly. I reached out a weak hand, was pulled up, turned to help my benefactor up, only the serpentine head was already heading towards the shore I stood a few moments before, powerful strokes churning black splays behind it. I turned to the boatman, “why?” I asked, “The boat was already full. He is giving you his turn and asks only that you remember when you get home,” he said. I looked at my arm, there were teeth marks on it but I felt no pain, I lifted my head toward the fast receding shore and beheld the multitude there “I will!” I yelled at the top of my lungs and the echo was relayed a hundred times, louder than I could have managed. As we stepped off the boat, I turned to the boatman and said, “Tell him I will remember.”He nodded his hooded head and said, “He will have to wait another year and even then one can’t be too sure of what one would get, I will tell him your promise.” With that He turned and rowed back to the distant shore and I stepped through the shimmery light ahead of me as others before me had done.

I came to amongst the python’s coils to find my uncle standing a little way off, while the chief priest massaged herbs unto my heaving chest. I looked around in panic to find that the python was still much around and alive, it was then looking at me with that strange glint in its beady eyes and I could swear that it felt concern for me. I raised my left arm and beheld the ten teeth-like birthmarks that had been there always and understood.

“Ogbuagu,” the chief priest said, “I think your debt is paid, only never ignore your totem again, even in your later comings.”

“Yes,” I heard myself say in a voice that was strange to my ears, “it is paid.”

“And the stream,” I asked looking towards the bone of contention which as if in answer was churning loudly as it rushed to fill the gap between it and communal water hole.

“I doubt it will hold any grudge.” He replied, laughter in his voice.

We left the python there, where it lay feasting on the eggs I had brought.

I must confess that I am still nervous around snakes, especially the poisonous variety. Who would not be?

The room opposite

I am presently working on a new short story that should be a ghost story, I think so, but I am not so sure it will turn out that way in the end.

well, I have penned the first, second and third part of it. what you have below is the first part. Enjoy, or not... let me know anyway.

working title "the room opposite"

I sat opposite Mr. E watching quietly as he tried to arrange his thoughts. It was that time before dusk, when the sun appeared to shine brighter than ever; only without the heat that had accompanied it at midday.

On a small stool beside him, his four-year-old granddaughter sat, watching him with almost the same keen interest that shone in my eyes, only she was intent on the colourful rope knot he had been knitting for some time now.

The padded stool he sat on squeaked as he gave the lengthening knot a massive tug, securing a new strand to an expended one.

“Aha!” he exclaimed as he peered at the knot that apparently it met his approval. “You know,” he turned to give me his habitual amused gaze. “I never told you about how I came by the title ‘ozor obodo 1’.” 

“Yes sir, you never did.” I said, knowing the spice that was needed to draw out a colourful narration from him. “But I bet it was for something great.”

“Ha!” he said, in his half-mocking manner, “some will say it was for something treasonable. Or as my unit commander would call it, an un-gentlemanly conduct unbecoming of a warrant officer.”

I knew he did not rise beyond the rank of corporal in the Nigerian army, so he, must definitely be talking about the Biafran army where he was a non commissioned officer by the war end.

I again waited with bated breath as he carefully manoeuvred through the last twists and turns of his intricate knots before handing the now finished makeshift headband to his grinning granddaughter who ran off with happily to show her playmates. As she ran off, I knew he really felt like talking about this issue.

I had lived directly opposite Mr. E for two years now in a run-down face-me-I-face-you house in the poorer neighbourhoods of Mafoloku, Oshodi. He worked as a security man at a plastic company in the middle class neighbourhood of Ajao Estate.

He was some sort of mentor to a Youngman who had gotten disillusion enough with life to attempt to give it all up. It was he who chanced upon me at the back yard, stringing a rope I meant to dangle on.

Perhaps he had monitored me or it was just pure chance, but MR. E had managed to talk me out of it. He sat down on the stool I brought for the gory purpose and using himself as an example, told me how happy someone as poor as me or he can be without money.

We had gotten closer after that and whenever the stress got too much to bear, I would seek MR. E out and he always found an incident in his life from which to draw a parallel with what was down with me then, and that usually helped me work things out or find new reasons to keep on going.

Today was an exception though for it was Mr. E that sought me out this time. I had just returned from a building site where I worked as a labourer and was lounging on my thread bare mattress, lamenting the absence of electricity, when a shy knock I knew too well sounded on my door and Mr. E’s quick witted granddaughter stepped in to tell my her ‘big daddy’ wanted me.

I followed her immediately to the backyard to find Mr. E fiddling with the colourful lengths of yarn I mentioned earlier. That was another thing about Mr. E, he has clever hands, I have lost count of the things I had seen him do with his gifted hands –Another reason I did not doubt his tales of once having to live off the handicrafts produced by his hands.

I was pondering what might have caused him to send for me even as he waved me to the stool beside his and continued weaving.

Mr E was still smiling as his eyes appeared to tune inward, perhaps the narration he sought was packed with many other incidents, as such he needed to look very deep to Weddle it out.

Another way to say goodbye

It was winter outside and the snow had been falling since yesterday, cloaking the environment with wool whiteness. I lolled under a thermal sheet, trying to recall the land I had left behind.

Sleep drew me close like a warm blanket on a very cold day. Sooner than I expected I fell into dream land. I dream of shadows these days. Gone are those visions of sunny meadows amongst which bright coloured butterflies fluttered, carried by gentle winds towards windswept hillocks. Though my heart’s eye still sees them, my mind knows it’s all gone, not near, too far away for even briefest touch. Like all other things I left behind, eroded with the vestiges of my past.

My dreams grew darker and fear propelled me, not out, but into deeper slumber and I awoke in another land, one I am all too familiar with, the one that comes to me whenever loneliness gets too hard to bear.

Now I lay, prone, no longer in my heated bedroom, amongst polka dot bed sheets, but in the mahogany and spring Vono bed I inherited from my mother, who has been gone now three years into the place of the ancestors -a bed she swore soaked up the red waters of her maiden head on her nuptial night. I wonder if she would turn in her cold grave if she knew that mine too was given up on this same bed not so long ago, only not on a nuptial night –not her kind anyway- but under the almost feminine weight of my cousin Bir, who sobbed like a woman afterwards while I silently watched the blood drip, already contemplating what next time will feel like.

I arose with a smile on my rosy lips, stretching my body as I stalked over to push open the bedroom windows. I scanned the valley beyond the bamboo fence my brothers erected years back to protect our chickens from prowling hyenas, attracted by the glint of sunlight off the roof of several mansions set into the slopes of Mgbidi.

I remembered I always wanted to own a house like that but mother never understood that desire, ‘stupid people,’ she says, ‘they build houses with room enough for an entire clan yet they only get to sleep in one room for only a few days in a year, Wasteful people.’ The venom usually poured from her at times like these and her eyes always lets me know that I am one of those ‘stupid people’.

The merry bark of our beloved family dog, told me father is back from his new job at the newly commissioned secondary school. He used to be a respected yam farmer, and then he became a respected driver, now he is a respected security officer –sorry, another name for a night-watchman, not that he will hear of that.

That’s one thing that is synonymous with father, RESPECT. He doesn’t say anything without mentioning respect. ‘Respect even those you are bigger than because respect tends to reciprocate’ that’s his mantra and he believes in it.

Suddenly was outside my door waiting for father to notice me, like I used to do when I was much younger. He smiled when he saw me and gave me the tightly wrapped ball of akara that he always remembers to bring back for me from wherever his journeys took him. It was because of him I falsely believed akara is available everywhere. I smile my thanks and he smiled back –are there gaps in his mouth where teeth used to be?

There had never been much need for words between us as we understand each other perfectly, he buys the gift, I take them and eat, that is all there is to it. I wonder at times if my problem with men didn’t stem from my expecting them to know me as well as father did.

He turned, walked a little way and turned to look at me over his shoulder ‘I will put water out for your bath, hurry up and prepare, I don’t want you to be late.’ He said before walking away.

I woke up with a start, mouthing the words ‘okay papa.’

I was not too sure of my environment as all seemed so strange until the hum of the heater and the rasp of falling snow on the glass panes brought me fully back.

I noticed that the ring ring sound I thought made by bicycle wheels children played with opposite my house in the village was actually my phone beeping.

A message? I clicked it open, my brother.

Sorry Nne. Father just passed away. Can you come home?

Funky Tuesday at the book Jam

You were a little bit sceptical when you received an invite for a special edition of what was usually a monthly event, The Bookjam. This special edition was supposedly in honour of writer John C Maxwell who, according to the invite, would be supported by three Nigerian authors.

Though only the name of one of the authors ringed familiar to your ears, Abraham Oshoko, author of ‘June 12: The Struggle For Power In Nigeria’ you decided to attend the event and arrived the venue about fifteen minutes before the 3 o’clock start of time, hoping to dodge a repeat of your adventure with African time a few weeks prior, but you hoped in vain. For an event that was billed for 3 pm, African time played much more than the usual havoc. You felt justified to give kudos to the organizers for starting just a few minutes later than the advertised time, but you also gave them knocks for, in 2010, using a sound system that transmitted more noise than all else.

You didn’t even shy away from also awarding Silverbird serious thumbs down for venue choice. Whoever picked the lobby of the Silverbird galleria for an event that was supposed to be intellectually engaging left too much to be desired as the constant drone of shoppers and a particularly annoying sound from some sort of machinery served as sources of more than just the casual distraction, drawing participants mind away from the discourse.

Anyway, after a sputtered (blame the sound) announcement by the mc, Ani, Abraham Oshoko began reading from his graphic novel. Though the young man really tried to convey the feel of his graphic novel via reading, the bland nature of it made you wonder if that is the best way to relay a work of that nature – perhaps an accompanying slide show would have suffixed here.

Sometime at this point, the audio got better, And you smiled as the author described his nationalistic leanings while answering a question from a participant as to what made him embark of his project (the graphic novel) and you recalled when you too found comfort in that sort of thing, Nationalism.

But then another young man, still young enough to fling his age about without feeling self conscious, Tolu Akani, a 21 year old, just a few weeks out of the university got up to read – to your undisguised interest – his newly published and launched book, which is basically a compilation of stuffs he wrote at 20.

Though you have never been inclined towards self help books, listening to young Mr Tolu read from his book sold you completely, or almost. The young man used simple every day analogies in a very creative way to convince you that his book is what whatever hype it surely would generate in the near future. You laughed aloud at his portrayal of the travails of a bottle of coke, how it sells for 50 Naira in a road-side buka and becomes 500 Naira in a high brow eatery, somehow you could imagine you being that bottle of coke…yeah, you could be. Says Mr Tolu…it’s all about packaging!
Then Mr Adebayo Adelaja-Olowo-Ake came with his delightful reading from his novel ‘Thunder Lightening and Storm’. Man! Did he bring all that and more to bear?

The fresh novel, which he said was inspired by a real life female Major-General in the Nigerian army, Aderonke Kale (rtd), a name whose fame was further buttressed by the fact that it was recognised by your word processor, centres around lieutenant Aminat Zechariah of the Nigerian airforce. The depth of this book, clearly evident even in the light of the less than an hour reading of a few parts, made you wonder why the author wasn’t published by one of the big players in the Nigerian literary scene.

The 2nd runner up of Project fame West Africa, Mr Tomiwa, was also on hand to entertain the guests with a rendition of his brand new single ‘I will do’. You nodded your head, captivated by the music, a love song, one you considered well crafted, while frowning slightly at the bum length short most of the obviously affluent young ladies that trooped in and out of the high-end galleria were sporting, wondering if, when they come, you will allow your daughters dress in such, let alone buy it for them.

Deciding to leave the venue a few minutes shy of the 6 pm closing time, you hastily explained to the man next to you that the traffic wouldn’t wait for the Aforementioned John Maxwell before closing up, making your journey home more hectic.
Outside, you flag an Okada down and as it meandered with you through the building traffic, you felt the weight of Tomiwa complementary CD in your suit pocket, You smiled happily. Yeah, it was well worth it…even without the advertised John Maxwell.
Adieu

The first novel I read

I was in primary four when I read my first novel.

My dad had this collection of books, kept in a three tier shelve, that we were forbidden to touch or allow our multitude of uncles, aunties and other kin take away, under pain of sever flogging (yes, my father didn’t spare the rod, that’s why I turned out so well bred – I hope).

My and I brothers used to look at those books with awe, pondering what made them so special, wondering if we will ever get to read them.

There were times that the urge to know what made the books so special got too much to bear, times we gave in to that compulsion and standing on a kitchen stool we would take them down one at a time and look at the covers paying special attention to those that had pictures in them.

It was this same compulsion that led to my punishment. As usual I and my brothers had visited the out-of-bounds shelve to look at the books. Everything had gone according to plan until I began reading the notes attached to the pictures and got too engrossed that I did not hear when my father walked in.

I had thought the world would fall down on me when I looked up after a shadow crossed the page I was reading to see him looming over me. He had looked at me for a spell, and then when I had expected his usual ‘my friend what do you think you are doing?’ he had asked for his food which I quickly ran to get.

I was sitting quietly outside, awaiting his wrath, when his booming voice called me back into the sitting room to clear the plate. As I turned to carry the plates away he asked me to hold on.

“My friend, take that book,” he said, pointing to a book lying face down on the table. “That one you were reading is too advanced for you. Read this one but you must tell the story when you finish.”

My heart went flip flop. I had expected the worst. But there was I, with permission to touch one of the sacred texts. I began reading in earnest almost immediately, not that I was overly eager to read the book but on account of the instruction to retell the story afterwards – the punishment for touching the sacred books. At first I found some words strange, but an older cousin soon taught me how to write the difficult words down and check them later in our little oxford dictionary.

Before I knew it, I was caught up in a world of love, money and cars, all of which I knew only little about, in a world I wanted so much to visit. That first book changed my life, gave me an escape from the taunts that usually followed me whenever I went to where other kids played football – I was that kid with a bad leg that everyone laughed at.

That was the beginning of my incursion into books and the world of make believe. Before I left primary school I had read everything in the forbidden bookshelf and by JSS 1, I could tell that James Hadley Chase was a fictional character. Yeah, I already could tell style then.

I was in primary four when I read my first novel. It was a Pacesetters book written by Muhammed Sule. ‘Undesirable element’.

2011 election draws near, where are the gladiators

They say the change should start with us. I am willing to vote for a progressive next year; it’s just that I can't seem to find any.
Pat Utomi used to be the 'man' but he has since dropped back to the usual wordy posting on Facebook. One had hoped Donald Duke would morph into some kind of Kennedy, but like the others, he seemed to have too many ... See more skeletons to bury.

I hear Dele Momodu is gunning for the top job, but I fear he might move the capital from Abuja to Accra. Besides, beyond musicians, actors, money bags and the like, I doubt if the man on the street knows who he is, abi welders and conductors dey read Ovation.

Bankole could have been a 'to die for' but the guy own worst pass, like Chimaroke, he seems to be keen on squandering a golden opportunity to endear himself to his fellow youths.

As it stands, I want to vote next year, but unlike last time around, when around this time I already knew Pat Utomi was going to get my vote, I am at loss as to who will fly the flag of the progressives.

Jonathanlitics or not, I am yet to be sold on the man, he seems to be a man with purpose and good intent, but so was OBJ.

I WILL VOTE sha, for Fashola... I don't know who else for.

Gains of being Nigerian

As Nigerians, we subsist in a country that grants us more headaches than broad-lipped smiles. Many here try to live above board, try to be different, but the society makes that very difficult, throwing numerous fetters across the road they tread.

For a country that have over the years fought – even if only by proclamations – to extradite itself from the negative image it has somehow managed to garner over the years, Nigeria appears to be losing more credibility than it garners as the days go by.

The reasons for this is not as simple as most people think. Though it is easy to point accusing fingers at the ruling elite that have undeniably held the country to ransom for years the fact remains that even the accuser is guilty of some form of illegality or another.

In seeking scapegoats, people overlook a very important factor that serve the entrenchment of corruption, those acts of illegality that though widespread, have come to be accepted as the norm by a society that has, in effect, become as lawless as the fictional banana republic.

In any society governed by the rule of law, it is illegal to do anything outside the law. In Nigeria reverse is the case, here the law is tilted easily by people to suit whatever suits them in a particular time. Here the constitution exists only as a means to the self serving ends of the ruling cabal, who juggle its interpretation at whim. The masses that are expected to checkmate the excesses of the leaders are either too complacent or after their own pockets – without access to the national cake, they loot their brother poor, who left with no option, succumb to the dictates of a disjointed society, either that or go to blazes.

It may baffle foreigners how easily people here set their own rules and appears to get away from it, but it is as normal as breathing exhaust fumes in the city. Here, transport fares fluctuate according to the transporters’ whim, having little to do with the petrol price they base their assertions on or the distance travelled. Also, it has become fashionable to hike transport fares during religious holidays, sometimes by as much as 700 percent – Those who have cause to travel to the east during the Christmas period are very familiar with this.

Then there is the question deregulation that though not yet signed into law is already common place at filling stations. Even when the elusive regular supply of petroleum products is obtainable, the petrol stations subject customers to extra costs that have no bearing to their purchase. One wonders where the now popular ‘nozzle money’ originated from (nozzle money refers the extra N20, N50 or N100 pump attendants charge customers before or after selling products to them. This nozzle fee is usually higher when you are buying in a lower middle class or ‘poor’ areas. The filling stations also charge about N50 extra for those who are buying with a gallon. No explanation is given for these extra charges other than ‘na moni fo nozzle now’)

Perhaps more confusing is the strange tenancy rates that effectively make it impossible for anybody below the middle class range to afford a decent accommodation. This is truer of Lagos where a single room with a small bathroom/toilet attached goes for about N100, 000 a year, and the tenant is required to pay two-three years rent advance and an between N50, 000-N70, 000 for what is commonly referred to as agent and agreement fee. At a total cost of N400, 000, one wonders how a fresh graduate earning the current minimum wage can afford it.
At the moment, the Lagos state house of assembly is considering a bill that is expected to check the excesses of landlords, but the bill have received knocks from stakeholders for being defective in some key aspects like: amount charged a new tenant, number of years advance for a new tenant and the vexing issue of agent and agreement fees that are usually collected by the same person, the landlord.

The antics of Nigerian Police are another issue that the Nigerian masses have had to contend with. The police are known for their almost fanatical hatred for the man on the street, the very people they are paid to protect. While they fawn on the rich, answering their every whim, including arbitrary arrest of the poor and brutalization of any perceived enemy, they fail continually to protect the masses from oppressors, looking the other way while the poor are milked dry by transporters, filling stations, landlords and the ruling class. They only stretch forth their hands for the usual egunje that the Okada and bus drivers are forced to proffer then look the other way. The only thing that strikes one as funny is the fact that the majority of the police also subsist in abject want, at par with those whose suffering they aid. It has been said that they too are victims of the same oppressors.

We exist day by day, wondering when the change will come, when we can worry only about mundane things. We ask questions, but get no reply, because our answers only echo in the air, to rebound off the ears of those who are supposed to make a difference.

Will Nigeria survive without the common man, the man on the street, the salt of the earth? I doubt it, and I am sure even the greedy politicians do too. If we can’t get even a decent one room apartment, if we can’t exist without been subjected to the whims of corrupt people, if we can’t get a little protection from those assigned that duty, then it may be time for us to take our affairs into our own hands.

The new super stars: Nigerian literature exits the long night

For the first time in a rather long while, something other than the usual monotony of sleeping, washing, writing and reading (in whatever order) crept into my Saturday calendar.

What replaced, to a large extent, these usual activities was the Farafina Trust literary evening with Chimamada and friends, something very much connected to my passion for writing, I rued missing it – for anything.

Though this would be my first time at the event, it wasn’t on that account that I was suffused with excitement, it also had nothing to do with the prospect of rubbing shoulders with Nigeria’s literary stars, na, it had much more to do with the Farafina trust’s creative writing program whose participants were to be unveiled that day.

It also had lots to do with the fact that after three years of trying to enter the writing program, I was finally able to submit an application on time. Two years before, I chanced upon news about the program weeks after it had rounded off and last year, I applied three days after the deadline for applications.

This year however, on account of my current job as an online editor for a business magazine and the pain of not applying on time before, I was waiting for it with abated breath. I made sure all those who might get advance knowledge of the program knew of my interest. My plans paid off as I got notice from award winning novelist Nnedi Okarafor and sent off an application immediately, then settled to await with abated breath for what I hoped would be a positive result.

I was very much elated when a personal e-mail came from none other than Ms Adichie herself reached my mail box, congratulating me for making the list of thirty five but informing me that, sadly, I was not among the final twenty selected for the program. Well, despite all my prayers and whatnot I didn’t get in. No leles, I said to myself, taking solace in the titillating fact that the celebrated author found my work good enough to warrant a personal note of encouragement. Dat kin ting no dey hapun evry day, Said I. I took this as a sign that there’s some good in my ramblings.

All said, perhaps you can understand my elation at being invited to the dinner in honour of those lucky twenty that made it into the biggest writing workshop in Nigeria.

I actually arrived about 45 minutes after the 3 o’clock the event was billed for (na naija we dey, had to make allowance for African time) and congratulated myself for good timing as the event was just kicking off.

I settled down to enjoy what turned out to be a very memorable evening, that is, if like me, you find the mixture of peppered snails, chilled Heineken and poignant words, provided by writers one had looked up to from afar, soul stirring.

All around me literary greats hovered, drawing envious glances from my fame seeking eyes. How I wish I am you, my eyes must have told them.

For the second time in two weeks I felt comfortable with my career choice – the first time was Adaobi Nwaubani’s ready at quintessence while watching people scramble for her book ‘I did not come to you by chance’ and having to fight for a copy with a rather determined young lady who wanted me to give in because I am ‘a man now’.

That same Nwaubani opened the floor to what will remain for munwa a memorable evening as she read from her award winning first novel. A parade of what read like Africa’s new millennium literary who-is-who also gave us tastes from their literary puddings, with Sade Adeniran, Chimamanda Adichie, Binyavanga Wainaina, Chika Unigwe, Nig Mhlongo and Eghosa Imasuen preparing the ground for the special guest of honour, Ghana’s Ama Ata who held not just my adoring eyes captive as she read first, samples of her poetry, then from her short story collection. I must mention at this juncture that her story ‘she who will be king’ stuck to my mind, probably on account of its futuristic leaning – I am at the moment involved in a futuristic anthology ‘Lagos 2060’ which seeks to tell tales set in Lagos 50 years hence.

It was a very fulfilling evening for me, one in which writers got the rare chance to shine in the public eye and we, the hopefully up and coming, got our chance to laugh with those who are shining the light we aim to follow.

As I was leaving a few minutes later and stopped to chat awhile with ace blogger Temitayo Olofinlua, with whom I had shared much more than one laugh a few day prior at another creative writing event, I chanced a look back at the lucky 20 and couldn’t help but wish I could switch places with one of them, the newly empowered.

All said I came off thinking that Nigerian literature, after a long night, is finally finding its way back to daylight again and was sure glad to be part of these, somehow.