Jide Runs Mad - The NYSC Chronicles

The Soldiers couldn't just comprehend how someone could be so lazy and weak. They could clearly remember the years before they joined the military, even as young civilians, they were very hardworking and engaged their youthfulness in physically exhilarating activities. Okon still remember how at the young age of fourteen, his father had already assigned him two acres of farmland in their native village at Cross rivers.

 

Farming and fishing were the predominant occupation of his people, therefore he quickly inherited both occupations from his father. By five in the morning, his whole family would wake up, wash their faces, arms and feet, then head to the farm which was about five kilometers away from their residence. They usually returned just before the sun went to sleep, then spent about  three hours fishing from late night till early the next morning. Okon knew that by the age of nineteen when he finally joined the Nigerian military, he was already a hardened young man, roughened and rugged from the lifelong engagement in farming and fishing, the escapades into the forest for dry cooking wood in the rainforest area of Cross river was an experience which haunted him everyday.

 

The three soldiers just watched Jide, a forlorn expression written on his face, and with a pitiful piece of paper on his hands. He claimed that the paper was proof of his initial claim of feeling sickly and therefore unable to participate in the everyday, early morning parade ritual. This was not their first time of

Ambassadors of promiscuity - The NYSC chronicles part 5

My last post on this blog primarily featured two young men in one of the orientation camps who were caught having sex and were decamped, although in a very quiet manner.

However the case seems to be the opposite in Akwa Ibom state, where a heterosexual couple were caught in the act and were allowed to go unpunished because of the political influence of one of the parents.

It was barely nine-thirty in the evening and many corpers were either loitering around or gossiping at Mami market which was the social hub of the orientation camp. Today was the fifth day since the resumption of camp for we Batch A Corpers, therefore many of us had made new friends from the horde of youths who were sent here for the three weeks orientation course. While some of us were still on the platonic stage of knowing each other, a few others progressed with lightning speed and were already referring to themselves with the glorified title of 'Boyfriend' and 'Girlfriend', i couldn't help but watch in awe, how possible it was for so much love to have bred within the short time frame of five days, especially with consideration extended to the fact that most of the time, we were at one parade, lecture or camp activity, thereby having very little time for socialization and chit-chats.

Sex in the camp - The NYSC chronicles part 4

Sex in the camp - Introduction

It appears that last night, Saturday 9th May 2015, there was a widespread party across many NYSC camps throughout the federation. While some camps such as Lagos were having a fun time, others like Kogi and Abuja seemed to have been grossly disappointing.

The Corpers in Kogi who were all happy at the prospect of an impending party, were disappointed when the barely an hour show ended without them having had any fun at all. In the words of Cynthia; one of the Corpers, the party which lasted between 9-10pm was "boring and stupid". While other camps were graced with the presence of top notch music arts and comedians, those in Kogi state had only the presence of native dancers supported by the merry children of the Women at Mammy market.

Ogun state camp was graced with the presence of Davido and Lil Kesh, while Oyo state camp had Ayo Adesanya, Bash the comedian and Adetoun of project fame in attendance, Davido was live in Taraba to the much delight of the Corpers, while on a lighter note, Zaki reportedly made a torchlight appearance at Katsina camp. I purposely left-out Lagos camp, because it was a huge concert there and everyone who is anyone in the Nigerian entertainment space was in attendance, Basket Mouth not excluded. Just for your information also, Lagos camp is just a scam compared to what other Corpers are facing in other states, in-fact majority of the Lagos Corpers have rightly asserted that they are not in camp, but were in-fact having a 'Faaji' (Festival).

Sex in the camp - full gist

Tonight, Musa could not be swayed by the appealing crispness of five one thousand Naira notes, neither was his ear audible to the pleas of such an atrocious duo. If it were under sharia law, both perpetrators would have been stoned until life exited their immoral bodies, but tonight, that would not be the case.

Today, I'm posting a story centred around the theme of society and prejudice, it is titled "A sound in the ocean of silence"

A sound in the ocean of silence

She put the finishing touch to the blur of red lipstick decorating her lustrous lips, then uses the make-over brush to highlight the pink mascara on her cheeks. At the age of thirty, she was beginning to feel the impact of her ageing skin. Most of her friends were married with kids but it seemed that cupid had a personal grudge against her, and in consequence had effectively sent every man that came her way packing. These days, she no longer put up the coyness which used to pervade her response to any man who approached her for any reason at all. As the years progressed fewer men bothered with her company, it seemed age had put on dog ears around the edges of her beauty and her attractiveness had gradually waned with each birthday she celebrated. Today, just like every other day within the past three years, she had woken up very optimistic about meeting a man of her dreams who would not engage her in a long ceremonious period of dating but would rather find in her a perfect woman worth marrying within a short period of three months. Over the years she had realised that men were more attracted to what they saw more than what they experienced through the other four senses. Therefore, she had learnt to take appropriate and sometimes extreme steps to appear rather appealing both in facial appearance and in her apparels.

The NYSC chronicles - They won’t let me go

They won’t let me go

The Internet Café was fully packed with people, there was barely room for one to shuffle from one end of the small room to the other. shoulders brushed against each other, and foots just scratched the floor in a semi-futile attempt by people to move from their monitor screens to the single central Desk-jet printer which served the whole of the over fifteen computer systems, housed in this public internet access facility, which most people in Nigeria refer to as ‘business centre’.

Although I woke late that fateful Thursday morning, I was less perturbed about time and schedules since I had no structured job to clock into and out of, every other morning and evening. Today, I just decided to rest from all sorts of work whatsoever, I just wanted it to be my personal holiday, the only difference being that I would not be travelling, going to the Cinemas or indulging friends in sports and drinks. Today was supposed to be my personal, sit-at-home, sleep-all-through holiday, the only breaks allowed, being food breaks, but to my utmost aghast I had much more quiet time than I bargained for. Especially from the moment I got that horrific news that the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) call up letter had been released for prospective corpers to access.

Bolakale Michael - Biography

"please where is Professor Michael?" was the question a beautiful female second year undergraduate once asked me. That fateful day, i had visited the office of the legislative arm of the faculty student body. A few minutes before 'Miss beautiful damsel' appeared, i had been with Mike, who happened to also be the clerk of the parliament. So when this young lady popped this rather familiar question, everything seemed in place, except for the title 'professor'. It took me about a minute of prodding to actually believe that it was indeed my friend, Mike, the clerk that was being referred to by the highest academic title 'professor'. Although i smiled and replied her that "Professor Michael just stepped out", immediately she left, i felt a pang of jealousy and regret, i began to question the wisdom in my refusal to organize extra tutorials for students in the lower levels, in-spite of my good academic scores. Just imagine, here was my friend and contemporary, Mike, being addressed in such lofty terms.

Cracked Story - This is not a Love story

Note: This is not a love story.

Cracked Story

Sometimes, you just wear your Armour of indifference, making me feel depressed in the process. Whenever i complain, you never bother to usher reasonable responses, you just blab around, messing up the whole situation with a lot of soothing words.

The other day, you came home just when the long hand of the clock consummated with the short hand, both pointing at twelve. What you would never know was that i had spent the past three hours of that evening, nursing my fears, which grew consummately with the thickening darkness of an evening proceeding into night.
You claim to remember only the roaring hoarseness of my voice, the fury and the blinding slap which lightened up your head in a million glittery pieces. Till today, you still claim you saw stars, but all i saw was the errors of your ways.

For once, you never gave change a chance in your life, fool-hardily, you progressed incorrigibly through each day, raising my blood pressure with each of your actions and dipping my soul in the salty ocean of your deprivation. I bore with you, throughout each show of shame, you were hell-bent, never giving up on the error of your ways, i never gave up on you either.

Letter to a withering Petal

My dear,

i'm scared of your beauty, which like sugar attracts all sorts of creatures, mammals and insects alike.

The other day, both of us walked down the street. I was by your side, watching your swinging hips and matching your sexy legs stride by stride.

You may not know, but that calm evening, when the sun had hidden behind the shade of the clouds, we strolled the streets of Ikeja G.R.A, from Country club to Isaac John. The ear pods where glued to each of your ears, and the only thing you could hear, were not the subtle catcalls and the fetish whispers by the bums on the street. I know this for a surety because the voice of Trey Songz; your favourite artiste was enough to hold you captive for a zillion years. The last time i complained about how you dedicated so much time to a dude who only existed in your iPod, to the detriment of I, you whispered in very apologetic tones, you said, "His songs are so soothing, they calm my nerves" but all i heard was "He calms my nerves". I guess my musky voice upsets your stomach then.

That day however, your eyes still served you right, so you would clearly remember when that bearded dude driving an LR3, slowed to a stop in front of us, no in front of you and absented his eyes from me and our entwined hands. He claimed to need directions, although all his attention was fixed on your oval face and gigantic boobs at the same time. He ravished you with a lusty gaze, but i stood there like a rock, acting unfazed by this affront on my masculinity. Remember you told me to always keep my cool, after that day when my fist had loosened the tooth of that fool who whistled at your butt.

How Far would you go to defend your beliefs?

The Bus Ride

The consciousness had never been this high.
People who used to feel detached and unconcerned, now debate in Cafeterias and on bustling streets. Newspaper vendors, never witnessed so much sales and attention, these days, their headlines were flooded with Libels and written slander. Headlines are up for sale to the highest bidder and the mass media are divided along political battle lines.

The circumstances surrounding these forth coming elections are absolutely unpredictable. While some sing of change and the enthronement of a new dispensation, others prefer to water the dying tree of continuity, hoping that another four years would see it finally bearing the much awaited fruits of development and national security. Yet, some others disagree with both aforementioned groups. A third party clamours for a total breakaway from the present and the past. They neither want a four year extension of the present nor a repeat of the past. This third group clamours for the majority of the numerous minority parties, who unfortunately garners the fewer percentage of the electorate.

Somewhere on the corner of a sleeping Lagos street, a grey-hair recounts events of years past. Times when one naira equalled one dollar on the foreign exchange market. His army of young listeners stood attentively,  forming a semi-circle around him, captivated by the educative voice of over eight decades old. The grey hair, sadly recounts years of when his country stood tall and proud among the comity of Nations. He speaks of those years with grave sadness, he remembers them as a mother would, a foetus that was dead at birth.

I board a bus-load of students and youths, all of whom had just left the venue of a town Hall meeting, where smear politics had just been executed by yet another political party. The Bus is filled with silence, but was also as tense as a house filled with petrol, waiting for just a spark to ignite it's ability to explode.

MAJIYAGBE OYINDAMOLA

This is a special feature, based on a request from a very close pal. It seems that these days, people come to me for an in depth analysis of a Babe or Dude they are curious about. See my life sha, i don turn free private investigator.

Although she was not my coursemate, both of us were from the same faculty, therefore it was a matter of time before we ran into each other.

I began to notice Oyinda in our second year in the University. Throughout my first year, i was academically lax and showed to serious inclination for either intensive academic rigours or good scores. However after a very dismal performance in academics that year, my second year, saw a change in my attitude towards my academics. It was during this transition period that i passively noticed Oyinda for the first time.

ADELEKE BABARINDE AMOS - class series

For some strange reason, Amos prefers being called Amosquito. The first time i came across this name was somewhere on my Bbm contact list, i can still vividly remember the way i was fascinatingly   ruminating over the strangeness of such a name. However, with time, i learnt to accept its existence with open arms.

By our second year in school, someone had already been shown the exit door due to his outrageously poor grades. This left our class of thirty-three being reduced by one. Then as if by an act of God, Amosquito came along, a veteran Diploma student, who had scaled through the luxury of Diploma and was now faced with the harsh realities of being a full time student. Amos joined our ranks in year two and the equation was balanced once again.

The Rainstorm - A Short Story

It was mid June, back then when the seasons respected their timetables, the weather was predictable and a fog of dark cloud always gathered to usher in an downpour of rain.
Today, the morning had predictably given way for the afternoon to emerge, the noon too did not deny the evening and its dusky outlook a chance to exist.

The cool evening breeze, caressed our tender skins. The tall trees and thick shrubs danced as one to the soft melodies of the east wind. Gradually, the sky began to dim its smile, darkness approached confidently.

If Grandma was here, she would allude the sudden change in weather to the death of a Lion in the wild. Sometimes she even contradicted herself and blamed it on the death of a powerful chief somewhere yet unknown to us. Once in a while, her later prediction usually coincided with the death of someone prominent. In our infant minds, Grandma was a wise sage, possessing the monopoly of knowledge. This evening, Grandma was not here, she was miles away at our village somewhere in Ibeku.

Early this morning, even before the first crow of the cock, Mother had left for the garden egg market in the heart of Owerri, the State capital. She had left me with clear instructions regarding the feeding and conduct of my siblings and I, while she was away.

I was the eldest Child and in the absence of a Dad who worked in far away Lagos, i became her trusted lieutenant. At the age of ten, i was already a good cook, an expert at bathing my Baby sisters, and the foremost caretaker of our ill-furnished one room apartment.

My Sisters I, sandwiched in an isolated house shamelessly sitting in the middle of a semi-forest had weathered many rain storms together. Although the angry bangs of some thunder strikes sent us into scamper, we had learnt to predict the magnitude of a thunder strike by the length and brightness of the preceding lightning.

Over the years, we had also learnt to expect the mopping which succeeded every rainfall, since the whole floor of our one-room habitation was sure to be drenched in water.

The rains had begun by five that evening, it started on a slow fashion, then gradually grew in momentum and intensity. The Thunder strikes tonight betrayed the warnings of the lightning. No matter how bright and long the lightning flashes were, the thunder strikes seemed to outdo them threefold. The rain kept pelting the zinc roof of the house, deafening us with loud spattering noise, like the beating of a thousand cymbals at the same time . I looked out of the low window, and the flood outside was already rising to a terrifying height, it sped with so much intensity that i doubted if the house would still be standing when this rain's onslaught was over.

What made me really scared however was the thought of the Biblical Noah. We attended the little Church two miles away, the pastor was a very sad man, who derived so much pleasure in terrifying his membership of eight adults and five children with the horrifying stories from the Bible. Whenever he was not talking of the horrendous death experienced by the inhabitants of Sodom and Gormorah at the hands of a fiery conflagration, he would be threatening us with drowning like the world during the time of Noah. It seemed that the only way for us to escape such painful deaths were to pay more into the church coffers, the only problem however was that if we had as little as enough bus fare, we would have preferred to attend the big Cathedral at the City and not this shack for a Church.

So tonight, in my Childish mind, i considered the Pastor's prediction and the possibility of its actualisation. Maybe God was tired of our widow's mite and had come for a revenge mission. I peeped through the window again and this time, was blinded by the powerful flash of a lightning, i cringed, expecting the explosion of a mighty thunder, none followed. At this point, I was convinced that God was surely annoyed at us, the lightning was just him taking a last photograph of me, before increasing the knob controlling the rainfall. The flood outside kept rising.

Both my sisters were huddled up together beneath the bed, i could hear them whimpering and calling out for their Mum; a mum who was stuck in a market somewhere. One a normal day, she never made it home before Ten at night, with the weather condition this night, i did not even bother to imagine what time she would come back home.

Sullen, I knelt beside the bed and started confessing my Childish sins. The other day, i had taken Chidi's pencil without his consent, Chinedu had said my Mum was Mad and i immediately wished his mum same. Today in school, i had admired the small outgrowth of Maria's breasts beneath her blouse, i was not sure if this too was a sin, but i confessed it anyways, i confessed everything that crossed my mind that night.

I turned around when someone insistently tugged at my Shirt. It was Mum, her calm face radiated care and concern. I could see the first sign of daylight seep through the sleeping window. Mum searched my eyes and let a tear escape her sad face. She reached for me and we held in tight embrace. "D'im" she whispered in Ibo, she always called me that in appreciation, whenever i had done something a Child of my age would never have the courage to face. "D'im, Ogadinma" she whispered into my ears once more. "My Husband, things will get better", i held unto her as i would dear life.

Written By Onyeoziri Favour
Email: favouronyeoziri@gmail.com

Pregnancy Test - A story about 21st century teenage girls

Every evening, at about seven , the Family of four gathered in the modestly furnished sitting room to watch Africa Majic on Mnet. This was understandably so, since both parents had to leave for work as early as six every morning, while their two daughters, both still in senior secondary school, also had to leave for school some thirty minutes later when the school bus pulls up into the neighbourhood by six-thirty.

The evenings were the only time when the small family had to spend together. Although both daughters, resented the idea of spending their spare time watching boring indigenous movies with their 'outdated' parents, however making an appearance by seven every evening was not negotiable. It was a family rule, enacted by Mum and ratified by Dad, so, no one dared go contrary to this. 

The deadly shortcut - The Touching Tale of a Single Mother & her Three Children

Although it was very true, She never bragged to anyone about her husband being a Policeman. Maybe in some climes it could earn a wife respect, or help protect the children from bad men, however over here in this semi-thicket of a residential area, no one really cared. In fact a silly divultion of such an information, would lead to instant hatred by the horde of small hard core gangs, who occupied the forested scenery and numerous abandoned buildings in the area.

The small Family of Five had been ejected by a previous Landlord, a man who had been serially accused of being a member of a cult and also a ritualist. Anyone who questioned the rationale behind such grievous rumours against the Landlord would be told that, that was the only feasible reason to explain his disinterest in completing the construction of the House. It was a widely held belief that the members of some certain secret cults like the Ogboni, as part of their initiation rites were required never to fully complete the construction of any of their buildings. At least one or two things should be left out while erecting a building, no matter the size of such an edifice.

A Derailed Future - A story about Love, hate and Patience.

"What's wrong with you?" I screamed over the phone, it took a second for her to assimilate what she just heard. To her, it was very strange and unbelievable. She had never heard me ever raise my voice beyond its natural pitch, not to talk of shouting. She sensed that she must have pissed me off real much for me to respond in such an unusual manner, so in response, she began to sob over the phone. God! how i hate to hear women cry!

I had been in the process of ironing some clothes that fateful Wednesday evening, when she called me over the Phone. We had started off on the usual light note, exchanging pleasantries and enquiring about each other's welfare. Then i proceeded to ask about her Parents and siblings, she returned the favour immediately after responding curtly with the word 'fine'.

Neither of us knew the direction the discussion was going to take, but usually we would let it run its course and at the end of the conversation, we would both be feeling a lot more happy and in love. This particular evening, i was more interested in completing my ironing, especially since electricity supply was very unpredictable. Therefore i was in no mood for a long discourse, instead, i was trying all i could to truncate the conversation as soon as possible. Unfortunately, it seemed she on the other hand was less preoccupied and maybe even bored. She kept pushing the conversation, trying her possible best to prolong it beyond the basic complements and confessions of Love we usually exchanged.

With every passing minute, i became increasingly restless and my patience began to grow thin, little wonder when she brought up the issue of marriage again, i immediately went haywire.

Amaka and i had been dating for over eight years now. We first met during my Jambite years. I was unfortunate to have written the University entrance examination for four consecutive years before being granted provisional admission into the University of Ibadan to study Education and Chemistry.
I had met at the special centre were i wrote my first JAMB.

With time, our friendship transcended the platonic stage, as our emotions blossomed, our relationship graduated into a full blown intimate affair. We had clearly fallen head over heels for each other and in less than two years, our relationship had become a popular example of what a romance should be, both among married couples and dating singles throughout the neighbourhood.

By the fourth year of our relationship, i was opportune to gain provisional admission into the University of Ibadan (U.I). By third year in the University, i was already twenty-seven years old, it also signified my seventh year of dating Amaka.

For the past year, She had been very persistent about the solemnisation of our love through a proper wedding ritual. As the months went by, she began to sound desperate about Marriage, her haste seemed unnecessary to me, since she was barely twenty four years old and yet to gain admission into the University. Countless times, i had explained to her that i had to at the least conclude my University education and become gainfully employed before we could get married.

This evening, She had brought up the issue of marriage again. This time around, sounding even more offensive and even threatening to quit the relationship if i did not marry her soon. Her curt remarks were very shocking and irrational at the same time. To worsen the whole matter, She had no single logical reason for her haste towards matrimony. For her, marriage was a competition among friends, a contest which she may emerge as the loser, since most of her friends had already gotten married. Although many of then were not fully married, but then, they no longer lived in their parent's houses and at least part of their dowry had been paid for by a roadside mechanic here or a Bricklayer there.

After all attempts to placate her and try to explain everything to her all over again for the umpteenth time failed, i decided to give up on the whole exercise. Gradually, my anger built up, until I decided that she could quit the relationship if she wanted, in fact, she could go jump into a Lagoon if she so desired. For the moment being, i was tired and feed up and infarct could use a little peace of mind.

That night, i hung up on her after a lengthy exchange of words. I considered her threats to be empty and baseless, without ever suspecting that She could ever see it through.

"Hello, who is this?" I enquired, this is Amaka, she replied "sorry, which Amaka is this" i asked again, then she went into a short narrative, after which i clearly knew who it was. I was very excited to hear her voice once more after seven months. Since our last argument seven months ago, we had not as much as called or even sent each other a text message.

For a fleeting second, i was happy that my prodigal heartthrob had returned, this time, i hoped she was a better, patient and repentant person. I was about rendering a small prayer of appreciation to God for bringing her back to me, when her next words stopped me in my tracks ....." I was just delivered of a bouncing baby boy four days ago " She said, her voice laced with a weighty amount of joy.

I pretended to be deaf, then requested for her to repeat herself, this time, i heard her very clearly and she sounded every bit convincing.

where are you? Who is the father of the Child? Are you married? When did you get married? Are you pulling my legs? What happened between us? I wanted to ask her all these questions and a million more, but all i could do was to stare at the opposite wall, mouth agape, ears mute, phone clutched feebly to my ears. I stood there, beside the hot Iron, among my roommates, mortified. I stood there erect like the biblical Lot's wife, who was turned into a pillar of salt, for merely turning to stare at a bright future she had left behind at the mercy of a fiery conflagration.

A short story Written by Onyeoziri Favour

This Day, I swear! - A Short Story

The month officially ends today. Many of my friends on campus had already left for home yesterday, even those who normally would resent the idea of going home for weekend had enough sense to go home on these particular weekends. It was not rocket science at all, on the contrary, it was simple common sense, this was the last weekend in this month which of course is the same with every other weekend except for the fact that this weekend usually witnessed the disbursement of funds into most student's accounts.

While some Parents are salary earners who usually looked forward for the end of every month, others are business people who woke up to every other day as a payday. For most students however, this has little or no meaning, whether their parents were salary earners or otherwise, most parents usually made the allowance thing a monthly affair.

Only a few parents would send their Children significant amounts of Money every other day or weeks. They would rather make the transaction an agreed lump sum which would usually be sent at the beginning of every month. Students however have little patience and therefore do not even wait until such monies are sent, they would rather go home by month end to claim what is rightfully there's.

Scarcity of Want - A Story

After a long day's labour, i had retired back to the discomfort of a shared one room apartment, somewhere at Ikorodu, one of the outskirt towns of Lagos. With a damaged drainage system, absence of any plumbing systems at all and a stretch of crooked mud road, with time, i came to realise that the only good thing about this apartment was my roommate Dami.

Although we had been previously been acquainted with each other during our Polythecnic days, the relationship between us was very threadbare and skeletal back then. However, since circumstances has bound us together under the yoke of one roof, he has made himself not only a roommate to be desired, but also more of a brother than an almost total stranger.

We were both fresh Ordinary National Diploma graduates of Moshood Abiola Polythecnic. Due to a marked lack of funds to further our education through to the HND level, we had been forced to overtly appreciate the OND degree we had acquired, although right now, the fact that many employers have rejected our applications seems to lend weight to the fact that we must have overestimated the value of such a certificate.

Today, we shake things up with a little poetry

A Hard Day's Travails

Bent over like a young kid about to Summersault, 
the large hoe was clutched in both my small palms.
Large beads of sweat rolled down my head 
through my face and unto the dark soil.

Like a task master,
the sun shone its fiery temper on my arched back,
i could feel its electric rays transversing the length of my spine.

One more time, my hoe scooped up the soil
until it formed a small pyramid,
my baby brother handed me a short stem of Cassava,
which i buried slanting into the mound.

I moved to the next flat spot on the expensive acre of farmland.
My hoe landed the soil a crude blow,
uprooting layers residue to build a new pyramid.
My widowed mother gazed at me and smiled in the distance,
She found her deceased husband in me.

A Night To Forget - A Short Story

It was 9:28pm and the bustling university Campus had fizzled into a quietness known only to graveyards and funerals. Along the deserted sidewalks, the crickets and frogs relished the sound of their own voices, one call by the small animals was replied by another and soon it seemed that a competition had ensued between the insects and the crocking amphibians.

I walked silently, hastily shuffling by a young couple who strolled cozily hand in hand. Somewhere at the back of mind, i could still recall stories of the victims of this parts especially at night. Phones and other valuables had been willingly surrendered by their owners to gun-trotting hoodlums, who wasted no time in stashing their loots and disappearing into nowhere even before their victims could recover from the quivers of having faced death and emerged alive.

Gradually, i approached the second half of the long sidewalk, this side was besmeared by a swamp which housed a mini-forest, the edge of which had been quickly converted into an illegal dump site. Usually, when one got to this section of the road, your hands would instinctively move to preserve the nose from the odious smell of rotting cadavers and household waste.

THE CLOUDS ARE GATHERING -A Story On Love & Misfortune

The clouds are gathering! Now I hear rumbles from within me, quakes of water, warring and warning of an impending downfall. I hear it at night; the kicks and movement of gathered water, threatening to break the membrane of soft cells that holds it at bay, the warnings come at noon, eve and even before daybreaks. It looms like an inevitable gong of impending war, and I dread it; like a child fears the sight of sprinkling blood. I fear the heaviness of the rain, the portals of strong strokes falling rapidly in succession, the eaves and breaths of the sky descending uncontrollably down the earth and the eventual wetness that slumps red earth into slums, and drain the soil of all its dryness. I dread many things and every thing about the rain, but nothing more like the gathered cloud, the terrestrial rumbles from above, rambling through portals and causing shivers, the wind of gathered cloud, splashing in lightening and thundering thunders. But the downpour I now fear threatens from within me and soon it will rain.

It all started with dryness on a valentine day, every downpour begins with one. I woke up with a sudden thirst, a drive and cravings for excitement. The day was young but I felt bored, like my entire existence had been clouded with dryness, and I had been shrink and compressed into an average soul within myself. I was still in bed, gradually rising into consciousness, but I had nothing to look forward to in a day that should have been promising, I couldn’t start wondering why I had lived such an uneventful life but I laid down and sunk deeper into the comforts of my pillow and remembered Sanda, he was the reason for all this negative feelings I was now feeling.

Stephen Sanda! I met him on Facebook on Friday the 13th as he termed it, a day that should have been filled with excitement and fun for him if not for the election that was supposed to be on the 14th. He wanted to throw a party on the night before val but couldn’t due to the planned election, and when the election was postponed, it was too late to start organizing a party so he laid down on his bed that night and decided to open a Facebook account, and the first damsel he would see on the social network was me. At least that was the story he told me, and it was too flattering for me to pass up as a lie or joke.

I wasn’t a social network addict, or a Facebook fan for that matter, I was the type of person that could lie comfortably in bed all day and refuse to go online talk less of replying messages or accepting friend requests on Facebook. But Friday the 13th was different; I decided to go through my Facebook wall, read posts and comments and even reply some messages, then I saw a new request coming in to join the endless stream of requests that I had simply ignored. But Sanda??? I thought the person must have meant to type Sandra and out of curiosity and perplexity I accepted the request and then found out the account belongs to a guy and I was his only Facebook friend. He looked cute though.
‘So your name is Sanda and I am your only friend here. Are you stalking me?’ I wrote on his wall and he replied almost immediately. ‘Yeah bae! Every beauty deserves a stalker.’ I chuckled loudly and replied ‘Well I don’t need sanda as my first stalker. Sanda???’
‘But my name is Sanda! At least that was the name my parent chose for me.’ He messaged me and that was how we started chatting. From random courtesies to personal experiences; we chatted deep into the night and eventually conversed about plans for Val and our lustful Val wishes, but I had none. I was a big time novice without any sexual or lustful experiences, and that was when he started making me feel boring and average, like I’ve lived but never lived, as fun and excitement had simply eluded me.

I had never stayed awake beyond 10pm before Friday the 13th, I may be able to dance but I’ve never tried so I don’t even know if my body can move in rhythms with music, I don’t have any close friend; at least close enough to know the things I had never done, I had never tasted any alcoholic substance, I had never gone to visit a guy; talk less of having a boyfriend or kissing, I had never done anything that was beyond average and I had never confessed all this to anyone apart from Sanda. He seemed close and wild with a seeming sense of understanding and adventure as he began to make me feel like there may be more to me than this me, or there may be more to life than sleeping, waking up and schooling.

I eventually slept off on the chats, but my mind kept pondering on how dry my life had all been and I craved wetness with an intensity that I never knew existed in me.
I was still ruminating on my miseries on valentine day when my phone rang. ‘Hey it’s Sanda, happy Val and how was your night damsel?’ He sounded epicene; I couldn’t place the voice as either masculine or feminine. ‘Did I give you my number?’ I was curious and it was another thing I had never done before; dish out my number to an absolute stranger. ‘Yeah you did! You said you were sleepy and I should call you in the morning.’ Of course I did and I knew I did.
‘But Sanda, who the hell are you?’
‘Your stalker Simi, I thought we established that.’ He sounded so close and familiar and I began to crave him too.
‘Will you be my Val?’ I asked before I knew it.
*****
He drove into my hostel around noon in his black Peugeot, the car was painted black and its glasses were darkly tainted. He was just as dark with mushy moustache; he was tall with a gentle pointed nose and a feminine body frame; slimmed and trimmed like a female model. No wonder he sounded epicene on phone. ‘Yeah I look a lot like my Mother.’ He spoke as I stood and looked at him with apparent amazement.
‘No wonder the mushy moustache, something must stand you out as a man.’ I felt so close and familiar with him and sat comfortably in his car. I didn’t even ask where he was taking me to.
*****
As much as I dread downfall, I cannot deny its striking amazement, the seeming wonder of strokes of water and the wetness the earth would soak up in due time. Bright, dark or murky, rain is not a respecter of time or events and it strikes when it pleases. But life isn’t a stream of coincidences; it is actions that breed reactions and reactions actions. The clouds that now gathered to fall were dense of water, synthesized from my dryness and made to form into concrete strokes of scary drops.

I knew when he drove me into a bar and ordered drinks for me, when he kept pouring the tasty liquid into my glass and I kept drinking, I knew it tasted sweet, sour and itchy and my throat consequently thirst for more. I knew I felt liberated and said things I never thought I could utter, I even flirted with him and it all seemed too easy. He took me to dance and I danced and laughed as if I never existed before that moment, before I lost consciousness I knew I had known fun and it was wild, crazy and exciting but that was all I knew till I woke up in my bed naked and dizzy and Sanda was just gone.

Everything seemed normal and my skin felt cold as if I had just bathed. I stood and managed myself into the bathroom and found the clothes I wore yester night soaked inside a bucket with detergent. I tried to clean up but I was already cleaned except my mouth that still seriously smelled of alcohol. So I brushed and decided to call Sanda but I was shocked to death by what I heard. ‘The number you are trying to call does not exist, please check…’ I hung up and tried again and again but the result was the same so I decided to check him on Facebook and leave him a message but the account does not exist and even the chat history was gone. Now I was confident it was all a dream, but I was torn between what part was reality and was part was the dream, because Sanda seemed so real and how did I wake up naked on my bed on Sunday the 15th. Maybe I had just dreamed the whole thing throughout valentine. But what about the soaked cloth in the bathroom, the smell of alcohol in my mouth, and the number saved as Sanda on my phone. This must be madness, I need a psychologist.
******
Every day I wake up with a thought of Sanda, and then I had no thought of him at all because he had existed neither in my dream nor in my reality, because Stephen Sanda does not exist anywhere. I took up my average life of sleeping, waking up and schooling till the semester was over and I went back home to my parents. Mum called me into her room on my third day at home. ‘Jennifer, when was the last time you saw your period? She asked mildly as if I may be afraid to answer but I was simply perplexed. My mother had never spoken about period or no period with me since I was 10.
‘Huh? My period?’
‘Yes, your menstruation!’ now her voice was slightly raised and I wondered what for?
‘I’m even on my period right now. What’s the question about period for mummy?’ I was getting curios too.
‘Have you started having sex?’ Sex? I had never heard my mother uttered that word, at least not with such bareness.
‘Mum, I’m still a virgin. What’s up with all this questions?’
‘You are pregnant Jennifer. I’m your mother; don’t dare lie to me again.’
‘Pregnant!!!’ I shouted. I meant it as a question but my word was emphatic. I wished I could just fall down and faint but that was another thing I had never done.
******
It was four months and yet my period came every month and stopped the month my Mum discovered I was pregnant. Stephen Sanda was gone, or he never existed but he was present within me and I bear the testimony of his existence. The clouds gathered and yet shall soon fall, but there are consequences for every downfall, for the earth will have to soak up the waters and prepare for germinations. No one will believe my story, not even the Sanda within me and so earth shall be dry again and the memory of the gathered clouds and the downfall will fade in expectance of another. Maybe I’ve dreamt it all and I dread nothing, not even the impending rain.
.

Written by: Phemi D'apoet