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?

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.

Raid on the Two Market

Raid on Two Market

Adl el-Hasm was said to be more adventurous than his contemporaries, which was why he chose to make his own path, ignoring the usual bargaining in the slave market of Alor, He chose instead to do his own raiding in the unclaimed interiors where he heard slaves waited to be herded into pens.

Adl el-Hasm, also, a practical man, brought along a formidable army of ex-slaves who are fiercely royal to him, having been made to believe that he was instrumental to their freedom, a belief that was not all that unfounded since he bought them out from back bending toil amongst the sand dunes, and having the choice to keep them as bond men he had instead set them free with the option of either staying to work with him for wage or to take their fate into their own hands – an option many could not bear to think of in a strange land with strange customs. Most decided to stay with him – even after he told them his plan for their homelands in the forest belt.

Some of the ex-slaves Adl el-Hasm hired spoke dialects mutually intelligible to those of the deeper forest he intended to raid and retained the native immunity to disease to a large extent, and as such greatly reduced the problem of communication and disease to a minimum. Adl el-Hasm, having endeavoured to learn the native lingua en-route, also had the advantage of doing his own talking without resorting to an interpreter, albeit in a highly accented version of swamp river speak, which, fortunately, was mutually intelligible to hinterland dialects.


This band of royal ex-slaves, it was, that raided the Land of the Seven Hills on that bright morning, a market day, when the air held scant scent of the trouble that was to come. Had it occurred on a different day, perhaps, the outcome would have been different for the people of the Seven Hills do not go to war on the Two Market day.

Tul, a large man with the charcoal black compression of the Swamp dwellers lead Adl el-Hasm’s raiding team. Adl el-Hasm trusted him on account of his sound judgments and his extensive combat experience from his days as a Swamp River warrior.

He was sold to the Alor slavers by his uncle who wanted to lay claim on his inheritance – a wrong he swore to right sooner than later – and the Alor sold him to the Blue skinned Slavers who somehow he somehow managed to find favour with. They set him free after just four years of bondage, something that is as rare as the battle between the sun and the moon since the Blue slavers are known to be exceptionally brutal.

Adl el-Hasm had found him loitering in Hamdan city port awaiting a slave caravan headed for the forest lands; he had befriended him and offered him a part in his enterprise. An offer Tul grabbed with both hands.


Now Tul stood hidden behind leafy bushes, flexing his massive fingers on the hilt of a wicked looking sword hanging from a tiger skin belt on his waist, watching the market intensely through the few cracks in the foliage.

He and his men had been in position since the second cockcrow, knowing from experience that it was usually women and teenage boys that would be in the market that early, the men would still be at home putting off till the last minute the necessity of selling their yams.

He could see from his vintage point that only a small number of the youths, gathered around the market square talking loudly – obviously bragging about one wrestling conquest or the other – were old enough to strap the customary long cutlass on dainty waists. He mentally marked the position of these armed ones while signaling to his men hidden behind him to commence the attack.

The raiders attacked as a body, having silently encircled the market. It was their bloodcurdling battle cry that attracted the attention of the young men by the square, who, momentary confused, rushed to see what was afoot, believing it to be a plank, for war are not fought in the market place and no clan had sent a war monger to the Seven Hills of late.

They came face to face with the raiders and knew instinctively that this was for real.

For a tense moment they stood rock still, horrified, as the first line of raiders crossed the market boundary heading straight for the women and young maidens, while a second line whooped behind them. Then a battle cry from behind told them that they are effectively hemmed in.

It was at this point that Tul, who was then walking leisurely towards the youths believing them subdued, learnt the new meaning of respect. Not soon had he opened his mouth to tell his boys not to harm the youths but to disarm them, than loud feminine ululations broke out from the other side of the market where the women were. All hell broke loose, the boys, who were until then passively awaiting their fate, seemed to suddenly animate as they too took up the cry and before Tul could make head of this sudden development, they attacked, and fiercely too.

One, who appeared to be the eldest, rushed an oncoming raider and deftly severed his head from his body before he could raise the battle axe he carried.

The battle was joined, and Tul discovered too late that the previously unarmed youths were not as helpless as he had thought; they easily picked up woods, pestles, a discarded hoes and even the base of an incomplete gong and wielded them with a dexterity that perplexed him.



From atop a nearby hill, Adl el-Hasm marvelled at the scene unfolding before him, it appeared as if the youths, who were outnumbered ten to two, had the upper hand. Then he noticed a remarkable thing, they were not fighting to get away from the raiders but steadily pushing back towards the market square where a knot of people were already assembled, apparently encircling a women cradling a young boy.

He watched without emotion; as two of his men were cut down under the savage cutlass of the youthful warriors, while wondering how they acquired their skill in hand to hand combat.

It would have been instructive if he had paid a little more attention to the tales about the Hill Tribes, then he would have known their fame as skilled warriors and how hand to hand combat was thought to children as young as two years who grew up acquiring the skill as deftly as they do dance routines.

Though most of his crew had guns he had made them leave them behind, he didn't want to take the risk of a trigger happy hombre taking pot shots at the would be slaves just for the heck of it; he thought it would be a clean sweep, in and out before their presence was felt. Yes, he was told about their ancient bravery, especially in front of their women folk, but he never bargained for this.



Below, it was becoming, more apparent that the raiders were more confused than the villagers who were all heading towards the market square. Some, especially the young warriors, fought furiously through the raiders to get there. Once there, they turned to stand at the periphery of the cluster and appeared to wait.

"But for what?" Tul wanted very much to know.

He did not mind the cluster for it will make his job a whole lot easier. Instead of chasing after wild eyed women and kids; he will get to pick out the ones he wanted from an already gathered circle. He called out to his men to stop forcing the remaining women to a different direction. Those ones were also fighting as hard as the youths to get to the circle, with sharp fingers nails and well placed kicks that dropped many of the men.

He was not surprised when the fight stopped as soon as it had started.

The natives gathered together in a tight circle, silently watching.

The sudden silence bothered him. No one, not even the children made any kind of noise or movement, none appeared scared, the only noise that broke the silence briefly was made by his men as they barked orders to each other.


Fali, a young raider originally from the nomadic sheep herder tribe of the Fall, was disturbed by the silence of the tribesmen too. Earlier he had seen a fierce youth, not past his fourteenth season, chase two raiders down the market road with a large pestle, howling like a mad man, only to break one's leg before smashing the other's nose in. these were men he had crossed the desert and swamp forest with, men who fought the warlike river people by his side, men he feared and respected as superior soldiers running from an adolescent youth. Turning to Tul he said, "Efendi, I do not like this at all" his face looked like that of one who suckled sour grape when he had expected orange.

Tul, on another occasion, would have tried to douse Fali’s fears or even say something funny to ease the general tension, but this was not one of those days. Anyway, any statement he would have made was cut off by a loud roar that seemed to emanate from the bowel of the earth itself.

The raiders turned around as a man, head reverting in all directions trying to pin point the direction the horrifying sound came from, had they not, they would have noticed that the villagers did not pay any special attention to it, the only significant thing that happened within the circle, was the child that slide down from his mother’s arm and walked with a big smile to stand at the very front of the circle.


From his vintage point on the hill, Adl el-Hasm was the first to see the lions, two fierce adults, male and female, bigger than he had imagined any lion could be.

They charged in from opposite directions, one heading straight for the knot of raiders while the other went straight towards the hurdled hill men, only to halt in front of the young child and nuzzled his outstretched palms – Adl el-Hasm did not see that for his attention was focused on the male, that rushed the band of raiders and tore out the throat of the nearest one with a swift sidelong jerk of his massive head.

Pandemonium reigned supreme; the hunters became the hunted as survival became a race for the swiftest and the luckiest. Adl el-Hasm was transfixed as he stared open mouthed as his men were slaughtered.

He still had the presence of mind though, to note that the female lion did not attack the raiders directly but only seem to act as a guard, attacking only those who had the bad luck of running towards the market square and the now hurdled villagers. Together, the lions brought swift death to the market square.

On his part, Tul had seen lions before and has even hunted them but he has never seen or heard of specie this big or fierce. He still had the presence of mind to call out to his fleeing men, even as he too tried to keep out of the rampaging lion's way. He tried to gather the few of them who were close by and then slowly guided them away from the market, knowing that lions will never attack a closely packed group – which appeared to be the Hill people’s defense – for lions, once they taste blood, rarely know foe from friend.

His scheme worked as he had hoped it would for the lion left their immediate vicinity to chase down the stragglers and wounded who couldn't make it to the circle or were too scared to even try.

The lions circled them, constantly charging but always stopping a few paces away. Tul chanced a look back and counted about thirty dead and dying of his elite raiding band. Surely, he thought, this has being the worst campaign he has had the privilege of been in. not even the bloody revolt of the river dwellers had been this costly.

They were harried by the lions till they reached the foot of the hill where Adl el-Hasm waited with the reserves that never came to their rescue. Not that Tul begrudged them, for who could withstand those lions from Fradry – the land of shadows beyond the sea.



Adl el-Hasm watched his weary men climb up the short hill, each running as swift as tired legs could carry, looking back constantly to see if the lions are still in pursuit. The lions had returned to the cluster of hill men, to sprawl in the dusty earth in front of the mysterious boy; but not before tearing into the throats of the wounded raisers with dagger like canines.

Adl el-Hasm was more intrigued than afraid, though he had heard about the Hill Men and their lions; he did not believe that any unknown force was in play, he just believed that the hill men have found a way to tame the lions while keeping their wild fierceness.

He looked once more beyond his retreating men to the market square and noticed the young child had his hands outstretched and the lions, tail swishing, stepped forward to nuzzle them.

Tul noticed where he was looking and turned towards him.

‘Yes Efendi, that boy is not ordinary; it was to him that the hill people ran when we attacked.’ He said, battling to catch his breath.

‘I think not Tul, It might just be that the lions belong to the boy.’ He said over his shoulder as he moved towards the path that will take them back to his encampment in low lands, two days march away.

Tul did not follow immediately; he stood still for awhile watching the boy play with the lions. He saw now that the hill people had began to move about, though not far away from their cluster. Yes, he thought, that child is special.

Lagos 2060: the future is here

The question, what do you think the future will look like? Has been asked by millions of people all over the world and people have attempted to answer it. The genre of fiction called sci-fi is basically attempts by writers to answer that question. In Nigeria, a lot of people are attempting to answer that question and they are going further than just telling a story, they are also creating the scenario.

I was opportune to attend the Lagos 2060 writers workshop organised by DADA books in conjunction with Amaka Igwe’s Centre for Excellence in Film and Media Studies. Several other young writers braved the pouring rain to attend the event which was anchored Mr Ayo Arigbabu of DADA books and the centre fo excellence's Chris Ihidero.


The participants were mainly writers and architects who all share an interest in futuristic fiction. The conveners hoped to draw from the skills of the creative writers and the architects in creating a scenario of what Lagos will look like in 50 years, seen from different minds and ideas.

Participants came from as far as Enugu, south-eastern Nigeria.

Mr Chris Ihidero started the ball rolling with a crash course in story telling as it relates to both script writing and prose, but not before airing a song by the sweet voiced neo soul artist Contradiction titled ‘first’ , as an example of how moving a well told story, even in song can be if done right.

Right after Chris came Mr Ayo Arigbabu who showed the participants, to our delight, a futuristic five levelled ‘4th mainland bridge’ complete with solar panels, sewage treatment, office towers and residential blocks complete with green areas.

That set the tone for the deliberations of the day. Not surprisingly, as one would have expected in a gathering of creative minds, ideas started pouring in as people aired their story ideas or suggested modifications to that of others.

Like everything Nigerian, politics crept in and what the future of Nigerian politics would look like spawned some very insightful ideas. It appeared most people believed the country would have moved forward in 2060, but some stories ideas that hugged the post apocalyptic still turned up.

For fear of blowing the whistle, I can only say that in all, it was a very rewarding experience.

The anthology ‘Lagos 2060’ will be published by DADA book in 2011. It is a collection of science fiction short stories set in Lagos fifty years from now.

Nollywood, their Hollywood

Nollywood: What’s name got to do with it?

Growing up in the north central city of Kaduna, I had many dreams. Mostly, they came and went, replaced by something newer or more interesting. Time has probably dimmed memories of many of these childhood dreams; but I still recall some that stayed awhile longer than others like my adolescent crush on Jennifer Capriati who made me pay serious attention to tennis, a sport that was as alien to my peer group as Atilogu dance would have been to an American teenager, then there was that great plan to start a music group that would rival Boys 2 Men, But the strongest of all these, and also much more vivid, was my desire to become an actor.

Of all these desires, this latter one was the only one that seemed real, near at hand, or realisable – at least it was the only one I seriously practiced, that is if standing in front of my stepmother’s mirror, mouthing catch phrases from popular movies, can be termed ‘practice’. At that time, ‘Living In bondage’ and ‘Rattle snake’ held millions of my fellow countrymen enthralled, effectively shifting our attention from western movies and the musical Indian ones.

My dream of pursuing an acting career seemed fresh and real because unlike the Hollywood and Bollywood stars that previously graced our TV screens, the new stars the home grown movies brought to our homes looked like us and spoke English with the same sort of accents we do. The movies too, were set in cities we have either visited or heard about, and the stories they told were ones we could relate to. In summary, that could easily be our lives that scrolled past the TV screen.

Like other dreams before it, the big screen longing died, replaced by another that had lain for years under the surface – evidenced by my mad craze for anything readable and my desire to make words sing as I couple them together. This new desire later overshadowed every other one, but my interest in the Nigerian home movie industry did not falter, well not at first, not totally.

Perhaps it wasn’t the interest in books that directly killed my acting desires, I think it had more to do with how predictable the movies became and the fact that bandwagon effect became the norm – if a romance movie sells, producers rushed to shoot romance movies; if a movie with occult leaning sells, the same thing happens. The movies become boring and repetitive. Understandably, some of us went back to watching western movies, only turning back to the home grown home movie once in awhile when a very interesting movie turns up as they are want to.

Surprisingly, the Nigerian home movie industry grew, not really in quality, but in seer volume, producing a staggering 872 movies a year to become the third largest movie industry in the world. Overtaking big players like Japan and china — it has, as of 5th may 2009, overtaken Hollywood and closed the gap on India, the global leader in the number of movies produced each year, according to a new United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) report.

It was a well deserved even if overblown hype, since the Nigerian movie industry had over the years endeared itself to most countries south of the Sahara and even Hollywood had to take notice.

Many western producers marvelled at the two week time frame that Nigerian producers worked with as well as the ability of the actors and actresses to work on two or three projects at a time, shuttling between different movie sets where they at times play lead roles.

That was the golden age of the Nigerian movie industry, way before the copycat name change. The stars needed to work hard and they did. Some were living the life, big cars and houses, appearing on prime time TV and whatnot. Some even became demigods, especially when it was discovered that the storylines were not selling movies anymore, when a face or several faces in combination made a movie a must watch.

Yes, because of very bad scripting production, viewers turned to some established stars that were believed to be rich enough to turn down any role they find unpalatable. All was not rosy, but the industry crawled on.

Then the name change.

Many people have asked where the name nollywood stemmed from, apparently no one really knows, someone used it somewhere and it stuck.

Without gainsaying, that name is synonymous with everything that is wrong with the Nigerian movie industry, the copycatism, the bad scripts, the hasty editing, the recycling of cast, the misrepresentation of cultural values, etc, etc. The list could go on and on, but it will serve no real purpose here.

The big players in the Nigerian movie world are apt to point out the latest misplaced giddy heights that the Nigerian movie industry occupies in the UN classifications. They think third in the world behind Bollywood and Hollywood mean they have finally arrived, but they fail to understand that they are only third in terms of production, not quality of production. They are third, but it is a very distant and lonely third, especially when countries that are at the tenth position make better movies and are better rated in terms of quality of movies, sales, distribution and earnings.

Granted, westerners invest a whole lot of man hours and capital into the movies they churn out, but who says we cannot do the same? Must we wallow in a pit filled with movies that so lack in intellectual quality they cause the viewer headaches? Not to mention how lazy scriptwriters and tight fisted producers and directors have effectively re-created our traditional values and culture. Why must our movies have kings in every nondescript village, when in the reality, kings and such are alien to the culture that those movies are supposed to portray? How many Nigerians know what an herbalist’s home looks like? Believe me it is nothing like what most of our no-research movies portray.

Nigerians have billions of stories to tell, you only need to listen for a minute, you only need to write the truth, you only need to re-enact the truth, you only need to invest in the truth, only that way can you have the next big Nigerian movie. Some are listening, some are doing it right. One only wished they did earlier than this.

Alaye

Rough draft of a short story that was later revised, updated, refreshed and published in StoryTime


ALAYE

It was still dark enough for the neon lights to reflect off the paved road, throwing crooked shadows off the potholes that are scattered like puckered pox scares on the coal-black tarmac. Across the road, to the left of an abused public toilet, a huddled figure lay prone, seemingly dead to a sleeping world.
Looking from afar, the weak light fails to hide the deep callous on feet that had apparently taken a tough beating. Large, mutant-like mosquitoes can be clearly seen on the exposed soft areas of the feet, which strangely, is a little further up the foot than normal. At this point, the mosquitoes spotted distended tummies and swaggered with the delirium of the high that comes from ingesting too much human fluid.

The figure appears to be immune to the bites of the giant vampires, for apart from the occasional gentle heave of chest, he lay perfectly still.

An attentive watcher, coming closer, would notice the way patched lips seem to move in silent mime to whatever song is playing in his dream world. The sleeping figure, haggled by a thousand internal demons, turned involuntary in dreamy stirrings that revealed an impossibly deep wound on his shin. It is fetid and crawling with hundreds of maggots and a zillion other microbes.

It had probably gotten to that stage beyond pain for, at that moment it lay partially on the jagged face of a broken pavement stone, a darkish red liquid run off it to form a small spreading puddle beside the stone.

A few feet away, a sprawling mountain of refuse looms, spreading its peculiar fragrance overall the scene.

Beyond this, lies the bridge. Large and gray, a solid testimony to man’s engineering genius. From afar, it appears nondescript, without identity, a lonely sentinel, with only the earth base and dirty canal water for comfort. But closer, she takes on a distinct identity, calling attention to her animate family, silently attesting to her right to be called mother by those who take solace and shelter under her concrete wings. The so-called homeless who have found a home where none but the earth can rightfully claim to own.

Beneath her they lay, in individual singles, in communal clusters or in the larger feudal clutch of the gang-bred, street men and kids. Rank determining the proximity to the middle, made-men laying claim to the center around the street monarch while outcasts and recruits fan the outer rim.

There are those who are yet to be accepted into the clutch. These ones either find security in company of others like themselves. They, like the drifters, people who are here today and most probably gone tomorrow, chose the more trusty companionship of the self, deeming it wiser to snore alone, doing nothing to upset the tribe.

Among these drifters, a new face appeared a few days back. But, unlike them, he had stayed put, though out of everyone’s way. Unlike them too, he appears to draw attention where others are over looked. Alaye was the name he gave the street monarch who uncharacteristically took a curious second look at him during his nightly round of his monarchy. Apparently bemused by the street name he had asked again, “yu sure sey yu bi Alaye so?”

Alaye who did not miss the underlying treat of menace and challenge in his voice had replied in kind, allowing faint submissiveness to color his voice a little.

“Yes ke! Baba, I bi alaya now! I don tey fo area onli sey we neva jam.?”

“Ok now, we go see,” was the non-committal response from the street monarch who continued to look him in the eye. “Shey, from wia you show from respet dey abi? Bicos for hia wi no de take yab o.”

He did not wait for Alaye’s reply before stalking of, his longish legs scraping the hard-parked earth as the muscles rippled in his bare upper torso. Behind him followed his court, a collection of the nations reject, all affecting various degrees of hopefully mean grimaces to match their leaders mood and possibly ensure the quaking of on-looking hearts.

The monarch, who goes by the street moniker Area Baba to reflect his ownership of the bridgehead and the whole of the street down to 25th bus stop, used to be more accommodating. But that was up until his lieutenant Jada, who now runs the areas beyond 25th bus stop, tried to overthrow him in a bloody palace coup that was fought with their weapon of choice, broken bear bottles and iron rods. The fight lasted the most of two weeks and in the end, he was made to part with the choicer part of his inland real estate, which meant loss of revenue from street begging and pick pocketing.

Now he only manages to scrape out a hard going for himself and his boys from pimping for the prostitutes at 2nd avenue and ‘harassment’ money from drivers who use the illegal bus stop at the foot of ‘his bridge’.

Now he looks at this new drifter and sees the same intelligent glint that he saw in Jada’s eye the first time they met. He knows from experience that smart people may mean a whole lot of success. But, if they are as ambitious as Jada, then trouble is what they bring with them.

He prays this one moves on soon. But in the mean time, he will put Kekere on his trail. Because even if he isn’t made he may strike out on his own and would, like Jada, soon have enough boys to challenge his authority. Turning to his new lieutenant Stone, he whispered.

“You sure sey we get space for this one?”

Alaye knew the street monarch’s interest portends trouble. He has being on the street long enough to know the code that is the difference between life and death. The faster you decode another’s code the surer you are of knowing where you stand with him. He had moved the big refrigerator carton that is his mobile tent and bed a little further away from the clutch of the gang-bred. Trying his very best to distance himself from any conflict that might arise.

He positioned the carton in a way that the peephole he had opened in it was facing in the general direction of the bridge base where the street monarch’s chambers lie, instinct warning him that trouble would probably come from that direction not from outwards as usual.

He has kept a low profile from that first day and up till the moment was yet to attract any undue attention to his person from the monarch who still looks at him suspiciously whenever their paths cross, a meeting Alaye avoids as much as he can.

Tonight like other nights before it, Alaye is sleeping deep, though not too deep as to loose grip of his environment and situation. All around him, other street urchins are also in different levels of sleep.
Their young bodies having gotten attuned to the weather and mosquito bites, they sleep unhindered, much like the destitute by the highway that apparently has entered a world that is far from that of human beings, the world of the weather beaten mental chase.

As the night sky took on a faint hue of light that gradually turns the deep black of night gray, Alaye stirred as his biological clock ticked the unset of dawn. He sat up in his coffin like carton and looked towards the gang-bred chambers. His heart gladdening at the sight of the sleeping figures there.

“Hopefully,” he thought, “I would have finished my morning bath and be far away before they awake”
Alaye has every reason to be weary for today is one day that he hopes that avoid trouble, at least, until he knows his stand.

Yesterday, a woman who bought pure water from him at the bridgehead hold up promised to give him a job in her supermarket. On the condition, that he makes it to her shop before 7.am.

Since her shop is on the other side of the city, he will have to rush if he is to retain any hope of getting the job. So, an entanglement with Area Baba will only slow him down or even curtail his going altogether.

His path towards the broken water mains that served as source for drinking water and bathroom for the street boys and indigent residents as well was light by the glare from craggy molues wobbling towards the day’s job.

Unlike other days, he took his time bathing, trying his utmost best to rid the grit and sweaty odor that clung to him. Though he is one of the few street boys that still see an everyday bath as a necessity, the hard life of the street still leaves him as dirty as the others at the days end.

When he had assured himself that he is as neat as he can ever get in the circumstance he walk back to his carton. Foraging inside he pulled out his only decent dress-reserved for days like this-and shrugged into them. Having no option in the footwear department he made do with his threadbare bathroom slippers.

Five minutes later found him trudging down mile two at a pace that is not too brisk but not slow either. He has hope of reaching Ikeja by 6:30 and get to the woman’s shop with a few minutes to spare. Even if he could afford the fare from mile 2 to Ikeja, the thought of taking a bus did not occur to him.

Like others in his situation, he has come to an understanding his fate and sees any money that can be saved as worth saving, so he treks to his destination. Another reason he treks is the hope of meeting someone or something that will alleviate his suffering. It is this hope that keeps him and his kind alive that drives suicide from their minds and keeps them sane even when the world around them has gone totally insane.

Alhaja, the woman that promised Alaye a job runs a big supermarket in Ikeja with branches in most of the markets that cluster Lagos. She fancies herself a philanthropist who looks after the dregs of the society. She absorbs youths like Alaye without any family to turn to.

Why she picks out the strong and young can be left to anyone’s imagination. In Ikeja shop, several young men and women work as sells persons or loaders. She clothes and feed them while providing them shelter from the element and the bitter world. Some of her employees, former street boys and girls, have being known to climb the social ladder while in her employ. But, it is a minimal number that do so.

When Alaye Ikeja he discovered that the difficulty he had earlier envisioned of locating the shop was premature for at first inquiry he was directed to a row of well stocked shops that as early as then was in full swing. He watched with open mouth as an army of youth battled to set up for the day’s business.

It was hard going for him following the progress of the workers who bustled like a thousand worker bees. Some unloading from crates while other arranged them in whatever order caught their supervisors fancy.

It was this supervisor, a girl of about Alaye’s age, who directed him to the Alhaja’s office to wait her coming.

Alaye discovered that he is not as special as he thought, as other kids were seating on a long bench in the corridor outside the office, various degree of fear and expectation mingling in the young faces.

A plumpish girl on the far end made space for him. He thanked her as he joined the wait.

They did not have to wait. For, at 7.30 am on the dot, Alhaja turned up. It was her voice that Alaye heard first. It was raise in apparent anger at whatever wrongs the workers outside perpetuated. Alaye caught his breath and the girl beside him stiffened, apparently he wasn’t the only one that felt the gall in her voice.

The next moment the small corridor was swallowed up by a heavy musk based perfume that had that Arab fragrance that is as overpowering as they were made to be.

She looked each child up and done as she responds to their individual greetings which she appeared to live off. She expected the postulations of both the males and females and scolded a girl that did not squat as deeply as was expected of her.

But unlike the tone they had heard her use outside, she was rather mild about it, scolding with a motherly voice that was both stern and kind admonishing for forgetting a deep cultural norm that a little girl overlooked.

Later, they were all interviewed by her, in twos, to ascertain their level of intelligence and placement.
Somehow, by some trick of randomization, Alaye and the plump girl were the last go in. initially, as the others came out of the office, Alaye had thought of asking them how it went. But, they being strangers it was rather difficult and no one met his eye no matter how heard he tried to catch theirs.

Now it was his turn to face the lioness in her den.

Alaye did not lie to himself for he knew that his future is close at hand. As they stepped into the office the deep fragrance hit him again, only harder this time, it was all he could do to stop from choking from the nausea that rose from his belly. It took all his will to cross the lush carpeting to the front of the large vacant table that where Alhaja sat.

She was intent on a paper she was scribbling on, though not enough to not notice them and stop them from coming too close to her table. Apparently, the perfume served a dual purpose; it keeps her foul odors in as well as keeps that of others out from her ringed nose. She wrote on seemingly ignorant of them while they looked at each other and fidgeted.

From the much they could see of her face, unobstructed by the shawl she wore arab style over her gele, she is obviously in her mid forties. Her figure, though a little on the fat side, retained the basic curves that are accentuated by an extra large backside and bustline. Unlike most fat women, nature spared her extra folds across her tummy.

Her face, though not closely beautiful is still handsome enough to be called pretty. In all, she makes for one striking figure that her average frame seems to carry very well.

Her office, though well furnished, appears to be a sort of showpiece, for the space that would have been spacious was choked by equipments and other stuffs that aren’t really needed. Like the extra TV behind her desk and the electric typewriter.

Two hours later Alaye and Zainab, the plum girl, were on their way to Alhaja’s wholesale shop in Oshodi. He is to work as a loader with the supply truck while she is to work in the shop proper, as a sales girl.

The shop was not as big as those in Ikeja were but it was still big enough to require a staff of eight excluding Alaye and Zainab.

They received just as about the same sort of greetings that they got in Ikeja. The workers did not pay them much heed as they went about their duties, only one stopped long enough to direct them to the manager who turned out to be a middle-aged woman equally as fat as the Alhaja.

They were not giving much room to settle as they were rushed off to work.

Alaye did not much like hate his work as a loader, he had had cause to do jobs of such nature in the past, it is just that the unpredictability of it vexes him to hell.

One minute he would be getting set to eat his lunch, the next he will be rushing off to load up a truck for a customer.

Like most people taken off the street Alaye wasn’t bothered any by the sleeping arrangement. Some of the workers have their own accommodation in town but Alaye, Zainab ant two other girls had to sleep in the shop. While the girls slept in the packing store, Alaye made do with the cold shop floor, once again bedding down on a large carton.

Time passed like a swallow’s flight. He got closer to plump Zainab of the dreamy eyes and the other workers stopped seeing him like a stranger. They did not see much of the Alhaja and the few meetings were brief. Strangely, she appeared to remember his name, a thing he thought peculiar until he leant that she knows the name of all her employees, a sharp memory that served her very well in her day-to-day dealings.

Alaye was too grateful for his change of fortune that it did not occur to him to ask for his salary at the end of that month or the ones after. Every day he collects the stipend of one hundred and fifty naira that served as his feeding money. One a good day, he gets as much as five hundred naira as tips from happy costumers. With all these, he was as comfortable as one can be in the circumstance.

To him demanding for the three thousand naira that was due him sounded like betrayal of trust.

It was Zainab that raised the issue of unpaid salary some months later. Apparently, she had spoken to the other girls and from their narration, it appeared like the norm, they too didn’t get paid up until one year after they started work and even then only a few months worth.

Alaye preached caution, opting to wait till they must have worked for one year before complaining. He said this to pacify her for he wasn’t sure he had the guts to face Alhaja even then.

Zainab was later moved to Alhaja’s private residence as a housemaid while Alaye stayed on in the Oshodi store only he now had to follow the trucks that supply pure water as a loader.

The issue of unpaid salary was not treated as Alaye’s earnings from tips increased. But he did not forget and hoped he will get paid at the end of the one year. True, he was picked from the street but he has his plans and hopes to see them to fruition.

Trouble started when it one year passed and extra months added up. After much dilly dallying Alaye summoned courage and went to Ikeja to speak to Alhaja. Like the previous times he had being to see her he was made to wait for a long time.

When he finally saw her, she was on her way out and would have passed him on the corridor where he sat waiting if he had not hailed her.

At first, she looked at him strangely as if trying to place him but after a while, she smiled slowly.

“You are from the Oshodi shop right? I hope no problem?”

“Yes ma,” Alaye replied, “there is no problem ma.”

“Ok. How may I help you?”

“eem, ma… its about my salary… I have not been paid since I started work and it over a year now.”

“I know,” She said turning towards the door apparently dismissing him.

“But ma I was told that you pay after the first year and it is four months after.” He said following her outside.

She turned sharply, her eyes blazing. “who told you that?