African Short Stories: Vol 2 [1 ed.] 9789783703698, 9789783603585

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Bequeathing an enduring tenet for the creative enterprise, African Short Stories vol 2 boldly seeks to upturn the status quo by the art of narration. Whether they are stories of the whistle blower estranged and yet sounding the warning for heaven and earth to hear, or a ragtag army fleeing in the wake of a monstrous reptilian onslaught upon the peace, there pervades a sense of ultimate victory in this collection. We can feel the gentle kick of a baby in the womb of a maiden in desperation, or we can muse at the two adolescent genii on the trail of their dreams from the sunset of mutual deceit into the daylight of true becoming. Victory is laid out in that awesome kindness of a total stranger which affirms the divinity latent in even our most harrowing existence. With thirty five stories in two parts these literary experiments compel attention to the courageous hearts and minds that brighten the African universe of narration. Their vibrant notes coming from all corners of north, west, east and south fill us with encouragement and optimism for the contemporary short fiction in Africa.

90000

9 789783 603585

ANTHOLOGY

ISBN: 978-9-783-60358-5

Lsi

AFRICAN SHORT STORIES Volume 2

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FOR THE INTERNATIONAL SOCIETY OF LITERARY FELLOWS

AFRICAN SHORT STORIES 2 CHIN CE [ED]

AFRICAN SHORT STORIES Volume 2

Edited by Chin Ce For The International Society of Literary Fellows (Lsi)

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AFRICAN

Short Stories Vol. 2

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Edited by Chin Ce for the International Society of Literary Fellows (Lsi)

A Progeny International Project

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African Short Stories Volume 2 Edited by Chin Ce International Print Version Copyright © 2015 Chin Ce ISBN: 978-9-783-60358-5 An African Books Network Publication All rights reserved, which include the rights of reproduction, storage in a retrieval system, or transmission in any form by any means whether electronic or recording except as provided by International copyright law. Formatted for print and electronic [e-pub and e-content] editions by Handel Books Ltd. For information address please write: Progeny (Press) International Attn: African Books Network 9 Handel Str. AI EBS Nigeria WA Email: [email protected] Image and Cover Design: Michael Randall Electronic, Web, and Print Editions are available online In collaboration with the International Research Council on African Literature and Culture, IRCALC.

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A Project of the Literary Society International (LSi)

Literary Society International, LSi

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LITERARY SOCIETY INT.

The International Society of Literary Fellows (Lsi)

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LSi is the society of creative writers and scholars from Africa and the world with critical interest in current developments around modern cultures of indigenous and foreign language expressions. In partnership with Progeny International, the LSi aims to assess and promote the emergence of works of visionary creative impetus in the genres of modern African fiction, non-fiction and visual arts. LSi shares an online forum for exchange of information, writing, creative materials, critical presentations and images of ancient and contemporary cultures as studies to encourage shared values of harmonious coexistence in craft and aesthetic in the worldwide information age. For information exchange purposes we usually distribute electronic copies of book publications, jpeg standard photographic presentations and reviews. These LSi Reviews reflect the global concern for the accountability of national governments in the protection of human dignity, preservation of the environment and sensitivity to cultural monuments of ethnic societies. Membership which cuts across boundaries and nationalities is primed on active involvement in projects, forums and overall goals of the Society. We encourage cooperation and partnership with individuals, publishers, book distributors, advertisers and cultural societies of African and other English speaking nationalities.

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Contents

Foreword to vol. 2 ................................................................. 9 Dedication............................................................................ 13 Part 1.................................................................................... 15 Swords Arise! ...................................................................... 17 Chin Ce ................................................................................ 17 Ragtag Army ....................................................................... 25 David Mikailu ...................................................................... 25 Corps Members’ Strike........................................................ 33 Augustine Aikoriogie ........................................................... 33 The Almajiri ........................................................................ 45 David Mikailu ...................................................................... 45 The Pains of War ................................................................. 57 Emmanuel Ugokwe .............................................................. 57

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Sacred Murder ..................................................................... 63 Chudwin Godwin Ebuka ...................................................... 63 New Guns in Town.............................................................. 70 David Mikailu ...................................................................... 70 Nap for President ................................................................. 76 Chin Ce ................................................................................ 76 Down the Bend .................................................................... 83 David Mikailu ...................................................................... 83 Sacred Murder (II) ............................................................... 88 Chudwin Godwin Ebuka ...................................................... 88

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From Behind the Scene ....................................................... 96 Augustine Aikoriogie ........................................................... 96 Return to Koloko ............................................................... 109 Chin Ce .............................................................................. 109 Part 2.................................................................................. 117 May Day! May Day! ......................................................... 119 Chin Ce .............................................................................. 119 In Love .............................................................................. 126 Mohamed Saȉd Raȉhani ...................................................... 126 Feast................................................................................... 128 Mohamed Saȉd Raȉhani ...................................................... 128 The Regents of Opossa-motto ........................................... 131 NN Dzenchuo..................................................................... 131 The Book Club .................................................................. 141 Charmaine Pauls ................................................................ 141 The Beaded Necklace ........................................................ 158 Wayne Owino Otieno......................................................... 158 Dancing Party .................................................................... 165 Mohamed Saȉd Raȉhani ...................................................... 165 Rabbit Man ........................................................................ 169 Mohamed Saȉd Raȉhani ...................................................... 169

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Identity............................................................................... 173 Mohamed Saȉd Raȉhani ...................................................... 173 The Regents of Epossa-motto (II) ..................................... 178 NN Dzenchuo..................................................................... 178 The Book Club (II) ............................................................ 189 Charmaine Pauls ................................................................ 189 The Beaded Necklace (II) .................................................. 211 Wayne Owino Otieno......................................................... 211 Literary Society International, LSi

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The Ministers ..................................................................... 217 Chin Ce .............................................................................. 217 A Pleasant Routine ............................................................ 221 Chin Ce .............................................................................. 221 Virtual Love....................................................................... 225 Charmaine Pauls ................................................................ 225 Money, the least of his worries.......................................... 245 Hilda Gathanga .................................................................. 245 My Burial .......................................................................... 250 Mary-Jane Okeke ............................................................... 250 Virtual Love (II) ................................................................ 259 Charmaine Pauls ................................................................ 259 Endless Shore .................................................................... 277 NN Dzenchuo..................................................................... 277 Midnight Marauders .......................................................... 280 Hilary Frank-Ito ................................................................. 280 The Apostles ...................................................................... 283 NN Dzenchuo..................................................................... 283 Strange Turn ...................................................................... 288 Hilda Gathanga .................................................................. 288

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Village Meeting ................................................................. 298 Chin Ce .............................................................................. 298 Brief Contributor Information ........................................... 307 About the Editor ................................................................ 309

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Foreword to vol. 2

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* IN our call for additional submissions to the second volume of African short fictions it was necessary to encourage the participants with a side note that while the gratification of contemporary African and world economy might not rest with our crumbling mainstream financial systems, however, the relevance of co-creating choices in which imagination overthrows the humdrum of existence imposed upon humanity by its own malevolence becomes the writer’s reward as a channel of higher paradigms -and harbinger of alternate reality. Allied to the first enunciation of our objective for the premiere edition of this story project not to neglect the medium for artistic and educational development of ancient traditions and cultures, our efforts may well have crystallised an enduring tenet for the creative enterprise in Africa. Here we are poised by the art of narration to upturn as we have seen in every time and place the status quo. The seemingly improbable thence becomes eminently possible as we join to creatively exercise and direct our powers not just as free-born citizens of our communities but active interrogators of our collective destiny in an infinite universe of being. This also is the inevitable direction of an ascending planetary order within our supremely enlightened and interconnected cosmos. Now with the ensemble of literary creativity witnessed so far in both volumes we rest assured that the responsiveness among writers, as seen in the number of some wholly accepted and most other copy edited works from our archives, testifies to an enduring legacy of African story telling that is not inured by the ravage of leadership and betrayal of continent at the hands of a greedy minority currently being flushed out by the steady rhythm of change throbbing through the land and rendering redundant the corrupt labours of those vain and arrogant minions of darkness.

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Indeed, it is a worthy point of note the encapsulation of thirty five stories in two parts arranged in the order of a progressive movement in consciousness that generally embraces a variegated theatric of African cultural aesthetics. The first part inscribes the violence that has convulsed the very bosom of a beleaguered continent in the same manner that our planet has reeled from aeons of assault upon her equilibrium by the depredation of her barbaric humans. Thus as we see a ragtag army fleeing in the wake of a monstrous reptilian onslaught upon the peace it seems visionary appropriate that a clueless Nigerian leadership is the butt of the satire by one of her younger writers. Where most of these first part entries have come from West African contributors -mainly Nigerian narrators- whose depictions of present social trauma would seem ironically reminiscent of the violent cycle of the south that assailed the mental balance of her writers in the Apartheid years, nevertheless, our recoil at religious and political brutality against the very psyche of African men, women and children is not quite mitigated by the narrative mood and tenor of the second part where the telling yet incorporates some non-toolighter and no less pervasive nuances of individual struggles both for the soul of Africa and the triumph of her humanity. Yes, ‘something the snake sallied/ must needs be long, or wily.’ But it is with the new and vibrant notes of the second part coming from all corners of north, west, east and south that the present -and future- landscape is filled with sheer optimism for the intense creative experimentations of African writers. Understandably these hopes might come rather guardedly, with necks still on the grip of the shadows that fight the change sweeping the globe. Here our ‘bold victory’ is heralded with just one whistle blower, estranged and, yet, sounding the warning for ‘heaven and earth to hear.’ It comes like that ‘feeble, persistent knock’ of a baby in the womb of a maiden in desperation, or like our two teenage genii on the trail of their dreams from the sunset of mutual deceit ‘into the daylight’ of Literary Society International, LSi

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true becoming. And, yes, it comes also as that awesome ‘kindness of a total stranger’ which, with its humbling surprise, affirms the divinity latent in even our most harrowing existence. These literary experiments are compelling enough. They tell of talents that blossom in courageous hearts and minds from the farthest corners of Africa’s teeming talents. Now and then let us with all high expectations cite these robust seeds of story telling here shown by our ‘newbies’ as signposts of the undying resilience and magical spirit of the African mind. And so by this understanding and profound sense of elation do we add a further word of gratitude to the Society of Literary Fellows, LSi, who in conjunction with the International Research Council on African Literature and Culture, IRCALC, may never be commended enough for these efforts to revive reading and critical interest in African short fictions and their transmission through world media. We are also grateful to the writers and their agents whose late entries have helped to consolidate the materials archived for web and print network distribution while gladly extending editorial compliments and best wishes in future research and creative writing experience of one and all on board these volumes of African Short Stories.

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Chin Ce

- 06-2015

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Dedication

All for God, our country and humanity.

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Part 1

It lies in a shrouded corner…

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Swords Arise! Chin Ce *

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moment would often seem like a blink of an eye especially when something unusual was about to happen. That was how I found myself among the rebels of Naigon dunes fighting the tyranny of a mad legion of vampires. In a blink of an eye. In those brief nanoseconds of mind flights my search led me through the revolutionary years when we all picked the sword in riot and in defence of democracy in the city. I found myself among many angry groups thirsty for blood; even the fiery, fanatical mob of religious devotees and defenders of God were not left out. But that was not it… I was standing on a level plane overlooking the desert sands of the three lands. Below were the dune rocks, barely visible, covered by years of dust and grime, a remote desert region which had had been the quarantine of the successive vampires that ravaged the land since the time of its birth. From within the seclusion of their quarters they had looted the land's wealth leaving its earth sun-scorched and barren, and the dunes people poor, hungry and desperate. The wind was blowing furious sand storms as if warning anyone who cared to listen that an event of portentous nature was about to happen on this land. And in the far distance away from where I was looking for the sign in the raging wind it seemed the stair of rock mounds covered with many years of grime and sand began to heave before my very eyes. Now tense in mind, disturbed by appearances that seemed my own making, though not entirely mine, I watched excitedly and somewhat disinterestedly too. I remembered squatting low, as in my childhood days, my

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hands under my chin, but then I was staggering to full length when the mountains surrounding the mass of sand and rock heaved with a loud, deafening noise. Then followed a gigantic flame that burst upon the land like a volcano. Its sheer radioactive power sent me flying instantly in many jagged directions. And, as soon as I landed on one place and looked around in wonderment, there were people. Or rather heads! Flat heads and cone heads were pounding out of the roaring mountain. Heads in kerchiefs and hats and turbans were tumbling crazily over the dusts and sands in propulsions so irregular and so destructive. And what had they in their hands? “Swords and spears!” It was him again. “Today is your lucky day, young man,” Babul greeted airily. “For you meet me as king of the ancient kingdom of Musanga and the one in the head of every man, woman and urchin!” So this long-legged creature had been here all along was all I thought, now realising this must be a scene of his own weaving. He had on gaudy attire with all the shine and steel of epaulettes. But I had no time for chit chats as I raced, or rather wobbled, down the sandy decline, hobbling and gurgling for breath, falling and somersaulting, until coming to find my feet among the mass of cone and flat heads. It was then I heard their collective voice: a chilling monotonous chant of war. Sufficiently in panic now, nevertheless eager to find out more, I caught a grip on a huge trunk of leg and yanked. “What's happening?” I asked. “Get off!” the owner smacked wildly. I parried the blow but came to sprawl full length on my face, licking the dust and grit and all. The flames appeared to have simmered down almost as soon as they began, leaving belching of embers and curling tongues of grey smoke. And the people stretched before me were a massive colonnade of human heads rolling along the dust of the earth. The chant of violence had lowered almost inaudibly into a fiendish Literary Society International, LSi

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monotone. Yet how hungry and lean they looked! A drawn and tired herd without a leader, I thought. But even as I looked anew with a growing mixture of horror and fascination, one or two heads among the hundreds proceeded to merge -two heads and three bodies for a leader. A huge and bloated figurine stepped out from the masses like a heavyweight champion to combat. There was a brief silence. Then the crowd roared in the wildest and rowdiest greeting I ever heard or saw. Their noise became the crescendo of seismic rumbling. And from within the roaring came the massive fury of a weak, hungry and diabolical people. “We must to Aso!” the champion yelled. And they repeated after him in self-same monotones. “Down with the enemy!” “Down with the enemy! ‘Kill the vampires!” “Kill the vampires!” Thus with swords and arrows and some junk and scraps of metal raised over their heads, the crowd lunged forward towards the rock stairs that led to the abode of the president and his league of blood suckers. From the blur of faces I picked a familiar one. It was one of my colleagues shot in the back at the national stadium on June 12. And I was thinking: What on earth was he doing here among the living dead? His hands were flying wildly and one could even see the veins that stood like cords of rivulets from his neck. “To Aso,” we yelled again, this time feebly as if under a strange hypnotic influence. The world seemed unreal but it didn’t matter as we tumbled along to bare a thousand grudges at the seat of power. Soon we were joined by women and hawkers and touts from the streets of the crowded city. Anything seemed possible here. I found myself leaping high in excitement as every one threw hands into the air and caught a weapon. “To the Rock!”

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It didn't take long, however, before everything began to fall to pieces. Not one or two, but the whole mass were tumbling down like little rocks from a precipice. One leap again, and I landed sky high atop a scraper. There I hung for dear life to survey the progress below -and study the next line of action. Babul joined me in a new revolutionary guise. He appeared very tall like a ghost-world phantom and also wore a cone for a head, while the masses were being mowed down like grass before the lawn mower even as they lashed and dived in frantic flights to safety. Something in the soup had turned it sour. There was confusion, more than ever recorded in the whole of the dry, strangulated land. Grenades were flying through the air to explode in blinding fireworks. Ghastly volleys kept bursting right in the middle of the crowd below. And the tanks -actually bulldozersrolled diabolically in pursuit, spitting fire, grenades and bombs as hooded soldiers in head gears mopped up the action with machine guns, blazing a trail of blood and death and cutting their way through the clutter of the fallen and dying. “The bastards!” I exclaimed. Babul was by my side grinning widely, his four eyes agleam with excitement. “I told you I'm in the head of every one. After today, the whole of Naigon will come to me; they will call me Baba, father and mighty warrior; they will plead that I put an end to all their misery,” he chuckled with a delight that was incomprehensible to my senses. “This is shameful,” was all I could utter. “Shameful indeed,” Babul concurred. “Monstrous,” I ejaculated. “Monstrous? Yes.” “Fools!” “Save I the King,” he laughed. “Morons!” “Morons all of you.” Literary Society International, LSi

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I didn’t bother to swear further because his inane repetitions and turning everything I said back to me were getting on my nerves. I was blinded by the same emotion that was akin to the madness of this human world. “The people are nearly finished,” I stared, stupefied. But Babul was searching the sky above his head. And that was when I heard another sound. “What is that?” I looked up with fright. Tanks! Flying junks of hardware were spitting torrents of hell just above our heads. The sky scrapers were crumbling. I leapt down... down over the hills and trees, over the volcano and the rumbling and destruction below; and picking a lone cactus far and safe from the blood scent underneath I folded into my wings in a dejected cry. “They are finishing the nation; they’ll finish everyone of us!” Babul appeared presently, laughing excitedly, his fist clenched, proud and satisfied in his great knowledge and power. “My boys are back,” he exclaimed, pumping his fists in the air. “General St Bach, hear him!” The air was now filled with the clanging of martial beats. A high, excited voice bawled to us as Babul adjusted the little radio he now held in his palms. “We cannot stand aside and watch the rise of indiscipline in our polity. Civil disobedience is a heinous crime anywhere in the world and it is our duty to restore law and order.” “Order,” Babul croaked with laughter. “They are restoring order... come,” he pulled me and we fell headlong and down again. How I feared we might crash to death below the gorges filled to the brim with destruction. I landed on the grass with a jar that brought the taste of bile on my lips. But I was unhurt. I was never to hurt in this play of nightmare in the human mind. Instead I found myself among another angry group thirsty for more blood; the fiery mob of devotees and defenders of God.

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“Death!” they yelled, “to infidel!” “Death to aliens!” In another blink of an eye they hacked a thousand and one of their own to death. The blood seemed to have gone to their heads for anyone just had to point: “This is a stranger, kill!” And they hacked him down. We soon burst into a fenced courtyard that I would never fail to recognise even in the maze of the nightmarish world I was now living. It was the old government house our uncle had built. Babul was leading them, captain and commander of the whole garb of masses in dirty flowing overalls. “Come on!” he waved to everybody. The crowd roared and billowed after him. It was easy to barge through the door. The gate keepers had scampered away at the first sound of noise. In the wide and richly furnished floor of the great duplex that Uncle Jack built, Babul motioned to wait. He flew up, up the staircase and was back in a second. Then he motioned up toward the bedroom quarters. I raced past him and past everyone and landed inside the bedroom. Jack Lugard lay on the bed, and there was another, his lady: she smelled imperial, her nose pointed imperial, and she wore a brace. Flora! She first gave me a blank stare, and then let out a piercing scream, her brace falling from her teeth. Bending forward to the rescue, I was feeling a strange pity, the pity the mob would not have for her right there and then if they had her. But a shot rang past my ear and brushed her slightly down the middle. The couple froze in a sickly pigment of grey. “My God,” Jack groaned to his wife. “What have we done?” “Death to imperialist!” came the rumbling below. That galvanised me to action. “Quick! Into the toilet!” I shoved them both with a violent push and slammed the door just as the captain appeared, guns blazing. Literary Society International, LSi

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“Death to infidel!” “They're not here,” I shouted. “Search everywhere,” he bawled back. They searched, under the bed, pulled down the blinds, ransacked the wardrobes, and emptied the clothes in them. “In the kitchen! Search the toilet!” came the command of the captain. I had a feeling that Jack must not die here today. I prayed Oh God let this man must not die here today. And inside the toilet chamber I knew Jack was praying desperately too for a second chance. Babul slashed and cut the air left and right, coming to an abrupt stop halt before the door where I leaned to regain my breath. He just stood there, gibbered some monstrous mantra and waved a wand in the air. “Behold your prize all ye faithful,” he waved. Money! Money! Money! And that was it. The rest of the mob, crawling through the door, was now gigantic wriggling clusters of maggots. Clumsily, in their hurried surge to barge in all at once, they were huffing. Babul released ungainly volleys of gunshots here and there while still muttering his abracadabra. His voice had turned a coarse preternatural growling: “Behold your prize!” The excited wrigglers tore the door to shreds and a horrendous struggle began, a fight of fists and claws with which they grabbed the bills from one another's hands, yelling foul green curses in the air. Soon the room was filled with violent throaty oaths as everyone grabbed and grabbed more and more precious-than-life note bills from any hand that held them. Any hand. For a second I stood confounded, and then suddenly began to reel and stagger dangerously. Someone had knocked the breath of life from me while I was gaping, someone cursing and snarling. I

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cursed and kicked back hard. Then I blinked awake, flicking my eyes around the darkness of a lonely apartment. Where was I? The sweat poured from my face and neck, drenching my pillow. My eyes darted back and forth like a caged rat desperate for a way, a way out of the prison of our lives, out of that cold clammy realisation that the whole world was reeling wildly and going to pieces. Babul was winning!

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Ragtag Army David Mikailu *

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had always wanted to be a soldier. I loved the uniform and the orderliness of the army. So my while my elder siblings went straight to university after high school I applied to be recruited for military service. My father had been a soldier and veteran of the war. I was not born at that time but his photographs in crisp military uniform had instilled in me the desire to join the army. I still remember the asinine questions we used to ask him as he recounted the events leading to the war and its aftermath. He had showed us his wounds and we had played with the bullet scar on his chest asking how it felt to get shot. We didn’t stop there. We asked if he also shot and killed anyone. He looked at us and said, slowly, almost sadly, with no anger in his tone, that war was a bad thing and we should be happy we were unlikely to witness one in our life time. But when I joined the army I yearned for a bit of action. I had not shot a single bullet since my botched target practice at military depot. Under the civilian dispensation there was nothing for us to do but stay in the barracks or coordinate traffic, or secure the crowd if there was a political function in town. Some of us had been locked up for beating up civilians at the slightest of provocation. Since there was no battle to fight, we fought policemen and other paramilitary outfits for flimsy reasons. It was boring being a soldier and I hated the work. I longed to be sent to Dafur, Mali, C.A.R or South Sudan as part of the African Union Peace Corps. I even lobbied to be nominated but I was not lucky. When an officer shed bitter tears after being posted to Mali, I felt like punching him in the face. I didn’t mind going to the guardroom just to make my point to

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whoever cared to listen. Militants meanwhile had overrun the north east and soldiers were sent to quell the insurgence. When my name popped out from the list I invited my friends to the bar and bought drinks for them to celebrate my deployment to war zone. I called my father and happily announced my deployment but, again, he didn’t say much aside the parental prayers for a safe return. My father had seen something when he fought; I wanted to see it too. I wanted to sit and someday tell my kids my exploits in the field of battle. I had heard and read stories about gallant soldiers who fought through uncharted territories and the resourceful Biafran armies who made the Ogbunigwe that blew away legs and body parts -at least my dad spoke of that mass destroyer and how afraid they were of it. But unlike my father who didn’t say much, I would shout my exploits. I would invite cousins and friends; I would show them my medals of valour and scars of war. I would teach them military tactics and tell them of my uncommon courage in the face of danger. I just could not wait to get there. The insurgents had taken over Machaka village and blown up the bridge that connected Machaka and Bilmu. We were stationed in Bilmu, battle ready to take Machaka once the bridge that our engineers were working tirelessly round the clock to fix was done. We waited on the other side with personnel and weaponry ready for assault, amidst rumours that the insurgents were also planning to attack us at Bilmu and were also waiting for the completion of the bridge. The day the bridge was completed was when the insurgents attacked us. It was as if the bridge was repaired for them to cross over. So sudden was the attack we didn’t know what to do. Our commanders had left the post hurriedly and unceremoniously. We were adrift with no orders coming from command post. When later civilians started running and screaming that the Literary Society International, LSi

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insurgents had bridged our foremost defences and were headed for the city centre, they were not told that we, who were positioned to guard the area, had steeled ourselves not to allow them overrun our posts. We were the last stand of defence. If we were to flee, the city would be taken. With such resolve we braced ourselves for action. But our platoon commander had other ideas. “Run!!!” he screamed at us. “What?” I asked. “Excuse me?” another soldier demanded. “I said run for your lives,” the commander bellowed. “Listen, I didn’t join the army to die; I joined the army because there was no job after university. I needed to feed my family. I am the first child; both my parents and six siblings are alive. They are counting on me to survive this and continue caring for them. If I die, tell me what happens to them. Worse still, I am not married. Again if I die, that is the end of me. I don’t have a child to continue my lineage. I don’t wanna die; I won’t do a Kamikaze on anyone for anyone for any reason. So boys, listen to me, let’s do the smart thing. Run!” He was talking so fast and shouting so loudly we couldn’t understand him. “But we shouldn’t do that. We are stationed here to protect the civilian population behind. If we flee, there would be a massacre of genocidal proportions. Are you a stranger to the way these animals operate?” I queried in fury. “But we can’t hold them off. Let us take off and radio the air force. It is their battle not ours. Better to run and fight another day than to die for a cause that is not ours, that is political. Politicians begin wars and send us to fight and die. Let them come and fight; let them watch their comrades and children blown to bits. If it doesn’t tame their excesses, then call me a bastard…” “Sir,” I began again but was cut short because he was not through. “What annoys me is the fact that if we die here, our families would not be adequately compensated. The top brass would eat the money. And if our people ever get paid, it would be a fraction of

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what’s due them. Should we then risk our lives for a country that kills her own? Look at us being sent on a suicide mission. We have inferior weapons. How could a rebel group be more equipped than a national army, eh?” “Save that speech for later,” Abdul, a fine soldier, shouted in alarm. “Now is not the time for it. We have a situation on ground. What should we do?” Abdul was the hero in our platoon not the lieutenant. If he ran away, we all would follow. If he stayed we all would stay. Though he was the 2 i/c we respected him more than the purely ceremonial lieutenant who coveted salutes more than he did soldiery. Abdul was the morale of our little group and he kept it high. Hearing Abdul speak gave me courage. “Short and simple, we flee!” the lieutenant continued. “We recon with those in the city centre and maybe make a stand while we manage to get to get the command centre to radio the air force.” “Which command centre? Were you not the one who told us that the command post was deserted and we should do the same? We have a civilian population to protect. That is not politics,” I said. I couldn't imagine that this was the same lieutenant who earlier in the day was applying black charcoal on his face so he could look dangerous and determined. He had insisted on driving the truck because whenever he saw a girl he liked, he slowed down and gave her his phone number, making us wait while he handled his less than military activities. I just shook my head and was considering engaging him for suggesting mutiny when we saw three young men running towards our direction screaming “They are coming! They are here!” We heard gunshots and saw young men riddled with bullets from behind and falling. “You see what I am saying?” the lieutenant screamed in terror. We immediately took positions; there was no time to run. Even the lieutenant positioned his weapon and looked battle ready but his hands were shaking violently. “Steady, you idiot,” I said to him. “Breath in and compose Literary Society International, LSi

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yourself. No running away now, so deal with it!” From the bend approached a band of militants, singing and chanting war songs. Docked behind a column of trees, sandbags and camouflaged canopies, we opened fire to halt their advance. We succeeded in gunning down many of them, forcing a momentary retreat. Soon they regrouped with new reinforcements and armaments, prominent among them the RPG. I adjusted my helmet, took a deep breath, checked my cartridge, cocked my gun and crouched for a major assault. That was when my feet invariably tripped the fleeing lieutenant; he fell flat on his stomach, got up and dashed for the car. On seeing the advancing squad and taking stock of the sophisticated weaponry some of them held, the officer had done the abominable; he had thrown away his rifle and had run to the Toyota Hi-lux that had conveyed us to our post. Some of the soldiers on seeing the lieutenant cranking up the engine also left their guns and tried to latch onto the open hatch of the van. But the lieutenant was long gone with our military supplies before the fleeing soldiers could come near. Even when they ran after him shouting and pleading to be carried, he sped along, leaving the dust behind. Clumsily, those who had tried to run with the lieutenant came back and resumed position. I didn’t have the time to process what just happened. Abdul in anger just screamed: “Open fire!” and we shot at them. We had the sandbags and trees as cover, but the militants were in the open charging like crazed animals and screaming. It was as if their plan was to overwhelm us with their numbers and maybe capture us alive for their many video footages of torture and beheading. We opened fire on them and they fell like zombies. And, like zombies, they didn't stop. They kept coming. They kept charging at us. And we kept shooting. I soon got the soldiers archenemy -a jammed gun. With no pistol, I was vulnerable and useless to my group. I remembered the lieutenant’s weapon. I hunkered over and used his weapon to fall as many. Killing them gave me some

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satisfaction. It was almost surreal. At some point I almost hesitated. I saw how young some of them appeared. What twisted mind indoctrinated them into becoming such crazed fundamentalists? I wished I had some super powers to make them all go to sleep, then disarm and arrest them. But I also knew what they did to soldiers they captured. I knew how most soldiers would rather slit their wrists and die than let themselves be captured by the insurgents. I knew of badly injured soldiers who pleaded with fleeing colleagues to shoot them dead and not let them be captured by the militants. I had heard of others who stabbed themselves to death than allow themselves to be taken by these fundamentalists. “Snap out of it! Shoot!” Abdul screamed. “Shoot these fucking motherfuckers!” Again we opened fire, shooting at random with infrequent success. We were not taking prisoners; we were firing to kill. It was either us or them. We had watched videos where captured soldiers had their body parts chopped into bits. They cut out the tongues, the ears and gave the soldiers to eat. Then they used a sledge hammer to pummel all the fingers and toes while the soldiers pleaded to be killed and be spared further ordeal. So we gave no thought about using minimal force. After a while, we ran out of munitions and took to our heels. We didn’t wait to find out what they would do to us if they caught us; we already knew. So we ran. The spare ammo in the truck had since been driven away by the lieutenant when he fled the war zone. Thus we mutilated our guns as we were taught to do in cases like this and fled with the militants behind us. Seeing their priced assets getting away from them was a chance they were not willing to take. As we ran, more violent gun shots rattled from behind us. The soldier before me was shot near the base of his helmet. I watched as his head burst with a mixture of white and blood and he slumped lazily by the dusty road. I knew he was dead, yet I stopped out of instinct to check him up. But I was kicked on the backside by Literary Society International, LSi

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an oncoming soldier. “Leave him! He is dead! Run!” While I made an effort to get up I heard a bullet whiz past. It got the soldier who just kicked me on the sheen. As he fell, another one hit his hamstring and he went face down to the sand. I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him along. He screamed in pain. His voice soon died down altogether as I felt an unusual flow of warm thick liquid on my shoulders and chest. It was either the militants were badly trained and could not get their targets locked on us or they were playing a chase game where they intended to pick us up, one by one, till we were all dead. We could not navigate to the right or left. We were just running in zigzags to avoid being hit. But still, all around me, soldiers were shouting and falling, some pleading to be carried, others begging to be shot. I ran with the fear of getting hit with every step. The more I ran the more I felt I was jogging on the same spot. I expected the sharp hot entry of a bullet in my back at any time. Despite our best efforts to outrun them the younger and more athletic militias under the influence of hashish and other narcotics were gaining in on us. Luckily to our left was the interstate highway. We targeted that bend and clustered to get there. That was unwise. It gave the rebels easy targets. They fell quite a number of us at this point. Having traversed the bend for the first time I looked around and saw that out of the twenty stationed at the junction, only nine of us made it thus far. Gladly Abdul also made it. At the bend there were civilians waiting for fleeing trucks to help them escape the violence. They erupted in joy when they saw us, thinking we were coming to save the day. They ran towards us cheering, seeking succour and asking us what to do. We told them to flee as we were also being chased. When they saw our faces and the blood they scattered in many directions. Fortunately for us the rebels had stopped. They did not make the bend. They were satisfied with pushing us out of the city and making it theirs. We came back to the road after a while and picked

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up the old and young and abandoned as they trudged down the road away from Bilmu. Suddenly four Hi-lux trucks filled with soldiers with full munitions sped past. More and more truckload of cars overloaded with fleeing soldiers zoomed off. They didn’t even stop for us because there was no space. Both sides of the road were filled with men, women and children escaping the violence. Time and again truckloads of soldiers sped past civilians begging and waving for help. Their cries went unheeded, making soldiers the object of public ire. I was so ashamed to be a soldier, to be unable to protect the people for whom I had sworn to protect, and to have fled from battle field. Running away and leaving civilians to fend for themselves was not how I imagined it was ever going to be. There was no pride in the act. Reports of military violence and highhandedness against civilians emerged as we travelled the dusty road. As we trekked down the motorway the people recounted their ordeals with escaping soldiers hijacking civilian vehicles and running off in them. Some soldiers were also said to have discarded their uniforms and stripped civilian men of their clothing at gun point. Populated by cowards and turncoats the military had lost all credibility to protect the people. It was clear that those heroic tales of dying for one’s country did not apply here. And so we walked down the road, all of us demilitarised. In silence we walked, all of us civilians, everyone to his thought. Those crying for dead loved ones were now quiet, taking stock of how to survive the approaching night. How do I tell this story, where would I begin, where would I end? I was asking myself. Finally I had seen what my father saw and there was no story to tell. There was no bravery here.

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Corps Members’ Strike Augustine Aikoriogie * If only our leaders would turn their faces away from their selfish policies and focus each week on the poor -that man on the street, that boy on campus, that innocent girl ravaged by hunger, that child without clothes or shelter, or that old woman in the village- our world would be the envy of angels…

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he staff meeting had just ended and the teachers filed out in small groups. Orobosa as liaison officer was with his fellow corps members. They were discussing in very low tones. But there was anger in their voices. Orobosa suddenly interjected. “Wait! Was the vice-principal in any way implying that this school is too broke to pay us?” Orobosa had spoken in a loud tone. The other teachers were beginning to disperse to their various offices but Malam Haruna could not help coming forward in esprit de corps. “Kofa wi!” he scrabbled. “What’s haffening Kofas? Are we sape?” he smiled at the corps members. Haruna the English teacher had read linguistics at Ahmadu Bello University where he made second class lower. The day of his convocation was also the day his father Alhaji Dan Baba presented him an appointment letter from the Federal Ministry of Education. Haruna had taken a cursory glance at the sheet of paper before him and simply said ‘Nagode!’ Now when they told him nothing was happening and everything was safe he simply clasped his palm and said ‘Alhamdulilahi!” So many issues had come up in the staff meeting, one of which was the non payment of three months allowance owed the corps

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members. The words of the vice principal that corps members would have to wait a while “as we’re still expecting our quarterly allocation from federal government” had scratched an old wound in Emeka’s head. He had resisted the urge to walk straight to the vice and give her a piece of his mind. In the east, where he came from, he wouldn’t have given a second thought to the urge. There was a case in Nsukka of how a lecturer wouldn’t come to class but failed ninety percent at the end of the semester. It was a real nightmare for the students who would gather on walk-ways and share their woes. Promptly Emeka had written a protest letter to the lecturer and copied the head of department, the dean of faculty, vice chancellor and security department. Soon a panel was set up to investigate the matter. There were placards and protest chants. Two weeks later the lecturer himself came to class and apologised. So when the thought of the vice principal’s words pricked him again he just shook his head ominously. “Maybe we should go en masse to the principal’s office.” It was Shola from the west. Shola graduated with first class honours at Obafemi Awolowo University. “Haven’t we done that before?” Emeka replied. He sounded angry. “I said the principal’s office,” Shola’s eyes opened wide to reveal her big eyeballs. Orobosa saw the need to intervene. “Corpers, we’re not supposed to fight about this. Everybody in Borahm local knows that our principal does not come to work.” “She is probably in India enjoying herself,” Sookan from Bayelsa state chipped in comically. He was fond of calling his state Bayaalsa and, when given the opportunity, would gloat about his being a militant though everyone knew he wasn’t. His late father had been the chair of Timbok council and so had put Sookan’s name on the payroll of the local government. Ever since the old man’s demise Sookan had collected salaries for himself and his father. Literary Society International, LSi

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“I think we should call a meeting this evening. Let’s give rooms for others to contribute,” Orobosa said with a sense of finality. By ‘others,’ the corps members understood that their liaison officer was referring to Abdullahi, Cyril and Rachael. Abdullahi was from Borahm. He managed two petrol filling stations on behalf of his elder brother who resided in Dubai. Early in the term, Abdullahi had met his local government inspector (the GI) to register his inability to come regularly to his place of primary assignment, except on clearance days. “Aboki, there is nothing I can do. You just have to do your assignment.” The GI spoke sharply in Hausa. He looked at Abdullahi to size him up. “Malam, maybe I should leave the monthly allowee to you,” Abdullahi replied taking note of the other’s softened expression. Thenceforth Abdullahi never came to class to teach; his fellow corps members only saw him during clearance. Cyril hailed from Nassarawa state. He was the tallest of all the corps members and always wore glasses. He spoke fluent Hausa and preferred English when in the company of friends. He had a degree in dentistry but had no other option than teach when he set foot on Borahm. Later he made contact with some friends and got an appointment with a private clinic in the vicinity. It had been a big problem for Cyril since the Friday evening the GI asked to meet him at Havilah. Havilah Restaurant was popularly known for its continental dishes. Visitors in Kanda city resorted to Havilah because they couldn’t cope with the food of the natives. “It has come to my notice that you work at a private hospital. Is it true?” the GI asked in between a sumptuous meal. Cyril had looked at the meal; he hoped he wouldn’t be asked to pay for it. “You see, sir…” he began in Hausa. “No, no!” The GI interrupted. “I’d prefer you speak in English. Or are you not a graduate?” “Actually…” Cyril reverted to English. “It is not a hospital, just a small clinic.”

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“What’s my business if it’s a small hut? The bottom line is that you’re paid. Or are you not?” the GI retorted. He knew he had struck the point. He sat back and waited attentively to hear Cyril’s response. “Really, how much is the money?” Cyril began evasively. “It is not even enough to keep body and soul.” He had known the discussion would boil down to this. “Don’t try that with me!” the GI said in a loud voice. He stood up, cleaned his hands with a serviette, picked up his file, and pretended to want to leave. “Please sir, don’t leave me just like that,” Cyril begged. “You think you are wise. Okay, you must stop that job otherwise you will not be cleared!” The GI was talking and looking the other way as if he wasn’t interested in the half-devoured piece of fried chicken in front of him. Later both parties agreed that Cyril could continue the private job and still be cleared every month, but the GI would be entitled to half the monthly allowance that came to Cyril. For Rachael who resided in the lodge but spent most of her time in Kanda City, service was fun; it couldn’t be more. The corps members rumoured that Rachael visited every Alhaji in town and some even swore to have spotted her once or twice. The other day the GI had driven down to the female lodge and walked into Rachael’s room. Some of the girls said he stayed rather long, and when they glued their ears to the wall there was moaning coming from the other side. That evening saw most of them gathered at the male lodge. Orobosa had made arrangements for generator fuel. Borahm hardly had electricity supply. The last time they had power was when the state governor visited the local council. The ladies began to arrive one after the other. It was Shola accompanied by two new corps members who walked in first. Literary Society International, LSi

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“Good evening, everyone!” “Good evening,” the boys replied. “Our Otondos, ya lafiya?” It was Cyril. He was referring to the new corps members. “Fine,” one of them simply replied, while the other smiled in concordance. The girl who replied was Iniobong. She had studied Theatre Arts at University of Calabar. “You guys must learn to speak Hausa,” Emeka exhorted. He was just coming out of his room where he appeared to have eavesdropped and followed the conversation. “You say ‘Lafiya lau’ when someone says ‘Ya lafiya’ or ‘Ina lafiya,’ or ‘Ina kwana’ to you. Your problem is half solved when you say this to a Hausa fellow.” “Thank you,” the two girls chorused in unison. The girls had all arrived, and Orobosa observed to ascertain if they had formed a quorum. When he was sure, he cleared his throat. “Corper We!” “Wa!” They responded. “Corper We We!” “Wa! Wa!” “You all know why we called this meeting. By the way, Abdullahi called to say he’d be unavoidably absent. But he sent his greetings and said he’s with us in whatever decision we take.” The members grumbled. “I beg to take the floor.” It was Emeka. “Everyone knows that Abdullahi is a ghost,” he fired. “Even the Batch C corpers do not know him. We all know that he does his truancy and gets away with it because he is the GI’s boy.” There was murmuring. “That is so unfair.” “Abdullahi should be punished.” “Is it not because he’s from this land? Let him go elsewhere and try that rubbish.” “Let’s report this to the zonal inspector.”

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“Order! Order!” It was Cyril. The noise died down a little. “I don’t think we should bother with this. Moreover, this is not why this meeting is called. I’ve always said that I admire Emeka’s guts but I’ve also counselled that he apply some wisdom in his dealings.” He sat down. Emeka got the message. He sobered up and began to replay his uncle’s piece of advice in his mind -sometimes it is wise to pretend to be a fool, until… The members resolved that they go on a week of warning strike if their allowance was not paid but, then, a letter should be written to the school administration informing them of their decision. The same letter should be copied the GI, zonal inspector, and state coordinator. Members resolved to participate in the coming general elections and, finally, a committee was set up to make preparations for Batch A send-off party. Cyril knew that after this meeting ended the GI would be comprehensively briefed of the dealings. The GI would know who spoke and what they said. He called Emeka to his room. “You have to be careful. This place is not the east. Things are not the way they seem here. These people think only in one direction.” Both friends had a deep discussion during which Cyril brought out a plate of Tuwo Masara and they ate. They shared jokes about the looks of the regular teachers in school, the students, and female corps members. When Emeka was done he thanked Cyril. Then he stood up and took his leave. Federal Government Girls’ College Borahm was such a special school -special in the manner that corps members found disgusting. The principal was hardly around; she only appeared few times in a term and spent the rest of her weeks in Abuja hustling for allocation, promotions and, now and then, travelling abroad to check her health status. Every day she got a brief of activities from her secret sources. Literary Society International, LSi

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The day Orobosa dropped the letter with the vice-principal who was chatting with her boss, she was privy to the angry bursts from the other end of the line. “Those riff-raff! What gave them the guts?” she heard clearly from the speaker phone. “I have just now received a letter from their leader,” the vice principal replied, noting what the principal had to say. If there were people who loathed the principal’s irresponsible activities, she was one of them. “I don’t know why madam would not give permission to pay these children,” she had said to her husband over dinner the previous evening. Mrs Hassan, was a tall, slim, fair complexioned and fair minded woman. Although advanced in age she took time out to take care of herself. Like most other female Muslim teachers she wore a Hijab, and she spoke English spiced with some Hausa. Her tiny, sonorous voice made one imagine rice and stew. The male teachers usually admired her and some had dared make one or two passes. One day as she was discussing with Malam Gambari, the head of department arts, on their application for textbooks from Longman publishers, she observed that the man only gazed wistfully at her. She tried to hasten up the discussion while Gambari sank himself in the chair imagining her breasts: would they be pointed or slack? He would have gone further to peek had the vice principal not shouted: “How much is the total cost?” Gambari had come back to his senses with a start. It had been rumoured that the vice was among those who were trying to displace the principal who had received three letters of transfer but was successful in revoking each one. People said she bribed top officials in cash and kind. “What do you think of Mrs Hassan?” the principal had asked her agent Dambatta on her return from one of her several junkets round the world. She had invited him to her house in order to gather secret intelligence. “That woman!” Dambatta looked up to ascertain if the principal was okay with that expression. She gave him the nod.

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“She’z a traitor. She’z been the one zmoking the corperz against you.” Agent Dambatta had a ferocious stature; he spoke forcefully, and calibrated his utterances with ‘z’ so students got used to that and called him ‘Zim-zim.’ One morning after staff meeting, Zim-zim had made straight for Rachael and tugged at her clothes. “What iz this? Whoz are youz trying to seduze? This iz immorality.” It took the effort of the corps members and other teachers to rescue Rachael. The seed of discord between corps members and Dambatta was planted hence. After the principal ended her call with her vice, she thought of what to do. Who would have given corps members the guts to think of warning strike? What were they turning her school into? Could it be Hajia Hassan? A week ago she had called to suggest that the school pay the children from the GR fund. She had called them ‘children.’ This suggested that she had a soft spot for them. As principal she had never imagined corps members as her children. All her children were studying in London and would work there when they graduated. She picked up her phone and dialled the GI. “Maigida, Salam aleku,” she greeted. “Aleku salam,” the GI replied. “Your corpers are trying to ruin my school,” she said in a light tone -in a manner not likely to cause disaffection. “I’m aware,” the GI said. And the principal cursed him in her mind: ‘You’re aware and you didn’t bother to tell me!’ Also the manner in which he had said ‘I’m aware’ irritated her, as if she was panicking and he was instilling confidence in her. Who was he to do that? The principal had loathed this GI the day he walked into her office to demand compensation if more corps members were to be posted to her school. “But don’t worry madam,” the GI continued. ”The issue is being treated at the state office, as I speak now.” Literary Society International, LSi

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The GI was lying. He had to lie. He never thought corps members could resort to industrial action. He had been confused ever since he got their letter. What would the zonal inspector and state coordinator think of him if they heard that corps members under him had not been paid for three months? He couldn’t face them. In fact he’d switch his phone off as he was about to do when the principal’s call came in. “Your coordinator should act fast before I take the matter into my hands,” the principal said and cut the call. The GI took a deep sigh and stared into his phone screen. “That prostitute of a woman,” he mumbled under his breath. He had wanted to smoulder the issue when the principal cut the call. He had wanted to suggest if one month pay would be okay. After she hung up the phone, the principal dialled her bursar. “Salam aleku, Hajia,” the thick male voice started. “Aleku salam, Malam Abdullahi. Please do not disburse any funds to anyone without my permission” “Okay,” the bursar said and the principal thought she heard him smile. The principal and the bursar were the best of friends. Only the two knew when allocations came from the ministry. Most times, when the school organised conferences, seminars or workshops for teachers, the costs were usually disclosed first to the principal who would inflate it and keep the excess in her personal account. There was a day the inspectors were to visit from the ministry. It had been announced the previous week. Teachers updated their lesson notes. Dead electric lights and sockets began to work. Waste baskets were placed in strategic positions. The school became beautiful overnight and Emeka started to wonder if the inspectors would be so daft as not to observe this was all a picture appeal. Or maybe they would decide to ignore it. But the day came and went and they never saw any inspectors. There were rumours that the inspectors had postponed the visit. Some said the inspectors would come at night. Even the students began to imagine the inspectors would never come. But it was Kabiru, the principal’s secretary, who

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whispered how a group of six men and a woman had come quietly into the school compound in an Educational Trust Fund (ETF) bus.They had walked straight into the principal’s office and minutes later left with a heavy fibre bag of Nigerian currency which he helped to lift into the bus. The corps members shook their heads. “I thought it was only we in the south who were corrupt,” wondered Sookan. The one week warning strike soon started. Orobosa went round the classes to observe that corps members complied and not act otherwise. The school looked dry. Activities had been grounded. The students expected to see their teachers but none came. Only an aging woman taught Social and Religious Studies that day. The corps members had already joked in the lodge that the school was going to experience a stand still. “We are the workforce,” Orobosa said proudly to Emeka when they were having their group talk that morning. “I can imagine who is going to teach them English Language.” It was Iniobong. The day she began work and was introduced to the staff of Arts department was when she met Malam Haruna and Malam Nura. Haruna usually struggled to distinguish between a clause and a phrase. When his fellow staff took him up on that his excuse was that he had read Linguistics, not English. Iniobong who had felt like spanking him pointed out that Linguistics was supposed to better equip him. Then Haruna had asked her if it was true that Calabar girls were insatiable because they ate dog meat. Iniobong had laughed; she couldn’t reconcile dog meat with virility or English language competency for that matter. “Haruna, if you want your wife to satisfy you then give her dog meat,” Iniobong would tease him when she had begun to enjoy Haruna’s company. “Sege! I can’t do that!” Iniobong would laugh. She considered Haruna a witty Literary Society International, LSi

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companion. But Nura was different. Nura was English language coordinator. He shuttled from Kanda metropolis to Borham daily. He was also a postgraduate student of Kanda State University although he told nobody how he lobbied for grades and paid his supervisor to contract his thesis writing. Every staff thought that Nura was a member of a political party where he had contested twice for the local council chair but only his friends knew that he was really an assistant superintendent with the Nigeria Police. He had a dream which he easily shared at the slightest opportunity -to be governor of the state some day. The strike took another dimension the next day when the students began to protest. They were going repeatedly to the offices demanding that their teachers return to class. Emeka and Orobosa took advantage of the situation. They made several contacts with students and told them that government was withdrawing corps members because the school entire administration was fraught with corruption and administrative recklessness. There would be consequences. Without the yearly supply of corps teachers, their school might be shut down permanently. The efforts of students and all those money their parents paid were going down the drain. The rumour spread quickly and the peaceful agitation became violent rioting against the corrupt administration of an absentee principal. And Federal Government Girls’ College Borahm was closed down the next day.

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The Almajiri David Mikailu *

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W

e didn’t sleep much that night. I am sure none of us did. I was awake most of the time listening to screams and cries coming from a dark room down the hall from where we were locked up and sardined, blood against blood. Groaning and cries punctuated the night. Locked up in a poorly ventilated room with just a small window above, we were given a little bucket already filled with urine, faeces and vomit which were not emptied the day before. Docile under the stench we waited for our turn in the torture chamber known as Interrogation Room. The wait was itself another form of torture. Every now and then we heard a police officer barking orders down the hall “Confess! Confess!! Don't lie to me else… I’ll break you.” After which an inmate screamed in pain and we shuddered to think we would be next. We all sat in silence waiting for our turn. I willed myself not to think about it. Despite my best effort to think of the few good days I had, Nasiru, a fellow inmate began reeling the different procedures of torture that were currently on going in that room. He said the baton was called “talk true,” and was used to hit at the joints to weaken the body. The baton was the easiest of the ordeal that awaited us there. The worse was the use of pin and needle to prick the penis. “What would we be without our penises,” he asked. And in between the hammering with baton and the penis prick, Nasiru continued, there were countless submission techniques and improvisations he could not tell us because most of them were peculiar to police cells. Nasiru advised us not to deceive ourselves that we could man it through. “Tell them what they want to hear,” he advised. “Tell them the

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truth.” I wondered why the fellow in there was still shouting intermittently when he only had to tell the truth and be spared. Whenever there was silence we momentarily forgot how bad things actually were. But suddenly the silence was pierced by another bout of screaming and pleading to be shot and spared the agony. I was unnerved even the more. He preferred to be killed? We dreaded the clanging of the cell bars. It meant either a battered inmate was being returned -a sight that would emasculate us- or one of us would be taken out for interrogation. The bars opened. A policeman walked in kicking and stamping on those by the door, cursing and hitting anyone he could reach with his baton. He flashed his light on our faces and grabbed Nasiru with a slap. Nasiru followed his own advice but as it turned out his eagerness to divulge secrets and his enthusiasm to confess was seen as a ruse. He was summarily beaten even as we heard him shouting that he was telling the truth. They used pliers and pincers to chop off the flesh from his back and belly. His fingers were hammered. Finally his penis was given the needle. That was when he fainted, he said later. I was shaking uncontrollably. I tried to gulp some air to calm my violently shaking nerves but I could not. My temperature shot up with my underbelly eliciting an urgent need to run to the toilet. My mouth had dried up, my spittle thickened as sweat ran down my brow. I was shaking badly and running ideas in my head on what to tell, how to make it plausible to be spared this bashing we all were doomed to experience. The cell door opened and we all ran back to the far end of the wall, falling atop one another to hide from being picked up. Every one of us wanted a postponement of what we knew was bound to come. Nasiru having been resuscitated was thrown in carelessly like a bag of recycled paper. He fell on his side with a sickening thud but did not emit a sound. He could not cry or groan. He could not speak and didn’t utter a word. His face was swollen, his body a mixture of African Short Stories Vol. 2

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blood, sweat and iodine -the only first aid he got. Through the faint lights seeping through the window I saw his nipple hanging loose. His upper lip was broken; his left eye was effectively shut and his nose was bloody and swollen. His head was twice the normal size. The iron bars rattled again but, to our relief, it was only padlocked from outside. Still we remained as we were on top of one another even after the bars were closed shut. For unknown reasons we were afraid to go check on Nasiru. Ignorance is bliss; what you don't know won't hurt you. So we all made no effort to check on Nasiru who had managed to sit up and fold his legs. Earlier, when we were scampering and lying over ourselves, I didn’t care. In fact I saw it as cover from police, but now, I could not feel my legs. I made an effort to retrieve it but I did not even know which direction the leg was facing. Those on top of me showed no desire to change from our current awkward position despite that the policemen were gone. I tried again to pull my legs free but it was firmly locked between bodies. I shouted: “My leg! I can’t feel my leg!” No one moved an inch. I tried again, screamed and cursed. Still nothing eased up. My leg was growing numb; it was becoming a distant part of me with just nerves tugging and pinching at my hamstrung muscles. So I scratched those beside me and bit those my teeth could find. Those who felt my nails and teeth marks adjusted and punched me in vengeance but it was all worth it because I got my legs free. Having pulled out my legs, I bounced from one person to the other until I landed upon Nasiru, hitting him on the arm he used as support as I broke my fall. I quickly got up, muttered regretful apologies and helped him adjust his balance. He just sat there, dazed and muttering. Actually, it was his mouth that was moving involuntarily. I asked if he was ok. What a stupid question considering his obvious bruises. I made an attempt to make him lay down on the floor. I scanned through his back to check for obvious injuries. His back was battered. So I made him lay on his side.

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A violent kick on the rib suddenly woke me up. I didn’t know I slept off. How I managed to sleep at all was still a wonder to me. It must have been a peaceful sleep because it even took me some time to recall where I was and what I was doing on the floor. Another kick in the stomach brought it all back to memory. I attempted to make a run for the other end of the cell but the policeman caught me by the shorts. I shouted and told the others to help me. I kicked and sobbed and promised never to do wrong again, if only to be spared a beating. I held firmly onto the leg of an inmate and would not let go. The inmate in turn used his other leg to kick me but I would not let go. A baton coming to land on my arm made me hastily release my grip. I was dragged away, kicking and crying. But to my surprise, I was hauled past the interrogation room and into another where two officers were already seated -a man and a young woman. On seeing the young female officer I suddenly became conscious of my shrieks and calmed down. I was without clothes and my short was soiled and dirtied by sweat and blood. Compared with the rest of us I was in perfect condition. Maybe that was why I was picked up to be interrogated by officers, I couldn’t tell. But I liked the fact that I was in an office with no torture instruments. The female officer was their psychologist. While I was to be interrogated she was to observe my answers and determine the lies. When I looked at her, she smiled at me. I felt suddenly loved. That was the first time anyone smiled at me since my arrest. Her name tag read Abubakar, Maryam and her smile was all I mulled over now. It made me feel good about myself. Despite my condition I couldn’t get that smile out of my head. Sitting next to her was an unsmiling ugliness tagged Bello, B.B. The corporal that brought me saluted and walked away. She opened the case file and gave inspector Bello some papers. I imagined he hadn’t studied the case earlier because he began reviewing it there and then. While he read, I looked at Maryam, a girl I was surely older than. I looked at her fingers and concluded African Short Stories Vol. 2

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she was not married because I couldn’t see a ring. She looked at me and I held her gaze. A smile formed on both our faces. I didn't know what her thought was but mine told me in an ideal world I could date her. That possibility thrilled me and I licked my lips -an involuntary action whenever anything pleased me. Inspector Bello cleared his throat, bringing my fancies to an abrupt stop. With leisureliness and deliberate choice of words, he said: “Let me start by saying the truthfulness of your statement will determine whatever happens to you henceforth. And since you are a good looking chap, I would suggest you don't lie to me. Because if you do, I will send you to the rapist cell where you would be abused till you won’t be able to hold your slops.” Maryam looked at him with a raised brow and then looked back at me, as if pleading I should not lie. From his stern look I could tell Bello was not bluffing. This, from the relaxed way he said it, was something he had both done and enjoyed before. He asked Maryam if she was ready. She nodded. “So let’s begin. How old are you.” “Twenty-five” I answered. “When did you join them?” “Three months ago” “Before then, what were you doing?” “I was Almajiri.” Bello looked up from his book and considered me closely. Then he wrote something in his book and asked me to tell him all about how I was recruited. “That will make a long story” I said. He looked at his watch and said he had all the time in the world to hear it. He used the intercom to order breakfast for all of us. He asked that my shirt be brought to me. After breakfast, he asked that I should go back as far as I can remember, preferably as far back as telling about my family and childhood. I looked at Maryam who nodded to me. She brought a pen and wrote my name and underlined it neatly.

* Literary Society International, LSi

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My father was the richest man on our street. He had a large granary. We had cattle. I would be sent into the bush to shepherd them with my cousins. The cattle numbered in hundreds. He had shops and landed properties he rented out. I remembered my father so well. He loved me, my sister and my mother. We had what was rare in other people’s homes -an open display of affection. We played and laughed together like children and my dad was the first playmate I knew. But all that changed when he got another wife. He did not stop loving me at first but we didn’t play like we used to. Later on he altogether stopped loving me, or so I believed. Whenever I brought my toys and sticks to play with him was the time the other wife had something ‘important’ to discuss with him. She was the first person I came to dislike. As a young boy, then, I didn't think I could know hate, though I could swear my mother and elder sister harboured an instant hatred for her. But I disliked her guts for taking my dad from me. My dislike turned to hate when I was circumcised at seven. I couldn’t tell why it took them a while to cut me. But I knew the pains and the smile that was on her face when I was held down for the Wanzami to take out the foreskin. I should have fainted but I didn’t. The Wanzami said I was a strong chap because all the seven year olds he had circumcised that week had fainted. My dad was proud of that statement. Having heard that, I put on a brave face as the blood was being cleaned up. A cockerel’s feather was dipped in palm kernel oil and placed there. Despite the pain, it tickled and I smiled. But the most embarrassing part was to roam the compound naked while the wound dried. I could hear the snide remarks from my female cousins -my potential future wives. Meanwhile, my father married two additional women and for us that effectively ended his fatherhood. I saw less of him and didn’t know him anymore. He became a distant memory. He treated us with the disinterest one gave a business he could do without because he had other ventures that were more profitable. I now had step siblings and our mothers fought over everything. There was always African Short Stories Vol. 2

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fighting in the house. And when he returned my father blamed my mother for not quelling the riot. I was in senior secondary two when I was pulled out from school. I had returned from school and was having my lunch when I heard hushed whispers around the house. Earlier in the day, the Malam had come and my father had agreed to have me withdrawn from secular to Islamic school. Soon I was packed up and shipped to Almajiri school. The school was a hut and there were other boys there who were brought in that day. I didn’t sleep that night. There was no bed, just mat and straws on the floor and I was bitten by ants a couple of times that night. Since the bedding was made of straw, it harboured termites, insects and mosquitoes. In the morning there was no food. We were each given a plate and told to go to a restaurant and stand by the door. We were told to wish people well, greet them loudly and accept their gifts of food, money or left-overs. Whatever I was given I was to collect and be grateful. We were advised to be as effusive as we could with our prayers and well wishes. But we were also told not to eat the food but bring it back to the school where it would be collected, warmed and shared among all of us. Some of us went to the parks, some to offices, and others to the market. But I stayed with the group who were told to go to an eatery. At the restaurant I was unable to do the loud well wishing part. I just sat on a slab with my plastic plate and cried. But as people passed by and saw me crying they took pity on me and gave me money. My fellows who lurked by the door looked and smiled furtively, as if to say I should keep crying if it brought money. One must go back with something or be beaten up. When we got back, Malam reviewed the meals we brought, picked out the choice ones for himself and gave us the rest to pour into a cauldron. It was a miserable combination. I threw up after the meal. And just when I thought we could do with a rest, we were sent away to resume the routine for dinner. As it turned out, it was only Literary Society International, LSi

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in the evenings that we studied. When I got home the house was quiet but for my younger siblings who were too young to go to school. My sister and the others had gone to school. My father came back and did not say a word to me. That night I had no bed to sleep on because someone had got it already. I slept on the couch in my mother’s flat. I somehow knew that night I was no longer a part of that house. Since I had no bed to sleep on, I had no home. Somehow it was comforting to come to that conclusion and acceptance. So when my father woke me up early the next morning, I was ready. I didn’t ask to bid my mother farewell; I just followed him to his car. As a teenager, I knew probably more than I wanted the adults to think. We drove out of town to another state. I knew what was happening and was resolved not to cry. When he dropped me off at yet another Almajiri school and drove away, I just stood and watched him leave. I was sure what he saw in my eyes scared him. It wasn’t hate; it wasn’t love either. It was the look that kept one guessing; it was a look that said “you will see.” What you will see the look would not say. That was the last time I saw him. When later I was told he was dead I didn’t shed a tear. I had already blotted his memory from my mind. Shortly after his death, my sister was married off to a cousin, and my mother went back to her parent’s while my father’s brothers scrambled for his wealth and inherited some of his younger wives. By now I knew the drill, so I joined the others and we lined up on the road asking for food and money. We were instructed by Malam that the money could be used for food, medicine, bills and other things. In this school all the Malam did not care what we ate or how we lived in the day; they only looked forward to the money we checked in at dusk. They didn’t care about us but, at least, they would make a roll call at night to ensure we had all come back safe from several vehicle accidents that had claimed the lives of some of us down the years. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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In addition to going to government offices we prayed down blessings on passersby who gave us alms and muted insults on those who didn't give. I also doubled as house help for people. That way I earned more food and money to submit to Malam. It was on one of such occasions that I did it with one of the Nyarinya for whom I ran several errands. She said if I wanted steady meal and money, I should give in to her. So I did. Actually I was happy to. She needn’t have threatened me because already I was lusting after her. It only ended when having had enough I stole her money and fled. We also stood by the roadside praying for journey mercies to travellers held up at police and military check points where vehicles were searched for illegal importations, weapons, explosives, narcotics or even body parts. It was there that a man had looked and me and asked why an agile young man like me was begging for a living. Didn't I have a family? Couldn’t I return home or to my village and farm, marry and settle down? He said I was a grown boy and it was embarrassing to see me begging for alms when I could do much more for myself. Through the car window the man gave me one thousand Naira and told me to go home. But I had no home to go to -my father had made sure of that. So I sat under a tree with the groundnut sellers and thought about my life. As much as I loved school and wanted to enrol, education was not entirely free at my level. As much as I didn't mind farming, I had no capital. As much as I wanted to be independent and begin a vocation, there was no foundation to build upon. That was when Nasiru came over and we got talking. Finally he asked me over to his house and he introduced me to his group. He taught me what they were doing. They were petty criminals, robbing people of their phones in the night and women of their bags in the day. No guns, just machetes, sticks, threats and slaps. He asked me to join. We robbed with masks we made from our old clothes. We were so unorganised and often disagreed on operations and how to go about it. Once we were robbing a woman and someone suggested Literary Society International, LSi

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rape. Nasiru objected and so did I. We started fighting among ourselves while the woman ran away, losing nothing but her shoes. This last oppression brought out an evil side in us. We never thought we were capable of such destruction having taken stock of the bodily harm we brought on ourselves the next morning. We were boys who wanted to be happy and all we needed was food and shelter. We were already aligned towards happiness having already accepted our fate and harboured no tendencies of revolting or challenging the way things were. So when the mullah promised us food and shelter, we were ready to do whatever he desired of us. I wouldn’t know how the mullah got to know about us, but it was not hard seeing that we were easy to find. I had stopped sleeping in the general house; nevertheless I always went there in the afternoon to check out the place. I wouldn't know how I fitted into the profile of the kind of people the mullah wanted. But I was chosen and I went to see him when he sent for me. When I got there, there were young men of my age already waiting. Nasiru was also there with others that I had seen on the highway begging for their various Almajiri schools. On introducing ourselves we discovered all of us were uneducated, unemployed and without any vocational experience. He asked us who wanted to go to school and most of us indicated interest in going to school. He asked if we had the means; we all said no. He then asked who wanted to learn any trade or vocation. Those who had not raised their hands earlier did so this time around. “But you know why your dreams would not be fulfilled?” he asked. “Because the people up there whose responsibility it is to fend and care for your needs don't care. You are all pawns to be sacrificed for the big political win. You become relevant when election approaches; you are contracted to be thugs, to molest and harass opponents and be paid peanuts. And once your boss wins the election, he relocates to the capital city, forgetting you and all your kind who brought him victory. He builds big houses, gets his family and friends choice jobs in the city, sends his children African Short Stories Vol. 2

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to school abroad and you are left to return to the streets from whence you came, waiting for when you would be relevant in the next four years when election comes. “I will say this once,” he continued, “we need to change all this. This country is blessed above and beyond but mismanagement is our biggest undoing. It seems corruption evens out the resources, such that when placed side-by-side nothing is left for human advancement. “So again, I’ll say this once,” he went on again, “we should make the government listen to us, and the only way to do that is through violence of all sorts. Now, before I proceed, anyone who is not interested should take his leave now.” We looked round but no one got up to leave. We sat there and he went through the plans and strategies of getting the government to listen to us. He made it clear that it was not a religious warfare though religion justified the toppling of despotic regimes. He said our aim was not to topple the government but to bring their attention to what their eyes beheld daily but do not see. Our aim was to make them see. And since violence was one language they understood properly, we should make them hear and listen. He said such violence would purify the nation, the leaders and the led. We were grouped into units, some to recruit more Almajiri and other willing hands. Our target was the abandoned and neglected people of the society, and we found them in good numbers and easy to convince. They were like a volcano waiting to erupt. But the learning was a slow process largely because some of the boys in the explosion department blew themselves to death. Instead of logging the timer to fifteen minutes, they logged in fifteen seconds and were blown to bits. The mullah later on used the tragedy to extol on the virtues of learning, saying if they were schooled, they would have known the difference between digital seconds and minutes. I was not around to witness it; I was in the field recruiting members and heard the story when I got back. Unknown to us, however, that explosion had given away our Literary Society International, LSi

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position. Thus while we slept in the camp the police had swooped upon us. Very few escaped. And that was how I was arrested. I was told there were deaths too, especially of those who had tried to fight back.

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After I had finished this lengthy statement, Bello gave me a long, hard look and then began to smile. Maryam was smiling too so I smiled back nervously. I did not know why they smiled. I was feeling relieved that I might not be beaten up mercilessly, at least not that day. Yet I knew my troubles had only just begun.

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The Pains of War Emmanuel Ugokwe *

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T

hat year began like any other year. Independence was as young as six years. Uneasy peace had reigned in those short years and there were grudges in many hearts. In my street we the youngling probably enjoyed life then. Days came and went and the night stars shone brightly. The grandees sat in their parlour noting how their days were spent. They envied young men in their productive years and wished their days to be reversed. Then war broke out, so suddenly. And no one seemed prepared to face the pains it brought. We were children and we had neither seen nor heard of such a thing before. Our small radio continually announced that war had been declared for the unity of the entire country. Our mothers and their mothers sat in constant look-out and thought about relatives the war could have met. It was bad to lose someone in war, they said. Cries would be going up like smoke from the rafters -cries of relatives over their loved ones lost in the crisis. I remember very well my cousin Kanu. He had received a scholarship from the community to study at Nsukka as we called it then. We did not call it university. Kanu was in his first year when the war shattered his early adulthood, his future, and his plans for everything. His father Okoye had worked as a postmaster and his mother a clerk in the then Midwest. She was our big aunt and we respected her. As children of her younger sisters we were showered with her gifts and affection. Her coming home meant we must appear neat before her thenceforth. We must wash all those rags we called our clothes, and also wash our bodies and chew our sticks every morning. She hated to see us dirty, saying that we were ‘her Literary Society International, LSi

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future and her cries’ when she would be no more. What we loved about her was she had only three children but fed over a hundred mouths. She had worked all her life with the whites and knew, as I heard her tell our mothers, that they were better off with fewer children to train very well than a community of hungry children. She was gaunt and putting on wrinkles when Mama Nkeoma, as we called her, came to see us. She came, that cold evening, with the sad news that her husband Okoye had died. That news made us cry for two full days. No one had the mouth to eat anything. It was now our turn, we had got it like any other family. He was killed in cold blood during the Igbo massacre in the North. That had been the way we understood it since it all began. It was no surprise that his enemies who had been eyeing his position saw the crisis as a way to eradicate him. Kanu had managed to find his way home from the university few days after. We all saw him come in to the house and we embraced him with open arms, looking at him in the face and saying soothing words to him. The last and most important person in his life had gone. It was his father, the man he was rather close to. With tears my dad and mom grabbed him closely seeking to comfort him. Well, that was also their way to comfort themselves. Kanu was silent. He gently eased himself from my parents and chose a seat near his two sisters. They had no comforter and just sat there exchanging tears with each other. With Kanu’s father’s death the family learned not to underestimate the role of a father and husband in their lives. Kanu mourned his father every moment he was alone. He was concerned over his mother’s pain so it was hard for him to cry. He understood that crying in his mother’s presence was enough to keep her grieving for the rest of her days and nights. He knew that more was expected from him. He would be the son to his mother, father to his sisters and husband to his mother. As the crisis worsened the whole town soon felt insecure and every family was thinking of a place of safety and planning in African Short Stories Vol. 2

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earnest to go back home to the villages. Our journey home to the east was fraught with many dangers. Masses of people trekked with mourning and lamentation. It was a dark and turbulent month for us who were neither safe in the hands of soldiers nor with the surrounding neighbours. Vigilante bands lurked in the bridges, forests and isolated government offices; they looted cars, raped and killed young girls and blockaded the road in search of young men. Mazi Okoye should have led the way, as the father and experienced one. But the burden now fell on Kanu. He braced himself for this terrible task. The next day we were in Asaba. We were severally searched, beaten and asked to pay money at each checking point. On crossing the main bridge into Onitsha we were caught by heartless soldiers, frisked and beaten up. Kalu’s sisters were molested in his presence. That was another agony for Mama Nkeoma. Despite the trauma, Kanu was determined and brave. He ignored the suggestion from his mother that we split in several pairs to contine the journey. He wanted to save his mother and sisters at all costs. It was a decision he tenaciously maintained that he would sacrifice himself to save them. The camp where we gathered to take a brief rest was very crowded. Food had gone down, and the women had contributed all they had gathered for the journey. Starvation accounted for deaths of many per day -a slow way to die. The vehicle that came to carry us home was always loaded to the brim and came just once every day. Only the injured, pregnant women, little children, the old and sick were allowed. Yet there was always a flow of casualties to the camp. Our mothers faced frequent bouts of malaria fever as there were plenty of mosquitoes teasing and singing in our ears all night. We left some days after, wanting to cross the River Niger. It became apparent that passing Asaba through the bridge and into Nnobi would be unsafe. The stories of human heads without their bodies and pregnant women who delivered and died by the roadside with their toddlers struck terror in every heart. Eastern civilians Literary Society International, LSi

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were on the Nigerian long list for elimination. Kanu had devised a plan to disguise himself as a soldier and lead his family over. But he was caught before he could put that plan to action. Indisputably, he was to be sent to Biafran quarters for brief training. Mama Nkeoma wept bitterly. He pleaded with the soldiers that they should leave her only son who had lost his father. When all her appeals fell on deaf ears, no one asked her to end her plea. ‘Then let me speak with him just for few minutes.’ She began to talk. ‘Kanu, my son, be calm. I will look for a way to console myself.’ Kanu pecked his mother tenderly and promised, ‘I will come home to see you soon, mother. Take care of yourself. ‘Nkechi,’ he called, ‘take care of mother and Adaobi. I wish I could see you soon when the war gets lighter. Don’t cry for me, and please reserve your grief. It will soon be over.’ They clutched together for a moment and then the soldiers separated them and took him away. The widow gazed absently in tears. The girls stared mutely. We had come to hate life and to see everything around us as utterly callous. Mama Nkeoma bravely took her daughters down to Nnobi. Now she was more fearless and expected nothing more grievous than this pain the war had caused her. At home the crowd flocked with their loads. The village was expanding. It was argued whether it would contain all the victims that the war had forcefully brought back. Mazi Okoye’s brother welcomed his sister-in-law warmly and cried for his brother whose life the war had claimed. That evening, due courtesy was paid Mama Nkeoma and her daughters; women and children came and peeped at them, while the men brought words of comfort to the family. The war had not come to the village yet but news of armoured cars and artillery was having some effect on the villagers. Two month had passed. Kanu had not written her or sent a message to her. Mama was worried. The thought that Kanu was African Short Stories Vol. 2

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dead filled her mind with dread. One evening, she was sorting out pest-infested corn from the good ones and her daughters had gone to fetch water from the stream. A man was entering the house. It was unusual during wartime to see a man of that age walking freely into people’s compounds. The man said his greetings and delivered a letter, which had Mama battling with many thoughts. She identified the handwriting and smiled, regaining confidence that Kanu was still alive and active in camp. She opened the mail and saw Kanu’s photograph. He was wearing his khaki uniform and posed with his gun. At first it grieved her. He stood the risk of losing his life at any moment. The way he stood showed that he was not willing to let go of it for anything. He was completely a soldier now. ‘What has the world seen in me?’ she murmured. She opened the letter properly now and read it. Her son’s fond expressions were solace to her. It showed he still had them in mind. Her heart flew in her mouth when she read a few lines that he had joined the fourth squadron of the Biafran air force. ‘Say me well to Nkechi and Ada,’ the letter ended. She wanted to shout in alarm but tried to hold herself for the fact that her son had not died. The intensity of the war soon went high with Nigerian army taking Biafran territories one after another. Returnees with new ideas were transforming the east and many strange things were so happening that those in the village felt insecure at the presence of these returnees. There were recurrent sounds of small arm fires, of grenades bursting, mingled with the screams of harassed women. The radio had no news as to when the war would come to an end. Now Mama’s great problem was where to take custody of her two daughters who would be at the mercy of enemy soldiers if they entered the village. But days later came the news that Kanu was missing. His plane had gone on a reconnaissance into enemy territory. It never returned. Till the war ended nobody was able to say what had happened Literary Society International, LSi

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to the plane or the crew. But the searching and hoping come to an end finally. It was now officially brought to notice that Kanu died in a crash. Mama Nkeoma felt hopeless and forlorn; nothing could ever bear any resemblance to her former life. In a short time she had emaciated beyond the notice of people who knew her earlier. Her daughters always sat huddled around her, looking just like their mother, the grief of losing both father and brother forever etched in their heart.

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Today the guns may go silent and fortunate soldiers may have a home to come back to. But the wound etched in Mama’s heart by that war had gone on festering. She was tired of crying now. She would comfort herself, believing that the tears in her eyes would not be enough to impress the spirit of her departed ones. Soon her daughters married and she was exchanging home visits with her daughters every two years. It had taken her time to pick up whatever pieces that remained in her life. She was my grand aunt. And as she told me all these stories of the pains war, the tears were rolling down her cheeks again.

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Sacred Murder Chudwin Godwin Ebuka *

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“H

ello,” the boy who came to share my desk greeted. “Hi,” I replied. “You are Muslim,” he said in what looked more of an exclamation than a question as he stared closely at the scar on my forehead. “Do I look like one?” “Not actually. I’m only surprised at your American accent and the-,” he pointed at the scar, “possibility of your being Muslim.” “It’s a birth mark,” I lied. “My father had one. “Are Muslims banned from this school?” “No. Why?” “Hey!” It was the lecturer and he was referring to us. “Get out of my class!” “That man is always like that, very harsh,” Paul said as we strolled down the faculty hall. Everybody stared as we walked by. First, I was rather fair complexioned; secondly, I was admitted this second semester. Even the newest students had registered to one another as friends or foes and I was just like the white egg coming to join the hatch only later. Paul said I must be strongly connected to be admitted at this time of the year. It was half way through the session and admissions had long been closed. No direct entry student could have been so favoured. Paul was not far from the truth: my uncle worked at the presidency. “John,” he called, suddenly. I thought there was something he wanted to show me. “Are you Nigerian?” he asked. “Yeah. Full blood. Oh, because of my light skin?” “Yes. And you have lived all your life overseas,” he seemed to Literary Society International, LSi

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ask. I nodded. “Your complexion attests to the fact that it has not seen much of Nigerian sun.” We both chuckled. I was on a transfer from Central Michigan University. My father died earlier this year. My uncle plainly said he was murdered by America. Till date I had still not understood why America killed my father. He worked for them; he was CIA. Malam Jibril, my uncle had simply said: ‘That's America for you. Always gets what they want no matter whose head goes for it.’ He also said America killed my father, an American citizen, because he was Muslim. My real name was Rasheed Kano although my school documents read John Okafor. Among the tribes in Nigeria, they said I looked more Ibo than Hausa. They also said my accent and fluency with English was an advantage too. And about not speaking Igbo, not every Ibo student speaks the language, someone had said. Part of the plan was that I would be attending church. I had really not attended one before. Although I had been near church occasions I still entertained some fear as I followed Paul to the school chapel that evening. I had watched pastors display great supernatural powers before on TV, and I feared someone might just point at me and exclaim: “What are you doing here?” Many things the pastor said were in concordance with the words of the holy Koran. I had known that the line that separated Islam from Christianity was very thin, and that sometimes you switched Muslim names for their Christian equivalents unknowingly. But only now was I really making some comparisons. The man of God was talking about love. And some of the scriptures he cited had Koranic parallels. He also gave some parables, for example, the Good Samaritan, which reminded me of how the prophet had instructed Muslims to treat non Muslims kndly. Some years back, when my father and I visited Nigeria from America, because my mother was late, Malam Jibril and my father African Short Stories Vol. 2

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had a light argument. Uncle Jibril had accused my father of working for Al-Kafeerins and, worst of all, accepting American citizenship. He said for that my father was an infidel. My uncle quoted the following verses of the Koran; surah 4:101 which says the infidels are your sworn enemies, and surah 28:86, which says never be a helper to the unbelievers. He even quoted the verse that says wage war against the infidels. My father pointed to him that those words for infidels and unbelievers would have read 'Man-Kafeerin' if the Koran was really referring to Christians or Americans. ‘But it uses the definite article 'Al', which stands for 'the' because he was referring to a particular set of people that are long extinct, those who fought against Islam at its early stage,’ my father added. Uncle Jibril could not speak. My father laughed victoriously. But I saw Uncle Jibril’s eyes; it had great animosity in them. Talking about the Good Samaritan, that night, as we approached the hostel, I wanted to ask Paul if he would still show the love he had already shown me if he knew I was a Muslim. But that night, at 10.00 pm on the dot, I received a call from Malam Jibril. He asked me how well I was faring. I told him that I was in the hostel with a friend. I had a hotel room booked in advance to cover some time, long enough for the arrangements for an apartment for me was concluded. For some reasons, the place of my residence was to be strictly selected. When Paul offered to accommodate me in his hostel room, I had acceded not because it would save me costs. It was simply because I didn't want to start attracting attention this early. “Ok. It’s good you did not reject your friend's company. Anyway, Bash would be there in a week to help you settle, then brief you on the plan.” So far I had always heard ‘the plan, the plan,’ yet all I knew about the plan was just some few basics. When I was briefed about my mission in this school, the pictures that played in my head were all from 007 movies. The thought had excited me. Despite the risks Literary Society International, LSi

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it was an adventure worth undertaking, I had thought. But so far everything looked all too simple.

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That was how I became a member of an Islamic sect in Nigeria. Our leader wearing very long beards that you think might soon reach his belly if they so remained unshaven had said we are not terrorists. “We are holy warriors,” he chanted. I had little choice in joining Al-saif as directed by my uncle Malam Jibril who was my only surviving family member. He had told me about Al-saif the day we left America for Nigeria promising that Al-saif would provide me the means of avenging my father's death. He said Al-saif was enemy of the West and there was no other way of fighting for justice if I remained behind in America. I finished a course with the Al-saif before my acceptance into the sect. After the course I hated the West and everything that was associated to them, their Christianity and leadership by Christians. Sometimes I wondered if we were a religious movement or just a set of people after the political sovereignty of Islam and her people. However, in our meetings, there was not much talk about America or Western civilisation. Instead it was always about the way the Muslim north of Nigeria had lost power and how we were to make sure the south did not succeed. Sometimes I wondered if they could really help me in my quest for vengeance against America or if I was just going to transfer the aggression to Nigeria. My new apartment was ready exactly a week after my first day in school. Malam gave me rules. He began with “Make sure no friend from school escorts you here.” “But,” he also added, “if they insist they want to follow you home, don't attract concerns by resisting; give in, but very firmly don't allow them spend time here enough to start discovering things.” The ‘discovering things’ aspect of the instruction was not clear until a week later when I started receiving things to hide inside my ceiling. Sometimes I was called to a Maisuya joint to collect some African Short Stories Vol. 2

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parcels kept with the vendor and take it back to my room to keep. Sometimes Bash visited me in disguise. Bash was almost as young as I. He was twenty three and I was twenty. Already he was an Islamic scholar although he did not keep beards for some reasons. Also fair like I was in complexion, he could easily pass for a southern Christian. Only you would suspect him, like you would me, seeing what he called the stamp on his head -the result of devoted worship. But one way or another you would notice his accent if he spoke. That was why on this day that Paul paid us a surprise visit he didn't speak a word -to conceal his identity. “Paul, how come you know I live here?” I finally asked, not knowing how else to put the question. “So you never wanted your friend to know where you stayed,” he replied, already going through my things, specifically my belongings on the table. Bash gave me a whithering look. Soon something fell from the top of my wardrobe stand. It was the carton that had contained my television set. It was an empty pack till yesterday when Bash out of sheer laziness to climb the ceiling had put some 'confidentials' in it. “Have you complained to your landlord about this hole in your ceiling? Criminals can creep in from there. Who knows if it’s criminals that lived here before? It may be where they hide their stuff,” he said, jerking up to touch the board with which we had blocked the hole. I was still trying to arrange the carton in its rightful place when I saw he was pushing the board inside and trying to peep in. “Paul!” I shouted. He dropped to his height. “What are you trying to do?” Bash looked already furious. He went outside and signalled me to join him. “What is this?” he asked directing his reference to the room with a wave of hand. “Who showed him here?” he asked in a hush. I understood bits of Hausa, those that my father had squeezed time out of his leisure to teach me. But I didn't speak it. Literary Society International, LSi

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“He may have followed me from the market. Because I saw the fucker but I thought I dodged him.” Bash was restless. Not knowing what else to say again, he told me to rush inside before that 'Arne' dug up a skull. He told me he was going out to smoke a cigarette and I should make sure my friend didn't stay a minute longer. That night Malam Jibril flew in from Kano. It was the first time I was involved in one of the meetings that had been going on in Enugu in anticipation of Al-saif's first strike in the south. All of us adherents converged in Malam Jibril's hotel apartment as he was director of the operation. “The boy should die,” Bash was speaking. He was talking about Paul. He said Paul had seen him prior to his visit at a petty Hausa community market. According to him, Paul had seen him speaking Hausa. He even said Paul had recognised him because he had greeted him, ‘Sanu,’ on that day. He claimed Paul had seen the chemicals used for explosives kept in the carton that fell from the wardrobe. It was therefore agreed that Paul should go, to prevent a more disastrous visit, may be this time, by police. “This must be done before he starts talking,” Jibril concluded. That night before I returned to my room, Uncle Jibril called me into his hotel suite. He played me a VCD tape. It was a documentary in Arabic showing how America and Israel had dealt with fellow Muslims in Iraq, Afghanistan and Palestine. It had many violence scenes of mutilation, humiliation and inhumanity. I felt for those Muslims. The documentary called for Muslims to take up arms and fight the Jihad, to fight the American-Semitic political dominance. It said Allah loves those who fight the Jihad, and automatically accepts the soul of everyone who died in the cause, with full pardon for all his sins. It had said these without citing a surah. Uncle Jibril recounted how he had killed Christians in Kano African Short Stories Vol. 2

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during the holy wars. He said it was different from ordinary killing. He said it came with no guilt conscience, to show it was a sacred murder. He asked me if I thought Allah will accept the soul of inactive Muslims who did nothing, in preference to he who laid his life all these years for Him? Before he allowed me to go, he told me that he would be giving me the privilege to kill my friend, Paul. It was the opportunity for me to avenge my late father. That night I left with my heart beating faster than it did during my first coming to this country. I had never killed before. And I was to start with my first friend.

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New Guns in Town David Mikailu *

Y

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esterday we got a bulk text message from our class representative that we have a class slated for six in the morning. Six a.m. We could not believe it. This Dr. Jones, ever more intent in pursuing his private business than teaching, hardly ever came to school. He had once announced to us that the school could not pay for his time so he wouldn't be spending all of it in the faculty. But now the time table for exams was out and he had not covered half the course syllabus. And since exam questions were set in advance, he knew he had much work to do otherwise there would be student uproar if they saw untaught questions on examination day. Importantly, the text message had said after the day there would be class assessment, so we should come prepared. At six a.m. it was still dark, the grass heavy with dew and the atmosphere hazy. We slogged to school from the hostel and huddled together in class to keep warm. Since there was talk of continuous assessment, the class was packed full with students who came just for the test and not the lesson. While we waited, the lecturer was summarily insulted by everyone for his callousness. At seven the man had not come. All calls and text messages from the class representative to his phones to confirm if he was still coming were not returned. But we stayed. We couldn't afford to miss the test. The man was also known to lock the door once he stepped into class. So we didn’t have to wander away either. Shortly before eight he came smiling sheepishly. Instead of going straight to the business of the day he started talking about his escapades, embellishing it with evident lies, telling us about his adventures as a unionist. It was a story he had told us

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several times, and the details kept changing every time. He lamented the loss of the ‘the good old days’ and insulted our generation for being different from the ‘golden age of Nigerian unionism’ as he put it. “You know why most of you will remain idiots for life and unfit for the labour market? Because this school, this hall -this entire place is not conducive for learning. Look at how overcrowded this place is. How can those fools making noise in the back of the class hear and learn anything?” Then he lowered his voice further and asked them: “Can you hear me?” They all stared blankly, eliciting laughter from those of us in the front. “You see?” He then raised his voice. “Now you see why we go on strikes? We go on strikes because though you come to school, you learn nothing and we want you to learn. We go on strikes to demand that money be injected into the system; but you all think we do it for ourselves. Unlike the politicians who send their children abroad to learn, our children are among you. Our demands have always been to make it good for us all. “But you have all been deadened by the deadness all around. Instead of standing with us and gunning for our rights, your student body staged a press conference calling on us to negotiate and call off the strike. Fie on their accursed mouths for spewing incongruity!” He was getting angry as was the case whenever he began berating the government. “What has negotiation produced all these years, eh?” he bulged his eyes and raised his brows demanding a response and expecting none. “We have always been negotiating and the government is expert at deceiving us to call off the strike only for agreements not to be implemented. And the funny thing is no one blames the government but us.” “Two wrongs don't make a right, do they?” A female student dared to comment. “Say what?” he turned to the direction of the voice. “We read the dailies. In addition to agitating for improved Literary Society International, LSi

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facilities, academic staff were also advocating for more money. Even when the government agreed to pump money into the system the strike dragged on because you wanted more money than the politicians. That was why the strike continued for such a long time.” “Here is the logic my dear stupid; we spend our entire lives studying to make better citizens of you, while a college dropout out there who rigged his way into office overnight is earning more than us. Who do you think deserves more money, eh?” -another bulged eyes and raised brows. “Then become a politician since it’s all about the money,” she said, miffed by the fact that he had called her stupid. “You want us to work for free? For instance I break my back carrying all of you. Shouldn’t I be paid for it? It is not a free job, you know. We should be paid well because we work well.” This was a surprise. The same man whose course we were playing catch-up was here pontificating on acceptable social practices. This man only saw the moth in other people’s eyes. We all knew better and thought him a clown. And he looked like one. In the name of being a Marxist, he was generally untidy and his perfume was rancid. We held our breath whenever he walked past. He had lost a couple of teeth and the few remaining ones were sparse and brownish from eating too much kola nut and smoking. “Come to school you won’t,” he continued. He brought out a kola nut from his pocket and gave a noisy bite, munching with annoying sounds coming from his mouth. “If I hadn’t said there would be a test at the end of the class just a few of you would have shown up. Do we have to beg you to learn? What nonsense is that? Do I have to outsmart you to teach you? Do I have to use a test to have you all come? Your parents paid your fees for you to learn and we would ensure with all the lack we teach you something. This is a university!” I was thinking: He had come late to his class and instead of going straight to the lesson of the day, he was engaging in idle talks. In no time it would be noon and we would have covered nothing. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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Indeed he was right. If there were no test I, for one, wouldn’t have come. It was a waste of my time. I would rather have got the note and read on my own for exams. While he was yet sermonising a student was banging repeatedly on the door. He gave no heed to the student because he thought having come late the student wanted to enter his class. The student was frantically thumping the door and mouthing “They are here! They are here!” No one asked who. Suddenly we knew. Months ago the new guns had written to the school and advised it should not resume studies. They said they would be coming and warned students to stay at home. The school authority believed their threats to be the ranting of a demented psychopath and his misguided followers. For security, the school had contracted few policemen who stood at the gate searching bags for explosives and enforcing dress codes. With this new alarm we all sprang out of class. Last I saw Dr. Jones was sprawled on the ground as students in the crazed panic to flee trampled on him. I ducked under my desk to avoid the stampede and broken bones that often occurred when there was such mass hysteria and panic. Then the gun shots began. No one knew the directions they were coming and so we ran in scattered formations. Once outside I made a run for the closest fence I could see. But there on the hedge sat a militant who opened fire on hapless students attempting to scale over. The militant was trying his best to pick out the boys and leave out the girls. But since most of us had trousers on, he found it hard to spot the difference being already drowsy or drugged. He spotted me. I froze. He looked at me. I coyly adjusted my veil to cover my face in a show of womanhood. Yet he looked unconvinced. I suddenly wished I had larger breasts. I always had that wish but today the wish became a prayer. I also hoped he saw that I had a long braided hair down my neck. Seemingly puzzled about my true identity he took a long look; then he smiled. He Literary Society International, LSi

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smiled as he fired. I saw his finger squeeze the trigger. I saw the hard-hearted cruelty on his face. I saw his cigarette stained teeth as he smiled. I saw the sadistic satisfaction and fulfilment on his face when he squeezed the trigger. He didn’t care any more if I was female or if I had never wronged him in any way. All that mattered was that my death would make the number count. I just stood, frozen in time, weak in the knees but nonetheless looking at him with eyes that asked: ‘Why?’ Because all I thought of was ‘Why, why, why? So this is how I am going to die.’ The gun jammed as he shot. He clacked the cartridge, hit the butt and attempted another shot at me but it didn’t fire. He removed the cartridge and hit it on his head. Then he changed his mind and brought out a new one from a pouch attached to his waist. I just stood there stupidly, waiting to be shot; sure I would be hit in the stomach. But while he fidgeted furiously with his gun some bold students seeing that he was having trouble with his weapon reorganized their wits and charged at him. They grabbed his legs and pulled him down from the hedge. He landed back first on a sandy mound and started begging for his life, calling on God to save him. He screamed while they used cudgels, stones, belt and fist to beat him. All around were the bodies of the people had just shot yet he wanted none of the pain he had unleashed on hapless students but moments ago. They laid him bloodied on the ground. Some suggested they take him to the police station to which he brightened up and nodded his agreement. But a student produced a shot of dry gin from his backpack; a smoker offered a match and up he went in flames, running and trying to die with anyone he could lay his hands on. We scattered in all directions at the sound of more gunshots. Now enlivened and out of my stupor, I arched over the high hedge with no trouble to the other side. I crossed the highway and ran as fast as I could. I joined several others to find safety in the next town bordering the school. But the news preceded us as every one I met was scampering to African Short Stories Vol. 2

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nowhere. I recognised a few of our security men who had got rid of their cool strides and smart uniforms and were leading the escape. They were not even leading: every one was running. It was each one for himself. Behind, with none to stand in defence, our citadel had gone up in flames, like a bride abandoned to the new guns in town.

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Nap for President Chin Ce *

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N

apoleon had declared his intention to run for Gamji's number one seat at the union government. It was the last day of filing nomination papers and also the day he chose to intimate his good friend Jerry. “I want to run,” he said. “Now what's the matter with this big head of yours?” Jerry mocked. Napoleon's head was truly big. They used to tease him what a terrible time he must have given his poor mother pushing that awesome boulder of a head through her narrow body. But the only consolation, they had conceded, was that his big head had rightly come to match his immense frame. Otherwise it would have been double tragedy. “There are already five mad men for the high seat, and you…you are just waking up from nowhere,” Jerry scolded his friend. Napoleon gave him an imperious grin. “That's part of the gimmick,” he said. “Gimmick,” Jerry snorted again. “The gimmick, Tortie, is you don't realise how far behind the race you are. And you haven't even bought the first round of drinks.” “There'll be more than drinks for all. And with my numerous supporters,” he began, but Jerry chuckling his bemusement was rubbing his eyes disinterestedly. “Fine, Ok,” Jerry said finally. “You could do with four votes … one from me, though very much under serious consideration; two from Rusa and Ricardo, and the fourth which you will give yourself.” Napoleon smiled. “On a serious note,” he began, “my lateness African Short Stories Vol. 2

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is a knock-out strategy. I have just concluded the consultation with my tribe, my home base…” That earned him another snort of disgust. “Nap, you surprise me. So you have come to slice off a part of the national cake for your bunch of tribal flies?” Jerry admonished. “Now that might mean one vote lost.” “No... No,” Napoleon protested. “I mean, even you could hold brief for me on my progressive, de-tribalised bearing, but you didn't let me finish,” he said, taking a more comfortable position on the low bed and shifting the pillow further. “I was saying that I consulted my people, and then the PM...” “A tribalist and a progressive!” Jerry appraised him with a look of pretended incredulity. “Your people, and the PM, jointly fielded you?” He creased his brow in a deliberate frown. “But I thought that one of your PM guys is already among the contestants.” “Yes, yes, but in this case I am talking of the capacity and capability, the mien and mettle, to fight and win a war of this sort. “Now let me explain,” Napoleon quickly added, noting the look of thorough amazement in his Jerry's face. “You rightly said the whole thing has turned sectionalist bickering. So when a neutral candidate springs up onto the scene… you know something happens. The people tired of the old sordid sights will embrace the new ideologue -people like you and me,” he squinted hopefully at his friend who watched him cautiously the way a cat would appraise a new dog in the neighbourhood. “And who shall campaign for this ambition: your tribalist people,” Jerry spat out the word, “or your PM vanguards?” “None. None of them comes up in the real sense of the word,” replied Napoleon. “It is the whole crowd out there, and men like you who will advertise my progressive commitment for Gamji’s future.” “And how many of the crowd do you have on your side now?” queried a fastidious Jerry. “You don't understand,” Napoleon smiled shaking his head patiently, “It's like this: when my manifesto comes up declaring my Literary Society International, LSi

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neutrality, it will muster considerable support from all non-aligned people. And with the other contestants well divided in their partisan engagements, that is when my people will come in to give me massive supplementary assistance. “So I am not running purely on tribal sponsorship like the rest five. Mine is a conglomerate of sorts. See my point?” But Jerry rubbed his nose with his ballpoint and shook his head sanguinely. “What happened with your progressive movement?” he asked. “Nothing. Their role is purely complementary,” Napoleon answered. “Like I said, it was my decision. We do not interfere in the affairs, yes, private ambitions, of our members. What we do is to render help according to the parameters of our individual assessments,” Napoleon explained sedulously. “Based on the commitment of your members to your ideology, of course?” Jerry queried. “Well, you can call it that,” Napoleon shrugged indifferently. “As a matter of fact, I only just informed them formally after filing my papers.” “Now how about that?” Jerry seemed determined to wear down Napoleon by picking holes in every proposal he put forward. “You will be running against your Progressive Movement and the strongman they fielded, and you expect them, and me, to support you to the bargain.” Jerry made his voice sound ominous of one vote lost. “No you don't understand again,” Napoleon waved his hand in agitation. Then he seemed to relent. “Well, as a matter of fact we don't really discuss policy with um... um… non-Progressives.” Jerry told him he had never cared one hoot for that Progressive versus non-Progressive double-talk; so could they continue the discussion? “Yes, yes, I was saying that I shouldn’t normally discuss everything we do in the PM with you. But you have an erroneous impression. We of the P.M. did not really field strongman Yusuf. He African Short Stories Vol. 2

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declared his ambition and we said okay, just like I did yesterday and they said okay, too. But you have a point. It is rather unusual two opponents coming from one movement but I told them it is a question of the best head… capability and capacity.” “Mien and mettle,” Jerry proffered. “You got it brother!” Napoleon laughed happily, exposing dirty brown teeth and thinking Jerry was warming up to the game plan now. “Now to your better abilities, Nap,” Jerry prodded. “An onlooker like I am should have thought you and the strongman equal in stature and commitment since you both belong to one herd and bear the same gallant badge of the revolution,” he mocked. Napoleon let that one pass. This was not the right time for a long altercation, Jerry could read his mind. He rather added some word of afterthought, “You and I are partners in progress. Only that we of the PM regard neutrality as cowardice. But that's not the point now. “You must support this decision of mine,” he began. “I got a method to break the dogma of sectionalism with my revolutionary commitment; in fact this is a new strategy that will be dedicated to revolutionary struggles all over the nations of Africa when I’d successfully complete my mission.” Jerry stared at the self-important young man, not knowing what to make out of the whole sequence of his thoughts. Napoleon was the fiery tyrannosaur of Gamji politics whose methodology, Jerry had long concluded, was too full of familiar dogma and fire: proud, stubborn and, of course, unreliable. Jerry would remind himself never to get carried away watching the antics of those peacocks, especially during their entire feather flushing and strutting. And Nap, as they called him, flushed a lot of feathers. There was only one point that Jerry was sure about: Nap was manic. He would smoke several rounds of cigarette brands and was wont to display the packets in long rows on his bookshelf. In fact, his sense of neat arrangement was impeccable when it came to empty Literary Society International, LSi

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cigarette packs, empty boxes of matches and used up lighters. And he generally got irritated when his rowdy jaunts (wearing dark glasses at nights, smoking wherever the sign read 'No Smoking,' and slapping women's bottom at parties) came under censure. Jerry would grimace each time he recalled Napoleon's dark glasses which seemed to cling perpetually to his brows in the night, and how he would answer in his usual serious manner when asked to remove his glasses that he viewed the problem of workers and the world through them. They had struck a closer degree of friendship by their nearviolent disagreements on every issue, except sharing beer occasionally, until it was as if each one, convinced that little could be done, had decided to leave the other to his own foolish ways. Now who wouldn't really be intrigued by this Napoleon and his talk of neutrality to countermand the tribal and myriad divisions in Gamji politics, Jerry thought. “See it this way again,” Napoleon extrapolated. “You take one step back to make two steps forward. Being a neutral for once and begging the tribe make one backward step but, in this case, I manipulate it to divert the votes to me. I win, and it is double victory for the revolution. Actually my comrade Yusuf derailed when he allowed his tribesmen to hijack his manifesto and spew their irredentism all over the place, and that's why I decided to come in… Just come and see me deliver my own,” he boasted. “Come join the legend of the time!” “And if you fail?” “Never,” Napoleon spat. “No politician ever contemplates failure in this business. I'm already the chief executive of Gamji union government, and remember, if all fails,” he made one deft movement of his right hand behind his back and fished out a pistol. “This doesn't.” Jerry was too taken aback to speak. It was a crude-looking thing, probably contracted from the local blacksmiths that lined the fringes of Gamji creek. But the damned African Short Stories Vol. 2

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tool looked harmful enough to drain the precious blood from the body of an unfortunate victim at close range. In an instant the gun was back where it came. “Oh come on Nap,” Jerry tried to act as intrepid as he was unconvinced. “Who do you hope to scare with that thing?”

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Down the Bend David Mikailu *

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I

woke up early in the morning to go my farm. It was sometime in October. My groundnuts -and beans especially- were ripe for the picking. As for the nuts they could be allowed in the farm a little longer but beans had to be harvested before the rodents attacked them. Since I hadn’t the money to spray against pests I reasoned must do all I could to harvest before an outbreak. I asked my husband of twelve years of marriage to help me with the farm work but, as usual, he gave excuses why it was better for him to stay back and go to the local government secretariat to see how his application for employment as a clerk was coming through. He always said that to avoid going to the farm with me. Meanwhile I knew he did nothing but sit under the tree at the secretariat playing cards with other jobless men from sunrise to sunset. Occasionally he would claim to pick the children from school, but the children -all grownups now- knew their way home, so he never picked them. My husband said anything and everything to avoid going to farm. Like a child he sometimes made silly excuses and even lied that he was sick. But as soon as I was gone he would leave for the secretariat to play. The produce was not worth the stress, he would lament. On occasion he would do the blame game; he blamed the rain, the government, and sometimes he even blamed me for not weeding the farm or applying fertilizer properly. On the few instances he actually went with me he had returned before noon, blaming the sun for being too hot and me for giving him a heavy meal which weakened his body. My husband believed with his grade two teachers’ certificate he

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was the most qualified for a white collar job. “You see, it’s okay for you to feed the family today because I will resume my part tomorrow when I eventually get a job,” he would tell me. He had heard that there would be screening in the secretariat (another blatant lie, having heard me talking about the help I would need in the farm the next day). I woke up early with dew on the grasses, made breakfast for the children and set out to the farm. I had already mapped out in my head the ground to cover; I wasn't going to be home until I completed it. But not long after I started out, I saw people running and screaming in panic. My initial thought was that a poisonous snake had bitten someone in the area. But on a closer look the people running were neither seemed familiar nor were they dressed for farm. “Run!” they were shouting. “Run! The insurgents have taken over the town.” I dropped my hoe and ran the opposite direction, heading back and thinking about my children and my husband. As I ran homewards, I saw more people and some were urging me to turn around. But I encouraged myself with the thought that somehow my husband had managed to escape with our children. I must find them. I encouraged myself thusly but lost heart when I saw the number of men trying to save their heads and the few women dragging children along with them. Suddenly I heard my name and behold my husband running towards me. “Maimunat! Thank God you are safe! I am so pleased to see you, oh my wife... It was terrible back there... my friends are dead... shot and hacked down with machetes,” he said and ran into my arms sobbing uncontrollably. “Where are the children?” I asked him. “The children! Oh my God! I forgot... No, I didn’t forget. How could I? But there was panic and I had to run. The insurgents kill all men on sight. However I know they are ok. My gut feeling tells me so.” African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“How do you know, eh? And what gut are you talking about? The same gut that said you will be employed since five years ago, or is it a new gut now?” Hot tears welled up in my eyes and dropped to my cheeks. “Haba Saminu, your children, Fa! You ran away and left your children?” I shook my head; my throat contracted and there were suddenly no words to tell him. “Please understand me. It’s not my wish to leave them behind, but I had to. There was carnage. I told you men got shot, no questions asked. I have lost friends. You know Hamisu, Labaran and even Hadeja the meat seller? They were all gunned down; I saw them lying dead as I fled. Those blood thirsty rascals are not joking. Once you are a man, you are a target. Not so much for women though. Please we are wasting time. Come with me,” he urged. I just turned around and ran homewards. But he came after me and held my hands and said: “Please don’t do this, don’t do this to me, come with me. You have me, we have us; children are gifts from God and we would have new ones if anything happens to them. I’ll be damned if I am to lose you too”. That was when I turned around and slapped his face with every power I could muster. I did not wait to see his reaction. I was sure that I had made him dumbstruck, and that my calloused farm hands left marks on his fair cheek. Only a senseless father would leave his children the moment he ought to step up and protect them. I did not bask in the satisfaction of slapping him. It was something I had since longed to do. I was just resolved to end the marriage once this was settled. I ran home. On the street were children abandoned and crying. It was chaos and panic. People were running; women were calling out their children and men who were still in the village went around looking for children and asking others if they had seen them. The bodies of the dead lay littered on the road. Others not yet dead lay writhing on the ground crying and begging for help. I imagined all of them to be children of their mothers now bloodied down by men who had Literary Society International, LSi

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decided that death was a duty they must inflict upon the innocent. Suddenly they came out from a bend wielding swords and guns. Some of them were on foot but most were seated on motorcycles, tricycles and Hi-lux vans abandoned or captured from soldiers. They were shooting sporadically into the air, chanting and singing war songs. When I saw them, I froze. They came straight to me and asked where my husband was. I told them I was from the farm and had no idea where my husband or children were, and I was anxious to find them. I recoiled in horror when they asked me to take them to my house. They would want to see my husband. “Why do you want to see him,” I asked timidly. “We want him to join us,” their leader, a mere youth said. “Will you kill him?” “Woman, you think we are playing a war game here? Stop asking questions and take us to your house!” The rest continued their rampage down the street. While we lumbered on, they shot everything they set their eyes on, not the women though. Saminu was right, after all, but I was still not forgiving him. Why couldn't they just conscript those men they were shooting? Why would they want to conscript my husband and not these men that they were shooting in the back? It was evident my husband would also be shot dead if they found him. These thoughts reeled in my head. I prayed frantically, calling upon all the angels of heaven to protect me and my children. Not long after, they seemed to have run out of bullets and resorted to using their swords and machetes. Puzzling was the fact that none of their male victims was putting up a fight even when they could not shoot. It was sickening to watch swords tearing into flesh while the victim whirled about in frenzy and pleas for mercy. The door in my house was locked from the inside; I just went on my knees and bowed my head to the ground in thanks. I knew then that my children were safe. The militants broke down the door and went inside looking for Saminu. My crying children told them that their father was not African Short Stories Vol. 2

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within. They had run from school and, seeing no one at home, they had barred the door, they said. The men searched the house and found no one. They stared at us for some brief, disquieting moments. Then they got ready to leave, asking us to remain inside. They ordered me to cook dinner. They would be back for it. But on their way out they looked around once more. I guess they must have seen how hopeless and poor we were and said I should not bother. Or was it a miracle of grace down the bend? I grabbed my kids and we sank to the floor and wept.

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Sacred Murder (II) Chudwin Godwin Ebuka *

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had Pos 102 the next morning. It was entitled Politics in Nigeria. How I hated school. I never liked it even when I got my first admission, then, in America. I had wanted to be a soldier. And though my admission into University of Nigeria was a temporary arrangement I still felt sick about the whole idea of academics. Malam Jibril had called to tell me that morning that Al-saif had promised to pay one million Naira if the mission was successful. I reasoned that once I got the money I would never have to go to school again. The lecture was about the Nigerian political crisis. The lecturer had stated that every crisis in Nigeria had political undertones. He cited several instances like the Jos crisis and Boko-Haram insurgency. But someone objected. It was Simon Okorie who currently was at the top of the GP ranking. He said the whole problem would have been political, if Islam, the religion of most northerners, hadn't been the way it was. He claimed that Islam was a volatile religion, and so were its adherents. He spoke more. He concluded that even though there was a political factor to the problem it could still be attributed to the religion that northerners were practising. “What about the militants of the south?” I asked. “Niger-Delta? Those ones can't be classed with Boko-Haram. Niger-Delta militants are fighting for mineral rights,” he countered. I was boiling and not sure if I succeeded in concealing my rage. If I had not faked being one of these people I would have defended my own people, I thought, in anger. Why should he speak such of Islam? The mask under which I was hiding was beginning to itch. I felt like I should just tear it off and show the jihadist in me. But I African Short Stories Vol. 2

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was John Okafor still. At least until I was ready to strike. Dr. Okeke, the lecturer had given us an assignment on the causes of violent conflicts in Nigeria so the argument circle that formed outside the lecture hall under the mango tree was widening. As I strolled by in Paul's company I heard someone narrating stories of how the Ibo were being killed in Hausa land. As we walked on Paul related his own story. He too had been forced out of school in his final year at the University of Maidugiri due to the random crisis in the north. So far today I was observing him closely to know if he had suspected anything from his last visit. All through the lecture he was acting reserved. While he spoke I wished I could just put the question straight. I wanted to ask him what he thought about me since he discovered I squatted a Hausa man and kept a few skulls in my cupboard -the way things turned out during his last visit at my place. But he looked completely blank as he headed into a restaurant. I called Malam Jibril. “He knows no'ing,” I told him. “I don't think he should be wasted just like that.” Malam Jibril didn't speak for a while. Then he finally asked, “Will he be at their crusade on that day?” I responded in the negative. He cut the call. I began to sweat. “Who was that?” His voice had me startled. I forgot I was still with Paul. He had gone to order food for both of us. I was not sure at what point in my dialogue with Makam he had come in. He took his seat directly opposite me in the restaurant. “What did you say?” I managed to ask. He just sat, searching my face. “What?” I followed up. If he had told me that I had been acting Literary Society International, LSi

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suspiciously I would have sighed in agreement. But he just said “Nothing” and concentrated on his meal. I was shrunken. He had just confirmed that he probably knew what I feared. “We're having Political Economy tomorrow,” he said finally as we ended our lunch and were parting. “Whatever,” I said inside me. The whole idea of Politics and Economy, like school, just sucked. I had wanted to be a US marine. That was why the military training I took before fully becoming part of Al-saif was the most exciting part of my entire experience. I was their sniper. It was during the training that I first saw Bash. He had been a guest instructor at the exercise. The chief of operations had introduced him as our guide in special studies. He boasted before all of us to have killed many non-Muslims and Muslims alike, home and abroad, in one snipe. I was not clear about his killing Muslims alike. But it was clear later that those Muslims that betrayed the holy cause were as good as Kafeerins. Bash's father was from Chad and was the official head of Al-saif. Bash quickly switched off his laptop the moment I came in the room. I knew he had many secrets locked up there –secrets that somehow excluded no one else but me. Because Malam Jibril had accessed it the day he came. “How was my father killed?” My question took him aback. “Why didn't you ask your uncle before now?” he replied, trying to hide his anxiety. “I don't know,” I shrugged. “Maybe I never cared till now.” “Well, according to what I heard, your father was sniped by the CIA. His death was never investigated and that's why the CIA is suspected. They are the only ones capable of such murder. Moreover, your father had worked for them. Who knows, he might have trespassed in some way. “That's why you have to do this: to have your revenge.” With African Short Stories Vol. 2

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those last words he was already sounding like my uncle. “What's about this system? All the files just seem to be locked.” I had switched on the laptop. Although it was not centrally locked almost all the files were secured with password security. “The files are samples of our tactics. They are mainly facts from previous missions, and we still learn and plan from them. So they are highly confidential,” he explained. Confidential, I noted. “The crusade is after tomorrow. You have tomorrow to tell us your friend's whereabout on that day. As you already know he must go with the bomb. If not, it’s either an isolated killing provokes security queries that might hamper the blast, or the blast might attract investigations and your friend might relate his suspicion.” I wondered why he had to repeat the procedure. With all the money promised me the idea of assassinating Paul still didn't digest well. That night, I sat up thinking about the assassination. I tried to put Paul in my shoes. Would he kill me under such vague circumstances? Tomorrow I was going to ask him. I was going to tell him I was a Muslim and see if he would hate me for that. If he did, well, I could just go ahead and bury him before the actual mission. “Islam is evil,” Paul exclaimed. I had met him at Madam White's restaurant located in a secluded street of the town. We had just listened to a broadcast on TV about a recent Boko-Haram attack in the north. The attack had claimed seventy eight lives. What annoyed Paul was that the victims -men, women and children- were mainly his tribesmen and women. “These people have killed us for too long.” He still thought I was Ibo. As we walked past a small Hausa community off the street, Paul pointed at the men trading fish. “These Aboki live in our towns peacefully. But they don't treat us the same way at their home. I feel like releasing a spray of bullets Literary Society International, LSi

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on them,” Paul blattered furiously. There was need to ask him what he would do if I was Muslim. He would spray me with bullets. “It’s their nonsensical faith. It naturally provokes hatred for other religions. I mean, over here, many people don't care if there are other religions apart from Christianity. In fact they call the mosques, Aboki Church. Nobody cares what you believe in.” I wanted to explain everything to him but I couldn't. I wanted to tell him all the things my father told me of the misconceptions about Islam, and the truth about everything. Islam did not support terrorism, I wanted to tell him. But I guessed that was risky. It might arouse his suspicion. For one reason, he had found one Aboki in my residence. There was no doubt he would ask what it was I had with Hausa people. “We are striking 9.00 am tomorrow,” Bash said, as he brought down some parcels from the ceiling. He had padlocked the door from outside and had come in through the window so the neighbours would think we were gone for lectures. Bash had been easily passed for a student. They called him my brother -‘John's brother,’ they would say. There were not many people living in the detached compound: only three tenants in all. So there had been no suspicion at all about us. They believed we were just Ibo boys who didn't understand their own language having been been raised abroad. “I visited the street today. Our mission is very easy. The restaurant you guys normally use is near the street of the crusade ground.” He was talking about Obuma Street. It was a rather quiet street with most houses on the adjacent part. The other part was mainly a bush and a local football field. That was where the crusade was holding. “The restaurant, that is,” he was scratching his head. “Madam White,” I helped him. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“...is directly opposite the crusade ground. So you will just invite him for breakfast. Or tell him to meet you at the crusade ground.” “Paul is Catholic; he wouldn't be going to a Deeper Life program. At the restaurant he would be a victim of the bomb too? Is that feasible?” I was helping him with checking the rifles to test their state of readiness. “No. His killing is modelled after an old mission. So don't worry; everything is mapped out. There is a five-storeyed building on that same street. You will snipe from there. The good thing is that an ally of Al-saif lives on the third floor. You saw him that day in the meeting. He will be travelling with his family this evening. He will introduce you to his neighbours, behind his family, as his nephew.” The plan was excellent. Bash had parked some cars fully stocked with explosives at the event venue. They were five cars in that order distributed around the field.

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.

I was catching fun. I liked the whole thing. It felt like being in the movies. From my telescope I could see Bash on the other side of the street hidden in the bush. He had the twin of my US 7.62mm M24 silenced rifle. He would finish the target after me just in case. He also had the switch key of the bombs. I didn’t know about bombs that much. The period I took the military course the specialist instructor on that field was on other missions. My hand shivered as I put a call through to Paul. The event timed for 8.00 am had begun some hours ago. It was now 11:30. The crowd was packed full. I pitied Paul as his voice came on the phone. For the first time I was glad to end this. Paul sounded full of life -the life that I would deprive him. No doubt I would miss him. “I'm on my way,” he replied. I wished he had said otherwise. My phone rang almost immediately I ended Paul’s. It was Malam Jibril. Literary Society International, LSi

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“My son, this is it,” he said in English. “See it as your chance to avenge your father. Al-saif is promising to double the money. Half of the whole cash is in your name. This is your first job, I know, but it is honourable because it’s for God. You will make it to Paradise.” With this he ended the call. Paul had just alighted from a bike, smiling. If only he knew his life was now a pipeline being attacked from both ends, I thought. I saw Bash raise his phone to his ears. He was now a stone’s throw away from where I had sighted him. I thought my phone would ring, but it didn't. I guessed he was speaking with someone else. My heart was beating fast when I saw him end the call. It didn't last a minute. He put the phone back to his ears, and then my phone rang. Paul was almost inside the restaurant when an unfamiliar youth seemed to have stopped him. “Strike now!” came the instruction. I closed my eyes and counted my heartbeat to ten; then I shot. I saw Bash slump. I saw the bush behind him rattle. Malam Jibril was right: nothing felt right like killing a traitor. He was right again: sacred murder was special; it didn't come with guilty feelings. It came with pride and peace instead. Bash had killed my father the same way. Yesterday I uncovered many facts and secrets, thanks to the master code I used to break his security password. This mission was modelled after my father's execution. Bash had shot dad from our high rise apartment in America. Al-saif had left no single clue or trace. At least, so it seemed. “Paul!” I panted on the phone. “John?” he demanded. “Why are you sounding like this?” he inquired with concern. There was a brief silence on the phone from my end. “I am not John. I mean... that's not my real name. My name is Rasheed. I just killed a terrorist.” I was trying to catch my breath and put it under my control. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“What are you talking about?” “See your roommate -I gave him a CD to keep for you. Maybe, after you watch the content, you will agree with Dr Okeke that terrorism is not a by-product religion. You will know that it’s all political. And don't forget to tell Simon.” I had copied the secret files Bash had in his laptop to the CD. The facts were highly classified. It would implicate many top Nigerian politicians. Only now did I consider Paul's safety in possessing those. “If you were in my shoes you would have killed me. Yes, you said that before. But I didn't kill you. I rather killed for you. Because my father told me that the only difference amongst men before the sight of Allah is that between good men and evil ones. I will not kill you because I'm a real Muslim. Because killing a human being you didn't create is the worst sin under Allah. I want to make it to paradise. And I know we will meet if you make it to heaven. Because I still think we worship one God. Islam is far from what you think. Islam is peace.” I was sobbing over the line and it seemed Paul too was rather overwhelmed. “Where are you?” I had him catch his breath. “Call the police and get the cars off the crusade ground. There are bombs in there!” I cut and switched off the phone. I crushed it, dismantled the rifle set, packed my bags… I was not scared as I ran. Perhaps I had found peace. Only on one aspect: I had committed sacred murder.

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From Behind the Scene Augustine Aikoriogie *

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ast week he had a dream… Tunde had had his share of the misfortunes of life. He was the fourth in a family of five. But it was rumoured that he was a Born-throway. He had grown up in the midst of his family like a stranger because the night his seed was sown was the darkest the family had ever experienced. It was the night armed robbers visited Mr Oke’s family. People said they must have been tipped off by an insider because Oke had just collected a huge loan from his company. The men raped Mrs Oke and murdered their first daughter because she resisted them. Two weeks later when his wife Oke came back from the hospital with a report in her hand Mr Oke felt the bile of anger that had welled inside him all those days. “May I go blind when I set my eyes on that bastard!” It was Mr Oke’s mother, Mammy. Finally Tunde had come into a world of disdain. “Congratulations sir, your wife has just given birth to a baby boy,” the doctor told Mr Oke over the phone. He had just collected his phone number from the wife who had rammed it over in her pains. It was mixed feelings for mother and son. Mr Oke, slightly relieved when he heard ‘a bouncing baby boy’ from the other side of the line, quickly called his mother. “Hello Mammy!” “Omo mi, how are you?” “Shade has given birth.” He waited to observe if he could get a clue as to his mother’s countenance. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“She gave birth to a boy.” The silence became longer. He could sense his mother hide her uneasy feeling. “Have you gone to see her? Where is she now?” “The doctor just called… I am on my way to the hospital.” “Alright, my son, I will catch the first bus tomorrow to Lagos.” When they visited her in the hospital Mrs Oke didn’t know what expression to put up. It was Mammy who went first to her. “My daughter, don’t cry. God knows why he allowed it to happen.” She folded the tip of her wrapper and wiped Mrs Oke’s tears. Mrs Oke perceived the smell of dried fish but she was too downcast to complain. “Before Baba Wale died he promised to come back. He said he would put his enemies to shame. They laughed at him and called him illiterate.” Suddenly Mammy pointed a finger to the ceiling of the hospital room. “Baba Wale, why did you come like this?” “Mammy, don’t say things like that. The pastors will be here any moment.” Mammy shook her head in a manner that was both expressionless and metaphorical. She too had had a dream… Later that evening she got home and sat her son down in the sitting room. She told him how under the leaking brown zinc in the village she had felt a presence mightily come upon her in the night. Although she had wanted to struggle, she hadn’t. Finally when her eyes opened she observed that the lantern in the opposite room was barely lit. She got up. The presence was still mightily upon her as she struggled and staggered up. When she got to the room, behold, it was as if someone had just left. The dusts and cobwebs that had calibrated every matrimonial item there were no longer to be seen. Obviously someone had cleaned up the house. She went close to the lantern and tried to blow it off. Then another thing happened. The light would not go out. Probably the air in her mouth was not Literary Society International, LSi

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enough. So she reached for the hand fan in her room where she kept it. The Abebe was not there. But it was supposed to be in her room. She checked underneath her bed. Then the remnant of sleep went from her eyes. The Abebe lay underneath the bed just the way Baba Wale used to keep it. Then it dawned on her the light which would not go out was no ordinary light. A great fear immediately came over her. She thought of running out to call for help but it was far deep into the night. She felt a chill within when she heard the rhythmic sound of pounding mortar from the kitchen. A deluge of sweat suddenly rained upon her. “Baba Wale, have you come for me? Take me if it’s me you want.” The pounding ceased and a song theme came up from inside her: Olo mi mo feranre Ayan mo ni mo feran re

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Minutes after, she became still. She needed not be told that someone needed her attention. The priest who ministered on the day Tunde was named had a hectic time sorting out the topic of his message. After having sleepless night on how to counsel the miserable mother, he finally settled for a title -God Knows Why Things Happen. Mr Oke‘s family members did not show up. They had insisted that it was over their dead bodies a bastard would be welcomed into their family. Even Mrs Oke’s mother had demanded that the foetus be aborted months ago but her daughter had refused. Mrs Oke didn’t know why she refused her mother’s request although a part of her had resented the thing in her womb. Men of God came to pray for the child. Their prayer centred around three demands: that the child would accomplish his purpose on earth; that he wouldn’t die an untimely death, and the child should grow in the wisdom and knowledge of God. However, some years later, Tunde shocked Pastor Ifaniran African Short Stories Vol. 2

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during children’s Bible Study. Tunde raised his hand and asked: “Pastor, why is God not black in complexion?” What followed was wild laughter from the children and two weeks’ suspension for Tunde. The pastor concluded he was a bad influence on other children. Ifaniran remarked to Mrs Oke: “The tares the enemies sowed are growing into a tree. If we don’t cut it down I fear for the entire forest.” The pastor was known for his riddles and parables. He further went to prescribe three days of dry fasting for the entire family. When Mr Oke asked for the reasons for fasting, his wife didn’t say. “In that case I leave the entire fasting to you,” he told his wife. Tunde’s first day at school was equally remarkable. The family story had it that on that day the elder Feyisayo, Seun and Ajoke got dressed for school each of them had complained of one missing item or the other. Feyisayo complained of her pair of socks, Seun her sandals, and Ajoke her pencil. Mrs Oke had just returned from the backyard where she went to spread her clothes on the ropes when she called on Tunde for his brunch. “Tunde! Tunde!!” But the lad did not show up. She thought it was a joke. Maybe he was hiding somewhere and would reveal himself eventually. The tears soon welled up her eyes as she went from house to house inquiring if her son was there. Hours later when she came home she found the headmaster waiting in the sitting room. Tunde sat at a corner watching a cartoon and quite oblivious of anything. “I noticed a boy sitting at the back of the class,” the headmaster began. “He was odd because he was in his pants and singlet.” Mrs Oke stood agape as the headmaster continued his story. “He had an unusual concentration. When I finally got his attention he told me he wanted no uniform. He said his grandmother was sick and he wanted to cure her.” “Yes Mammy is sick; she has a heart condition.” It was Mammy who had felt a stab on her chest when it happened… Literary Society International, LSi

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Tunde soon won the love of most of the teachers at school. He wasn’t the most intelligent but he had such gracious mien that made it impossible to be angry with him. One afternoon he ran home to tell his father and mother about a scholarship test he wrote. “Mummy, Daddy, you wouldn’t have to pay school fees till I write my SSCE if I pass this test.” “Adupe! We thank God,” his mother said as she ran her hand across a young lad who was sitting on the arm cushion. “I knew your father’s head will bring you good luck one day.” Tunde watched his father engrossed with the TV. “Daddy, good afternoon. I greeted you earlier.” “Ehen, I heard you O-Jare. You wrote a scholarship? Adupe!” Mr Oke didn’t look at him as he responded to his son’s greeting. If his wife observed this, she didn’t show it. An evening ago husband and wife had quarrelled in low voices in the bedroom. “I think we should tell him the truth, and let the lad know,” husband had said. “Daddy, we can’t do this to him. You’ve always been his father.” “But the truth is I am not.” “Daddy Ola,” a tear had formed in her eyes. “Don’t break the peace that we share in this house.” “Has there ever been peace? Sometimes you should stop and consider how I feel.” She kept quiet and went to her dressing mirror, picked up her Mary Kay lipstick. “Okay, what do you intend to tell him?” “That I’m not his father” Mrs Oke looked at looked at her husband. She had never seen him in this element. He had said ‘I’m not his father’ with an involuntary power which suggested it came from a source that had been long concealed. “And what good does that do?” African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“At least he will know the truth and, maybe, begin to make plans to leave my house.” The argument ended without any conclusions. That night husband and wife slept in different rooms. It was Pastor Ifaniran who came several days later to settle the matter. Mr Oke had said a grudging apology. “If it is the will of God, so be it.” Weeks later Mammy came visiting from the village. It was on her son’s insistence. She needed to get better treatment at the city general hospital. The queues were usually long at general hospital. Mrs Oke had advised that Mammy leave as early as six in the morning to be among the first out-patients to be attended. So Mammy in the company of her son got to the hospital some minutes after six where they met only ten people. Hospitals had a particular smell which irritated Mammy and made her feel she was going to die. People hurried here and there. A nurse stood over Mammy and was mumbling something in English which she did not understand. “What is that woman saying?” Mammy asked her son. “She is advising you on proper hygiene,” Mr Oke answered. Mammy looked the other way. It was as if the nurse was talking nonsense. In her younger days she would have confronted the lady or given her a dirty slap depending on her mood. Soon another nurse came to them. “All from tally number one to twenty move to the other room!” Mammy and Mrs Oke got up. On their way they saw two nurses aiding a pregnant woman, “Abeg madam, waka now! Na only you be the woman wen get belle here?” one of them snapped petulantly. Mammy stopped to observe. “Wen you dey do the thing, e dey sweet you. You no think of this day,” the other nurse added. “Wetin man dey do!” an elderly man said as he glanced at Mr Oke. He had said it with an air of gloating about virile men who Literary Society International, LSi

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made their wives pregnant, expecting Mr Oke to concur in support. “The rod is our strength,” he continued. “Wetin una sabi do do?” another plump elderly woman interrupted him. “No be to fuck-fuck una sabi,” she said as she hissed and looked the other way. “You see…” the man took it up from there. “That’s what I am saying!” Mr Oke stood up pretending to be searching for a rest room. When he came back he saw a group of women wailing. He recognized one of them. She was the woman who had interrupted the elderly man some minutes ago. “Madam, what happened?” he asked in a whisper. “That doctor! May he not see the light of the day! May his intestines burst and may the blood gush from his stomach!” “What happened?” Mr Oke couldn’t take more of the series of curses that flowed effortlessly from her. “That idiot! He gave me my husband’s case file and told me he was coming. But my husband is dying and he’s nowhere to be found.” “Hmm!” Mr Oke sighed. He didn’t know how to console the woman before him. “This place smells of death,” Mammy told Mr Oke. “Take me home. I think I am feeling alright already.” Later that day a car was driven leisurely to the front of Mr Oke’s compound. A man stepped out. He was dark and thickly built. He wore a dark suit which looked rather glossy and spotless. The three sisters, Sayo, Seun and Ajoke were standing outside whispering in audible voices that sometimes made Tunde wonder what tricks the ladies shared. Of course he was not oblivious of the fact that they did that because of their father. These days Mr Oke was an irritant to any male who visited his daughter. There was the day a young man dressed in jeans and t-shirt had come to ask of African Short Stories Vol. 2

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Seun. “Young man, who did you say you are again?” “I am Emeka from Unilag. I am a student of Theatre Arts.” Mr Oke kept quiet for a minute that seemed like eternity. After sizing the young man up, he said: “You are Emeka… From Unilag?” “Yes,” the young man said unsure if that was a question. “Emeka or Odumegoo, are you not supposed to be in school?” Emeka shivered. “Are you the Vee-Cee or captain of your school? And you said you study theatre arts? What do you want to do with that? Become Noah or Jim? Now get out of my compound! And don’t you ever step your feet here again or…” Mr Oke left it unsaid and quickly entered his room. Later when Ajoke who had hidden by the window to eavesdrop narrated the incident to Sayo and Seun she added that Daddy’s veins sprouted in enragement as he vibrated the warning to Emeka who was on his knees and pleading. She also said Daddy’s eyes were red as he cursed Emeka’s entire lineage. Later again when Seun reported the matter to Mrs Oke the story altered a little. ‘Emeka was kneeling’ became ‘Emeka was forced into the waste drum by the balcony.’ Daddy’s curses became Emeka’s family shall be struck with impotence. The day Sayo narrated it in the campus hotel Seun was surprised to hear her say that Daddy threatened to kill Emeka whenever he saw the lad again. The dark, thickly built man walked up to the three girls. “Hello. I guess this is Mr and Mrs Okeowo’s Compound.” The girls nodded in unison. “I’m here in respect of Babatunde Okeowo. I guess he lives here too.” “Yes,” Sayo smiled to show her white set of teeth. They sparkled and the man observed it. “I am Adesola Briggs from BCC Communications. Babatunde Literary Society International, LSi

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wrote a scholarship exam and came first in the entire federation.” The girls jumped onto one another with screams of delight. They could not contain their joy as they shouted “Tunde! Tunde!” Ajoke was first to run inside the house. She was out again with their mother following. The woman went to Mr Briggs and almost started kissing his hand. “I am Mrs Oke, Tunde’s mother.” “Oh! Congratulations, madam!” He handed her an envelope.

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It was celebration galore. Friends and well-wishers trooped in to share in the joy of the family. Tunde’s classmates in college also came. They sang different songs and danced to local music. Tunde introduced his sisters to his friends. Everyone was happy except the one who stayed quietly in the room. That night Mammy had insisted that her food and Tunde’s be served together. While they ate she cracked jokes, shared stories and sang songs to him. “My son told me you won a scholarship.” “Yes Mammy,” Tunde replied. She paused and stared at him for a long time. “I’ve always been very sure that you’ll be great. Although I didn’t like you earlier -forgive me, my husband, I was ignorant. You tried to tell me the night you came to this world but I did not understand.” “Mammy, I don’t know what you‘re saying,” Tunde replied. “You do,” Mammy immediately countered. “You do. You told me you would come back that night you held my hands and told me not to cry. You said you’d wipe my tears away.” Tunde had learnt not to argue with Mammy. When she was tired she would sleep off. “Please do this one thing for me. When you see the Oyinbo man who sacked your father and called him Conconbility, my son, slap him for me. I shall be proud of you in my grave when you do that.” African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“Okay, I will do that,” Tunde said and laughed in his heart. He couldn’t imagine himself slapping his classmates let alone a white man. Then the thought of slapping someone came to him. It made him chuckle. It wasn’t really a bad idea. He had resented the cynicism of Mr Bonaventure, his English teacher. Mr Bonaventure had once said in class that he could see the country disintegrating in the nearest future. He had taken his time to analyse the artificial thread which held the country together and discovered it was a matter of time. Anything fake will fade. Tunde had felt the urge to climb the desk and give him a theatrical slap as it was done in the movies. Tunde imagined the slap landing on Mr Bonaventure’s right cheek and his complexion beginning to pale. He imagined his teacher wincing in pain and himself grinning as Mr Bonaventure’s skin began to peel off. Slowly, a smile formed on his face. That night, when Tunde slept, he dreamt that he slapped everybody in his class except Tunrayo. He slapped all his teachers; he slapped the principal. And he even slapped Mr Oke. It was Mr Bonaventure he slapped last. He slapped him severally until his hand ached. Mammy was sitting in a corner laughing. The more Mammy laughed, the more power he had to slap anyone. Mammy had laughed and laughed until suddenly her teeth began to drop. He woke up, soaked in his own sweat. He could still hear Mammy’s diabolical laughter in a dark chamber of his mind. He went to look at her. She was deep in sleep. Her snores sounded like singing: Quietly, quietly everyone went to sleep Drowsily drowsily they began to dream While some woke up midwaySome dreamt to the end For those of us who still dreaming Be still and recall those dreams interrupted.

The next money the children woke up to do their daily chores. Sayo swept the compound; Seun washed and arranged the plates. Ajoke mopped the floor, cleaned the electronics and arranged the chair covers while Damilola, the last boy, got dressed to go to Literary Society International, LSi

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school. Mrs Oke woke up late; she went to the kitchen and assisted Seun in arranging the plates. “Tunde! Tunde!” Mr Oke called out. He had been awake in his room reading an old newspaper. He was in his Kembé trousers and his chest was bare. He opened the door. “Ajoke, have you seen Tunde this morning?” Mr Oke asked as he dropped the newspaper on the dining table and stretched out his right hand to reach out to his bible lying by the edge of the table. “No,” Ajoke said and continued mopping. Later she raised her head to suggest: “Maybe, you should check his room. I don’t think he is awake.” By now Mrs Oke had joined her husband in the parlour. “Sleeping, at this time? That’s unusual,” she said looking straight at Ajoke “Mummy, maybe it’s the hangover of the party.” “Hangover Ko, hangover Ni! Wake him up! I need him to go to the bank for me today,” Mrs Oke said. They knocked on Tunde’s door for few minutes without response. They glanced at one another as if each knew what the other thought. Mr Oke applied a little force with his leg and the door gave way. What they saw made them stand still. Nobody took note of the time they stood at the entrance of the door but it was Mr Oke who quickly grabbed Tunde’s lifeless body on the bed. He looked swollen. Mrs Oke collapsed on the floor. “Oh God! I am dreaming! This is impossible! This can’t be!” Ajoke grabbed her mother and both of them collapsed on the floor. Sayo, Seun and Damilola rushed in. “Get my car keys! My car keys!” Mr Oke shouted as he struggled to lift the lad in his arms. At the hospital the children were all weeping in panic. They were joined by friends who had heard the tragic news. The doctor, a tall lanky man in glasses, walked in. He was accompanied by Mr Oke. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“The result shows that he was poisoned,” the doctor announced in a quiet but steady voice to Mr Oke. The children wailed. Mrs Oke jumped up several times. “My enemies! They have succeeded!” Tears rushed down from her eyes. Those who narrated the story later said they saw blood drip down Mrs Oke’s face. Mr Oke folded his hands across his arms. He shook his head, and more tears flowed uncontrollably. Rumour mongers had it that they saw Mr Oke’s white teeth and couldn’t make out if he was crying or laughing. That same morning in the village, those mongers also said, Mammy had felt a pain in the chest and slumped dead.

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Return to Koloko Chin Ce *

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A

nd so, after those six years of college and work experience, Chief Dogkiller was finally in jail, and I was heading home to Koloko. Somehow I had begun to consider myself a man of my own world; after all, my CV was quite impressive: I had finished college, done a stint of press work, joined defence academy, deserted almost immediately. In the few months ahead I hoped to find my bearing although, at present, I knew not where. Did I add I was a father too? But that's not the story now. The truth was that I was heading to Koloko not by choice. I had an urgent call. Mam's telegram which I was carrying on a piece of paper bore not the slightest hint of casualness. It said a great tree had fallen. Some old folk's dead in the house again? Could it be Old Bap? Kata, I knew, died long before. Even Big Mam who left next never got to know of her sister’s death. Poor woman! 'We kept the news from her, 'Junior had told me in one of his letters during my brief stint with the academy in Achi, a red-earth town nine hundred kilometres from Koloko. The passage of the old ones had troubled my dreams. I had tried to write them down to aid my understanding of what was happening within me and, thereafter, I had everything tucked away somewhere in my memory for future reference. One of my entries read something like this: Three mummified bodies nearly scare the wits out of me in a chilly coven cast in grotesque dimensions.

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In another dream of my grandparents I had written:

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The old couple are dressed in rich lace and George. They're standing by a dusty Koloko junction smiling and showing brilliant white teeth. Then they say goodbye and turn to walk further down the road…

This was the same road of many years back, I wistfully recollected. It seemed to leap ungainly toward me as I hurried down home. The old bumps and gallops were still there; the yawning gullies too. Walking down, each step I made was accompanied with an uneasy sensation. My mind bled to see the state in which Koloko sprawled, neglected by successive governments of her nation in a marriage of mutual lack of thought. A short, rickety bicycle was clattering from the opposite direction. The rider tried to avoid a big hole but ran right into it. The old rusted metal clanged and shook vigorously as the rider battled to retake control. I recognised Ham, Buff's younger brother. 'Hey, old fella,' he called at the same time, halting his bicycle with both legs swishing on the ground. There were clearly no brakes in that junk of metal. Ham looked pleased to see me. 'Long time boss,' he grinned. I remembered that grin by the washbasin in the house of Fathead. Ham had been drinking. He looked jaunty and had taken a lot of Buff’s mannerisms. 'Yeah men, lemme give you a royal ride,' he offered and instantly wheeled the bicycle in a semi circle. I squatted gingerly on the narrow back seat which creaked at the added weight of me and my travelling bag. Ham drove roughly and jerkily. 'I am just coming from your compound. Your old Bap's wake keeping is tonight,' he told me sanguinely. 'Is that so?' I now knew where he had had his drink. 'Oh, you didn't know this?' he remarked, and seemed a little surprised at my indifference. 'I had thought as much,' I explained. 'I got Mam's letter and African Short Stories Vol. 2

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guessed so.' 'That's tomorrow. Tonight is the keeping-awake-for-all-night,' and he proceeded to chatter through the rest of the journey but my attention was somewhere else. We entered the compound and the sands made riding difficult. I came down. 'Thanks for the ride, Ham. Tell Buff and Dickie I'm home.' I had not forgotten my childhood chums. Ham shook his head. 'Buff's no more in town! And Dickie, he's gone to Lakasa!' He waved and clanged away on his cycle. Lakasa? What was Dickie doing in a camp for mental people? I knew Dickie used to smoke cigarettes and some other stuff I didn't bother about. But it couldn't have been that bad. Lakasa was not far from Koloko. I had to find out later. Old Bap's house was now hidden among a row of canopies stretching from the house toward the road. They were supplemented by booths hastily made with palm fronds. The benches had all been laid out and some men sat in groups talking in raised voices. The old house peeked at me -that massive structure whose better days its inheritors had tried to restore in the new yellow and red paint on the walls and rooftop. Its wooden panes that Old Bap called the famous ‘Jalousie’ now had an oil brown shine and the steps leading to the high veranda had been redone in a bid to match the splendour of the new appearance. I took the four high steps at a jump past the narrow lounge and into the wide parlour and came to a halt. The smell of formaldehyde hit my nose even as my eyes took in the physical transformation in front of me. White lace curtains were hung and parted on the rails surrounding the king-size bed. Old Bap was draped in white cassocks and gloves -the famous cloak of his priesthood. His cassocks covered down his shrouded feet which stuck out gingerly. On his head hung the rich, splendid legacy of his eighty nine years of citizenship, outliving, surpassing any of his peers in all the Literary Society International, LSi

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villages of Koloko. Thus draped in this still, silent depth of profundity, my grand dad slept. Above, tiny orange, blue and red lights hanging across the bedrailing twinkled like bright luminous stars in the heavenly galaxies. They cast an astral glow about the room. The air was dry here, mingling in the faint smell of formaldehyde. The standing fan at the bed's edge sizzled and fluttered with a bluish hue and blew the padding and decorations that lined the walls and ceiling. My eyes reverted to the frozen body of Old Bap again as I circled his bed. A faint chord tugged at my emotions. Old Bap looked frail, perhaps too crumpled and shrunken beneath the thin fragile embalmment. The spirit was gone. 'Maybe, Old Bap,' I thought to myself, 'you are really hovering there above the curtained ceiling or standing at a corner of the draped walls staring at the now useless body you have worn for eighty nine years, discarded, a disused clothing among the rest panoplies of cotton and wool and papers and silk and linen. 'It is not you that lie here still and immobile before the mass of relatives and descendants who, every now and then, circle round you in this room where you lie on a coffin spread and laid on the linendraped bed. 'Time was when you sang your song in the loneliness of your nights, your song of consolation which had become the strap by which I shall always remember you. This song now ringing and echoing in my mind has summarised the faith with which you bore your missionary zeal through this world and now beyond:' Who can say -that my lord hath Never shown His compassion? Is there a- ny one my lord hath Never shown His compassion?

Old Bap was gone. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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Kata too, gone. Hers, it was said, was full of her usual drama, for she went into the beyond with her gin bottle, accused visiting relatives of pinching her even on her deathbed, and cursed Big Mam till the final breath. But Old Bap had gone quietly. Peacefully, he had yielded that garment and stepped into the inner planes, maybe singing: 'Compassion, compassion.' I doubted if his path and that of Kata's would ever cross or if he would have cause to mutter again, 'this inconsequency…' No, Old Bap had gone to higher realms. 'YOYO!' Bap's voice boomed loudly from the backyard and I jerked back to physical consciousness. When my father saw me approaching where he sat among a circle of friends and sympathisers holding palm wine glasses in their hands, his voice rose louder, happily. 'There you are,' he called and to the group he said -I think there was a touch of pride there- 'That's my son, joined the army.' Then he ordered them good humouredly, 'C'mon shake hands with your future C-in-C.' I flinched inwardly as I moved to shake hands in turn with the men whose eyes boring into mine could make a rolling boulder halt in mid stream. Bap motioned to the side room. 'Your mother is in the house.' I was happy to leave the company of the men and bounded like a deer to see my mother. Mam embraced me lovingly. Mother was getting older, just like Bap. Her mass of hair which used to be black and plaited was all grey and haggard. I looked into her eyes which had gone deep with age too, but the love and warmth of Mam was there and that was something I knew would never age. 'You got my message, son?' 'Yes Mam, I loved Old Bap very much.' She laughed, and then sighed deeply, which told me Mam was worried. Behind the funeral of the dead lay the clamour of the living. But there would be time for that later.

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Old Bap was buried the next day in the church, a befitting honour for an exemplary missionary. I stood between Bap and Goodman who were both dressed in black. The coffin was lowered onto the ground and Bap threw two shovelfuls of sand. Earth to earth. And he turned away with a tear or two on his face. Later we silently rode back to the house where some of the guests chattered about the funeral and others complained about their share of food and drinks. It was noisy outside the house. The noise of gospel music was loudest. And the dancers shuffled about the ground, swaying tirelessly in and out of rhythm. And more crowds poured in to say their sympathies and have their rounds with kola nuts and palm wine... Finally, two days after the burial, the family came around to other matters of the living. Mabelle and Mam had shared old wives' tales about Old Bap's remarkable qualities. Father was chattering with Uncle Bark about the hope of a future general in the family when I announced -rather treacherously come to think of it- that I had left that mindless group some time ago. I imagined my declaration would quiet down Bap in his talkative stream. I could see the news threw a damp cloth over his zealous hopes. He didn't need to ask why. His son had this capacity for such foolish surprises. His question when it came, though, caught me by its tacit note of indictment. 'So what now from here on?' I told them I was considering a number of options, like travelling out of the country, 'I have my mind on a few decent places.' Bap was trying to add something when Mam turned to me with a casual question about my family. 'They're alright,' I told her. 'I'll be going back to see them tomorrow.' Uncle Goodman was sipping his drink. There was a distant, African Short Stories Vol. 2

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contemplative expression on his face. Bark had both hands in his trouser pockets as he had stood prattling for the past hour. The women included Mam and Dora, in addition to Mabelle who had come to sympathise. Bap was slumped on the sofa one leg thrown over the hand-rest in his favourite sitting posture. The talk had quietened again at my mention of tomorrow's departure. 'Ah, you mean you cannot stay a few more days?' Mam asked. 'Stay till the second burial, at least,' Mabelle urged, her dirty grey hair making her look the scarecrow she was. 'My father didn't wish for a second burial,' Bap instantly interposed. 'The burial is over,' he reminded everyone. 'That's right, Old Bap is buried, and that's more important,' I agreed, while thinking I should be getting back to my own life which stretched ahead of me and the new one that had come to the world through me. There was silence. Bark spoke, his hands still in his pocket, giving a shrug as if to deflect the silence. 'Well, it's all right. Yoyo may go when he wants,' he said. 'A young man must attend to his dreams at the prime of life, and time doesn't wait. I remember how I stowed to London in those days…' he began, but Bap didn't wait for him to finish. His remark was directed to me. 'At least, when can we see our granddaughter, Yoyo?' 'Soon, very soon, sir,' I answered warily with a nod of my head. I saw Mabelle open her mouth in dumbfoundment; saw her lips twitch as if uncertain how best to state her case. Finally she started, like the hyena stalking her prey with that pretended sideways movement. 'Why, Yoyo is a father now!' she remarked with exaggerated surprise. And nobody told me a thing.' Turning to Mam, 'when was this announced according to custom?' she demanded. I glanced towards Mam who was looking from me to Mabelle, a half smile playing on her face. And I was amused at how her loyalty, at this moment, appeared to hover between her son and a Literary Society International, LSi

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ritual in which she was draped but which guys like me had begun to discard -like Old Bap's body garment. Dora was reclining on the sofa next to Bap's avoiding every body's eyes with placid disinterest. Dora, so very much like our mother, was always keeping her thoughts to herself, and she even surpassed the holy Mary in this quality. But unknown to them, Dora had given me a clue as to the new attitude to hold for these sons and daughters of Koloko. Though I could see us parting ways, but like building blocks being laid so slowly, Koloko was moving on even with all the familiar and mouldy growth. With the news of my fatherhood, Mabelle had begun singing the ululation joined by Mam: O-wo wo! O-wo worom! And Bark was speaking to Bap in his usual humorous manner: 'Congratulations old fellow, you are a grand father! 'Now your old man's shoes will fit you so well, don't you think?' And they laughed.

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Part 2 Something the snake sallied…

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-Millennial

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May Day! May Day! Chin Ce *

“W

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ow! Take it easy,” Babul began, sensing my body rising in protest. I knew he was up to more tricks whenever he said 'take it easy' in that condescending and conciliatory manner of his. “Let’s regress a bit now,” he continued; “let’s go a little further back in time, not very far from here.... It's still the hoary eighties. Surely you remember May Day. “You were running, actually fleeing, from those canister balls. They stung painfully in the lungs but you ran, along with the others, fleeing like rabbits, paws, tails and everything. “Yes, you are there now. And those balls thudded everywhere. Your eyes followed the pair of canvas shoes ahead that seemed to flit noiselessly across the ground...” Listening to his droning had my mind considerably dulled, and made his invasion an easy drill. My brain was like a malfunctioned clock working slowly backward, then reeling dizzily anti clockwise. My body went numb as the legs in canvas shoes my eyes were following suddenly leapt high up and landed on the dust. I tried to jump but too late! I came down with a heavy thud. A canister hit my head. The fumes hissed directly under my nose. Another. Then another. I scrambled to my feet, lungs suffocating, my eyes stinging, my face smarting painfully. In the haze I caught a glimpse of a blue uniform edging after me. Mad dogs! I spat and coughed violently. It felt like hell as the balls rained down. I was dazed; I ran harder. My lungs were threatening to burst.

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Then it seemed I had burst through the thicket. There was the hostel... Another of our mates had run to drop flat on his stomach in front of an excited group of our colleagues. “Water!” he coughed, “Water!” He rolled on his back. There came some faint excited screams. An eternity must have passed before he felt the blessed water splash all over his face. He turned on his belly. The water splashed on his head, ears and neck. He kicked and sprang to his feet. That was Malik shaking his head and body like a cat shaking off water. Then I looked again and saw many others, haggard, bruised and fierce with excitement. “Solidarity!” they yelled. “Solidarity!” we chimed together. Again came the sharp whistle of sirens loud and ominous. From the din someone shouted: “Look out!” It was an incredible sight to behold. Tanks! Tanks were looming menacingly closer. “Those men are mad,” a thin female voice screamed pointedly. “How dare they invade our quarters!” But soon things were flying: Rat-tat-tat! “Bullets!” Terrified bodies surged to the wide panel-doorway, scrambling for a hold. Frantic screams were heard. I received a shove as if from an elephant and landed on the floor thoroughly jarred. Another followed. And then another. But up again was I wading, treading through flesh and muscles. Once inside we ran up the stairs to the very last floor. From the safety of one of the hall rooms we stared and monitored the progress of events below. The tank had stopped some hundred yards away. Hooded figures, guns in their hands, prowled the ground, combatready. With quick furtive glances in every angle they brought down the barricades hastily tossed there by our gallant female comrades. “Those bustards think they are fighting a war,” I burst out spitefully. “It’s a war,” another corrected. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“Tanks against hands,” I grimaced. Hate burned in our eyes.

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Several hours later, with no visible life signs to shoot dead, the tank began to roll back. They beat a slow, reluctant retreat with wilder gun shots. Something landed near the power house and I saw the fumes rising steadily. There was going to be a fire. “They’ve put our power house on fire,” Malik spat bitterly. The fire had turned to angry red flames and was spreading fast. “We must put out that fire,” someone ordered. We rushed down the stairs, down the dusty road not minding the sting of carbide. We poured sand and beat firmly. The fire was out minutes later. But we were not done yet. “They have cordoned all routes into town,” we discussed. “But we must not be cowed. We will beat them to it...” Our tactics were now cold and calculated. “The rally must hold.” “Protest is our right.” “We must show that fat minister our placards,” we agreed. To penetrate the town meant to go in small, minor groups and meet in the stadium. That was what we did. And it proved such a successful expedition into the stadium. Calmly we took positions in strategic corners near the soap box where the minister was billed to speak on Workers' Day. It was a long wait for public officials who never kept to the hour. But we waited. The fool was two hours behind schedule. But there was no going back. We watched the short, amorphous creature in May-day t-shirt. He lifted fat podgy hands to his forehead. Everyone rose to the dull loud clang of martial beats. Every time they played that raucous tune the more I analysed it. And the more I burned inside. What joker did that lyric in the first place? ‘Compatriots’ indeed. ‘Fatherland?’ Now what would you Literary Society International, LSi

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expect from a Nazi gang, I hissed disgustedly. ‘Love?’ Surely, gun totting thieves do not know love. It is brute power, not even strength. It is naked power that shoots and bombs its youth. ‘Heroes,’ I wanted to laugh. Those clowns are impossible. Heroes of greed and plunder. Perhaps in the far distant future there may be heroes, but certainly not the past and certainly not this present. Loud clang of cymbals... I saw the shapeless trunk of a hand drop limply down. Now! We nudged each other. Now! We leapt to the ground like a horde of bees, turning to face the government official. “No to traitors!” our placards shouted high in the air. “Who killed Dele Giwa?" “Stop murdering the citizen!” And from all corners of the stadium came a resounding wave of placards, clenched firsts. I smiled. This was the moment. I felt triumphant. The minister stood as if electrocuted; his jaws had dropped down the ground. “Minister of Unemployment and Retrenchments!” a placard yelled at him. We felt more triumphant, more powerful, than we ever did in our whole lives. This was sweet victory: the confusion of protest and violence. Then from above the din came sirens...again. Crack shots rang through the air. Fumes rose thickly... squelching noises added to the din. Crack! And more crack! People lurched. People fell. People died. Gasping, I barely caught hold of myself as I wobbled violently, my placard still gripped in my hand. There was blood... And panic. I dropped on one knee, quickly springing up in the confusion, and twisted and raced my way among the scattering confused bodies... Then I was back again to the hall with a wakeful jerk. Babul was now speaking in his kingly voice. “You see, you've African Short Stories Vol. 2

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been part of these movements all over the world; you swore to uphold the struggle forever, and now it’s time to lead the pack,” he frowned, raising a disapproving hand towards me, “you have begun to contemplate with yourself. “But I say that is a wrong move, young man. You will soon find that people are better off with far less profundity. A single act of meditation sends many a loyal subject out on a foolish one man quest. Needless to say it only weakens your faith.” I had become quite uncomfortable there in the Mosque Hall. And Babul would not just shut up. I was annoyed with myself for letting him enter my past so easily and also allowing his rattling and whispering to get on my nerves. Now the whole assembly, the speakers, hunched in their solemn dishonesty behind the long desk, and the interpreter ranting and making wild gestures with his fingers, couldn’t have bored worse like hell. The king’s chatter the worse, the disorganised voices and clamour outside the hall was worst. “Do you see the fire of the mind?” Babul cried. “You have to learn, learn from the fire of the mind!” But I decided it was high time I left. Why was I here anyway? I should leave Bill and Komas to have their fun. The roaring of the rouser might amuse the rabble. After all, they were all there to laugh and clap and sweep the solution into a tunnel. Even the dissent had quashed itself before it had even begun. This country was such a suffocating stereotype, like having to listen to a bad composition. I rose to my feet and paced the passage spontaneously. I felt his strong disapproving eyes boring into me but I didn't mind them. I walked through the door and hovered uncertainly along the corridors where I paused to scan the electronic billboards where the pictures of the new gang leader of the nation were in full projection. Komas and Bill appeared much later. They laughed in noisy whispers. Literary Society International, LSi

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“Here he is, the traitor,” Komas was winking rapidly in that absurd manner of his. “Why did you leave like that man?” Billy demanded. “How do you mean leave like that?” I was only too aware of my sudden quiet disinterest. “Abruptly! rudely! And with total disregard for decorum,” Komas waved his arms. His face contorted with the leering seemed, strangely enough, like Babul’s. “I thought I treaded as quietly as a mouse,” I reminded them. “You forgot we came together to join the others,” Billy snapped, “I should have been watching the movie otherwise!” “No. You would have been poking your life away at Games,” I corrected. “Besides, where is the Lady Protest now?” I asked. But Komas changed the topic too soon. “Man, you should have heard that brilliant expose on the likes of the interpreter.” “Who?” I asked, with the odd knowing that I was there, but wasn’t really there. “Tell him, Bill,” Komas urged. “I could barely hear a word of their raving,” Bill replied. “Komas, that woman beside me, she was simply voluptuous, don’t you think? I was ogling her all the time, practically raping her with my eyes…” Bill waved him aside and, then, painted the brilliant expose of the Interpreter and the likes of him. Teacher had risen to the public challenge by the chief press secretary to the new government. He had called the interpreter a pawn of barbaric kings and queens, a mere fool in the game of medieval lords. The bearded fighter had nearly choked on his breath... “Someone has said the truth about him, at last!” Komas went on, shaking his head in wonder and admiration. “Right in his own face!” Then it occurred to me, strange as it seemed, that if what Komas said was true, indeed then, one man had scored a bold African Short Stories Vol. 2

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victory against us all, speaking up for heaven and earth to hear. Just one whistle blower among the entirety of a million blind men. To me, that meant Babul was not winning with the masses after all!

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In Love Mohamed Saȉd Raȉhani *

A

mysterious power is steering me this evening towards this shady tree. A magnetic power is dragging me along to the privacy of the branches of this wise tree… and I feel safe from the pursuit of the curious breaths chasing me all day long: -You look absent-minded! -Your hands are so cold! -Are you in love? -In love! I bet you're in love!

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My philosophy teacher, himself, had stopped in the middle of today's lecture to notify me: -Look here, dear. Try to focus your mind exclusively on the lecture to enjoy it. You will never understand anything without enjoying it. Pleasure and understanding are two faces of one coin. So invest your energy in focussing solely on this lecture in this space at this moment: This, Here, Now. The pulsation of the tree trunk shaking my ribs is reminding me of my teacher's wisdom and I find myself "now" observing "this" sunset, agonizing "here." The blackness of the night is licking the intermingling colours in the horizon where stars have already inaugurated their race for a place in the sky. Stars are now winking at one another from an immemorial remoteness. Tonight stars do not look the way they have always done. They are not mere embers set aflame in the blackness of the universe. Stars, tonight, are showing their very African Short Stories Vol. 2

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private life vibrating with love and pulsing with passion. The brightest stars like the one over there are two stars in one if we trust modern astronomy: An orange (male) star and a blue (female) one closely connected to each other by an invisible attraction and spinning around in silent, shining courtship. Stars may be shining only for being in love. Without love they may have lost their sparkle and broken up in the void like any other destitute meteors. Now I am taking delight in the shining love of the stars in the sky -a thousands-of-years-old love between stars thousands light years away. The glitter of stars garnishes the sky and adds a loving dimension to the mechanical movement of the celestial bodies.

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The pulse of the tree is streaming coolly through my trunk, pouring forth new energies in my veins, enlarging me, magnifying me… And in very few moments I will be able to grasp the moon that has started her first rolls on the horizon, here, between the palms of my hands.

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Feast Mohamed Saȉd Raȉhani *

T

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oday’s date on the wall calendar is framed in red. There should be a feast to-day. I have found out lately that my perception of feast dates is growing duller and duller. I can remember them only by chance when strolling about in the boulevard where seasonal lights flash playfully, lighting up café-customers’ faces shaded by worn-out flags and crumpled streamers most letters of which are wiped away… These are the same feast signs I have been growing old with. The same feast signs which are repeated eternally. Yet I remember that when I was a child I would never ignore feast dates to this extent. I would not leave any chance for streamers to surprise me. I even would not sleep the night before the feast day: I would stay awake before the wall clock, waiting for the feast to rise so that I could put on my newly-bought clothes and rent a bicycle to join my quarter-fellows in bike-racing and… I would not remember how sleep and dream slyly showed me up in my dearest clothes signed with the sweetest happiest expressions. On my pullover-chest my comrades would merrily stammer out the catchword: Like a Bird Their joy would invade me… I run… I fly… Like a bird… I stretch up my little fore-arms to fly… I imitate the bird right over me swimming in the blue sky without shaking a wing… It flies far… I fly far… It flies further… I fly further… But my comrades African Short Stories Vol. 2

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would always spoil my flight devouring my arm-pits and taking delight in making me hysterically kick about. I could never get rid of them before the bird appeared on the far-away blue horizon. Only at that time would they set me free to run out shouting in welcome, clapping their hands in excitement and singing the refrain that would link everybody to the skies: Dance, dance, bird We are the happiest on earth The bird would descend to the level of the long rows of the little houses inclined on one another: The more we sang the more it danced. Whenever we stopped singing it would fly up high in the sky again but it would return again and again whenever there was singing and dancing. It would dance and shake its wings in exchange for songs and promises:

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Dance, dance, bird We are the happiest on earth The bird would fly along to pay us a visit early in the morning of every feast. It would fly around and around in the sky waiting for us to go out and share with it the celebration, dancing and singing… But, in the course of time, the bird disappeared… Probably because people around here have grown older and older. Or because feast birds no longer exist. Or because the whole story has been, from the origin, a pure childhood fantasy perpetuated by innocent little children… Literary Society International, LSi

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Now I am turning over the damp calendar pages looking for other red numbers of coming feast dates. I turn the pages over one after the other. Over and over and over again… Nothing. Today, then, was the ultimate feast.

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The Regents of Opossa-motto NN Dzenchuo *

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unior Lysinge has followed his father, Mola Lysinge, to Bovanjoku, a village perched on the eastern slope of Mt. Cameroon some few miles from Buea, the regional headquarters of South West Cameroon. Bovanjoku is two miles from Buea by the foot of Mt. Cameroon. Although his village is Bovanjoku, Mola Lysinge really lives in Limbe with his wife and two children: Junior Ngomba and Enene Catherine. Their home is in Caterpillar Field quarters of Mile One neighbourhood of Limbe. Caterpillar Field is a small hill with a flat top, like a plateau. This place has its name Caterpillar Field because that’s where the local council (Limbe Urban) parks its caterpillars and other construction vehicles such as graders, lifters, compacting machines, etc. But that was years back. Now the council vehicles are garaged near its premises in Down Beach where it has its headquarters. Caterpillar Field is now used as football field by quarter boys, youths and veteran footballers who want to exercise and keep fit. Junior Lysinge has promised his friends that he will one day become a football star like Roger Mila. At Government Primary School, Mile I, he is taller than most and oldest in class. Slim and leggy, Junior often walks around bare-bodied and hardly returns home in his shoes or his rubber sandals known as Tchang-shoes used for rain season soccer. When his mother scowls at him for misplacing his shoes, the lad will reply that his friends may have stolen them at Caterpillar Field. This leaves Nyango Monjowa Lysinge furious. But she will wait patiently for her husband to return home from work. Upon Mola Lysinge’s return at five in the evening, Junior quietly vamooses; otherwise his father will beat him Literary Society International, LSi

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until he finds the shoes. Unlike his friends, Junior likes to play football barefooted and will just forget collecting his shoes at the side of the field. But when his father lashes him very well with a cane he will run up the field in the darkness to find his shoes. A gifted footballer, Junior plays with the school team even while in a lower class. He is in Class Five in GPS Mile I and plays position nine. In academics Junior is dull and comes last in exams. He has repeated Class Three once and Class Five thrice. Because of this, most of his age mates are in secondary schools, especially the prestigious Government High School, Limbe, the first public secondary school in the city, or Saker Baptist College, a mission school renowned for high academic performance. Some are also in their third or fourth years in vocational institutions, studying mechanics, welding or carpentry. Even his younger sister, Enene, is now in Form Two. That probably explains why Junior is taller than his classmates and seniors. He does not sit in the middle or front of the class but sits in the back desk so as not to block the view to the blackboard. They teasingly call him Adult. But since Junior Lysinge often scores and wins cups and glories for his school, the headmaster will not have him dismissed for poor academic performance. Mola Efange, the headmaster, is not only a friend of Mola Lysinge but comes from Bovanjoku, the village of Junior’s father. And so the headmaster will call Junior our talented blockhead. Junior often thanks him for the compliment. Despite that he is dull at school his father loves him very much. Enene, his younger sister, might be Mrs Monjoa Lysinge’s favourite at home but the boy too is loved and always given enough food to satisfy his appetite -because Junior eats food for two people. He consumes that much food yet never gets fat. So his friends in Caterpillar Field call him Bone-man. Mola Lysinge is a man who never misses family picnics and traditional festivities like the famous Bakweri traditional elephant dance called Malae or the Palapala traditional wrestling contest. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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The Malae dance is conducted during ceremonial day 11th of February which is the national youth day in Cameroon (when English and French Cameroon became one) and 20th May, another national day. During such days, after match-past, first by the various arms of the military presided over by various government VIPs such as the minister of youth affairs (in case of Yaoundé), or the governors in case of regional headquarters, or prefects and subprefects at divisional and district levels, and traditional authorities and other dignitaries… during such traditional dances presented by the different cultural groups, the Malae dancers of Bakweri will cause a stir as custodians of Epossa-motto, god of the mountain part human and part-rock. The dancers dabbed in raffia skirts, dried plantain and other leaves, with their faces painted in war stripes, dance wildly, mimicking elephants in their mountain terrain and hunters aiming for game. All of them wear traditional costumes; some eat raw plantain and cocoyam, demonstrating insane dance gestures so frightening that on-lookers will scatter in different directions on their approach but immediately regroup to the centre stage -all these to the uproarious cheering of the population. Quite often the DO and other dignitaries will step down the aisle to present the dancers with envelops of appreciation. But the real Malae takes place in the village square where chiefs and elders, celebrities and government authorities are seated, with white tourists and their cameras shooting for documentaries or magazines. The reason for Malae dance is to pass on tradition and culture from generation to generation. This tradition has been handed down by the founder of Malae dance on his first encounter with the elephants of Bovanjoku. Then Bovanjoku was a small hamlet founded by a hunter from Bomboko, the trunk clan on the west coast of Mt. Cameroon reputed for their powerful medicinemen. The story holds that the hunter got lost after circling one of the majestic mountain trails till he arrived at a large clearing. Frightened, thirsty and exhausted he fell asleep by the root of a large Literary Society International, LSi

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tree trunk. Soon he was rudely awakened by a herd of dancing elephants. The wearied man tried to run but was encircled by the gigantic beasts until, knowing there was no escape, he cried for help, nearly transiting the world of men in fright. Then he was lifted up to soar the skies in the gentle pinion of a mammoth creature or being he could not explain. Later he found himself in a safe place several kilometres from the scene. The legend continuesThe hunter eventually found that he was hearing a voice like thunder speaking to him. It was an invisible being, the mountain god. The god told him that the spot he saw the elephants was going to be his new dwelling. The entire mountain flanks must be occupied by descendants of Bakweri and populated before alien races would dispossess them of its magnificence. Then down the stream of time the hunter eventually founded a dynasty call Bonanjoku -home of dancing elephants, who eventually founded Malae, the esoteric dance of the Bakweri. So, you see, of the entire Bakweri clans scattered about the slopes of Mt. Cameroon, Bonanjoku have reason to be proud of their chiefdom because they are the custodian of Eppossa-motto, the guardian god of the mountain, part human and part rock. The villagers and chiefs are held in high esteem by all the surrounding clans. And so during the third term holiday Junior Lysinge, a mere boy, is initiated into the Epossa-motto cult by his grand-father. This is because he and his father are in succession to the royal throne of Bovanjoku of the mountains. But let us digress a little. Let us tell about the great mountain of CameroonMt. Cameroon is the highest peak in West and Central Africa housing one of the continent’s largest volcanoes with its eruption of lava fluid and flowing on a long distance. It is highly effusive, African Short Stories Vol. 2

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erupting fifteen times beginning as far back as four hundred and fifty years AD. It is one of the world’s biodiversity hot spots located in the Gulf of Guinea. Plants such as Prunus Africana used for the prevention of prostate cancer grow there. Many giant ferns and orchid species as well as huge tropical trees with giant roots are also found there. Its summit is cold, windy and occasionally experiences a touch of snow. It has a large satellite peak, Etindi, on the southern flank near the coast bordering the Atlantic Ocean. On other mountain flanks could be found many villages including Bovanjoku, Bova, Bonakanda, Bokova, Efolofo and Kotto in Bambokoland… And now let’s come back to our storyAlthough Junior Lysinge is still very young he has respect for tradition and has yet to be initiated into the Malae by his father’s father, the great chief of Bovanjoku, who controls the Nganya. His father too is a member of Nganya society, the umbrella of myriad traditional cults. Many times during the holidays Mola Lysinge and his son will go to the village to visit. Lysinge leaves his son there to spend some time with his grandfather. And Junior will learn a lot of farming, hunting, dancing and the traditional masquerade -indeed many things concerning his ancestral clan. Often he watches his grandfather, His Royal Highness Chief Njie, perform traditional sacrifices and rituals. The chieftain would explain to his grandson that he speaks to their ancestors and village guardians. So the grandson has much respect for his grandfather -afterall he is named after his great grandfather, a great warrior who had stood up to lead his people against the appropriation of their land by the accursed Germans before he was ultimately captured and hanged. Hadn’t the villagers and Bakwerre, in their whole, versified songs of the legend who fought for his people even unto death. Junior loves his grandfather even more for the beaded chain, the Musanga, the old man wears on his neck, now presented to him as a gift. A great amulet against evil, it is made up of ancient round beads that pass through a black thread with a single white cowry as a sort of medal. The chain is a gift from the god of the mountain, Literary Society International, LSi

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grandfather tells Junior. “Grandpa, this village god, how does he look?” Junior asks in Bakweri, when they are in the kitchen on a cold evening warming themselves near a fire of large logs of woods. “My son,” Chief Njie smiles proudly at his grandson, “he is the guardian of our people. He protects us and the village from evil and by his doing the gods of the earth increase the fertility of our lands so that our cocoyams may yield large tubers!” The grandson sits, thinking the matter over and blinking at his grandfather. “But grandpa, how does he look, the village god, and where does he live?” Chief Njie laughs -the patronizing laughter of a patriarch. “He lives in a special place in the mountain.” “What does he look like, grandpa?” “That will be a little difficult for you, little Lysinge.” Junior is not satisfied. “Does he have legs like we do?” The chieftain’s face glowers in the amber of brightening coals. “He does. He is part stone and part human being. He walks the mountain, appearing and disappearing!” With this revelation Junior widens his eyes, almost afraid of his grandfather. He looks at the chain his grandfather has presented to him, then looks at the Tiara on the head of his grandfather bearing two red feathers to the left of the cap. He can recall the crown which Chief Njie always wears on august occasions. The crown is brown; it is ornamented with white cowries and adorned with two or more throngs of porcupines and eagle feathers. All these are symbols of power and greatness. The chiefs wear amulets for additional protection because they are targets of enemies of progress. They have now left the kitchen and are sitting in the parlour where they host their prime visitors and where village elders sit to have important discussions. Apart from the beautiful crown, Junior African Short Stories Vol. 2

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notes that grandpa has on a jumper the colour of a tiger, which he alone owns in the village. Whenever he puts this on, there is either a traditional gathering for a sacrifice, or a visit to the village by a top government officer, like the governor or divisional officer on a tour to acquaint himself with people under his district or during political campaigns. Beneath the jumper, there is the Sonja, a large cloth belted around the waist flowing downwards to the ankles. He often wears on his feet fine black sandals, well polished. An aged man, the chieftain has a number of beautifully carved walking sticks. Hanging in a conspicuous place on the wall is a special one, strangely metallic. Adorned and handed to Njie’s grandfather by the Germans, it was his sign of authority before the fallout with them. One reason, it was rumoured, why this grand legend fell out with the Germans was that one of the chief’s wives, a beauty unsurpassed in the village, ran away and joined the missionaries to study the word of God, refusing to be subsidiary to the chief. The German administration took sides with the runaway wife, explaining their bible’s position on such matters. Moreover the administration had its own loyal judiciary and military. Thus the good relations that Eugene Nachtigal, the German explorer who landed in Buea (before proceeding to Bamenda in the hinterlands) had created with the local peoples began to wane until the Bakweri-German War. This sacred staff, Junior is sure, will one day be his to own when he becomes chief after his father and grandfather. But there is something which bothers the lad in his heart: some day he will become the village chief and will surely meet the village god roaming the mountain. “Grandpa, what is the name of this our god?” the lad asks again, anxiety on his face. Chief Njie smiles again to his grandson. “He is Eppossa-motto!” “Epasso-motto, what does it mean?” “Epo--ss--a--motto!” the chieftain corrects and continues. “I told you he is rock and human: mighty, thunder, wind, blessing and Literary Society International, LSi

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everything. “You see,” the grandfather explains further, his chin resting on his walking stick, “when you hear thunder after seeing lightning, Eppossa-motto is vexed. So we go and offer sacrifice to appease his anger. When his anger is red-hot, then there is something wrong. And so the mountain quakes and erupts like you saw last year. Red hot fire and lava flowing down the mountain are the outward expression of his anger.” Junior Lysinge can almost hear his own breathing as he listens to his grandfather narrate the history of the mountain god. “If not appeased, people will die. So we have to go to the shrine. There we offer sacrifice. Formerly, Eppossa-motto demanded human sacrifice -albinos. But times have changed. We now offer animals.” The boy needs more details to take to his friends in Limbe. “Grandpa, will Eppossa-motto’s thunder kill me when he is vexed?” he asks, still holding the musanga in his hands. “No! Eppossa-motto knows its own, its people! You have something to identify you,” the chief assured his grandson. “Grandpa, I do not have your walking stick. How does Epposimotto identify me as one from this village?” “Repeat after me: Eppo-ssa-motto!” the clan head corrects yet again. “Eppossa-motto!” Junior pronounces correctly. “You do not need this walking stick until you become chief after Lysinge, your father.” “Then if his thunder strikes?” Junior glances uneasily at his grandfather. “You have your own,” Chief Njie points to the Musanga now on Junior’s neck. “That is enough for now. No evil can touch you. It was given to me by Eppossa-motto; it is the North Star which never dims but keeps shining. It will open the way for you in life and bring good luck. The North Star is the star of Eppossa-motto!” It is nearly eight in the night now and the bulbs in the house are already lit. Even though Bovenjoku, like Buea, is very cold, the sky African Short Stories Vol. 2

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in that part of the heavens is brighter after sunset. That is the evening star. It is usually dazzling -this first star that appears after sunset. “Do you see that star,” the grandfather points to the luminary in the eastern sky. “It is your guardian.” Junior observes as the star grows brighter and brighter in the growing darkness, his left hand still clutching the chain of beads. “I love you Eppossa-motto. I shall offer you a cockerel when I'm big enough!” the young benefactor murmurs. “Whenever you see this star you must know that Eppossa-motto is around and that is his eye upon you,” says the old chief. Then he and his grandson return into the house for the waiting evening meal. Junior has now spent more than two months with his grandfather and will have to return to Limbe for school. But there is one last rite the chieftain has to perform before his grandson returns to his parents in the resort town. This is the official initiation of the future monarch to the Eppossa-motto cult. It is one bright morning when the scarlet sun is smiling in the skies after twilight. On this day Junior Lysinge is asked to accompany his grandfather, king makers, village elders and a chief priest high up the mountain to a small brook -a whispery brook that passes the root of a giant iroko tree where unusual white eagles perch. These large birds of prey are always visible when a chief is about to pass on, or a son of the soil is about to be recognised by the mountain god. Beneath these trees a passage eases into a cave where a small stream issues from under rock crevices and runs down inside, making it cooler than the silence that deafens the cave. It is here that Junior Lysinge is initiated into the royal cult by the chief priest. Here the messenger of the gods starts reciting some spells in Bakweri, beseeching their ancestors to accept their offspring as one of them and calling on the dead to direct Junior Lysinge’s feet to Eppossa-motto, the all powerful, the all knowing, the fire and Literary Society International, LSi

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thunder that guards Mt. Cameroon. After this the neck of the cock is slit so the blood oozes down the stream. Then a portion of the blood is smeared on an old spiralling horn of a ram held by the chief priest -an old man with a domed bald. The feather of the sacrificial cock, too, is put inside the horn. The practice of ram’s horn smeared with blood can be traced as far back as Junior’s great, great, great grandfather, founder of the dynasty of chiefs well before the European rampage in the highlands. But the most awesome in the location of the stream and deep down the cave are human bones and skulls of past chiefs. No visitors, except Eppossa-motto and his regent and chief priest, are allowed on each full moon. Following the rites Junior Lysinge is declared fit for succession onto the royal throne of Bovanjoku. Wearing the necklace of beads with a single cowry medal, he is the eye of Eppossa-motto so no harm, including the thunder of Eppossa-motto’s flaming anger that always erupts from the mountain with flowing streams of fire and devastation, can befall him. Grandfather on the eve of his Juniour’s departure hands him some books to take to his parents in Limbe. He also presents Junior with a red cockerel to kill at Christmas. “One day you shall become a great man and bring glories to our village,” he said.

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The Book Club Charmaine Pauls *

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“H

ow does it work, your exchange program,” Pattie leaned over the counter, squinting to read his nametag, “…Erick?” She fought the stacks of books for elbow space. He looked her up and down for good two seconds before he crossed his arms on the counter, bending down to eye level. “Where did you hear about our exchange program?” His imploring look drifted down to her old, red sweater. When their eyes met again, his gaze had shifted. Pattie straightened abruptly. “A friend told me.” His eyelashes dipped and lifted lazily. “I’m asking because we’ve removed the sign on the door.” “What does it matter where I’ve heard it from? Are you still doing the book exchange, or not?” If he was touched by her tone he didn’t show it. Instead, he stared at her in that way men who are very sure of themselves do. She felt a color rising in her neck that lied about the stance of indifference she tried to fake. A slow smile curved his lips. “Officially we shouldn’t be running the program any longer, but I could make an exception for you, if…” “If what?” “If you have a good reason.” A customer approached, carrying four books under his arm. Pattie stepped aside. The shopper tapped his foot and drummed his nails on the pile of books. Erick extended his hand. “Let me take that for you, sir. Thank you.” The man moved eagerly into Pattie’s vacated space. “Please can you wait over here, sir? The lady hasn’t finished.” Literary Society International, LSi

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The man wearing a gray raincoat and Newman tie, something Pattie could imagine Walter in, opened his mouth but Erick said “Thank you, sir,” and turned back to Pattie. “You were saying?” She smoothed down her windblown hair of which she was suddenly conscious. The man with the tie looked at her like she had jumped the queue. Swallowing, she pushed her hands deep into her pockets and motioned with her elbow to the gray coat. “It’s quite all right to-” “Perfectly all right to finish what you were saying,” Erick lifted an eyebrow. Pattie glanced at the outraged customer. “Well, as I said, I want to know about the exchange thingy.” Erick crossed his arms over his impressive chest. Despite the weather he wore only a T-shirt. “You leave your books with us, and we loan it to an interested customer for a two-week period, after which we return the books to you. You can choose the same amount of books that you offer to put on loan from our second-hand books in that part of the store,” he nodded toward the room next to the coffee nook. “And if you don’t find someone interested in the books?” “Then we leave them in the second-hand library section.” The man in the gray coat started whistling, looking at the ceiling. “How much per book?” “Ten Rand each.” “Ten Rand? For twenty books I can buy another one, new.” A heavy sigh escaped the throat with the expensive tie. “But for two hundred Rand you would have read twenty books instead of one. And you don’t have to worry about cluttering your house with books you don’t have space for. That’s the most common complaint. No more book space. Isn’t it so?” “If the scheme is so clever, why don’t you do it -officiallyanymore?” A drumroll of thunder announced the brewing storm. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“I’ve run out of space. See the irony?” Pattie heard the whiplash of lighting. “I can go to the library for free.” “The library doesn’t exist any longer, Love. Budget cuts. Everyone knows that.” The man stopped whistling and stepped forward again. “Excuse me, but do you mind just ringing up my books? I’m in a hurry.” Erick shot him a cutting look. “As I said, the lady was first, sir. And she’s not done.” The man gaped, took a step backward and then his face reddened. “Shove your books up yours and fuck you! I’ll go buy them somewhere else.” He stormed off and slammed the door. The bell rang like a deranged wind chime. Pattie pointed with her thumb to the door. “Oh… your customer… sorry…” “Don’t worry. He was rude. Anyway, he’ll be back.” “How do you know?” He pointed at one of the books. “My store is the only one in town with that one in stock.” “Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?” “Aren’t you?” Another electric crack and the windows lit up. Pattie cleared her throat. “Well, can I bring my books in tomorrow?” “Do you want to have coffee with me?” For a moment there was a stunned silence. Even the thunder was quiet. “I’m married!” Pattie exclaimed when she found her voice again. “Will you consider an exchange for three weeks?” She blinked. “What?” “The books? If you consider the exchange for three weeks, I may just make an exception. For you. But you have to have a good reason.” Literary Society International, LSi

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“It’s… it’s for my book club.” “If you’ll advertise my store at your club, it’s a deal.” “I’ll… I’ll think about it. I mean… I’ll talk to the girls. All right then… thanks…” She went for the door, pushing instead of pulling, trapping herself for another second inside. “Wait.” Pattie turned, flushed. “What’s your name?” “Patricia Norman. Pattie.” “See you tomorrow, Patricia.” She looked away. “We’ll see.” The shop bell rang above her head. Pattie escaped into the cool air. It had started raining. Nellie flicked her diamond-clustered finger at the passing waiter. “Another two Chardonnays!” She crossed her shapely legs and studied Pattie. “What?” Pattie asked, pulling up her shoulders and raising her palms. “I don’t know, Pattie.” Nellie tilted her head. “It sounds like the bookstore guy flirted with you and that you don’t want to admit that you liked it. What’s wrong with a compliment?” Pattie twisted her platinum wedding band around her finger. “Do you really think there’s nothing wrong with it?” “Of course, it’s all right. It’s just innocent flirting. It’s healthy. I mean, look at you. You are glowing.” Pattie blushed. She looked away and caught sight of the setting sun in the blue glass skyscraper. One-way tinted windows… everyone trying to look in, no one looking out. “We always want what we don’t have.” “Come on, Pattie.” Nellie rolled her eyes. “When was the last time Walt paid you a compliment?” Pattie took the glass of wine the waiter handed her. “Really, African Short Stories Vol. 2

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Nellie. We’ve been married for twenty-five years. We have two teenagers, for crying out loud. Show me the excitement in a marriage older than two years.” Nellie sipped her wine and smiled slyly. “No!” Pattie leaned forward. “Brandon doesn’t still romance you, does he?” The look on Nellie’s face said otherwise. “He took me to the Mount Nelson for lunch last Thursday.” “What?” Pattie made big eyes. “He took you to Cape Town for a day?” Nellie held up a hand and inspected her nail varnish. “More like for the night,” she winked. “He flew me to Cape Town for lunch and we spent the night in the presidential suite of the Mount Nelson.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively. “Oh-my-God! Why didn’t you say something before? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. I can so not believe this. Your husband is the most romantic man on earth. You do so not deserve him.” “Which goes to prove my point -if you are too nice you are taken for granted. You’ve got to give men something to wonder about. Be mysterious. I think a flirt is exactly what you need, Pattie dear. You’ve become such a doormat to Walt and the kids.” Pattie flinched. “Anyway,” Nellie looked at her Rolex, “Got to go. We’re having dinner at Chapters with Brandon’s partner tonight.” She took a big gulp of wine and untangled her legs. She adjusted the strap of her stiletto and got up. “Will I see you on Monday night at the book club?” “Yes. Yes,” Pattie said absent-mindedly. “So, do you think I should go back?” Nellie tied a Hermes scarf around her neck. “Go back where?” Pattie stared at her childhood friend. It was so typical of Nellie to have already dismissed the subject. “To the bookstore,” Pattie said, trying to keep her tone even. “Why, yes.” Nellie opened her clutch bag and left a bill on the Literary Society International, LSi

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table. “Drink’s on me.” She blew a kiss Pattie’s way. “Bye dear. And wear something sexy when you go.” The sun was gone. A long shadow crept over the tables in the square. Pattie shivered and finished her wine. She glanced around. When she was sure no one was looking, she drank Pattie’s too. As usual, Walter was late. Pattie lay in bed, listening to the noises he made as he unlocked the door and warmed up his dinner in the microwave. There was the familiar sound of the news channel coming on, accompanied by the cluttering of cutlery and, finally, long after, the beep of the alarm being activated. She was still staring at the ceiling when he switched on his bedside table lamp. “You’re awake,” he remarked, surprised. Pattie didn’t look at him. She had been thinking about the bookstore, playing it over in her mind a hundred times, thinking of what she could have said that would have been funnier, or cleverer. She felt strangely guilty. “I can’t sleep.” Walter bent over and pecked her on the cheek. “Want a cup of tea?” “No.” She turned on her side, facing him, resting her head on her hand. “How was work?” “Same old.” Walter removed his tie and started to unbutton his shirt. Pattie looked at the familiar chest hair and the way his stomach protruded. When did he start growing that belly? She couldn’t put her finger on it. One day he was as flat as an ironing board and the next time she looked it was just there. “I saw Nellie today.” “Oh. Good.” He left his shirt on the chair and sat down on the bed to pull off his socks and shoes. “Brandon flew her to Cape Town for lunch. Just for lunch. They spent the night in the Mount Nelson. Can you believe it? God, African Short Stories Vol. 2

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the presidential suite must cost like five thousand Rand a night.” He stood and unzipped his pants. “That’s crazy.” Pattie sat up, hugging her knees. “Is it? Wouldn’t you say it’s rather romantic?” He stripped his pants to the floor. “Come on, Pattie. That’s totally ridiculous. That’s Mandy’s school fee for a semester. For that price you can get a chalet at the coast for the whole family for a week.” “I know, but it’s not the same, is it?” He sighed and patted her head. “I’m knackered. I’m going for a shower.” He walked to the adjoining bathroom and closed the door behind him. Pattie lay back in bed and stared at the plywood door. She thought it sad that they had never got around to replacing those doors with solid wood ones, like the plan was when they were building. It was a rather dull, ordinary door. The first-Monday-of-the-month book club had originally started out as a wine club, but since Maggie had joined the AA and had been fighting her demons ever since, they changed it to a book club. Maggie sat down on the sofa next to Pattie with a plate loaded with crackers, humus, meatballs and olives. “God, Maggie,” Pattie looked at the plate piled with food. “You ate like that when you were pregnant.” “Yeah, well,” Maggie tugged a boisterous curl behind her ear, “I have to substitute one addiction with another.” “You should rather smoke, Maggie. At least you’ll stay slim,” Nellie shot over her shoulder on her way to the dining room to pour the coffee. Pattie scratched in her oversized sling-bag. “And kill herself with cancer?”she said into the bag. Finally, she extracted her mobile phone and checked the screen. “Sorry, Maggie. Mandy might call. She’s studying at a friend’s. I have to pick her up on the way home.” Maggie slipped a cracker into her mouth. “That’s alright,” she Literary Society International, LSi

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said through crunching. “The kids are going to Ed’s for a whole month during the holiday. I’m so anxious about it. It’s so unfair.” Nellie returned with two steaming mugs. “Tell Maggie about your flirtation, Pattie.” She left the mugs on the coffee table and waltzed to the kitchen. Pattie looked at her exit with longing. She knew Nellie was going to drink a quick, forbidden glass of wine with Reese smoking in the backyard. “What is she talking about?” Maggie said, an entire meatball squeezed into her mouth, distorting the words. “Oh,” Pattie shrugged, “it’s nothing. I met this guy in the bookstore and he asked me out for a coffee.” “Gosh,” Maggie wiped the crumbs off her Indian skirt. “What did Walter say?” “I haven’t told him,” Pattie frowned. “It wasn’t anything, really.” “How could you meet someone in a bookshop,” Maggie snapped her fingers, “just like that? How come he asked you out?” “It’s the owner. You know…” “The young guy?” The disbelief in Maggie’s voice made Pattie feel rebellious. “I hope you told him to go fuck himself.” “Maggie! Now why would I do that?” “Because he’s an arsehole, that’s why, asking you out, when he knows that you’re married. And you could have been his mother!” “Oh, come on, Maggie, I’m not that old. And he didn’t know I’m married.” “But you told him, right?” “Of course I did.” “So you’re not seriously going out with him?” “Of course not. Nellie says it was just a flirtation.” “Flirtation my arse. Any move a man makes is with one end goal in mind. And that always ends up between the sheets.” She popped an olive in her mouth. “I hope you gave him the finger.” Pattie looked at the Elizabeth Arden foundation that had rubbed African Short Stories Vol. 2

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off on the dials of her phone. She wiped it with the hem of her shirt. “Don’t you think flirtations can be innocent and, maybe, even enhance a relationship?” “Yeah,” Maggie snorted. She spat the olive pip into her fist. “Get real. Not while all men think with their penises.” Nellie came back carrying a tray of cheese scones. “I told Pattie to go back with our books. It will be good for her, a casual flirtation.” Maggie dipped a breadstick in olive tapenade. “You can’t do that to Walter, Pattie. He’s a good man. Put yourself in his shoes. How would you feel if he goes around flirting with girls young enough to be his daughter?” Nellie took a seat in the chair opposite them. “Stop being such a nerd, Maggie. You know what your problem is? You stopped shaving.” “Women were created with hair. It’s natural. If men can’t get over that, fuck them.” Nellie put a scone on Maggie’s plate. “They would probably fuck you if you shaved. Don’t listen to her, Pattie. The French has refined flirting to an art. Innocent.” “Gah!” Maggie patted Pattie’s arm. “Believe me, it’s never innocent. You’re already guilty, in fact.” Pattie twisted a paper napkin around her finger. “So if I think it, I’m guilty?” “I’m just saying, don’t go there.” Maggie shot Nellie a look. Amina came through the door with six books in the vice of her arms and her chin. “Here we go, Pattie.” She left them on the floor next to the sofa. “That’s for the exchange program. There’s more. I’ll help you carry them to your car before you go.” Nellie smiled gingerly at Maggie. “Looks like Pattie’s mind is made up for her, then.” Amina balanced on the armrest of the sofa. “About what?” “The bookshop owner invited her for coffee,” Maggie offered. “He did?” Amina coughed and shifted her position. Literary Society International, LSi

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“Why is that so difficult for everyone to believe?” Pattie asked defensively. “It’s just a bit of a cheek, I’d say.” Maggie looked at the ceiling, swinging her leg. “What do you say, Amina?” Nellie leaned back in her chair. “Should Pattie go, or not?” Amina looked at her hands. “I don’t know how you can talk about this so forwardly. Some things are meant to be dealt with in private. No offence, Pattie, but I wouldn’t have mentioned it to anyone.” Pattie twisted her pearl earring. “I would have told Walter,” Maggie said. “Yes,” Amina fingered the gold print on her blue sari. “I think I would have just told him that he was out of line, and then I would have found another bookstore. This owner isn’t a good man. No respecting man would ever put a woman in such a position. I’m not buying my books there again.” Nellie waved a hand at Amina. “Oh, you just say that because you’re Indian and you’re still on honeymoon. Soon, darling, you’ll join the brigade. Besides, he’s a dish. I’m definitely buying my books only there.” Pattie frowned. She picked up a mug and sipped at the warm coffee. Maggie made a face at Nellie. “Leave Amina alone, Nellie.” “No, but really, Amina, I mean, your parents chose your husband for you, right? Doesn’t it seem… strange… to have to marry someone you hardly know or love? In this day and age?” “Love is something you work at, Nellie, for many years. There are things more important than love, anyway. For starters, there are friendship and respect. And my husband is a good man.” “Yes,” Nellie said, “but you were just lucky that you got someone young, attractive and in a respected job. What about all those poor other girls who get the ugly or old ones? Or the cripple ones? Or the very poor ones?” African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“We get what we deserve. It depends on the social standing of the family. Look, it’s a cultural thing that I don’t expect you to understand. Many Indian girls choose their own husbands these days. My family is a traditional one, and I respect that. They acted in my best interest.” Amina straightened. “I am very happy.” Pattie pulled at her tartan skirt. “Shall we talk about the book?” Nellie turned when the front door opened. “Oh, look, here’s Xandi. Hi Xandi! Xandi, your husband has four wives. You are obviously used to sharing. Would you have a problem with a little flirtation on the side?” Xandi left her jacket on a chair back and dropped her bag next to it. “Three. Not four. What’s up?” “Pattie’s been invited for coffee by someone other than her husband and I said she should go. Maggie here says it’s wrong and Amina says we shouldn’t even talk about it. What do you think? You share your husband with four other wives.” Xandi flopped down onto the chair. “Phew! Traffic. Three.” “And?” Nellie said. Xandi looked around and took a glass. “I don’t know why you women make such a fuss about sex.” She flicked her dreadlocks over her shoulder. “Sex is sex is sex.” “Because think how Walter would feel, knowing,” Maggie insisted. “What?” Xandi laughed. “Think Walter hasn’t ever looked at a younger girl’s tits? I’m sure he’s felt up enough bootie in the office.” “Xandi!” Pattie said, “I totally respect your culture but Walter isn’t like that.” Xandi got up again and poured herself a diet Coke. “Urg. I need a drink. Sorry Maggie.” Maggie looked away. “Anyway,” Xandi continued, “I don’t get what the big deal is about.” Nellie crossed her legs. “I’m just saying, Maggie, that Literary Society International, LSi

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sometimes a coffee can be a facelift for a marriage.” Maggie put her empty plate on the coffee table. “How? By betraying Walter?” “Is it betraying your husband if another man makes you feel good about yourself?” Nellie shrugged. “I don’t think so.” “It’s all about the intention. If Pattie goes with the intention of feeling a flick of a flame, she shouldn’t go.” Maggie crossed her hands over her knees and turned away from Nellie. “What did you think about the book, Xandi?” “I really don’t get you all,” Xandi said. “Whenever anyone brings up sex in your culture, it’s like dropping a bomb. The red light comes on and smoke comes out of your ears. Pee-wee, peewee,” she flashed her fingers. “Sex police! Pee-wee! Come on. It’s just bodies and all. A bit of pumping and humping and that’s that. No big deal.” Maggie threw her hands in the air. “Come on, Xandi, tell us honestly, doesn’t being one of four wives bother you, even just a little bit?” “Three wives. The other one isn’t legal. She doesn’t count. And why would it bother me? My father had six wives. I’d rather look on it like I had six mothers.” Pattie checked her mobile screen again. “Are you never jealous, Xandi?” “No. What’s there to be jealous of? David paid a big labola to my father for this.” She patted her behind proudly and laughed. “I’m no cheap girl.” “Xandi is not jealous because she is the first wife. Right, Xandi?” Nellie said. “You’re still David’s favorite. But what if, one day when you’re old, he marries someone much younger and prettier than you? Would that bother you?” “Eish,” Xandi clicked her tongue. “No. I’ll always have the biggest room in the house. She’d look after the children and the house, of course. I’d have more free time.” Pattie shook her head. “I don’t get it. How can you all live in African Short Stories Vol. 2

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the same house?” “Each of my mothers had their own hut in my father’s kraal, but nowadays, living in the city, it hardly makes economic sense to buy three houses in the same complex, does it? Besides, it makes the living arrangements with the children so much easier. Why, Celukwazi is at home looking after my two as we speak, so that I can have an intellectual discussion with you white women here.” Amina glanced at their wedding photo on the wall. “And religion? Don’t any of you believe it’s just wrong because of your moral convictions?” “You whities work yourselves up about all these strange things. Why can’t you share a man?” Pattie dropped her phone into her bag. “Are you allowed to sleep with other men?” Xandi laughed heartily. “David would kill any such man.” “Ah ha,” Maggie said, moving to the edge of her seat. “So that’s double standards.” “No,” Xandi’s beads made a noise as she shook her head. “The men take care of us. We don’t take care of them. That doesn’t mean I should be caught out, if you know what I’m saying.” She laughed again. Amina bit her lip. “And what about HIV?” she asked softly, a light blush on her cheeks. “Aren’t you ever scared that you’ll catch it? I mean, with so many sexual partners…” “Girlfriend, we don’t have more sexual partners than what you people have. Not if you’re honest about it. Besides, none of us wives have HIV. Neither does David.” “But he has flings on the side, right?” Nellie insisted. “If he has, it’s none of my business. And he knows how to use a rubber, so I’m not worried about AIDS.” “Well, you should be,” Amina said, louder now. “I’ve heard that Zulu men are against using condoms.” “Amina, girlfriend,” Xandi chuckled, “you really have a bee up your bonnet. You don’t know shit about Zulu men. If you did, you Literary Society International, LSi

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would have married one instead of a short Indian with a small dick. We don’t live in the cave era, you know.” “Statistically-” Amina started, red in the face. “I have to go early,” Pattie interrupted. “Shall we get to the book?” “I just don’t know why any of you even bothered with marriage. It’s an outdated institution that doesn’t serve society any longer.” All heads turned to Reese. She stood quietly in the corner. She took a cigarette from her bag. “And children?” Amina asked. “Sorry, you can’t smoke in the house.” Reese tucked the cigarette behind her ear. “I think children are better off raised by one happy individual with good self-esteem than in stressful relationships or by bickering, divorced parents.” Maggie narrowed her eyes. “Are you condemning marriage?”Amina asked, sounding ridiculed. “Actually I do,” Reese said in her husky voice. “They all end up in divorce, anyway. At least one out of three does. I’ll just let the statistics speak for themselves, Amina.” Pattie checked her watch. “Goodness, I’ve almost got to go.” Maggie turned to her. “I’ll take the books to the store for you.” Nellie clicked her tongue. “Let Pattie fight her own battles, Maggie. She’s got little enough of them.” Pattie got up. “I really have to go.” Nellie groaned. “Already?” “Sorry, I’ve got to pick up Mandy, and I have a paper to finish before tomorrow.” “Let us know how it went, girlfriend!” Xandi said. “See you tomorrow.” Pattie left as quickly as she could with Amina’s books.

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The gym was pumping with sweating bodies and an impressive show of well proportioned, young girls at the health bar. Pattie shot a tight in cycling shorts behind her an envious look and adjusted the speed of the walker. “Did you see the way she looked at me the other night at the book club?” Nellie’s elbows kept pace with her feet. “Don’t mind Maggie. Ed cheated on her. You know that.” “Yes, but I’ve heard they haven’t had sex for like two years before he had an affair.” Nellie looked at the television screen in front of them. “You can never say whose fault it is, really. I mean, did he lose interest, or did she? And when did she really stop shaving her armpits and turn all nature activist? I mean, it’s hard to say if they got divorced because of it, or if she got like that because they divorced.” “The drinking happened after the divorce, for sure.” Pattie took a sip from her water bottle. “It wasn’t as if I went out there to look for an affair or something. I just went to ask about the exchange deal for the club.” “So you can blame it on the club.” “I’ll blame it on Maggie. If she hadn’t started drinking, we never would have changed our wine club into a book club.” “So it’s Ed’s fault, really. If he hadn’t left Maggie, she wouldn’t have started drinking, and we would have still had a wine club.” “I do enjoy the book club, though.” “When’s our next meeting?” “In two months. We’re skipping December because Xandi and Maggie and Reese will all be away on holiday. Reese is going skiing in Andorra with a girl from the office. Do you think she’s a lesbian?” “She certainly dresses like one. Did you see the ugly, flat, black shoes and the baggy pants? If she cuts her hair any shorter she may as well go bald. She’s got no style, but I don’t think she’s a lesbian. She’s just very independent. Maybe she’s bisexual.” Nellie checked Literary Society International, LSi

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her heart rate on her wrist monitor. “God, I need a holiday! Are you guys going anywhere?” “No,” Pattie said with irritation. “Walter’s got the upcoming promotion. He thinks they’re going to make him senior partner this year. He has to stay focused now, and there’s just too much to do. And we want to build the pool deck. No money for a holiday this year.” When Nellie didn’t offer information, Pattie prompted. “You guys?” “Yes, you know…” she shrugged, “Brandon doesn’t like to hang around the city during the Christmas holidays. I think we are going to that lodge that we went to last year.” Pattie wiped her face on a towel. “That is a really beautiful place. But don’t you mind going to the same place again? Haven’t you already been three times?” “Mmm,” Nellie said evasively. “Wait a minute. You’re hiding something. I know you too well.” “Don’t be silly!” “Yes, you are! Come on, tell me already.” Nellie thought for a moment. “Are you going back to the bookstore?” “What does that have to do with anything?” “Everything.” “I don’t know. I can’t make up my mind.” “Alright. Then maybe I should tell you. But this can’t go further than this room.” Nellie glanced around. “I promise.” “The manager of that lodge is a hunk who fires up my sex life.” Pattie gasped. “Nellie! You’re not…” Nellie rolled her shoulders. “It was Brandon’s idea.” “You are joking, right?” “Why? I’m dead serious. But you can’t tell a soul. Promise.” “Promise.” African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“It was Brandon who first suggested a light tease, you know, just for fun, since the guy was so genuinely interested in me. Then he said, ‘Honey, why don’t you have a glass of wine with the man?’ and one thing led to another.” Pattie almost fell off the walker. “You mean you slept with him?” Nellie grinned. “I sure did. More than once, mind you.” “But… Brandon…” “Don’t be so daft, Pattie. We had a threesome.” “Oh my God!” Pattie pulled a hand through her damp hair. “How was it?” “Abso-bloody-lutely amazing.” “And Brandon is totally all right with that?” “Totally. We’ve never had better sex. Afterwards, I mean, when we’re alone. I feel like I’m a teenager again.” “Doesn’t it feel strange? Isn’t it weird?” “Never. It’s a real turn-on.” Pattie switched off the walker. “I think a need a drink.” “Let’s go to the health bar.” “No, something stronger than that.”

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The Beaded Necklace Wayne Owino Otieno *

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A

juma Mamsaar walked the dusty road towards the open ground where the priest usually held his crusade -for that was how the priest and the church viewed the weekly preaching. For Ajuma such an excursion was a welcome distraction from the monotony of rural life in Suguta Mar. A twelve-year-old Samburu girl could only be let away from the overreaching aegis of her mother and other maternal figureheads around her if she were engaged in an activity like listening to a preacher. The entire community viewed the priest favourably. Besides evangelising on what they were told was the good news of salvation, the church to which he belonged usually gave food to the villagers in times of drought. The drought was very predictable for it came every two years and, each time, the church was on hand to apportion food donations and bibles. Ajuma trudged on along the dusty road. She passed a group of young boys tending to cattle and they exchanged greetings. Further up the road she passed a group of Morans seated under a tree and snuffing tobacco. She pretended not to see them. They discussed something amongst themselves as Ajuma walked by but she looked the other way and pretended to be shielding her eyes from the overhead midday sun. A while later Ajuma reached the open ground where the priest held his crusade every Friday. There were only about twenty people, including two nuns who routinely helped to set up the table and in the distribution of picture pamphlets depicting various biblical characters. Ajuma sat under a tree and waited for the preaching to start. Nowadays she could listen to the white priest without letting the colour of his skin come in the way. The priest opened his bible and began to read as one nun African Short Stories Vol. 2

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translated to the crowd, many of whom were old women. Ajuma always found the reference to bible stories fascinating. To her, the bible was like a treasure-fill of inspirational characters and, since she was slowly mastering the art of reading, she intended to read about all the personalities therein. She found it intriguing that the priest would randomly open the bible on any page and find a fascinating story to use for teaching good morals. She could read sentences in English fairly well at this point, for she was in her fourth year of primary school. One hour later, after the priest was done pulpiteering, Ajuma stood up and perfunctorily began to walk home. Then a thought came to her and she walked back and approached the priest. She debated on whether to address the priest in English, a language she was beginning to grasp, or her own mother tongue. She opted for the latter and, looking at the priest but speaking to the nuns, she asked to be given a bible. The three adults were intrigued by her request, and without asking her whether she could read, fetched a pocketsize bible for her. The priest wrote a commemorative date on it like he did on all bibles he gave out: August, the Year of our Lord 2012. Ajuma walked back home holding the bible under her armpit. She would read all the good stories in the book, she promised herself. Presently, however, she was more concerned about getting home and fetching water to be used for cooking the evening meal. She found her mother outside their Manyatta waiting for her. “You are late,” her mother said. “What time do you want food to be eaten in this place? Is that how you will behave when you are married? Will your children be eating when all other children in the village are asleep?” Ajuma walked mutely past and went to the hut which she shared with her mother and younger brother. The priest had preached on Job’s humility that day. She placed the bible inside a nylon bag that contained the books she used at school, grabbed a pot and headed towards the stream. The stream, a tributary of the muddy Ewaso Ng’iro River, was about three kilometres away. Ajuma walked steadily until she reached it. The water levels were Literary Society International, LSi

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getting lower as the effects of the coming drought had begun to manifest within Suguta Mar village. She scooped the brown flowing water with her pot in one strong swoop and, then, painstakingly used her palms to fill it up. Ajuma was finding it hard to create time to read her bible. Any time she sat behind their hut to read it her mother would call her and assign one duty or the other to her. Eventually she found time one afternoon, about three days after she had acquired the thing. It was hot and many people in the village were either taking a nap or sheltering under the trees. She decided she would be reading her bible in the afternoons instead of napping like everyone else. She went with her bible behind their hut and opened a random page, just as she used to see the preacher do it. Page 173. She scoured the chapters that scattered the page and settled for the chapter at the top of the left page. 2 Samuel Chapter 11. “In the spring, at the time when kings go off to war, David sent Joab out with the king’s men and the whole Israelite army…” Just like the way our Morans go out and raid cattle from the Boran and the Somali, thought Ajuma as she read on slowly. “One evening David got up from his bed and walked around on the roof of the palace…” David. The preacher says he was a great king, I think that is why my father named my younger brother after him, Ajuma pondered as she read on slowly, fixedly. “From the roof he saw a woman bathing. The woman was very beautiful, and David sent someone to find out about her. The man said, ‘She is Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam and the wife of Uriah the Hittite.’ Then David sent messengers to get her. She came to him, and he slept with her…” “Ajuma!” her mother called and interrupted her reading. “Ayee, my name!” she responded and headed towards her mother at the front of the hut. She found her mother standing next to an elderly thickset man who was related distantly to Ajuma’s father; he was her father’s second cousin. Her mother was smiling as she placed between her breasts a two hundred Ksh note given to her by African Short Stories Vol. 2

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the man. The man smiled at Ajuma as she approached showing his rusty brown teeth. On his hand he held a red beaded necklace. Instinctively Ajuma knew the purpose of the man’s visit. She bowed as the man ritually placed the necklace on her thin neck, patted her forehead and grinned again. The man then walked into the main hut to continue his talk with Ajuma’s father. “I will start building a hut for you tomorrow,” Ajuma’s mother informed the girl. Ajuma simply walked past her mother into the hut. She was not sure what to think or feel. The story about Bathsheba was still on her mind. David had seen Bathsheba and loved her, Ajuma reflected. Then she began to imagine herself in the role of Bathsheba. Had the elderly man who placed the necklace on her seen her bathing by the stream and admired her just as David had Bathsheba? Yes he had, she convinced herself. The priest always said that the stories in the bible were to be used for comparison. I am Bathsheba, Ajuma asserted again, and he is David. I am beautiful, I am wanted and I am a woman. She caressed the ornament on her neck as she began to light a fire for cooking the evening meal. Three days later, the hut was complete. Ajuma dutifully moved into it. She placed her schoolbook on one corner, and placed her bible on top of it. She placed the dried reed straws on which she would sleep at the other corner of the earthen floor. Then she sat on the reeds. She wanted to do something else but she was convinced her visitor would come any time, and she wished to appear relaxed when he came. She found herself wondering if the opening that acted as the entry for the hut was low enough to prevent others from peering in. He came at about seven in the evening, just after Ajuma had finished taking supper with her mother and younger brother. They had eaten roasted maize and boiled vegetables -a staple food in Ajuma’s home. He cleared his throat outside Ajuma’s hut and she knew it was him. The hut was dark inside save for the light from her Literary Society International, LSi

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Enkoroboi kerosene burner common in all huts in Suguta Mar. He struggled to make his way through the low-level entrance and, when he did, he had to pause and take a deep breath. He said something about having a bad back but she was not listening. Her mind was blank as she looked down to her lap. He went and sat next to her, taking another deep breath. His big belly shone by the light of the Enkoroboi, and his breath smelled of the roasted meat he had had for supper. He began by touching her shoulders. She froze. He told her she needed to lie down. When she did not respond he smiled and gently pushed her to the floor upon the reed straws. Her mind went back to David and Bathsheba. I am beautiful like Bathsheba, she told herself. This man saw me bathing and he loved me. I am a woman. She felt a piercing pain down there when he pushed himself in. She groaned as he shoved himself in further. A trickle of warm blood flowed onto the reeds below them. He is David, he desires me. I am Bathsheba, I am beautiful and I am a woman, Ajuma hung on to her thoughts. Five painful minutes later, he stopped. He struggled to stand up as his sweaty body glistened in the pale light. No further words were spoken between them. With no energy or will to manoeuvre the low entry of the hut, this time, he decided to crawl out, feeling no need to project the dignity he was keen on portraying when he had come in earlier. Ajuma struggled to conceive of him as David the king as his crawling heels disappeared into the darkness. He was David; he had to be David. And she was Bathsheba; she needed to be. The next morning life around Ajuma proceeded as it had for hundreds of generations before. The young boys took the cattle to graze. The old women spread their mats out under the morning sun and soaked up its rays. The men went to the village meeting and discussed affairs of the community. Mothers and their daughters executed household chores. Ajuma wished to take a break from this monotony and talk to someone about that night. She had questions and worries that she needed to dilute with talk but, all around her, the world moved on in that slow predictable pace it had done for African Short Stories Vol. 2

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centuries.

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A week later, when Ajuma came from the stream, she met her mother and a Moran whom Ajuma had seen around the village but had never spoken to. Ajuma saw her mother insert a two hundred Ksh note between her breasts. The Moran smiled leeringly as she approached them. She was unsure of whether to put the pot on her head down for the small ritual that was to follow. She elected to unload the pot inside her mother’s hut first. When she came out the Moran was ready. He put a beaded red necklace around her, her pale skin barely hiding her protruding collarbones that contrasted with the shiny decorated ornament which now numbered two on her neck. Ajuma’s mother smiled at her daughter and thanked her for the water she had fetched, while the Moran whispered to her that he would be visiting her that evening. It was only the sharp sound of a child crying in a nearby hut that brought Ajuma to the realisation that she had been standing on that spot under the sun for too long, lost in thought. That evening after a supper of roasted maize and boiled vegetables, Ajuma heard footsteps outside her hut. She shivered but steeled herself immediately. She feared pain. The knowledge that what the Moran would do to her would be painful only frightened her more. She would have thrown up from the intense ache she was feeling but her stomach had nothing to give. As the Moran bent over to enter into her hut, her nerve peaked, her stomach jerked, and she began to hiccup loudly. The eager Moran emerged and looked at Ajuma. She was seated on the reed straws on one corner, forlornly looking down to her lap, the Enkoroboi by her side. Her hiccups intensified; her thin silhouette on the wall seemed amplified as her torso jerked up and down. The sound penetrated the silent night. The Moran looked at her, unsure of his next move. A long while later, the Moran was still standing by the entrance while Ajuma’s hiccups continued unabated Then he suddenly approached Literary Society International, LSi

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her, desire overcoming patience. He knelt down next to her and pushed her down the floor. As she laid, her body jolting up and down, every hiccup choked her temporarily. The Moran’s smile was concealed in the darkness of the room. The tweaks of her thin body increased the excitement in his loins. He pushed himself in strongly, and she felt that insufferable pain again with every thrust. Her hiccups persisted. Unable to withstand the pain and discomfort, Ajuma recalled the story she had read on her bible earlier that day, about Jacob and Rachel. I am -hic- Rachel, I am love-hic-ly and beauty-hic-ful, Ajuma told herself. He loves -hic-me. This Mo-hicran is will-hic-ing to work for -hic-seven years for my fa-hic-ther just to have -hic- me as his wife. I am faith-hic-ful and ded-hicicated just like Ra-hic-chel. I am beautiful. I am a -hic- woman. When the Moran was done he wiped the sweat on his brow and stood up quickly as if suddenly realizing that he needed to be in another place far from there. He left without uttering a word, crawling out of the hut like the previous visitor before him. Ajuma was left on the floor dazed and in pain, immersed in the world of Rachel. Her hiccups continued to upset the silence of the night. Four months saw four new visitors for Ajuma.

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Dancing Party Mohamed Saȉd Raȉhani *

P

olice have surrounded the area to better safeguard public order. Festivity Palace gate is closed. A small entry as an emergency door is opened in the wall in the middle of which stands a security guard to take the ticket from each visitor, tear it in two halves, give the visitor the first half and keep the second to himself, before starting to search his pockets and body using his hands. When the search does not detect any piece of metal on the person, he pushes him inside the door to make room for the next visitor standing to the left of the officer in the long queue, waiting with great patience for the concert which will start in a few hours.

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Inside Festivity Palace sellers seem to outnumber the audience. Most toddlers are looking to sell their goods of any kind: tea, coffee, lemonade, fried-egg and hard-egg sandwiches at exorbitant price compared to market price outside. However, everyone seems to enjoy the atmosphere. Calls and shouts are echoing everywhere. Exchange is all there is: food and drinks for money, money for thanks, and thanks for not-at-all… A sharp and deafening music comes straight from the amps recently installed on each side of the stage where the technicians are busy with arrangements with the network of sound and light and various electrical accessories. One of the eager visitors tries in vain to drag his companion to the dance floor: -Not yet, my friend. The party has not yet begun. The music that you hear is just to fill the void and monitor the proper implementation of the scene, and to ensure the audience is awake while waiting for the stands to fill up and for the band to come. Literary Society International, LSi

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The man moves back to his seat, still full of nervousness. He continues to fidget and tap his feet while listening to the songs that mingle with the general din: the racket from children running through the aisles, the shouts of sellers who climb the stands with their buckets filled with warm lemonade and their baskets with cold sandwiches, jumping between the legs of imperturbable spectators who have spent all their money on the entry ticket and are sitting down cross-armed. On stage one of the technicians pulls the microphone to test it: -Hello! ... Hello! ... -Test! ... Test! ... One! ... Two!... -One! ... Two! On hearing his interjections, a drunken man thinks of the speeches of politicians, statesmen and all the politicos and tries to imitate them: -O daring people! Oh daring people! -One! ... Two! ... Test! ... -Test! ... Daring People! Some other drunkards have burst out laughing, falling over their backs. The sober ones who are very near hide their faces in their own hands mumbling out: -Damn him! He will spoil the show for us! -He will! Some of the neighbouring spectators leave in search of a better place as the others are set afoot by the first tremors of the first song announced by the band which has just appeared on the stage. In the stands waves of movements progress in response to the music. The dance floor turns red hot with dancers unleashed while the stands are full of shy ones. There are no others in the stands but the shy, the old, the lame, the blind and the dwarf sitting still and guarding their people’s seats until they come up from the dance African Short Stories Vol. 2

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floor -lest newcomers or lost dancers should take hold of them. On the floor everyone is shimmying. Everybody is spinning around, paying no heed to the pace or the orchestra or the other dancers. Women are dancing with women and men with men. Women are hugging women and men hugging men while children remain hopelessly lost between the legs of both sexes... A young man violates the code regulating dance in public occasions. He invites a young lady to dance with him and gets her company all at once, under the stunned and contemptuous eyes of all those who seem to hold a grouse with the easy girl while overlooking the young man -since he is male. The girl and boy dance. They rock, twist and shout with pleasure enjoying the rhythm and the fun. The young man beats the ground with his feet like all men do; the young lady shakes her hips and waves her arms like all women do, singing the entire text of which the young man knows nothing but the chorus for which he keeps waiting with great patience to join the young lady:

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Give me more love; give it to me You mildest outbreak of my madness Give it to me... The young man, carried by the chorus, gets now and then out of the dancing rhythm but the girl would get him back again with a touch or a smile, permeated with happiness, where the sweet voice of the singer grows much sweeter as he addresses himself to all the dancers on the dance floor: -Let’s dance! We have nothing but tonight. Let’s dance! Literary Society International, LSi

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Tomorrow we walk past the closed door And we shall shiver all over On remembering these happy moments. So, live it and feel it tonight With the eyes and feelings of tomorrow! Let’s dance! Let’s enjoy dancing!

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Rabbit Man Mohamed Saȉd Raȉhani *

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y fellow players, very well positioned, are calling for the ball to be passed quickly to them. I can easily centre the ball right on their heads. But I have a quite a different solution choosing to show my talent before the two rough defenders whose gigantic frames seem to overshadow the whole stadium. While trying to dribble them, a spectacular scissors blow sends me high in the air from where I must choose the side on which to fall on. In no time, I decide to fall on my leg -which gets broken right away after colliding with the solidity of the ground… All the players, including the rivals, take turns in carrying me to the nearest orthopaedic surgeon’s. The orthopaedist asks for money in advance before fulfilling any surgical operation on my broken leg. Then he shows me out in the heart of the night while I was still under the effect of anaesthesia, giving me an appointment in one month instead. For a full month, I do not set a foot into any of the public baths in the city. I smell too bad from afar and this discourages me from contacting even my friends. At the university I have become more and more lonely, preferring to sit in the back of the auditorium. Once the waiting period is up I go back to see the orthopaedist to remove my plaster cast and help me start my rehabilitation but I am astonished to discover that my left leg is shorter than my right one and that my knee cannot bend either. The orthopaedist, realizing his mistake, runs right ahead to the magical solution: -Now you can go and bathe. Later on everything will come back to their normal function… Literary Society International, LSi

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-What about my short leg? -Go and bathe first, I tell you. Afterwards, I will see to your distorted leg. For a week I keep going to and fro public baths in our area until one of the hosts openly declares his surprise for my daily presence, muttering to his companion's ear: -I know this young man. To my knowledge, he is not married yet. But why all this bathing? I go back again to the sworn orthopaedist in his clinic and I find him submerged by accounts and bills when I surprise him: -Why did you deform me? -I deformed nobody. Strokes of luck vary: Ninety-nine per cent of cases turn out to be successful and the remaining one per cent is left for chance. -But what can I do now with one leg touching the ground and the other dangling in the air? -Don’t forget that you still have two legs left, like everybody else... -I'll kill you, bastard! -Be off with you, you rogue! Then he chases me with a hatchet in his right hand and a hammer in his left one while I jump out running away before him like a hare fleeing reprisal, standing on my short leg and kicking the floor with my long leg to jump in the air, flying over nine tiles then kicking the floor to jump over nine more tiles then over nine stairs, not stopping until I find myself in the campus where I surprise my friends: -You're all my witnesses! -Witnesses for what! -The orthopaedist distorted me and I will drag him away to court. Otherwise I will kill him or he will kill me... -Don’t lose your mind, dear friend. You must avoid meddling with doctors -all doctors. They know all the remedies and all the African Short Stories Vol. 2

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poisons. As for death which we shiver from in fear at the least reference, they see it as a very normal case. Death that frightens us is for them a simple case and the dead that we venerate are for them mere corpses which they spend all their days long stumbling over. If ever you venture to quarrel with him, he might, with a simple injection, mummify you into a snake or a crocodile... I understand nothing. Will my friends let me down? Can friends really do it? Then they were all pacing away. From afar, I heard one of them saying out: -It is God's will, dear friend. Accept it! I feel the world changing around me. I feel everything changing inside me: my feelings, my views, my convictions, my breeding and expectations... Everything has taken a disturbing turn. -Have my friends betrayed me? -Have I lost my leg forever? -Do I have to learn how to lead a new life? -Do I have to lead a life the way hares and rabbits do? Vertigo overwhelms me: -Is it inevitable for me to accept my new role and my new life as a hare? Whirling questions cover the universe before my eyes with a thick haze: -Have I ultimately become a hare? Suddenly I feel like a whirlpool spinning me down and I shout out loud for help: -Come along, my friends! The friends I am calling are playing the deaf and stepping away as I pray: -Go away if you like but please answer my question: Will I spend the rest of my life like this? My question, however, echoes back as no one seems interested: -Answer me, please, my friends. Are you going to let me down, Literary Society International, LSi

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too? All of them continue to pace away quietly. I look at the earth beneath my feet and I see that I am standing on one foot and the other dangling in the air. In despair, I repeat my question weakly with the tears in my eyes making the world seem convex at a time and concave at another. -Do you advise me to live like this? Before they all disappear behind the buffet, one of them looks back and shouts out: -Buy yourself a high-heeled shoe to spare you the uncalculated risks! Finally I find myself all alone in the middle of campus: On my right, teachers are roaring out of their windows; on my left, the cars and trucks are soaring and I am feeling vertigo overwhelming me, hastening newer directions other than ‘right’ and ‘left,’ newer directions going beyond both ‘right’ and ‘left’ and, instead of jumping like a rabbit ahead, I will jump high up in the sky the way a rocket does, much higher than the great Arab poet Abu Al-Alae AlMaarri ever dreamed of when reciting his:

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And I, as late as I came, Can invent what no one has ever thought to frame.

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Identity Mohamed Saȉd Raȉhani *

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he police officer hands me my duplicate identity card. He keeps looking suspiciously at me. Then he mumbles out threateningly: -Watch out! This is the third duplicate. No more stupidity. Is it clear, man? Watch out! Watch out! Watch out! Outside the police station, additional magnetic attraction sticks me to the ground making each pace heavier and heavier. I take great delight in my weight…

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The spraying fountain at the square caresses my face as I advance towards the market gate. The market is always crowded. Customers are hustling and bustling in obvious boredom. The vegetable and sardine sellers on both sides of the only passage way inside the market call the jostlers’ attention to the goods they have spread on the ground but they will spare no time to damn their mothers, slapping them on their faces with parsley bundles for turning upside down their bean sacs or scattering their sardine boxes and treading them hysterically down as they hustle along: Watch out! Literary Society International, LSi

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Watch out! Watch out! A lateral push hurls me out of my abstraction, sends me swimming over the half-full bean sacs and, then, rolling in a lake of bean grains. I try seeking for a foothold among the hustlers… I feel light now that I am on my feet again. The drop has stolen my weight off me. It is as if I have got rid of something, or as if I lost it. I search in my trouser pockets. The front pockets…. The back ones… I try searching again and again... My knees shiver… The wallet? My knees fail me with every step. My card? I examine the faces around me: Everyone is hustling to and fro, back and forth, and no one seems concerned with my dilemma. Finally, the human flood throws us outside the market to the other square. The water of this fountain showers us all with its spittle.

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My knees tremble. The least puff of air alters my hesitating altitude. I am now without weight, lighter than a feather. It is as if Mother Earth's magnetic attraction has got rid of me, all at once. In this consternation of mine I am probably now the laughing stock of my robbers. They may be sipping their cups of coffee somewhere around here in these cafés and making fun of my African Short Stories Vol. 2

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stupidity…. A friend of mine shows me to the chief of the staff in charge of the snatching operations in this market: a stylish man wearing a grey suit, sipping his coffee all alone under a sunshade on the terrace of The Beautiful View café in front of the market gate. The chieftain asks me, after I have finished my story: -Where were you stolen? I answer: -In the market. However, the chieftain, apparently, takes great care for details: -Where? At the entrance? At the exit? -The exit. The chieftain leans on my friend and whispers audibly: -Your friend is unlucky. The exit is not under my control. Then, he turns round to me again: -What was there in your wallet?

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-My identity card. The chieftain remains quiet for a while and says with fake sorrow: -You are a victim of foreign thieves who steal anything from anyone. Some of them specialise only in stealing documents and selling them to smugglers, criminals and prostitutes…. The chieftain sips his coffee and adds: -Watch out! Literary Society International, LSi

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I say nothing. What is the use of caution now? The chieftain carries on with his advice with his eyes focussed right on the market gate: -Those who stole your card will chase after you more than ever before in order to get more documents: Your passport, check-book, signature… Your card is on public sale somewhere. Whoever buys it will cause you so much trouble because he will be you by the force of law with the same name, profession, address and dates… Documents, my country-fellow, make the personality. The more documents are complete and coherent, the more your personality is real and legal. Then, he turns to me saying: -Do you remember any of the suspicious faces around you at the exit? I recapitulate the events and the faces on my memory’s screen:

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The hustling, the jostling, the damning, people’s breath inside my shirt collar, The careless faces flowing by... The chieftain is waiting for an answer. I say: -No. The chieftain fidgets and declines any more cooperation. I never know the reason of this awe which submerges me whenever I set foot on the first stair case stepping up to the police station gateway. Even the high raised flags give me such a fright when the wind shakes it above my head!

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I lay my documents down on the police officer’s desk: -These are the new documents for my newer identity card, and here is the loss attestation… The policeman turns bewildered: -Loss of what? Aren’t you the one who took this very morning his third identity card duplicate? He squints at me in amazement, his eyes in mine, searching for the ruse that I am weaving for him. He remains gazing at me….. At last, he pounds at his desk and stands up, astonished: -Wait, there. I’ll go upstairs to consider your case.

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The Regents of Epossa-motto (II) NN Dzenchuo *

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chools have resumed. Junior is in class six and feeling taller. He is proud to present himself to his friends and tell them about the wonderful holiday he spent in the village. His school mates crowd around him. Junior is telling them about the Musanga he received from his grandfather. He further explains that the chain of beads is from Eppossa-motto. “Who is Eppossa-motto?” asks Wallang. “He is thunder, wind and fire,” Junior proudly announces. “Really? Can a man be thunder, and all that?” “He is not man! He is stone and man. And thunder,” Junior is slightly confused. “That sounds terrible,” Wallang replies. “Let me see your Musanga again,” he tries to force his right hand into his friend’s jacket. His friend screams at him. “Nobody touches it! Except my father who is to become chief after my grandfather.” “And so you too will be chief,” teases Ayuk, another friend listening to Junior’s tale. “Yes. So my grandfather has promised me.” Junior sounds really proud of his grandfather. “Is that why he gave you this Waw-waw thing?” Wallang is deliberately riling his friend. “You are jealous. Go and meet your own grandfather to get yours.” Junior is getting angry, especially with Wallang, who now opens his top uniform. Near his armpit is a small sown leather bag, the size of a bear cover. It is well stitched with a twine and attached to his arm. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“I have my own too. It was given me by my grandfather from the village and protects me against any harm.” The friends are laughing. Junior now is not quite the only hero he thinks he is. Wallang too has his own god. “But it is not the North Star,” Chief Njie’s grandson announces in defence. “Eppossa-motto does not know you. He is my village god, not yours!” “He does not have a god in his village,” Ayuk points to Wallang. “Are there any gods in Manyu?” Wallang snaps in protest. Manyu is one of the six divisions in the South West Region where Ayuk hails from. “We have our own god and he protects our village,” Ayuk returns. “But are you in your village now?” the other queries derisively. Junior cuts in before Ayuk could answer. “My grandfather also gave me a big cockerel for Christmas. He also bought me books.” “Your grandfather gave you a cockerel?” With all eyes on him Junior is now the hero. The lunch break is almost over. Christy and Eposi, the two girls among them whose lips are still wet because they had cupped their hands to their mouths to drink water from the tap in their school listen in bemusement as Junior brags about his great fortune. “Yes, he says I could kill it for Christmas. My mother will cook it with rice and stew.” “But it is not Christmas time yet,” Christy speaks from behind Ayuk. Junior and the others turn in her direction to appraise the rather smallish fair girl with a pout on her face. “Who called you here, Miss Pompous? See ya long mouth,” Junior rags at Christy who almost turns red in the face. “And you are standing with your children? Then go home, Adult!” she fires back, hastening towards her class with her friend Eposi. The boys are laughing. The open secret that none of them is Literary Society International, LSi

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Junior’s age infuriates our young hero. Junior is spoiling to start a fight when he hears the bell ringing, signalling the end of break. There is no further alternative than to join the class and pretend to be cool. “One of these days I will pluck out her frog-eyes,” he fumes to himself. A tear is almost dripping from the corner of his left eye. Christy from an adjacent corner of her bench is watching Junior discreetly and feeling sorry for him. At home Junior is busy with his Christmas fowl, feeding it with bits and corn powder. This weekend Mola Lysinge’s son brings out the Musanga hoping for their mother to tell him more about Eppossa-motto. “Grandpa told me that someday I shall be chief like he,” the boy half-asks his mother, showing the bead chain. “He is simply telling you that after he dies, your father will take over the throne and, then, after your father, you will. My son, do not spend your time thinking of such things. It is a very long time to come, many years after you become a man,” his mother advises. Junior is somehow palled in his zeal to be the chief some day but still happily holds out the lone cowry, the medal of the chain. His younger sister, Enene, who has been fixing vegetables beside her mother as he talks about Eppossa-motto lets out a long sigh. “Some country things self,” she mutters clearly deriding Junior’s cowry treasure. “Musanga don turn chain,” she continues in pidgin. Junior rises, fuming in anger and shouting at his sister. “Mola must hear about this! You curse my Musanga?” He advances towards her direction for a fight but their mother holds him down. “Enene, do stop that! Have respect for your elder brother. And I demand you apologize to him and you both embrace each other.” “I’m sorry. I will not abuse your Musanga again,” the girl says. And so, every morning, well before the pupils leave for school, Junior will feed the Christmas fowl his grandfather gave him. He takes some corn and sits on the steps of the house. There, upon the steps, he uses a smooth stone to grind the corns. Soon they become African Short Stories Vol. 2

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powdery bits which he turns onto a plastic plate and takes to the chicken pen. With water on a tin container beside it the cock would eat flapping its winds with occasional crows. After feeding time Junior does his morning chores. He sweeps the yard, takes out his father’s work shoes, cleans and polishes them, while Enene washes the plates and pans and their mother warms the left over food or prepares tea for breakfast. Having washed and eaten their breakfast, they will leave for school: the son trekking to GS Mile One and the daughter boarding a taxi to Government High at Limbe. Their father will leave for work and Nyango Nanyongo will leave for market to do petite business. Other times Mola Lysnge will carry the children and drop them off to their different schools before leaving for work. During the weekends they go to farm together to clear the fields. And during the planting season they work on the maize, beans, makabo cocoyam and cassava stems. Junior Lysinge works hard in the farm but often leaves before the family either pretending belly-bite or some serious homework. His father usually grants him permission to return home earlier. But before the parents are back from farm Junior is already in Caterpillar field playing football with his friends and sweating profusely. His father will only smile and muse to himself. Let him bring out his talent. He will buy his son leather boots for football and make him the envy of his friends most of who wear but rubber sandals or tchang-shoes. That year’s Inter-Schools sports Junior is seen wearing the jersey of GPS Mile One and playing position 9 in shining leather boots. Something always seems to back up his goal scoring skills and soon Junior has the name of his school etched on the waves. During the finals on 11th February, the national day, presided over by the divisional officer of Fako, Junior Lysinge’s growing reputation as a football prodigy is witnessed by the presidents of the second and first divisions football clubs such as the Njalla Quan, Literary Society International, LSi

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Victoria United, Elecsport (all in Limbe), the PWD in Kumba, Ekatta and others in the region. The next day the head of Njalla Quan Sports Academy (NQSA) in Limbe visits Mola Lysinge in his Caterpillar Field residence. Junior’s father is at home watching Sports Parade, a weekly sports program by the Cameroon Radio and Television (CRTV). His gaze is glued to an interview with officials of the national football federation demanding the dissolution of the local football governing body. The interviewee is criticizing the former executives for the body’s lack of autonomy as demanded by its constitution. The interviewee is saying: “This is a key point demanded by FIFA” when there comes a persistent knock on the door. Lysinge starts towards the door, sighing when he sees a strange, smiling face. “C’mo on in,” he beckons with his hands towards the visitor. M. Pierre E. Ndolo enters, taking the proffered hand. “Who are you, sir, and what can I do for you?” Ndolo explains the subject of his visit after formal introductions. It is obvious to Mola Lysinge that this visitor may have investigated him a little before making this visit. “I do not think that would be acceptable. Junior is my only son and I don’t lack the money to sponsor his education,” he proceeds cautiously. “But, sir, your son has talent in football and we want to develop it at the academy,” pleads the NQSA manager. “I know he is talented but I want him to move forward in education,” Mola Lysinge counters. “Sir, I am not refusing that. But Junior is a genius with the skill of Roger Milla. Could you let the school make us another great name for our nation?” Monsieur Ndolo pleads again, hoping his stubborn host relents a little. When Mola Lysinge hears the name of the great football star his heart beats with pride. My son could be as great as Milla? Maybe I should give it a chance… Truly, one cannot tell. “What do you want to do with him? He is to go to a secondary school after two years from now.” African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“The sports academy is also a secondary school,” Monsieur Ndolo explains. “We are offering scholarships for his last two years in primary school and through secondary school years up to the GCE ordinary and advanced levels.” “And during that time…?” Mola Lysinge is curious to know more. “We admit him into our dormitory and train him. He will live in the dormitory and attend schools. We train him for at least three years in the cadet football team,” the manager further explains. “Then what else from there?” Junior’s father asks. “Can you spell the advantages to me, dear?” “From cadet to junior team. Then to first division, which is Victoria United!” the manager explains. Mighty Opopo of the South West! Mola Lysinge exclaims inwardly, his mouth open in quiet admiration. The man continues: “From Opopo we shall send him to Europe for professional football. From there the coach of the Indomitable Lions can call him home to the national team.” The young beneficiary of these prospects is just entering the house from evening classes to see his father raising his hands toward the heavens. “God, may my son become a great football star in this country!” Then he turns to Junior, and then to Monsieur Ndolo. “That’s he, sir. He is at your disposal,” Mola Lysinge howls to the astonishment of Junior who stands transfixed. Like dry season fire the news of Victoria United offer to take in Mola Lysinge’s son has spread in Caterpillar Field quarters and Mile One. In the city of Limbe those who know Mola Lysinge are talking about this wonderful development in the life of the young star. At school he is the subject of the day among the pupils and teachers. “I swear he is lucky!” says one boy in a group of seniors. “Well, I hear his father refused and wants him to finish school first,” argues Mark, a Class Seven pupil. Literary Society International, LSi

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“No,” Wallang explains. “His father finally accepted it as the academy is still a secondary school.” “So from there he will be bought for professional football in Europe?” demands Mark. “Do you doubt that?” the others chorus. “Oh lucky boy! Why am I not the one?” Wallang wails. The following morning Wallang does his chores earlier than usual. He bathes and quickly dresses for school, placating his parents that he is hurrying for morning classes. Instead he takes a short-cut to Mola Lysinge’s compound to meet Junior. Wallang wants to accompany Junior to school so he can share in Junior Lysinge’s glory. He meets him cracking corns for his cock. Many hands lighten up a chore and they trek down together to school. Junior Lysinge and his friend are met entering the campus by groups of friends who are all smiles. He is not only a hero but also a star. Wallang is walking beside him, smiling and waving to passersby and others crowding them. Christy and Eposi are also in the crowd. Some have spread the false message that Wallang is the one to go to the sports academy. So the two girls have also joined the probing crowd to get first hand news. “I heard that Wallang’s been bought by the football school at Njalla Quan?” Christy asks demurely. “No! It is Junior Lysinge,” the crowd tell her. “And he has been offered scholarship,” one further explains. “Did he pass a test?” asks Eposi. “Whether or not, he is now a great man!” they explain to Eposi and Christy who is regretting the day she abused Junior and called him Adult. “And he is going to be chief some day to come. Oh, I shall love to be his queen; Junior is good. I like him,” says Eposi as the two girls walk towards the devotion ground. “No, I shall be the one to marry him. He is gentle and kind,” argues Christy. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“But you abused him. Junior Lysinge’s angry with you.” Eposi does not want her friend to be favoured by Junior Lysinge. It is line up for morning devotion. The pupils converge to the ground facing the flagpole: the green, red and yellow stripes with golden star spangles. After prayers, the rendition of the national anthem follows, beaten by the school band with drums and trumpets. During the performance all the teachers and pupils stand feet clamped and chests thrust up, hands at akimbo: the sign of great patriotism, all facing the national flag fluttering in the wind, as if in acknowledgement to the rhythms of the Land of Promise, the refrain (and title) of the anthem so inspiring everyone’s dream of a great Cameroon. After this, some announcements are made and the matching song follows. It is John Brown’s Body, an American marching song about the abolitionist:

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John Brown’s body lies a-smouldering in the grave John Brown’s body lies a-smouldering in the grave But his soul goes marching on Glory, glory, hallelujah, Glory, glory, hallelujah, His soul goes marching on John Brown died that the slaves might be free John Brown died that the slaves might be free His Soul goes marching on Glory, glory hallelujah…

The students of GPS Mile One continue their patriotic rhyme, like parading troops but with slight alteration of some words, such as: “He’s gone to be a soldier…” replaced with “I want to be a soldier…” so as to reflect their great dream for their land. They march into the class, singing John Brown’s Body and sitting down to await the class mistress. Christy has swept the class, dusted the benches and blackboard and prepared the flowers on Madam’s table. This she always does, having been elected for that role by the Madam who describes Literary Society International, LSi

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Christy as the most beautiful girl in the whole school. And when one sees the girl putting roses in the bottle filled midway with water or lilies or sunflowers stalks, it is clear that she is Beauty herself. During launch break while the others are out playing and some are eating Christy buys some pancakes, fish pies and yoghurt. She offers all these to Junior Lysinge much to his surprise. He accepts the gifts and friendship is established. It is early October; the rain is making way for the dry season or summer period. Heavy construction projects have been halted until after these October rains. But one incident is going to prove the lad’s trust in his grand father’s mountain god, Eppossa-motto. Late afternoon, Junior Lysinge and his mates are playing soccer in Caterpillar Field. It is a bright afternoon as the sun is very high. But then the weather suddenly changes. Dark clouds approach from yonder the top of the mountain’s western shores and the whole place turns dark, almost blinding. It is followed by sudden downpour and thunder bolts. Then comes a flash of brightly coursing light several miles long and snaking through the black skies. Everyone in the field is scampering for safety. The thunder, striking down trees and uprooting roofs, has accidentally struck Junior Lysinge, almost killing the lad. Well before the arrival of his parents Junior Lysinge is rushed to the provincial hospital by neighbours. He is immediately taken into the theatre. Four doctors examine him for any internal injuries or organ damage. But miraculously Junior seems in good health. Has he been shielded by some higher force from the monster that damaged the buildings in Caterpillar Field? Chief Njie of Bonanjoku comes to Limbe hospital to see his grandson. Eppossa-motto never sleeps, he says. Junior is discharged from the hospital one week later. He goes home to his parents while grandpa goes back to village. And the clan of Mount Fako praise their mountain god in songs.

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The news that he was struck by thunder has circulated round the city of Limbe. At home the promising football star is the admiration of friends and envy of jealous neighbours. The NQSA president visits the family, bringing Mola Lisinge money for his son’s medical treatment. He also presents them the blue-and-whitestriped jersey of Victoria United. Christy’s visit to see Junior is a surprise to his parents. But they allow the two to talk in private. Soon Christy is leaving and Junior is seeing her off. There is a long silence as no one speaks to each other. After about a few minutes Christy breaks the silence. “Is it true Junior that one day you’re going to be chief of your village?” she half-smiles in slight embarrassment and discomfiture. Her host turns towards her in smiles. “Yes I will be chief after my father -so my grandfather says. But who told you this?” Christy snorts. “I heard you telling your friends when we returned from third term holiday. Eposi and I were standing by the day you were explaining it to them, remember” “Yes, I told my friends, but did I see you there?” Junior feigns. “We were among the crowd,” she explains. Her mouth is fresh like ripe guava; her face is framed with beauty. Juniour is blinking in surprise and bemusement. Both of them seem to have forgotten the case of Miss Pompous and Adult. “Well I am longing for the day when I shall be chief in my village,” he accedes. “You will make a good chief,” she congratulates him. “I promise I will be just and kind to my people. I will uphold the rule and tradition of my forefathers. And mercy and peace shall follow my chiefdom,” Chief Njie’s grandson enthuses. “Your mother and sister will be proud of you. And Mole, too. And your wife -when you’re a man,” Christy says. Junior seems dumbstruck. They are now in Caterpillar Field as he escorts his guest homeward. He plucks a blade of grass and begins to nibble uncertainly at it. As they move slowly, silently, Junior is looking at Christy. How beautiful she is; how even more Literary Society International, LSi

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beautiful she will be when she grows up. It is as if she has read his mind, for she asks him directly. “Will you marry me and make me your queen when we’re grown?” There is serene look in her eyes, and a light in her smile. Her gap tooth adds to her loveliness. Mola Lysinge’s son is feeling he has come face to face with an angel from the heavens. “I will if you accept me. My people shall be blessed by you. We shall be king and queen of Bovanjoku when we are big,” he blurts joyously.

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It was later rumoured at their school, and among their friends, that Christy and Junior Lysinge will marry when they grow up. None of them disliked the rumour.

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The Book Club (II) Charmaine Pauls *

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P

attie watched Walter trying to light the fire. “How come you didn’t tell me Maggie’s kids were going to see Ed in Oz if you knew? It’s a big thing, Walt. A whole month abroad.” Walter blew into the hopeless pile of coals. “I didn’t think it was important.” Pattie sat up in the deck chair. “Of course it is important. You didn’t tell me Ed had called you.” He waved a newspaper over the smoking charcoal. “Look, Ed called me. We had a brief chat about his tax exemption. He mentioned the kids’ visit, and that’s that.” Pattie got up and poured herself more wine. “You never talk to me, Walter. I didn’t know that you and Ed were still that friendly.” Walter stepped back to look at the failing fire. “Honey, I don’t know what you are on about. Just because you told me something that Maggie mentioned at the book club, and I already knew, you are upset about it.” “I am. I just think we don’t share things anymore.” Walter sighed. “Do we have firelighters?” “How the hell should I know? I already know everything about the house. Must I now take over the garden shed, too?” “Calm down, Pattie. It’s not my fault that Ed has a new, young girlfriend in Melbourne. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you that.” “That’s right.” Pattie put her glass down with enough force to spill the red wine over the table. “Let’s try to share a little bit less, shall we?” Walter looked at her, baffled, as she stomped back into the kitchen.

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Pattie stood in the queue, discreetly observing Erick. She told herself it wasn’t the fight she had had with Walter that had driven her here. Then it was her turn and he looked up and smiled. “Good afternoon, Patricia. Made up your mind, didn’t you?” “The books are in my car. I’ve got twelve, if that’s all right.” “I’ll come help you. Dalene,” he called to the back, “can you take over for a couple of minutes?” When a young, dark girl emerged from a backroom Erick took Pattie’s arm and escorted her to the car park in front of his store. They didn’t stop at her car. Erick led her to a small coffee shop across the street and she didn’t resist. He pulled a chair out for her. “Tell me about what you read, Patricia.” “Oh,” she sat down and fumbled with the paper napkin. “This and that.” “I think classics suit you. Charles Dickens. Charlotte Brontë.” “Classics?” She laughed self-consciously. “Is that a way of telling me that I’m old?” His fingers slipped over hers. “Not at all. You’re a classic woman.” She didn’t move her hand. She was worried about looking like a prude, and about making a scene. “What exactly is a classic woman?” “A woman who has everything -brains, looks, a good body…” She looked through the window. Outside, people carrying shopping bags were in conversation with one another. His voice was deep and sensual, like velvet. “The best part of your body is your feet.” She looked back at him. “What?” “Perfectly proportioned. It says a lot about the rest of you. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help but notice.” She looked at the menu, reading nothing. “Are you always this forward?” African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“Only with rare, beautiful women.” Her eyes lifted. “Are there many?” “Too few. You are deliciously mature. So much more sensual than…” She looked at their hands, suddenly intertwined. “I told you I’m married.” “You did. I didn’t ask you to get married. Can I tell you what I like about you?” The waitress came to take their order. He ordered for them without asking her what she preferred. Pattie liked the way he took charge. She had never been with a man like that. He looked like a man who could build a barbeque fire in no time. She stared through the window while the waitress scribbled in her ordering pad. She had crossed a line. There was no turning back. Outside, honest people were scurrying home.

Maggie waited at the top of the church steps. The wind blew her wild curls around her angry face. Pattie pulled up on the curb, switched off the engine, almost tripped over the sling of her bag when she jumped out of her car, pressed the remote to lock it, and hurried toward Maggie. “Sorry I’m late,” Pattie said, breathless. She noted that Maggie had stopped dying her hair. Streaks of gray broke into the curls. “Where have you been?” Maggie was annoyed. “I had to go past the store. Walter needed shaving cream.” “You could have called. I’ve left two messages on your mobile. Why didn’t you answer?” “Really?” Pattie asked half-heartedly. “I didn’t hear my phone. It was in my bag. Anyway, I’m here now. Shall we get started? What are we doing? I have to be home in time to cook dinner.” Maggie gave her a pile of leaflets. “The minister said we could hand these out by the doors. Congregation should be out in a few minutes. I can’t believe you almost dropped me.” Literary Society International, LSi

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Pattie glanced at the leaflets. “Just say thank you that I’m here. I still can’t believe I’m doing this.” “We’re saving a park, Pattie, and a lot of trees. Oxygen for our children to breathe. If this one gets built over we’ve lost a very important battle.” “I don’t know why you didn’t ask Reese. I’m too shy for this kind of thing. This is right up Reese’s alley.” “Yes, well, Reese has a problem with the church in general. It defies her value system and she refuses to betray her integrity.” “Oh,” Pattie said, feeling a little bit offended. “So you did ask her first.” “Of course. But you know she condemns the church.” “Reese condemns any form of conformity.” “Sometimes we have to look past the pride borne from our principles to see the bigger picture. I mean, you couldn’t ask for a better group of people to engage in the Save-the-park project than a group of God fearing people, right?” “I suppose.” Maggie looked at Pattie’s low-cut Lycratop and red lipstick. “You look different.” Her eyes lowered to the short skirt, black stockings and high heels. Pattie beamed. “I do?” “What’s going on, Pattie? I know you well enough to know that you are cooking up something.” Pattie laughed and looked away. The sounds of an uncoordinated hymn filtered through the door. “What are you up to, Pattie?” Maggie sounded cross. When Pattie didn’t answer, Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “This is what Nellie looked like when they got back from Botswana last year, after…” Pattie’s head snapped around. “After what?” “You know.” The church bell rang. “Know what?” Maggie sighed. “Oh, come on, Pattie. I know she told you African Short Stories Vol. 2

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about their little orgy with Luke. You are best friends, after all.” Pattie’s eyes widened. Luke? She felt a sense of exclusion. “When did she tell you that?” “I don’t know.” Maggie shrugged. “Last year. The week after they got back? Yes. We had a New Year’s lunch after my science seminar. Does it matter?” “No,” Pattie lied. Maggie’s shoulders hunched. “I just want to tell you that I am so disappointed with you. I can’t believe you went and did it.” “Did what?” Pattie focused on the quartz crystal hanging around Maggie’s neck. She couldn’t look her in the eye. Maggie only shook her head slowly. Pattie wanted to make sense of the feelings that blew like tumbleweed through her mind but the music had stopped and the church doors opened. She started handing out a petition to save their neighborhood park. Pattie sat next to Walter by the pool. “Kids both out again?” “Mmm.” He didn’t open his eyes. “It is Saturday after all.” “Not even moved out of the house yet, and I’m suffering from an empty nest syndrome.” “You deserve the break, Honey.” “Nellie and Brandon left yesterday. They went to that same lodge again. The one in Botswana.” “Mmm.” “I suppose it’s nice when you’ve got lots of money and you can go wherever you want.” He reached out and patted her hand. “Don’t worry, Honey. We’ll go somewhere next year.” Pattie started crying. He opened his eyes and looked at her in surprise. “What’s going on?” “Oh,” she sniffed, “I don’t know. Menopause. It’s just that everyone is away and I’m upset with Nellie.” Literary Society International, LSi

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He sighed. “You women. Whatever for? Nellie is your best friend.” “She told me something and made me promise not to tell a soul, and then I found out that she had already told Maggie about it almost a year ago.” “Is that so important?” “Yes, it is! You just don’t get it, do you?” “Get what?” “Why I’m upset.” When Walter didn’t answer Pattie blurted. “Nellie and Brandon are having a threesome with the manager of the lodge.” When he still didn’t respond she exclaimed: “Aren’t you going to say something?” “It’s not our business, Darling.” “I can’t believe you can be so casual about it. I can’t believe she told Maggie about her affair before she told me. We’re like the oldest of friends, ever. She’s only known Maggie for little over a year, and only because I introduced them.” “Is this about her telling Maggie or about her having a threesome?” “Oh, I don’t know.” Pattie got up. “I’m going shopping.” Walter squinted, blocking out the sun with his hand. “I thought we were going to relax together by the pool today?” “I’m sick of relaxing.” It took Pattie all of three seconds to decide where to go. She parked in front of the bookstore. It was nothing, she told herself. Besides, she still hadn’t chosen the books they were exchanging. Erick took her to a quiet restaurant where they had little chance of being spotted. His finger trailed over her cheek. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing. I’m sorry. I’ve just been thinking about my job, about the exam papers.” “What’s bothering you about it?” African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“I don’t know. I have so many students who are… I guess I’m just worried about the pass rate, about how it’s going to reflect on my reputation with the college.” “The rewriting only takes place in February, right? I can help you come up with solutions, you know. Programs… paper topics… anything.” She looked up in surprise. “You can? You would?” “Of course. Sometimes, all you need is an outsider’s opinion, some distance from the problem.” “That’s… very kind.” “Want to talk about it? We could try to analyze it.” She looked at him for some time. “I’d rather talk about you.” There was a pause in time, a crucial moment in which their eyes locked in mutual understanding. He took her hand. “Come back to my place.” Pattie’s stomach lurched like it did on roller coaster rides. “But we’ve already ordered.” He took out a few bills and left it on the table. “Let’s live dangerously.” When she didn’t speak, he took her hand and pulled her to her feet. He looked at her over his shoulder as he pulled her from the restaurant, like a man would look at a woman he is leading to his bedroom. Xandi eyed Pattie suspiciously over the desk in the office they shared. “You’ve had your hair cut and highlighted, and you’re wearing a new outfit. What’s up, girlfriend? Anything we should know?” Pattie smiled, arranging her files into neat little piles. “Nothing.” “Come on, out with it.” Xandi chewed on a string of licorice. “And you’re cleaning up your desk. Something’s up.” Pattie thought for a second. “I’m taking a strip tease course at Teasers.” Literary Society International, LSi

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Xandi stopped chewing. Her eyes widened and then she whistled. “Whoo-hoo. Oh boy, you’re getting some lovin’ on the side.” “No, I’m not,” Pattie said happily. She crumpled a piece of paper and aimed for the dustbin. She missed. “Right.” Xandi smiled knowingly. “Is he any good? Anyone we know?” “Xandi!” “Xandi…” she mimed. “Oh, wait. Yes. I get it. It’s the bookshop guy. Mm-mm, the young ass.” “Xandi!” Xandi leaned on Pattie’s desk and laughed. “And? Do you give head or does he… you know?” “Arg!” Pattie jumped up and walked to the coffee machine. “You are disgusting.” “Mmm. I’m not the one eating sausage after hours.” Pattie turned, suddenly alarmed. “You can’t tell anyone, Xandi. Do you understand?” Xandi shrugged. “Who am I going to run to? The dean? The minister? Get real, girlfriend.” She giggled. “Tell me. How is he?” “He is wonderful!” It burst from Pattie like the air from an inflated balloon. “When I’m with him, he makes me feel like I’m the only woman in the room. In the world. I mean, he really pays attention to me. He really listens. You should have seen the way he stood up for me the first time we met. There was this annoying shopper… Ag, it doesn’t matter. He’s just… wonderful. And he’s a real man. He just… takes charge.” Pattie realized how eager she had been to share her happiness with someone, how much the words were waiting to tumble from her lips. She checked herself. “That’s lucky. I’m jealous,” Xandi said. “You’ve got to tell all.” Pattie almost did. Instead she grabbed a licorice stick from the packet and bit into it.

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Pattie searched for something to throw together for dinner. She looked through the cupboards with guilty speed, opening and closing doors. She had been late again, spending the very last, risky moment in Erick’s flat. Andrew and Mandy were in their rooms and she hadn’t gone upstairs to greet them. She didn’t want to draw unwanted attention to her late arrival. She had her head inside the fridge when Walter spoke from the door. “Hey, Pattie.” She jumped. “God, you frightened me. You’re early.” She laughed nervously. “You’re late.” His voice had an edge. “Oh, it’s work.” She quickly lowered her head into the fridge again. Walter closed the distance between them and reached around her for a beer. “You’re really busy, of late.” “It’s the exams,” she said without lifting her head. “You’ve been late an awful lot, lately.” She straightened with a Tupper dish of leftover chicken casserole. “And you’ve been late for all of your life. So if you do it, it’s perfectly all right. But if I’m late it’s a big deal. I suppose you’re missing having your cooked dinner ready.” She walked past him and dumped the Tupper dish in the microwave with force. Walter opened his beer. “It’s just that it’s so unlike you. You’ve never neglected Mandy or Andrew, and you’ve never been absentminded. In two weeks you’ve forgotten twice already to pick up Mandy from her friends.” She slammed the microwave door. “I work just the same as you. Eight hours a day. Sometimes more. And I come home to cook, to drive the kids around, to do the grocery shopping, and to clean the house. I even put my goddamn career on hold because I was the one who was pregnant and who gave birth to our two children. I never saw you making any sacrifices. No. Nothing in your life changed.” Her voice rose. “You followed your career steadily and are up for your sacred promotion. I’m still junior lecturer and what the hell Literary Society International, LSi

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for?” She stormed from the kitchen to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. She gripped the basin, staring at her flushed face in the mirror. The door opened. Walter stepped up behind her. He looked at her reflection. “Forget about dinner.” His arms slipped around her. “Let’s order pizza.” His head lowered to plant a kiss in her neck. She wriggled from his embrace. “You eat whatever you want if leftover chicken isn’t good enough. I’m sick of caring.” Pattie went to bed with her make-up on. She lay in the dark, listening to Walter taking the chicken from the microwave and calling Andrew and Mandy for dinner. She had an overwhelming urge to storm into the kitchen and to embrace her children. She felt pity well up inside of her for Walter who had to make do with the leftovers. Instead, she got up and went to the bathroom, and then crept back to bed without dinner. They didn’t speak when Walter came to bed. Pattie left the house the following morning before Walther had woken. Nellie waited for Pattie in front of the strip club. The end of her cigarette glowed in the night. “Well?” Pattie asked, excited, as she ran outside. “Why did you walk out? I thought you’d like it.” Nellie flicked the butt into the gutter. They walked to Nellie’s new BMW M1 and got in. Nellie started the engine. She pulled out of the parking lot and drove frightfully fast down Main Road. “This is so not my thing. And so not you, Pattie. Really.” “It brings out my sensuality,” Pattie argued. “Maybe. But it’s a cheap way of doing it. It doesn’t suit you, Pattie.” Pattie crossed her arms. “I invited you because I’ve finally found something I’m excited about. I thought you’d share that with me.” Nellie changed gears and stepped on the gas. “Look, I’d rather African Short Stories Vol. 2

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work up a sweat and a tan in the gym. Why not Flamenco dancing? Or tango? This is just…” “Just what?” “Degrading.” “And a threesome isn’t?” Nellie sighed. “I don’t get into net stockings and a bunny tail.” “Neither do I.” They stopped at a red traffic light. “Pattie, you have to be careful. Walt called Brandon. He’s suspecting something.” The blood drained from Pattie’s face. Her skin went cold. “Oh.” She looked away. Nellie glanced her way. “Something you’ve got to tell me?” “I was going to… sooner… but we haven’t seen each other since you got back from holiday.” “Well, I’m happy for you.” “Are you? Really?” “I never thought you’d go that far.” “I just happened. It was supposed to be just coffee and… Oh, Nellie, I’m so happy.” Nellie parked in front of Pattie’s house. “You’d better stop advertising it to the world.” “What do you mean?” “Maggie.” “Oh, God. I was going to tell you first, but she guessed.” “It’s all right, Pattie. I don’t claim first right of knowledge on your life. Be careful, alright?” “You sound so sinister.” “Just don’t get your heart broken, Pattie.” Pattie felt anger nestling in the pit of her stomach. “I’m doing what you are doing.” Nellie shook her head. “I’m not doing anything that Brandon doesn’t know about.” “You encouraged me to go out with him.” “I said flirting, not have a full-blown affair.” Literary Society International, LSi

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Pattie opened the car door. “Well, it is what it is now, isn’t it?” Nellie didn’t remove her hands from the steering wheel. “Don’t work yourself into a tiff. I’m trying to be a friend.” Pattie got out and slammed the door. She watched the red taillights disappear down the road, like the dying glow of a cigarette. Pattie nestled in the crook of Erick’s arm. They lay on their backs, naked, staring at the skylight. “I’m glad I came, Erick.” “Me too, Patricia.” “I’ve got to go.” She sat up reluctantly. “My lunch hour is almost up.” He sat up too and kissed her shoulder. “It’s never long enough, is it?” She turned to watch him sideways. “Would you like for it to be longer?” “I’m sure I can last.” She squealed. “Erick!” “You would like that, wouldn’t you?” She kissed his jaw. “Soon we can stay together all night.” He pulled away from her. “What do you mean, Patricia?” “I’m moving out, Erick. I wanted to wait for a better moment to tell you, to surprise you, but I just can’t keep it to myself any longer.” He moved to the edge of the bed. “That’s heavy, Patricia.” “I know. But it’s been coming for a while now. Things between Walter and I… it’s not what it should be. I haven’t been happy for so long.” His muscled body flexed. “Well, if it’s been on the cards for some time already, then I won’t feel guilty.” “It’s not your fault, darling. It would have happened, regardless.” “Your children?” “They’re all grown up. They have their own lives. They don’t African Short Stories Vol. 2

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care if I’m home or not. I’m just taken for granted. Part of the furniture.” She pulled her dress over her head. “What did you husband say?” “I haven’t told him yet, but he suspects that I’m seeing someone. I can’t go on creeping around like this. It’s wearing me out.” He got up and walked to the shower. She followed him to the bathroom and hugged him. “Are you glad?” “Where are you moving to?” “I got a flat in the south, not far from the college.” “I see.” He checked his watch. “You’re going to be late.” “You are happy, right?” He pinched her cheek. “Run along now. I’ll call you tonight.” Amina almost bumped into Pattie in front of the Oriental market before she saw her. “Pattie! What are you doing here?” Pattie looked over her shoulder in the direction of Erick’s flat. “I did some shopping.” “Where?” Amina sounded doubtful. “At the market.” A bus passed noisily, filling the air with black exhaust fumes. “It’s pretty far out for you to be doing shopping. Are you off work?” “No, of course not. I’m on my lunch hour.” Amina wiped her black hair from her face. Her gold bangles jingled. “What did you buy?” “Oh, spices and stuff.” “Where are your parcels?” “I left them in my car.” “Oh. I see. Well, did you read the book?” “Not yet. I’ve been awfully busy.” A man pushed a wheelbarrow with apples past them. “Thanks for dinner the other night.”Amina shifted her shopping Literary Society International, LSi

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bag. “Yes, it was nice, wasn’t it?” “It was nice of Nellie to get the bill. It was a bit overpriced.” “She can afford it.” Three children skipped around them. “Is it true, then, what Nellie said at dinner about Teasers?” Pattie flushed. “I don’t see what the big deal is. You do dancing classes, don’t you?” “I do Indian dancing. Pattie. I’m worried about you.” Pattie looked at her watch. “I really have to go.” “If people find out, Pattie, they will look at you… differently.” “In what way, Amina?” “In a less respectable way.” A woman threw a bucket of water from the second floor. “You know, I’m tired of living my life the way people expect me to.” Amina searched Pattie’s eyes. “I’m just saying.” Pattie looked away. She noticed their surrounding as if seeing it for the first time. Amina looked at home in front of the blocks of flats and vegetable vendors. Pattie suddenly felt out of place. “Well, I’m late. See you at the book club?” “I don’t know. Zahid doesn’t want me to go, anymore.” “Why not?” A hawker shouted the price of his tomatoes into the polluted air. “He doesn’t like the things that are going on with the ladies.” Pattie smiled. “You told him, didn’t you?” “We don’t keep secrets from each other, Pattie.” An old woman shook a tin with coins under their noses. “Good luck then, Amina. I’m sorry if we’re not good enough for you.” “Pattie,” Amina said, casting her eyes down. “You’ve already committed a big enough sin. Don’t add to it by having to lie too. I know you didn’t do any shopping.” African Short Stories Vol. 2

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A car hooted. “I’ll bring your books back.” Pattie walked off, aware of Amina’s eyes on her back. Nellie poured Pattie another glass of 2006 Pinot Noir Reserve in her kitchen. Pattie sighed. “I cannot believe that Amina is judging me. Who does she think she is? Xandi is the only one who is not making a fuss.” Nellie leaned against the marble counter. “You can’t take Xandi’s opinion as a yardstick, Pattie. Look at where she comes from. She doesn’t exactly live in Houghton.” The odor of a rosemary lamb roast filled the air. “I have to admit, she is a little bit vulgar about it all.” Pattie looked at the floor. “I’m leaving him, Nellie.” “Does he know?” “Not yet. I’m going to tell him this weekend. I already got a flat.” “You got a flat without talking to Walt?” “What he says won’t make a difference, will it? I want to make a clean break.” “Does he expect it?” “I don’t know what he expects, anymore. You were right, about Erick. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.” “Is it?” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Did you think it through? What you are about to give up? I mean, you will suffer financially. The children…” “I’m thinking about myself, for once.” “You know Maggie’s kids are in Australia. It’s really hard on her.” “She should go out more.” The wall clock ticked loudly. “I’m not religious like Amina, Pattie, but this doesn’t feel Literary Society International, LSi

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right.” “And a threesome does?” “We’re all adults, and we are doing it with each other’s consent.” Pattie massaged her neck. “So, soon I will be single. At least I’m not anti-men like Maggie, or pro-women like Reese.” Nellie sighed. “There’s nothing wrong with different sexual preferences. There’s something wrong about cheating.” “And flirting isn’t cheating?” “As long as you haven’t done the actual deed, it isn’t. There’s a thin line. You don’t know where to draw it.” The oven timer rang. “You’re a hypocrite, Nellie.” “Walt has been calling Brandon a lot lately, Pattie. He’s in a bad way.” “Does anyone care how I am?” “Of course, honey. We’re worried about you. Maybe Reese is a little smug about it. She thinks you’re proving her point that marriage is a crazy institution.” “God!” Pattie wiped a hand over her face. “I can’t wait for this to be over.” Nellie smiled lopsidedly. “It’s never over, honey. Not when you have children together.” The housekeeper came in and took the roast from the oven. Pattie felt like she should excuse herself. She still had to pick up takeaways. Reese brought Pattie another weak coffee from the machine. “How is he?” Pattie took the paper cup. She was on auto pilot. Her body parts moved but her brain was strangely absent. “He’ll be fine. They pumped his stomach.” She sniffed. Nellie took a tissue from her purse and handed it to Pattie. “Who found him?” African Short Stories Vol. 2

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Xandi shot her a look. “Really, Nellie.” Nellie shrugged. “What? I’m just asking.” “Mandy,” Pattie blew her nose. “I can’t believe Walter did this.” Maggie came hurrying down the hospital corridor. “Right. I’ve spoken to the lady at the administration desk. The medical aid is not going to cover this, Pattie. They want the seven thousand Rand for his hospital stay upfront.” She sat down next to Pattie. Pattie’s hand shook. She giggled nervously. “Seven thousand Rand?” She gave the coffee to Nellie and pulled a hand through her hair. Reese put her hand on Pattie’s arm. “Do you have the money, Pattie?” Pattie looked at her and felt like she didn’t recognize her. “We’ve got a savings account.” Maggie turned to Nellie. “I think we should ask Brandon to help her with the admin bullshit.” “Don’t worry, Walt will be all right,” Nellie said. A perky young nurse told them an hour later that Walter was ready to receive visitors. Nellie touched Pattie’s shoulder. “Do you want me to come in with you?” “No,” Pattie said softly, “I’m fine.” She walked into the sterile room and stared at Walter. He looked strangely puffy and pale in the cot bed. Pattie felt herself fill with disgust for his spinelessness. “How do you feel?” Immediately after the question was out, Pattie realized what a stupid thing it was to ask but she didn’t have more words. Walter turned his head away and looked at the white wall. Pattie stood outside the main building, her mobile phone clutched to her ear. “I was hoping we could have dinner tonight, Literary Society International, LSi

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Erick. I am shaken up about this whole thing with Walter. Mandy is so angry. She won’t speak to me.” “I’m sorry, Patricia. We have the book fair. I can’t get out of working tonight.” A few students walked past. Pattie lowered her voice. “Do you need some help, some company?” “Look, let’s wait for the dust to settle before we’re seen together, all right? I can’t risk being sued for a third party breakup. I’ll call you tomorrow.” “Call me tonight.” “I’ll call you if we don’t finish too late. There’s no point in keeping you up, or waking you.” “I… I… really miss you, Erick.” “That’s nice, Patricia.” She looked at the way the sunlight dispersed through the pine tree needles. “Do you… think… about me as much as I think about you?” “Of course I do.” A cloud moved in front of the sun. “Call me.” The light display was gone. Pattie hung up. She dialled Maggie’s number. “Hello, Maggie?” “Pattie? What’s going on? Is it Walter?” The literature building doors opened and students poured into the daylight. “No, no. I was just wondering… I think I need some company tonight.” There was a pause. “Sorry, Pattie. I’m working tomorrow, you know. I’m having a drink with Reese and then I’m going to bed.” Pattie smiled when a group of students looked her way. It would be too embarrassing to look distressed. “Where are you going for drinks?” Maggie’s voice was tight. “To a friend of Reese’s. If it was at my place, I would have invited you, but it’s not, you see?” African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“Don’t worry. I probably need to sleep more than to drink.” Rainclouds were building up on the horizon. Pattie could smell the afternoon thunderstorm brewing in the air. She dialled Mandy’s mobile number, but there was no reply. She hung up and went back inside. She didn’t dare call Mandy on the landline when Walter was at the house. Pattie collected her bag in the office and left for her new flat and bed. She didn’t sleep. It didn’t feel like home yet. She waited up all night. No one called. Erick looked serious. He whispered something to the blonde girl and stepped around the counter. “Patricia, I’m kind of busy-” “I’m sorry… I know… It’s just… well, I thought that we should formally say that it’s over, you know?” He frowned. “Why would you want to be so dramatic?” She twisted her wedding band around her finger. She looked at her boots. “I suppose… I need closure. I just…” His eyes widened. “You didn’t think… that… did you?” She looked up, flushed. “God. No. Of course not. I don’t know… I…” He glanced back to where the blonde was standing, watching them. “Listen, this is starting to looking weird. I’ve got to work.” As he turned, Pattie grabbed his arm. “Was it… did it mean something… ever?” He looked irritated and rushed. “I’m not an emotional kind of guy, Pattie.” “Right.” She sounded defeated and she hated the tone of her voice. He pointed with his thumb to the counter. “Got to run. Customers.” “Do you want to have coffee, sometime?” she smiled weakly. “A three-week exchange?” The frustrated expression mounted in his eyes. “I’ve… really… I’ve got to go now.” Literary Society International, LSi

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He walked off, leaving her between the Memoir and Travel bookshelves. All she could do was to slip through the door with its loud bell under the fixed stare of the curvy blonde girl. She stood in their lounge and felt like a stranger. “Hi Walt. I let myself in.” His eyes were red and swollen. “You can’t do that, Pattie.” She clutched the front panels of her jacket. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to talk to you. I wanted to call…” He turned away. “I can’t talk to you right now, Pattie. You have to understand that.” “But Brandon and Nellie…” she shrugged. “I’m not Brandon, Pattie.” She looked at the family portraits on the mantelpiece. “You knew about that, didn’t you? You knew even before I told you and you didn’t say anything.” “Brandon told me. It wasn’t our business, anyway, Pattie.” “Don’t you see what you’ve done to us, where you’ve driven me to, by not talking to me?” “I’m not saying that I’m not guilty, Pattie,” he shook his head. “I take full responsibility for my part.” “Walter… it could have been so different. If only you paid more attention to me… You never took me to any hotel, like Brandon did for Nellie.” “I’m not a romantic man, Pattie. You knew that when you married me. But I always loved you.” Pattie inhaled slowly, deeply. “Loved?” There was a moment’s silence. “You’ve got to go, Pattie.” He turned his back on her and didn’t say goodbye when she quietly closed the very ordinary plywood front door behind her. Nellie looked uncomfortable when she opened the double, carved doors. “Hi.” She didn’t invite Pattie in. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“Hi. I’m sorry for showing up uninvited like this on the weekend. I know you’re with Brandon and the children. It’s just that Andrew and Mandy are with their friends, and I…” Nellie leaned against the doorframe. “Listen, honey, I’m really sorry, but it’s hard on Brandon, you know. He’s really good friends with Walt and he just doesn’t feel comfortable hanging out with you right now. It’s nothing personal. He says it just feels like he’s stabbing Walt in the back.” Pattie shook her head. “What?” “Oh, honey. Look, Brandon took Walter under his wing. He’s in a terrible state. After his suicide attempt and all that… Let’s wait until things cool down, all right?” Pattie tried to look past the door. “He is here, isn’t he?” Nellie sighed, resigned. “He’s having a drink with us.” “And Maggie’s car?” Pattie pointed at the red Volkswagen parked in the street, and then she gasped. “Oh my God. You are setting him up with Maggie!” Nellie crossed her arms. “It’s nothing, Pattie. Don’t overreact. Maggie came over for a barbeque and Brandon thought it was a good idea to invite Walt, you know, to lift his spirits.” “But I thought, of all people, that you and Brandon would understand.” Nellie closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “Listen, Pattie, I don’t want to get caught up in the middle of things, all right? Just go home and allow yourself some time to cool down. Have a hot bath.” She looked at Pattie’s unwashed hair and faded sweatpants. “You look like shit, darling. Have a manicure and go to the hairdresser. You will feel light-years younger.” Pattie almost staggered. “Do you want to go out for drinks? Next week?” “Oh, I’m on this new diet.” She looked at the Italian patio tiles. “I’m terribly sorry.” “Will I see you at the book club?” “About that… Amina pulled out and Maggie is not sure if she Literary Society International, LSi

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will have that much time to read this semester. Reese accepted that transfer to Durban. There’s really no point in continuing, is there?” Pattie glanced into the distance. “I wish you had never told us about the exchange program.” “Pattie, please! At least, be big enough to take responsibility for the consequences of your actions. Next thing you’ll blame your affair on Ed!” Pattie turned and walked back down the garden path. When she got to her car she looked up but Nellie had already closed the door.

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The Beaded Necklace (II) Wayne Owino Otieno *

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A

juma’s mother called her into the main hut of the compound. Her mother seated with her two sisters, Ajuma’s aunts, talking in low tones. Ajuma greeted them with excitement but the response from her aunts was cold. The women looked at Ajuma’s bare stomach and asked her if she had seen her monthly flow recently. Ajuma replied in the negative. This ascertained their concerns. Ajuma was casually told to pack a few of her belongings as she would have to live with one of her aunts for the next few months until the child was born. Having a child out of wedlock was an abomination in Samburu culture so, away from the village and living with her aunt, Ajuma’s transgressions could be covered. After the child was born they would deal with it, and Ajuma would come back to the village to continue with life as it had been lived in the village for centuries. Ajuma wanted to ask what would happen to her schooling but she knew better than question the decree of the women before her. On the very morning that the child was born Ajuma was visited by her mother accompanied by her sister, Ajuma’s other aunt. A month earlier her mother had visited and told her of the baby’s fate. It was to be taken to the forest and left there; the gods would take care of it, she had assured her. The infant was a boy and Ajuma decided to name him Moses. She had read in her bible about Moses. As a child Moses had been put in a basket by his mother and left to float down a stream and, eventually, he was taken and brought up by a princess in a palace. Ajuma imagined her situation to be similar to Moses’ mother. She looked at her child and smiled. All will be well, she assured him. She wrapped the sleeping newborn in a Lesso and waited for the cue Literary Society International, LSi

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from her mother and aunts to begin the seven-kilometre journey to Lorroki forest, an area spattered with baobab trees. The elderly women packed a gourd of nutritious porridge for the new mother, for strength. Three hours later, they reached Lorroki. Ajuma’s mother reached for the infant but Ajuma held him firmly. She must do it herself, she told her mother. Just as Moses’ mother did with Moses, she told herself. The infant was asleep. She placed him in a cool shade under a large tree, cut off one of her six red necklaces and wrapped it around the child’s neck. All will be well Moses; a princess will take you and look after you. You will be great, just like the Moses of the bible, Ajuma whispered. She wanted to breastfeed him one last time but she fought the temptation. Feeling at peace, she rejoined the other women and they walked all the way back to Ajuma’s own village. It was as if Ajuma had not been away; everything in her village was just as she had left it. While she was away her hut had been fixed with a door of rusted sheet. All manner of animals would enter her house in her absence so the door was fixed to keep them out. Ajuma hoped that it would keep out her night visitors too. But it did not. Now a visiting man would simply knock on her door faintly and she would be expected to open for him. Only six months after she was back to her village, she already had a total of eight beaded necklaces on her shoulders. Strangely, no two men ever showed up the same time. Some came one day only to come back a month later. While other men, especially the three Morans who had beaded her recently, would come about twice or thrice a week. They would simply tap on her door and she, dreadful and weary, was expected to open for them. Traumatised by the charged traffic that swarmed to her hut most nights, she had come to master the torturous rhythm of the knocks on her door. Whenever she heard a feeble, persistent knock on her door, she knew whom to expect. Ajuma did not run out of biblical examples that she believed African Short Stories Vol. 2

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paralleled her situation. One day she would believe herself to be Esther the queen. The next she was Ruth the faithful widow and, the day after, she would be Hagar, Sarah’s slave girl and Abraham’s concubine. But with every additional necklace placed on her neck the number of women in the bible to liken her predicament slowly dwindled. A few months later, the tenth after she returned to her village, her monthly flow failed to come again. This time she knew what was happening to her and did not hasten to her mother with the news. She bade her time, unsure of what to do. To conceal her bulging stomach, she simply wrapped a Lesso across her stomach at all times. No one suspected anything. Five months later the child in her stomach started kicking. Somehow, it piqued her desire to know the fate of that other child, the one her mother had told her the gods would watch on her behalf. She woke up one morning and decided to pay a visit to Lorroki forest. Ajuma simply walked out of her hut and walked away, not caring to inform anyone about where she was headed. She filled her mind with good thoughts of her child as she made the long trek to Lorroki forest. She wondered: was he walking now? Was the princess who had taken him being a good mother? These thoughts of her son in a palace somewhere being pampered by a dotting princess occupied her mind even as she approached the spot where she had left her one-day old child over fifteen months earlier. The huge baobab tree was still there, she realized as she approached the place. She simply wanted to sit on the spot and relive her son’s memories while anticipating her second child. As she neared the spot her heart drummed faster. Bits and pieces of the multicoloured Lesso that she had wrapped her child with that day with were visible -soiled, scattered around a small patch under the tree. She gazed at the sight before her ferociously. There were small bones and a tiny skull covered in soil, with insects and ants swarming and crawling all over it. Ajuma dropped onto her knees and dusted the bones in earnest. She picked up the skull to dust it and a few red beads fell Literary Society International, LSi

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down on the dusty pile. It didn’t take her long to piece together what had happened, and the horror of comprehension left her nauseated. She held the skull on her bosom as one would do a living infant, too shocked to cry. The ants crawled all over her body and bit her. But she was too stunned to feel any pain. Ajuma slouched under the baobab as more ants crawled around her. Someone had told her lies, she reasoned. In fact, many people had. Her mother and her aunts. The priest. Her tribespeople. They had all lied to her. She felt lost, alone and exhausted. The entire gang of elderly persons had accumulated centuries of blissful ignorance, of feigned fidelity to practices that harmed more than they moulded, and wrapped these around a gigantic tree, and then asked her tiny frame to bear the weight of this tree as it creaked and leaned dangerously, ready to fall. In one sudden burst of fury Ajuma resolved that she was not going back to her village. Not ever. She would go anywhere but home. She wrapped the skull of her dead child at one edge of her Lesso and stood up. The awareness that she was not going back home gave her a sense of holistic relief. Only then did she feel the pain when one more ant bit her bony thigh.

It was now six in the evening and it was getting dark. Ajuma started in the direction away from her village, along Lorroki forest. At first her pace was slow but then it increased as the hatred for her village multiplied within her. A while later, Ajuma found herself jogging. Then she started running. She felt light in spite of her pregnancy. She ran on and on. When she got exhausted she would walk for a few minutes then break into a run again. She had no idea where she was going and dusk had become night -it was pitch dark. She had been walking and running for hours. She had presumed she would reach another village or town centre by nightfall but she had not. Her young and petrified mind started to question the wisdom of her action. In one fleeting moment of desperation she contemplated African Short Stories Vol. 2

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going back. Her mind struggled with competing thoughts even as she paced and trudged on. The loathing for what she was running away from was winning the fight within her. Then suddenly she tripped on a protruding root next to a shrub and fell down a small valley, bumping her stomach on the rocky edges of the slope all the way to the swampy bottom as she let out a scream. Frightened and with no idea where she was, Ajuma crawled her way up the slope quickly, propelled by fear. She hadn’t severely damaged her limbs; she had only some bruises on her arms and knees. But she didn’t care much for herself. Her ultimate concern was for the baby in her stomach. She felt very scared for it. There was a dull throbbing pain in her stomach akin to labour contractions. With trembling hands she proceeded to caress the bulge. She pressed, tapped, knocked and cuddled it. Groaning, she let herself drop back on the ground. For hours she wept in the dark until she slowly drifted to sleep right where she had laid.

Ajuma woke up before the break of dawn. She felt her stomach for the life within but there seemed no response. I have no right to live, Ajuma convinced herself. I do not want to live. She stripped naked, tore off all the beaded necklaces on her shoulders and rolled her two Lesso into long, thick strands. The she tied them together. There was a large tree next to her. Weak and groggy, she struggled and climbed onto one branch, tightly tying one end of the strand on a higher branch and mustering all the strength she had to stand. She could see down the slope and beyond. Dawn was breaking. She looked ahead and beyond wearily but keenly. There was a town just down the valley. If only I had reached it, she thought. Everyone in her village used to say that the town was the den of evil, a home for thieves, rapists, prostitutes, murderers and liars. But she knew better now. The thieves, rapists, prostitutes and murderers were domiciled in her village, Suguta Mar, not the town. Comvinced Literary Society International, LSi

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the child in her stomach was dead she knew she could never live with the guilt. She tied the strand of the Lesso into a knot and pushed her head through it. The knot so fit snugly around her neck that Ajuma pondered how why it felt more comfortable than those cumbersome red beaded necklaces. She was now sobbing and breathing heavily and, twice, she had to pause and blow her nose into the strand. But just as she was about to let her body fall and hang, she heard a knock. It was strangely similar to the knock which her nightly male visitors had made against her door. It was a persistent knock. She listened keenly amid her sobs. Then she heard it again. A feeble, persistent knock. Only this time it was coming from inside her stomach.

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The Ministers Chin Ce *

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G

C Fellowship prayer meeting had lasted rather long. What Tai had thought should be a thirty-minute programme turned out to be a sordid marathon session as the preacher, called Brother Rimi, proved the indefatigable crusader knight. All through his speech he had stood and, with regular imprecations, summoned the demons in and beyond the college to this spot of reckoning,. And all this, thought Tai, was in wait for a president of the nation and his nephew, the rector of Gamji College. Finally they had come in a flurry of green with the security team in tow. In his national flag of green and white agbada and the coat of arms emblazoned on the chest and back, Baba made a real mess of patriotism, he thought. Tai surveyed President Baba Sonja very clearly from his vantage position in the middle of the hall and was not at all impressed with each glance. As president this sicklylooking, pot-bellied old man could never inspire anyone for once. Flaunting his jewellery, probably to affirm the party motto of 'Prosperity for all,' the number one official of the Gamji nation, standing attention, was mouthing his speech in his usual rudeness and coarseness of manner. Pertly he condemned the youths for their delinquency and then brusquely anchored his message: “I am calling on everyone here today to support the vision of our country as God revealed to me.” There were other matters he glossed around, which Tai really had no interest in listening to or remembering. But before he took his leave, the president used the opportunity to cast a swipe at

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parliament for the rejection last week of his draft bill. The content of that visionary piece of legislature he was redistributing here for all to see for themselves. Tai had seen a sample of the proposed bill in a daily --a bill that threatened the fragile democracy with its unanimous rejection by the second tier of government. Baba Sonja had proposed to the senate a new national anthem reconstructed from the old martial doggerel, but which now put God in the centrespread of the national map:

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Arise Compatriots God's holy call obey To serve the Lord thy God With ho--liness and faith The labours of the saints ago Shall no more be in vain To serve the lord thy God One na--tion bound in justice Peace and Unity

For months on end parliament and executive had battled over the national budget and had only begun to wave a truce in the last few days. But this latest rejection of his bill was 'an act of sabotage,' he repeated the time-worn phrase always used to explain the numerous failures of government. But not to worry: it was not by accident that he had turned born again and was called Baba (Father) when he became president. The bill will be represented to the upper house for reconsideration, and every citizen was enjoined to support the government's best intentions for the prosperity and goodness of the country. A long applause greeted this speech. Dr. Jeze, the rector, called it the 'Gamji declaration' and asked all to rise and sing the new anthem in solidarity with the president. While the crooning was going on, the president took his leave with his nephew and other African Short Stories Vol. 2

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members of his party.

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The pastor of GCF, Rimi Merenge, wasted no time taking over as soon as the dignitaries had left. At first he praised the new leadership of Gamji with the attendant holiness in the rule of God's servants but regretted the growing scepticism and drift among youths. It seemed to Tai a further extrapolation of the President's theme: starting out by blaming the youth and many other culprits, save the speaker, alone for our national swindle. But Rimi was soon to veer off to his second pet abstraction: his speech became full of the power of the Holy Ghost, drift the message. “The fact, brothers and sisters, is that we have sinned on God's laws,” he proclaimed with righteousness and a note of indignation. “But as you go back to your rooms tonight,” he rasped, pointing to the congregation, “you must bear tonight's message close to your hearts, strong as the rock of Gibraltar. “Drift... the nation is in a drift, the world is in a drift: with false values and false priorities, false knowledge and devil imagination. Many today have made the devil their god, and many live on the promises of the deceiver....” He had risen into frenzy, sweating profusely from the exertion. “But remember, there is no salvation except your name is written in the Book of Life....” And another hour drifted. Next came the turn of the prayer warrior, Leader Obu. “Now brothers and sisters, let us bow our heads in prayer: O mighty Father God of the Heaven, king of kings, father of the son, the Beginning and the End,” Leader Obu continued in one breath. He had both knees on the ground. Some of the congregation had chosen to join him to sprawl on the floor. “Today lord, as ever before, we hand over this people, these sinners into your hands. The devil is lurking around I can see them even here now but all you agents of darkness lurking to seize these Literary Society International, LSi

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souls, I bind you in the power of the Holy Name-“Amen!” “I send you to the pit of darkness, Amen!” “Amen!” “Amen!” “For it is written as many as forsake their bad ways and come to thee father you will not cast aside. Come out now all you sinners. Is there any new one here tonight? Come and give your life to Christ. Flee from the mighty anger of the Lord. Yes. Yes, God bless you as you come.” Spasms of anguish and loud, nerve-wracking sobbing had overtaken everyone in the room. "The Holy Ghost is here,'' James yelled, fist clenched in the air in salute to the unseen presence heralding the loud cries. Tai had never felt more helpless amid those thick clouds of grief that fast enveloped him than he ever did in a regular Sunday worship. But he displayed a rare sense of independence by defying Leader Obu's summon. It was nobody's prerogative to declare him a sinner simply because he was new in town. Not even Brother Rimi and all his antics were strong enough to dislodge Tai from his seat. He simply stayed put and managed to watch the rest of the scene with some inner disinterest.

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A Pleasant Routine Chin Ce *

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I

t was nearly midnight when Tai decided to leave the rowdy GC Fellowship. But this was not until the new brothers (inducted by James who had pulled him along) had shaken hands with the older members. Then they were made to surrender their contact addresses. A special prayer for their protection and guidance was made by Leader Obu. It was another long round in which they experienced the touch of God in the manner of the believers’ fellowship. Thinking of it later, Tai conceded that a few miracles really happened that night. The lady by his side groaning for a long time during this special prayer had suddenly thudded to the ground, going rigid, and then limp. And while he was wondering if she needed medical help, another beside her, as if on cue, had leapt into the air with a wild oath. Then she had stood still, fists clenched in some kind of rhapsody. Even Brother James was knocking his head on the ground, both hands spread on the floor; his lips quivered as he gibbered feverishly. The Holy Ghost was full of miraculous ways, indeed. Finally it was over; as cathartic an ending as it had whimpered from the beginning. Tai had heaved a long, heavy sigh of relief. “Did you enjoy it?'' James asked anxiously when Tai begged his permission to leave immediately after the prayers. “Well, I did,” he tried an intelligent smile wondering at his capacity to suppress the grimace that should be clearly written on his face. Maybe there was a frown on his face but he was thankful it Literary Society International, LSi

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was dark. “You will be here again on Friday.”' It was a statement Tai noted, not a request, not a question. Whatever happened to his free will and personal choice? “Friday is two days ahead. The future will decide,” he replied, feeling like a sage in his town who to every request would reply with calm sobriety: The future will decide. “God bless you for coming,” James said finally, gripping his arm with so much exertion, from some emotion strange to Tai. He thought his hand pained him a long time afterward. Gradually James' visit became a pleasant routine. Before Tai guessed what was happening, James would come every Monday, Wednesday and Friday; and Sunday, of course, pleading: “I am sure you will enjoy it... Come with me tonight and be blessed.” But Tai, determined never to step anywhere with him for another minute, or even for one second, gave some vague excuses. In any case James’ very own resolve nearly proved more than Tai’s who was always on the defensive against the smooth, persistent tackle of his routine caller. James, dangling God's blessing before a recalcitrant prodigal, with all the smiles and pleasantness and patience that surpassed all understanding, continued the prowl. At times it unnerved Tai. In spite of all his attempts to take control and retain his balance in this cat-and-mouse game, he wasn't succeeding. “Come and be blessed,” James coaxed, and Tai marvelled at this martyr that denied himself all the comfort of the world to make him have the gift of salvation free of charge. “You see, I think I have a class at night,” he apologised feeling very sorry for missing this blessing where God had provided it at the fellowship so freely. He drew a sad face, trying to look as sad as possible. “Okay...” James relented. “Wednesday, then. I will be here again same time. Do you promise?” “I'll try. But you really don't need to come looking for me. I African Short Stories Vol. 2

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know the way,” Tai added with reluctance. “I'll come if I have the time,” he heaved a sigh of relief as James left. There was sadness written all over the face of the latter. Tai thought that James seemed to be a man of very deep melancholy. James was back again on Wednesday with another brother whom he introduced as Peter. “Peter the Rock,” the fellow added proudly. If it was meant to impress him, Tai wasn’t. Peter wore an oversized dark green windbreaker tucked into a pair of mackintosh trousers that made him look like one of the harlequins of northern Gamji. Another short engine, Tai frowned not liking the fellow instantly. The fixed grin that seemed planted permanently on his face and his condescending attention never ceased to remind you he was playing down to your level. Tai was particularly irked that they hunted him to the refectory where he was trying to eat some yam porridge. It was late and the food was almost cold. Moreover the manner of service had already left a sour taste in his mouth. The service girl had spoiled his appetite by slapping the food on his plate with the same greasy hands that she had used to grab the bills. Such minor details were enough to dampen Tai's appetite and he was wondering where else he could go for a decent meal when his callers appeared from nowhere to interrupt his brooding. All smoothly and smilingly, they had told him, “You know today is fellowship.” Tai groaned. These people should know he was not interested in running this business of God’s splinter churches. “I'm just trying to catch a bite, gentlemen,” he remarked sourly. Then he nicely added, “Some other time perhaps.” Why he was being nice he couldn't understand. He knew it was instinct that compelled a belief borne from years and years of drumming in him the same and repeated tunes by his mother: Be nice, James. Don’t be rude to strangers, James, etc. So that when the muzzle of faith was turned Literary Society International, LSi

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on you, you couldn't help being nice to a probable angel of the lord. Peter watched him with a rather bemused expression on his face. “Too hungry to serve the Lord?” he accused finally. “It's not that,” Tai quickly denied, feeling a surge of guilt. These guys certainly knew how to turn any passage of their holy book against you, and at any time. “I don't have to feel guilty for being hungry,” he charged. James nodded his understanding with a subtle motion to his comrade for a change of tactics. “Alright, some other time. But we'll pray for you, okay?” “Pray for me?” “Well, you'll pray with us, isn't that fair?” The prayer lasted twelve minutes during which Brother James earnestly reminded God his promise not to abandon any of his prodigal children in the wilderness of sin and damnation. And if God had forgotten, there were copious passages in His Holy Book to recall His mind to that solemn promise. But it appeared there was one beloved who (with gibbering and babbling interspersed) stood at the great risk of going to hell fire. As a result, he was now seizing the power which God had bestowed upon him --the power of casting and binding here and in heaven-- to loosen those shackles and send the agents of darkness into the bottomless pit... (Names of some imagined secret cults were reeled off in a spell of the moment). And now that they had broken the power of the devil over the sinner, let his heart and mind remain open to receive the word of God and come serve the Lord, with all his soul, in the chosen fellowship of God (with more babbling, convulsions, et cetera). Tai had more than enough reason to go looking for another dinner afterwards. The food had gone too cold and clammy for his palate.

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Virtual Love Charmaine Pauls *

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“H

ow was your cyber shag?” Drew dropped his rugby shirt on his younger brother’s head on his way to the shower. Stef’s pillow connected with the back of Drew’s head. “Shut up. I’m doing research.” He rolled back onto his stomach, his face illuminated by his iPad. The water came on. Drew stuck his head around the bathroom door. “You should have come to rugby practice. Man, we kicked ass. You’re spending too much time logged onto that thing.” Drew pulled off the rugby shorts and left them on the floor. His knees and elbows sported grass burns. His tanned body made Stef glance down at his own. “You’re stuffing up your back and knees. You’re going to be in a wheelchair when you’re eighty.” “I’m not going to make it to eighty.” Drew laughed. His voice was deep and gruff. “Oh, no. I intend to burn myself out long before then. Who wants to grow that old?” queried Stef. The shower curtain rings rattled. “She was asking about you,” Drew called from the shower. Stef opened the Photo Booth application. “Stop farting around. I told you, she’s fat. I’m not interested.” He walked into the bathroom, balancing the iPad on his palm. Drew raised his voice above the noise of the water. “I said you’d call her tonight, ask her to a movie. So you'd better call, moron.” Stef plucked the curtain aside and pressed the button. “Stuff you!” Drew turned with both hands on top of his head, frozen in the act of massaging shampoo into his scalp. “You fucker!” He swung Literary Society International, LSi

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his arm through the spray of water, sending drops and blobs of lather Stef’s way. Stef’s laugh was high-pitched. He almost dropped the iPad backing out of the bathroom. “Little dickhead!” Stef saved the photo. “Don’t worry. I only got your ass.” “You’ll be a donkey’s ass when I get out of here.” Stef glided the photo into a hidden file and logged into the chat room. He scanned through the list of visitors. Maisie Moonwalker was active. Hot photo. Her latest post was timed two minutes earlier: So not in the mood to study for Wednesday’s English literature test. Anyone got old 12th grade papers? Forget it! Hell, anyone up for JayJays?

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He typed: Literature sucks. Need some help? Hi Buck. Newbie? Oldie. Golden oldie or just a Buck fan? I’m him. The real him. Yeah, right. You’re original. You’re hot. Sorry. That’s sweet. Do I know you? You do now. Let’s go private. I don’t share with anyone. Sorry, Buck. Have fun. He switched to one-on-one mode: Buck: I’ve got English candy. He typed the domain of his private chat room. Check back here. Her profile went private. She had locked him out. He pasted a link to a blog which hosted a path to a hacked English test paper, to the chat history in his private chat lounge. He signed off as Buck Rogers. The water in the shower turned off. Stef rushed to the bathroom African Short Stories Vol. 2

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and grabbed the towel from the rack. He ran downstairs. Drew’s swearing carried all the way to the kitchen. Their mother looked up from chopping carrots. “Are you two on again?” Stef popped a piece of carrot in his mouth. “No, Mom.” She slapped his hand. “Coach Peterson said you missed practice again last week.” He pushed himself up onto the counter and sat down next to her. “It’s no big deal. I promised Mrs. MacKenzie that I’d help paint the science lab.” Matilda Hendriks stopped chopping. “I thought we talked about this.” “Mom, come on. I get straight As for all my papers and you’re worried about tennis practice.” The chopping resumed. “I pay a lot of money for tennis lessons.” “Which I said I didn’t want.” She looked at Stef from under her eyelashes. “I don’t want to go through this again. We agreed on it. I expect you to go.” Drew walked into the kitchen. He was dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans. His hair was wet and his feet bare. “Hey, Mom.” Drew kissed her on the cheek and slapped Stef on the back of his head as he crossed the floor on his way to the fridge. He opened the door, scanned the contents and took out a block of cheese. Matilda looked over her shoulder. “No snacking before dinner. How was the rugby?” Drew took a knife from the drawer and cut himself a thick chunk. “We kicked butt.” “Watch your tongue, Mister! I’m sorry I couldn’t make practice.” She sighed. “Work.” “I’ll be at Jacques’,” Drew said on his way to the back door. “Put on some shoes. And put the cheese back in the fridge!” Matilda said, but Drew was already gone. Literary Society International, LSi

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“Need help with anything, Mom?” Stef asked. Matilda frowned. “Why don’t you get out of the house a bit, Stefan? Go visit someone. Do sport like your brother. Some sun will do you good.” He looked away. “I’ve got homework.” “You need a balance. Which is why we’ve talked about tennis.” Matilda started dicing potatoes noisily. He hopped off the counter and stomped back upstairs. Stef stepped from the shower and wiped the mirror clean to stare at his reflection. He gelled his red hair with Drew’s Bedhead and looked at it for a long time. Finally he wet it under the tap and brushed it to one side. He sprayed on Drew’s deodorant and considered his smooth chin for a moment. Then he used Drew’s shaving cream and razor. The aftershave he dabbed on made him flinch. He pulled on a clean pair of boxer shorts and stretched out on his bed. The sound of the local television news channel reached his bedroom. His mother was waiting up for Drew. He could tell she was livid when Drew hadn’t shown up for dinner. The business of eating had passed between the two of them in silence. He switched on the iPad and checked the chat room posts. There were one-hundred-and-thirteen new ones. One of the latest was from Maisie Moonwalker. Attached to her post was a photo of five girls squashed in on a roadhouse bench, drinking milkshakes. The title read ‘English preparation at JayJays’. Maisie sat in the middle. She pushed her blonde hair behind her ear with one hand, the other holding the straw to her pouted lips, her big chest lifted to the camera. He sent a private chat room invitation. Two seconds later, Maisie entered his cyber lounge: Moonwalker: OK. You’ve got my attention. Thanks for the link. Buck: Did you miss me? Oh, did you go somewhere? I didn’t notice. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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Very bitchy. Rugby practice. Which position? Why do you want to know? Because. ? It says a lot about a guy. Haven’t you heard -the rule of thumb? I’ll play any position you want me to. Charmer. When are you putting a photo on? It’s more mysterious this way. I’m starting to think you’re a freak or something. Phantom of the Opera. Oh, Mr. Romantic. I’m an ugly bastard. Show me. You’ll delete me. Poor pet. Feeling sorry for yourself? Will you console me? Fancy words for an ugly pet. I’m sophisticated. Are you old? Old enough. Married? Maybe. You lie. You already know me too well. I’m not talking to you anymore if you don’t upload a photo. Stef blinked at the screen as Maisie Moonwalker went offline and a second later he heard the front door opening and closing. The sounds coming from the television stopped abruptly. “Where the hell have you been?” Matilda’s voice raised the roof. “Mom, calm down.” Drew said. “It’s a weeknight, Drew. You know the rules.” Literary Society International, LSi

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“We just got carried away a little bit. It won’t happen again. You shouldn’t wait up, Mom. You have to be up early. I’m a big boy. Come. I’ll make you some tea, okay?” There was a pause. Finally Stef heard his mother’s exaggerated sigh. “Whatever will I do with you?” Stef listened to the sounds they made in the kitchen. Their voices were harmonious, their movements synchronized. In his mind’s eye, Stef saw his mother take down the teapot while Drew switched on the kettle. Matilda would spoon sugar into their mugs. Drew would drop a teabag into each. Stef shut the iPad down and covered himself with the duvet. He pulled the pillow over his head and pretended that he didn’t hear Drew slip into their room much later. It was the longest day of Stef’s life. All he wanted to do was to get home after school to check if Maisie Moonwalker had left a message. But it was Wednesday, gardening day. He’d first have to meet Drew behind the athletics field and walk the short distance to Mr. Denton’s house where they would borrow his lawnmower, spade and rake. Drew would make Stef carry the tools, while he pushed the lawnmower back to their house. Stef rounded the corner of the pavilion toilet building. Drew and Phillip leaned against the wall, Drew with one knee bent, showing off his new, white sport shoe against the raw brick of the wall. He blew smoke into the air. Stef stared. It was such a grownup stance. Drew looked much older than the two years between them. “Hey, little brother,” Drew said when he saw him. “Want a drag?” Stef dropped his school bag in the dust. “Don’t call me that. And you’re smoking pot.” Drew passed the joint to Phillip. “Don’t state the obvious. Tell us something we don’t know.” The two older boys laughed. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“It’s not funny, man,” Stef said. “If Mom finds out…” “She’ll only find out if you tell her.” Drew grabbed his arm and pulled Stef next to them against the wall. “Stand here before someone sees you.” He took the joint back from Phillip and held it to Stef. “Here, little brother.” Stef took it between his forefinger and his thumb. He hesitated, then brought it to his lips and inhaled. Immediately a coughing fit shook his shoulders. Drew and Phillip laughed again. “It’s not funny,” Stef said when he was able to speak. Drew punched Stef on his upper arm. “Lighten up, will you?” “Are we going to get the gardening shit or not?” “You wait until we’ve finished.” “I’ve got stuff to do. I don’t have time to hang around waiting. Come on. Let’s go. Let Phillip finish the joint.” “Phillip is coming with us today.” Stef glanced at Drew’s friend. “What is he going to do?” “Whatever he wants,” Drew said. “And you’ll do whatever I tell you to do.” Stef kicked at a rock. “You don’t tell me what to do.” He scurried away from the wall and picked up his bag. “You can carry the garden shit all by yourself.” He turned back into the way he had come. “What’s wrong with pimple face?” Stef heard Phillip ask as he ran across the athletic field. It was almost two when he got home. He kicked the door open. If Drew hadn’t delayed him for nothing, he could have been home thirty minutes earlier. Stef threw his bag down in the entrance. He made a peanut butter sandwich and took a carton of milk from the fridge. He sat down at the kitchen table with his lunch and his iPad and waited impatiently for the chat site to open. His eyes flickered over the screen, and then his mood dipped. No new messages. An icon flashed under the notifications bar. Click. A surge of hot blood Literary Society International, LSi

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raced through his body. Maisie Moonwalker had given him access to her profile. She had a lot of photos. There were one-hundred-and-fifty albums. He started with the most recent one, and clicked his way through them all. He saved the ones of her in her bikini entitled ‘Holiday in Margate’ to a new folder. He typed ‘Project Moon’ in the folder title box and created a new spreadsheet. By marrying information from Maisie’s photo captions on the horizontal bar to the photo dates on a vertical bar, a haphazard history of Maisie Moonwalker’s life started building on his iPad. At five o’clock he knew when Maisie went on holidays, where she went, and what she did on weekends. The last photo he copied and saved in Project Moon was of Maisie posing in her school uniform, in front of an academic building. He looked up and stretched when Drew walked in. “Still lost in the black hole of cyber space? Are you watching porn or what?” Drew made for the fridge. Stef closed the cover of his iPad. “Your eyes are all red. It’s a dead giveaway. What happened to mowing the lawn? Mom’s going to be livid.” Drew carried ham, lettuce, tomatoes, gherkins, bread and butter to the counter. “Stop being such a tight-assed prick, Stef. Maybe you should have a cyber wank.” Stef jumped off the highchair. He clutched the iPad under his arm. “Go ‘F’ yourself.” Drew burst out laughing. “Oooh, look, I’m shivering in fear. Can’t even say the ‘F’-word. What does ‘F’ stand for, Stef?” Stef walked to the door. “Piss off.” “Beep. Wrong answer. You piss off. Run along. Go play in your room.” Drew turned to butter the bread. Stef heard Matilda’s keys in the door. Her heels clicked a path to the kitchen. “Hello, boys.” She smiled tiredly, dropping her coat and handbag onto a chair. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“Hey, Mom,” Drew said, throwing Stef a warning look. “What’s for dinner?” Matilda looked at the Dagwood he was building. “Having an appetite?” “Mmm.” Drew bit into the bread. “Starving. It’s all the energy I burn with the sport.” “Fish and chips?” She tied an apron around her waist. “Sounds good.” Drew held the sandwich to her. “Want a bite?” She laughed and pushed him away. “How about you, Stef? How was school?” He narrowed his eyes on Drew. “All right. I got an A for my geography project.” Matilda took flour and eggs from the pantry. “That’s good. You are going to tennis practice, tomorrow, right?” She turned to Drew. “Playing Carletonville on Saturday, then? Home field. I hope you guys are going to win.” Stef left the kitchen quietly and went upstairs. He flopped down on his bed and opened the photo of Maisie in her school uniform. Using the photo crop tool, he cut out the emblem on her blazer and saved it under a new file name. The alma mater read, ‘Superus Scientia'. He Googled it. It took him five seconds to find Maisie Moonwalker’s school. He followed the Google path to log into the school’s official site. It was a prestigious girls' school in Johannesburg. Wealthy parents. The home page featured a photo of the historical main building. He recognized it immediately as the one in front of which Maisie had posed. He added the information to the Project Moon folder. It was a big city. And Maisie Moonwalker was one of those millions of people. He left Google and accessed the chat room. Maisie Moonwalker was in. He almost yelled out loud. Buck: How did your test go? Moonwalker: OMG, I can’t believe it! I’m going to score an A. Thanks, Buck. I’m not going to ask… OK, maybe I am. How did you get it? Literary Society International, LSi

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Can’t say. It’s a pleasure. I hate English too. I don’t hate English. I just I hate those books they MAKE us read. I love reading when it’s not shitty prescribed books. No kidding. So do I. You’re shitting me. What do you read? I can’t say. You’ll think I’m a nerd. So you play rugby, and you read. Sounds too good to be true. I know. I’m your dream guy. LOL. Get real. BTW, I’ve got a boyfriend. Yeah, but you don’t have a CYBER boyfriend. You’re funny, Buck. Wanna go on a cyber date? What’s that? Gotta say yes if you wanna know. … Buck: ??? I’m thinking. Can you do that? Stop shitting with me! OK. Tomorrow 8 pm. I’ll be waiting… Wear something nice. Get out of here. I’m out. He logged out with an extravagant push of the button. After dinner Stef washed the dishes while Drew swept the floor and took out the trash. When his mother went upstairs for her shower, Stef dug into her handbag and took out her mobile phone. He switched it to silent mode, checked that it had enough battery power to last, and pushed it into the back pocket of his jeans. He took care to cover the bulge with his sweater. Later, when his mother came downstairs for her nightly cup of tea, Stef pretended to do homework by the kitchen table. He said African Short Stories Vol. 2

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goodnight and watched her carry her handbag upstairs to her room, like she did every night. He knew she wouldn’t be looking for her phone unless she received a call. His mother hated her mobile phone. She only kept it for emergencies and never used it if she could avoid to. Chances were she wasn’t even going to miss it. His mother was going to flip her lid, but he had more important things to do than play tennis. Drew was at athletics practice. Stef had the house to himself. It was perfect. He installed his iPad on the writing desk in his mother’s room. Stef turned the desk pad which covered the small bureau over. His mother had no idea that he had discovered her online banking profile number and password written on the back of the pad. He logged into Matilda Hendriks’ account and selected ‘Create a new Beneficiary.’ A code was delivered in the form of a text message on her mobile phone. Typing in the secret four-digit code allowed him to load a new account in her beneficiary list. He transferred fifty rand from her credit card to the new account, emailed the proof of payment to a Hotmail address belonging to H. Dimitri, and deleted the new account from his mother’s beneficiaries. He logged out. After deleting the text message from the Inbox menu, he slipped the mobile phone under his mother’s bed, close to where she always left her bag on the floor. He went back to his room and re-accessed Hotmail. He checked the inbox of the account that he had created under the pseudonym, Stefanie Hendriks. A few minutes later he clicked on the message from H. Dimitri. He tested the link. “Yes!” He punched his fist into the air. He resisted the urge to poke Maisie Moonwalker in the chat room. Instead, he tried on Drew’s oversized rugby shirt. At four o’clock his private chat room alert beeped to announce that he had a visitor. Moonwalker: I Googled you. Buck: And? Literary Society International, LSi

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Found f-all. No other Buck Rogers profiles on the net. I would have thought you would be part of other social groups? Told ya, I’m a phantom. Are you going to come through the wires and spook me? Something like that. What you doing? I can’t tell you. I’m naked. Arg! Get off. How naked? Wanna see? Got a webcam. Nah!...OK. Pervert. Teaser. Gotta go. See you at 8? Totally. Shortly before eight Stef logged into his private chat room. It was only a week old. He liked the minimalist look. It was a clean slate. No history, no background. The empty box blinked. A message popped up. Do you want to upload a photo now? He clicked on ‘No’. A few seconds later Maisie entered the chat room. Buck: Hi there. Hi. You look nice. ? You’re weird. But thank you. I know. Ready? Can’t wait for this! Do you have an iPhone? Why? I need to track you. Why? You’ll see. You’re not going to start calling or stalking me? Not unless you want me to. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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Freak! Crazy! OK. Here’s my number, Buck Rogers. I don’t normally give my number out on first dates, you know. OK, Maisie Moonwalker. But I’m special. This better be! He typed her number into a generic mapping program. It pinpointed her location within four seconds. He saved the page under ‘Favourites’. Buck: OK. Got you. He pasted H. Dimitri’s link into their private chat room conversation. Buck: Let’s go, baby. Click on the link. Buck: Are you in? Moonwalker: F-wow! This is A for amazing. I knew you’d like it. You are incredible. Thanks. I know. Can I show my friends? Not unless you’re into groupies. Get the hell out of here! LOL. I’m totally blown away. Good. Enjoy. See you on the other side. Good night. Sweet dreams. For sure! They couldn’t surf the link site simultaneously, so Stef logged out and enlarged the map page under ‘Favourites.’ He checked the address and saved it to the Project folder. Then he ran a search on her address in the online Yellow Pages. “Wham! Mr. and Mrs. Harris Miller. Hello Maisie Miller.” He closed the mapping program and Googled Maisie Miller. Ten relevant headlines came up. Scanning through them quickly he clicked on an article about her debate team in an electronic version of a school newsletter. Literary Society International, LSi

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“Got you, Miss Moonwalker!” The only other link of any value was her web book club page, which he accessed next. It took him directly to her bookshelves. She read a lot. He scrolled up and down the book covers to the end of the page, copied and pasted the list in his Project folder. He grinned. This was easy fun. The following morning, he left before his Mom came downstairs for her hurried breakfast. He had slipped the iPad into his school bag, and spent the first school break behind the toilets, leaving messages for Maisie Moonwalker in their chat room. During the second break he read everything about her he could find. After school, he took a bus to the public library, took the five books from Maisie’s reading list he could find on loan, and rushed home to start a new conversation with her. “Stef, is that you?” Matilda called from the lounge when he opened the door. He balanced the books on his hip to close the door. “Yip.” She entered the hall, her hands on her hips. “Where have you been?” He deposited the books on the entrance table. “Library.” “Books? You’ve taken to reading?” “Maybe.” He tried to slip past her but she caught his arm. “Reading is good, but you have to get out. When I was your age I was always outside, or on my bike–” He freed his arm. “Well, I’m not you, am I?” He was eager to go upstairs. “Stefan! You don’t speak to me like that, do you hear me?” “You’re never satisfied.” His voice broke. “No matter how good my grades, it’s never good enough. I suppose you wish I was like Drew! Well I’m not! I’m not you and I’m not him. And you should be glad, too. At least I don’t smoke dope.” He stormed to his room and locked the door. Buck: I can’t believe my freakin’ Mom! African Short Stories Vol. 2

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Moonwalker: What’s up? Parent stuff. Just p’s me off, sometimes. Yeah, mine P me off too. I’m grounded. Why? Came home ten minutes late last night. It’s so unfair. All my friends are going to a party tonight. So what will you do? Slip out. Will you talk to me when you come home? It might be late. Correction: it WILL be late. I’ll wait. Not going out? It’s Friday. No. Staying in. Doing what? Reading. Really? Really. What? Ten thousand miles from here. No ways! I can’t believe it. I LOooooVED that book. You’ve read it?? Duh. It’s my favourite book in the whole world. Wow. That’s weird. I know! You’re going to love it. I already do. You know what I like about you? ? You can spell. So? Doesn’t everyone? You know they don’t. Don’t you just hate cyber slang? And text abbreviations? I try to limit using them, so that I won’t ‘unlearn’ to write properly. You’re clever. So you’re in 12th grade. What you want to do after school? Literary Society International, LSi

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English teacher. So that I can prescribe decent books for reading. Wow. You? English teacher. P off. Not yet. So you’re not spaced out about your mom anymore? No. I talked to you. You have this effect on me. Charmer. Beautiful. Thank you. When am I seeing YOUR photo? Will it make a difference? I’ll tell it when I see it. Then I won’t show you. Then I won’t tell you. Clever mouth. Funny bunny. Bye. It was almost dinnertime. Stef wondered what his mother was cooking. Maybe he could apologize for acting spaced out, and they would make peace. He went downstairs but, at the bottom, he stopped dead in his tracks. “Then he told me that Drew smokes dope. I’m worried about him. I don’t want to go through another…” Matilda sighed, “… you know. I just wish he would get out of the house more, do some sport, meet some people, a girlfriend. His behaviour is so not normal. Not for his age. I’m starting to think that…” Another sigh. “I don’t know what I think, anymore.” There was a pause. “I did confront Drew. I called him straight away at Jacques’ house. He said Stef’s lying. Stef is probably a bit jealous of Drew. They are so very different. And I think Stef still has a hang-up about African Short Stories Vol. 2

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his ribs. You know? The hole he retained from birth. He never removes his shirt. Refuses to do any sport where he has to get changed in the changing room.” Another pause. “Oh, yes! He is the star of the rugby team, isn’t he? Scored two tries in the last game.” Pause. “The problem with Stef is that he is too much like his father.” Pause. “I know. Yes, I have considered calling Dr. de Lange. I just don’t want to go there again. Not yet. It’s too… disturbing… exhausting. Do you think Rika was right? That I should think about sending him to that military boarding school?” Stef walked down the hall quietly, went outside into the garden and sat behind the shed until it grew dark. Drew had got home. He could hear him opening the back door and shouting for Stef to come and have dinner. Only when Drew’s calling became embarrassingly loud did Stef give up his hiding place. He thought he could slip around the side of the garden and enter through the front door but Drew stood in his way as he stepped from the narrow passage between the rough wooden wall of the shed and the fence. Before he could back up, Drew grabbed him by the collar and pulled him roughly against the side of the shed. “So, you told Mom. You backstabbing little shit.” Drew smacked him on the head. “She provoked me!” He lifted his arms to fend off any further assaults. “It slipped out!” Drew let go of Stef’s shirt. “I can’t believe you spilt on me.” His lips tilted in disgust. He shook his hand as if he couldn’t tolerate as much as to touch Stef’s clothes. “Why should I lie for you?” Stef said. Drew took a step back. “Because we’re brothers.” Stef spat at Drew’s feet. “You’ve never treated me as your brother! Phillip is your brother!” “Yeah.” Drew nodded slowly. “You’re not worth having as a Literary Society International, LSi

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brother.” He pushed his hands in his sweatpants pockets. “Mom says come eat.” He turned back to the house. Stef watched him disappear though the kitchen door. He wiped the tears away with the back of his hand. His vision blurred. He kicked one of the bricks that formed the flowerbed. His back collided with the wooden shed. He slid down the wall, hunching in the dark, until he could control the sobs. Only when he recognized Matilda’s dark shape in the open door, backlit by the light of the kitchen, did he wipe his face on his sleeve and go inside. Stef ate in brooding silence, which neither Matilda nor Drew acknowledged. He expected another outburst but if his mother had learned that he hadn’t been to tennis practice, she didn’t say anything. Once in the privacy of their bedroom, he consoled himself by watching the blue dot that was Maisie Miller on his iPad as her iPhone was being tracked and mapped by some distant satellite. She was at her party, 14 Florida Avenue. He entered the information on the spreadsheet in the Project folder. As long as she carried her phone, he could follow her. They were together. He felt comforted by that knowledge. And she never switched off her phone. When Maisie came online much later that night, she was quite drunk. Matilda left to pay her accounts and Drew did whatever it was he did on Saturdays. Stef told himself he couldn’t care less. He spent the day tracking Maisie. After the previous night, their cyber relationship had slipped up a notch. His secret bloomed inside of him. Driven by an insatiable need he fine-combed his Project folder and managed to find a small detail that he had missed before. She had added her email address in a review she had written on one of her online book club books, which she had shared with another member. He created a new address under Phillip du Plessis in Gmail and sent Maisie a long email, telling her everything he couldn’t the previous night. He was careful not to mention anything that could African Short Stories Vol. 2

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give him away. His visitor alert didn’t beep until late afternoon. Moonwalker: Hey. Buck: Hey. Last night was super A. Yeah. I’m a bit embarrassed today. Can’t believe I did that! I like you even more now. It will stay between us? Of course. Are you sorry? No. It was special. Sorry, I’m a bit spaced out today. What’s up? Don’t know if I should say. I’ll probably bore you. I thought we were like best friends. Last night was more than best friends. Best friends and more… Come on. Tell me. I want to hear. I got this really freaky email from this guy. Freaky? Arg, I can’t even repeat it. Send it to me. Forget it. I was just angry. Why? It made me feel cheap. Do you know what I mean? No. Should I? Some guys are jerks. Want me to come and punch him for you? That will be nice. You’re such a gentleman. Dunno. You SO are. How do you know? Otherwise last night would have been all over the chat room this morning… I’m not like that. TG. LOL. What are you doing this WE? Got a big party tonight. I’m jealous. Got a girlfriend? Literary Society International, LSi

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Besides you? Haha. I’m serious. Just you, baby. Where do you live, btw? Can’t tell you. It will take away all the fun. I can take you on a cyber date tonight after your party. You can’t. You dunno how to. That a dare? Do you want a dare? I love a dare. I dare you to tell me something about yourself that no one else knows. I’ll have to think about it. Happy thinking. I’ll poke you when I get back from my joll. He pasted an application at the bottom of their chat history.

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Buck: Click on it. Ah! A flower. Cool. Thanks. I’m feeling better now. You’re the best!

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Money, the least of his worries Hilda Gathanga *

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A

time must come when a man knows he should get a wife. Wambua knew that time had come. He had prepared himself financially. The wedding show on Citizen TV had filled girls nowadays with expensive options on how the cake and food should be served. His head ached when he thought about what the flowers and tents and chairs would cost him. Nowadays the girls wanted sleek cars in the entourage, the rovers and limos. Those would cost him heavily. … The wedding expenses were the second concern, unfortunately. He was concerned about the traditional or cultural financial obligations he had to cover. His girlfriend had just informed him of the introductions. He had to go to her home to see her parents and, no, it would not be advisable to go alone. He should go with one or two friends. One should be a married man. He is the one who will talk and introduce him to the family. Why did things have to be so complicated? … Then there was the visit with his parents and siblings. The cultural name for it was Family Introductions. Then there was the Kuhadaithigi, where he was expected to put a small deposit to secure the girl. When Wanja had suggested the amount that would be required for the deposit, he had laughed out loudly. Fifty thousand Kes! Clearly, it was one of her small jokes. But her face had remained solemn and she actually looked hurt and disappointed. He had redeemed himself quickly and smiled at her. The joke had been his laughter; of course, that was the range of the deposit nowadays.

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… The next step was the Ruracio. Why had he fallen for a girl from Kiambu? The area was known for greedy parents who asked for high dowry amounts that had caused several couples to break up. It was as if the parents were looking for money to buy land or finish the construction of their houses. One would be told how the girl was educated and working, as if the man was not educated and working. He had made sure he had a serious talk with Wanja about this process. She was to control the greedy aunts and uncles. He hoped his point had been clear. He would pay the necessary amount over the years, as they said, dowry never quite ended. It could be paid over the years in order to encourage relations between the two families. If not he would pay, yes, but the woman would regret it the rest of her life. She would pay for it indirectly every day they were married, he thought mercilessly. … The last step should be the Itaara. Wanja’s family would come to visit and see the place where their daughter had gone. He would be covering the food bills for all these visits. The bill would be high since Kenyans loved indulging in food. He loved food anyway so on that part he could forgive them. Wambua thought of his dad and a smile came to his face. Wambua Senior! Now that had been a wise man. He had convinced his wife to live with him and ignore all those traditional processes. The relatives had been mad, the parents even madder. However, he had convinced his wife that they should hold on to their stand. With continued practice of such traditions when would Kenya become modernized? Such mentalities were what continued to hold us back. He wanted to do the same, but he had fallen in love with a Christian girl who could not live with him without a wedding. Her family and relatives would not attend the wedding without due processes being followed. He clicked his tongue in annoyance. He jumped in his seat when the vehicle behind him blared for him to move forward. He had been caught up in his thoughts and the African Short Stories Vol. 2

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lights had changed. His lane had ninety nine seconds to move before the lights changed again. He pressed on the accelerator and moved forward. Traffic on a Kenyan road was always a nightmare. No wonder he had been lost in his thoughts. As he approached the roundabout the movement become slower as the lanes decreased. He felt like hitting someone. It was now thirty seconds left. When he was just about to enter the Nyayo Stadium Roundabout the time was up. The lights gave a warning orange and turned to red. He did not care; he moved forward, jumping the lights and managing to go round it just before the next lane picked up. Once on Mombasa Road he was on high speed, manoeuvring in and out of the lanes, past slow moving cars and following the drivers that were obviously in a hurry like he was. There was a slow, white Toyota Premio on his lane. He needed to overtake it and move to the farthest land but it was a close call. He was the master of taking risks and if it did not work out the owner of the car would have to do an emergency brake. The driver was already slow so Wambua reasoned that he should be okay. He accelerated and cut in front of the car. He could not make it to the other lane in time. A black Benz was already on the lane at high speed. He braked suddenly to avoid hitting the white lorry in front of him. He heard the high screeching of brakes from the Premio behind him and tensed. Then a loud bang from behind almost caused him to hit the car in front of him. He cursed as his car jerked to a stop. Clicking his tongue he got out to assess the damage on his black Subaru. A dark middle-aged man with a small pot-belly got out. He was also clicking and looking at him in disgust. “Look at what you have done!” “You should keep to the left if you know you will be so slow on the road. It is not fair for a slow vehicle to be in the middle of the road,” Wambua responded rudely. He was already calculating the cost of repairing the two bumpers. His had the worst damage. “Don’t be rude! I saw you jumping lights at the roundabout. Literary Society International, LSi

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You think you own the roads of this country?” the old man asked. “How much do you want?” “Fifty thousand Kes,” the old man said without even thinking about it. Wambua clicked his tongue as he removed the money from his wallet and gave the man. He got back into his car and drove to his house in Imara Daima. He would have to hitch a ride to go for his own introductions tomorrow. There was no way he could go to his future in-laws with a banged car. The next day was busy even at about eleven when he went to Capital Centre with a cab. He did a lot of shopping for most of the foodstuff that were bound to give him a lot of points from his inlaws. He waited for his two best friends, Otieno and Kariuki, to come pick him up. The January heat was already making him sweat profusely. He felt light-headed just from the heat. They arrived Wanja’s home on time. The two men in the world who understood him and the crap he did all the time. Otieno was a Pointy, the son of an American woman and Luo man. He attracted all the women in their world. Kariuki was a small, coconut-brown man who talked excessively. They had taken a bypass and arrived in Kiambu by three in the afternoon. Wanja had already called seven times asking where he was. It was getting boring. His friends were already teasing him for tying his neck to one tree. He was committing to one woman for the rest of his life. They approached an area in Kiambu that used to be uninhabited but now people had bought land. There were unfinished constructions scattered across the area. Very few families had moved into their dream homes. Wanja’s family was one of the lucky ones. It was a massive house that was painted in hues of brown and orange. Wanja, of course, would have made specific descriptions on the shade of brown and orange. The house girl opened the door and welcomed them in. As they African Short Stories Vol. 2

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entered the house and greeted the people inside, Wambua felt his insides going numb. The only man in the house was the one he had hit on Mombasa Road. Was this Wanja’s father? As the man turned to him in shock and outrage, Wambua knew then that money was the least of his worries.

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My Burial Mary-Jane Okeke *

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I

stood watching my coffin being lowered into the earth. My elder brother Osinachi was trying hard to restrain my mother from throwing herself in. There mourners clad in black punctuated the air with cries as onlookers stared. There were two categories of mourners: the silent mourners and the noisy ones. The silent mourners cried in their hearts, afraid to cry aloud so as not to be accused of crying more than the bereaved while the noisy mourners whose wails sounded louder than sirens were made up of men and women who never knew the colour of my skin while I was alive. Surely these were the same people that would later use their walking sticks to beckon on the caterers to bring the food their way. The soil was soggy. It had rained earlier (a good sign that someone important had died). I listened on as the pastor eulogized me as an intelligent, respectful and God-fearing girl. I did not know if he meant it or, perhaps, if it was his way of making my loved ones feel better. “She would have been the first female lawyer from this village. She was one of the few that won Shell scholarship. Tukwasi was every mother’s dream and young man’s dream wife,” he said and I threw a look at my boyfriend Tunde who had his eyes concealed behind a pair of dark glasses. He was wearing a black polo top that clung to a body the result of long hours spent at the gym. He had on grey slacks and black sandals covered in mud. My best friend Tina who was standing so close to him as though they were joined by the hips was clad in a little black dress that did nothing to hide the million folds jotting from her sides. Although their bodies were not really joined, there was a familiar air of intimacy dancing around

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them. I stiffened. When did they become like one item? I was sure it was after I sent Tina to beg on my behalf -when Tunde and I had our first major quarrel over sex. Tunde had wanted us to have sex but I, just like the maiden of my grandmother’s time, was willing to wait till my wedding night. “He says you are boring and he is getting fed up,” Tina had told me on the third day she came back from her begging mission. “What exactly are you trying to prove by waiting? Why don’t you want to sleep with him?” She had flung the questions at me as though we were in a law court, only that she didn’t give me the room to answer one before more followed in succession. “You claim you love him yet you deprive him of it. Does that make sense? What are you keeping it for? It is not as if a meter was placed down there to read the number of times you did it. Abeg joo! give the boy what he wants,” she exclaimed, removing a pair of sandals that looked like unsliced bread and throwing her fat frame on the bed. The wood creaked and I waited for it to collapse but it didn’t. Good thing. “It were better you did it now, so you know the size of his thing,” she continued. “Why are you looking at me like that? Don’t you know that many women have left their husbands’ homes because of sex? Ok, look at it this way: better to experiment now so you don’t become as stiff as a dead dog with your husband; nothing more turns men off than that.” “If he loves me, he will teach me,” I returned. She let out a derisive, throaty laughter. “You be real MumuSuegbe! Who do you think had taught him? Do you think these gurus learn their skills from books? Hell no! They learn by constantly being with their legions. Babe, take my advice and it with him before other girls help you…” My coffin was half hidden by the soggy soil when the regal sun sat in the sky, smiling down at the people standing by my graveside. It was a dark brown coffin, one that looked like the many I had seen Literary Society International, LSi

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in my lifetime. I remembered passing some funeral homes then, and looking away. “Heaven’s gate! Does that mean that these particular coffins are passports to heaven?” Tina had laughingly asked one day when we passed a funeral home. But I couldn’t reply. I didn’t feel like discussing death. In fact, it was a sacred topic where I came from, and it seemed as if death was a grey creature in a black suit waiting to pounce on us if its name was mentioned. Not noticing my silence she went on: “Igbo people are real sellers. I am sure if they got to heaven they would still find a way of convincing God to let them market their trade.” I laughed. It was funny. Tina was funny. She was the type of girl who made people laugh even with few words. Her flesh shook like a hurricane when she walked, as if she was going to war. My mother was weeping uncontrollably and so was Chima. Looking at him, I realized that it was he, not Tunde who really loved me. To think I would have ended the relationship that December if death hadn’t come calling. Chima had been betrothed to me from birth. His parents had brought jars of palm wine and kola nuts to my father’s house when I was born, declaring their intentions. And from that day, little Chima had assumed his role with pride, protecting me and sharing things with me. I could still remember the first time he kissed me. It happened under Mazi Okorie’s Udara tree. I was only fourteen and very much angry with him for leaving me and walking to school with Nneoma instead. I had refused to talk to him afterwards. It was on my way from Mazi Okonkwo’s house that evening where I had gone to buy snuff for my father that I saw him waiting for me. “Why have you refused to talk to me?” he asked “Leave me alone. Go and ask Nneoma,” I shouted, knocking his hand off. But he ran ahead, stood in my path and knelt down. “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to go without you but Nneoma came to my house and asked that we go together. She even African Short Stories Vol. 2

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said she saw you on your way to school.” He sounded sincerely sorry and my heart melted. “Please forgive me. I got you something. Close your eyes,” he ordered, reaching for his back pocket. “I won’t close my eyes. What if it’s a snake?” “Then I would have been dead a long time ago. Please, Nne, close your eyes,” he pleaded. I did as he wanted, and felt something go around my neck. Immediately my hand reached for it. It was soft and zigzagged. I can’t see it but I think it’s beautiful.” “Why don’t you look at me? I am your mirror. Look to see how beautiful it is through me.” “No! I am your mirror. My name is Ugogbediya; her husband’s mirror and you are my husband.” As soon as I had said it, I clamped my mouth to divulge no more secrets. Chima laughed and moved towards me. “Don’t be afraid to say it. I am your husband. On the day you were born my parents took jars of palm wine to your father’s house to declare their intentions. I really can’t wait to make money so that I can take good care of you. I will buy you beautiful dresses and those fancy cars they drive in the city.” I laughed happily. I loved him and couldn’t wait to be with him -but only after I had gone to the university. “I want to go to the university first,” I said. That wasn’t the first time I was saying that and, though I sensed a disagreement with Chima on that, he never said so. “I know. You have the head for big books but I don’t. So I will stay back and make money to take care of you.” I giggled and my hand flew to the bead. It felt soft as linen. “Omaka; it’s beautiful,” I said again, fingering the bead. “Yes, it is -but not half as beautiful as you.” I stiffened. My breath was becoming hot and not even the shade Mazi Okorie’s tree provided could calm my growing turmoil. He moved close to me, raised my face to meet his and, for what seemed like ten years, waited as though unsure of what to do next. Then, Literary Society International, LSi

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finally, he let his mouth capture mine… Three years later, I realized that his kisses were young and timid. WithTunde I began to experience electrifying feelings racing through me when he held me in his colossal arms. He was always so detailed and matter of fact in almost everything he did -from the way he wore his clothes to the way he brushed off the littlest speck he found on them. I had met him on an ordinary sunny day in front our school gate. He had jumped out of his black Murano jeep as soon as he saw me, screaming “Arrest her! Arrest her!! “What did I do?” I managed to ask in a voice that was a far cry from the way I was feeling inside. “I heard an angel got missing from heaven this morning and I am sure you are the one. I am taking you back to God,” he said. That got the crowd that had quickly built up laughing. While I tried to dust up the remnants of my ruffled pride he knelt before me in all his glory and splendour. “Tukwasi, I have watched you for quite a long time and I think you have the qualities I want in a woman. Please be my girl.” I grew limp. How could this handsome boy want a girl like me? Whatever happened to those campus girls that exuded savoir faire and poise? I looked at my faded blue jean which I had painstakingly bent down to pick amidst the numerous ones only the previous day at Yaba market. I observed the red halter neck I brought from the village and my roommate’s Akpola shoes, which looked like something from Denrele’s archive and, for the umpteenth time, I wondered again what he wanted with me. “Babe, just say yes. That guy is raw gold.” It was the girl in a red dress that revealed a pair of stretch-marked breasts. “If he asks me out, I will leave my boyfriend instantly,” another with legs that seemed to stretch for eternity opined. I didn’t know whether to listen to them or ignore my heart. I didn’t know what to do and then I did the only thing I could. I bolted. The next day, Tunde came to my faculty bearing books that African Short Stories Vol. 2

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belonged to his sister. She had graduated from my faculty. Every new week came with a gift from Tunde. A note that accompanied one of them read: It’s Wednesday and I thought you might love chocolates. The weather’s sunny so I felt the halter will fit perfectly. Think of me when you wrap yourself in it. But I stood my ground and refused to say yes. It was after I won Miss Fresher’s award that I let him kiss me the night he took me out to celebrate. I was grateful he had bought me the application form for the contest, the clothes I wore, and also paid some girls to coach me. I had even suspected he bribed the judges. For starters, I almost fell off my high heeled sandals and couldn’t answer two questions correctly but, all the same, it felt good to be a winner. Emerging victorious opened so many doors for me. Suddenly, I became the hottest chic on campus and almost everyone who was somebody on campus wanted me to grace their parties and events. Becoming Tunde’s girl became a plus; big girls who never would have talked to me became my pals, and boys who never would have looked my way began to ask me out. Soon my burial was over and the rites were going on in earnest. There were Atilogwu dancers entertaining the people as if that could make them forget the reason they were gathered. My mother was still sobbing, unable to come to terms with the fact that her only and would-have-been barrister-daughter was no more. I wrapped my arms around her but there was no contact. My father was by her side taking stock of the people who were dropping money in the tray before him so when his turn came he would know what gift to give them too. My brothers, beer bottles in their hands, were lapping off the ‘Sorry’ that the people threw at them as though that was the antidote they needed to heal. I walked from them to where Tina and Tunde sat with their hands interlocked. They looked like a couple attending a wedding as they laughed and talked. “I can’t believe people are still this primitive. Did you see the Literary Society International, LSi

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knife her mother put inside her coffin, asking her to avenge the death, even when the autopsy showed she had died of abortion?” Tina was saying when I reached them. “She is illiterate. Perhaps the word autopsy means revenge to her,” Tunde said and Tina roared with laughter. Without thinking I stretched out my hand and slapped her on the face. But she didn’t wince. I slapped her again. It was futile. “Didn’t you see how irate her parents acted when they realized that we had taken her to the mortuary? They believe if she came back to earth again, she won’t be complete,” Tina laughed. Then I caught Tunde staring into Tina’s enormous breasts and wished I could drag him into the bottomless pit of misery in which I was. To think I had risked my life for him. If I had known… Too late! The place was almost empty now. Tunde and Tina got up to leave. I went with them anyway, throwing a last look at the claret house where I was born, and the avocado pear tree which was eating into the fence. How many times had I fallen off that tree? The first time had been when Ejike’s fierce looking masquerade dashed into our compound unannounced. In the hotel room I watched Tunde undress Tina with his teeth. The act was effortless and there was something very familiar with the ease with which he peeled off her clothes…something he had never done with me. “Oh no, not tonight baby. Let’s give her some respect,” she said mockingly taking his penis in her mouth. I watched his face tighten in pleasurable pain. “The dead can’t see… Let’s allow her to rest in peace,” he replied squeezing her breasts and nudging her towards the shower. I couldn’t take the excruciating pain that burst in me. It just was too much for me to handle. I began to scream... “Wake up! Tukwasi, you are having a nightmare.” I shot up to see my roommate Tina in a room that didn’t look like a hotel room. It was my room in school. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“Oh, thank heavens! It was a dream,” I said. What happened?” she asked picking up the hair brush she must have dropped in the attempt to wake me up. I blurted out to her. “I dreamt I died. My mother was in grief. You also came. You and Tunde…” and then I stopped the way I began. Was it just a dream or was it more? As if realising I had sat on a pin, I jumped out of bed, dashed for her phone lying idly on her dressing table and made for the door. “What are you doing? Give me back my phone!” she screamed as she ran after me but I was comfortably ahead. She was no match for me even if she were placed ten poles ahead. The hostel was abuzz; stark naked girls, half naked girls and even quarter naked girls were everywhere bathing, singing, washing, bathing and quarrelling. I kept punching the buttons until I saw them, the messages Tunde had sent to her describing how terrific she was in bed. I grew numb just as my knee buckled under me and I landed on the floor. “When did it start?” I asked Tina, dropping the phone at her feet. “Idiot! Bush pig! Stupid thing! If you try what you did again, I will deal with you,” she hissed, picking up her phone and walking away as briskly as she could. She was on the defensive because she was guilty. She didn’t want to break it and I understood that. It was a game we all played. I watched her massive figure disappear, her mound of flesh shaking unabashedly. Again I found myself wondering what it was Tunde had seen in her. Then my hands flew to my tummy. Perhaps a tiny life was inside. I didn’t know. How would I cope if it was true? I didn’t know. But I did know that I wasn’t going to kill it. Never! She was standing in front of the mirror when I entered the room. “You are welcome to have him,” I told her, as though she needed my permission, as though saying that would easily wipe off the grief I felt just the same way the chalk was wiped off the board. “I wish you happiness,” I said again, almost choking on the words. Literary Society International, LSi

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But she didn’t say anything. She just kept running the brush through the soft mass of synthetic hair sitting on her head without looking at the mirror.

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Virtual Love (II) Charmaine Pauls *

S

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tef scanned through the library books. He preferred being online with Maisie Moonwalker but he had to be careful. She might think him a geek. It was better to have made up the story about the party even if he resented not being able to log on now for fear of giving himself away. Instead he kept on reading through her favourite books. Maisie Miller liked intellectual stuff but she also read a lot of girlie romances. He made a list of the things the men did in the books and added it to a new list in the Project folder. Before he would have deemed it freaky giving a girl roses but that’s what Maisie Miller’s heroes did. Long hours later he yawned and checked his watch. 01h:32 Buck: Hi honey, I’m home! Moonwalker: Bout time. I was almost asleep. How was the party? Cool. I missed you. You didn’t invite me. I did. When? Now. Huh? Welcome to my cyber party. Wanna play? I want to see your face. And? And? What else? You know. Literary Society International, LSi

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What will you give me in return? Wait and see… Maybe I will. When do I see the rest of you? Shut up! Let’s party. Oh yes. Ready? You are AMAZING!

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When they said goodbye and logged off he pulled the photo of Drew’s naked behind from its hiding place in the maze of files and imported it into the photo box of his chat profile. He went to bed at three in the morning and congratulated himself for his cyber genius. Sunday 11h:47 Moonwalker: OMG!!!!!!!! You’ve put your photo. Giggle. Buck: I promised last night, didn’t I? I always keep my promises. Say you like it. Giggle, giggle. Come on, say it. OK. You’ve got a NICE ass. Now you’ve got to show yours. Not on your life! I’ve had 35 girls entering into my chat room today. Think they all like my ass??? I’m jealous. Are you having this chat with 35 other girls? Only have eyes for you, babe. Ahhhh… Which part of me do you want to see next? Eeeeek! How does it compare to your boyfriend’s? Don’t know. Haven’t seen his. Don’t lie. To you? Never. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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I’ll remember that. Got to go. Having lunch at my grandparents’. You? Going out with friends. Lucky you. Anyway, chiao. Hasta la vista, baby. Chiao Arnold / Buck Rogers.

Another knock on his door. “Stef?” He closed the application and unlocked his door. “What is it, Mom?” She looked into the room suspiciously. “Why do you lock your door?” “Privacy. What you do care?” “Don’t be a wise ass. That’s rude. You’ve been locked up in here all morning. Mrs. du Toit called. Frik is going to the municipal pool. She thought you might like to go. She can pick you up on the way.” “It’s the middle of winter, Mom.” “It’s a heated pool, Stefan.” “No thanks. Frik is a butthead.” “Stefan!” “What? Can’t I have an opinion?” “Your choice of language…” “At least I don’t smoke dope.” “Drop it, already! I’m not in the mood, all right?” “You never believe me! When you see it for yourself, you’ll be sorry.” Matilda sighed. “Let’s get pizza and a DVD. Come with me. We’ll choose something together.” “Mom,” he put his hand on the doorknob, “I’m not twelve.” He closed the door in her face. Voices woke Stef. He rubbed his eyes. The alarm clock showed five o’clock. The sun was already sitting low, casting the room in Literary Society International, LSi

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dusk. Drew walked through the door, followed by Phillip and Irene. Drew ruffled Stef’s hair. “Look who’s here. My baby brother.” Stef felt his cheeks grow hot. He jumped up and tried to slip under Drew’s arm but Drew pinned him in place. “Not so fast. Someone wants to talk to you.” Stef looked from Drew to Irene. “I don’t want to talk to her.” Irene smiled. “It’s okay, Stef. I won’t bite.” Drew loosened his grip. “Irene wants to go to the movies tonight.” “Want to come with me, Romeo?” Irene said. Phillip laughed. “No thanks, Irene,” Stef said. “Nothing personal, but I’ve got a girlfriend.” Drew winked at Irene. “We’ll pick you up at seven. I’ll borrow my mom’s car.” “Sweet.” Irene flicked her tongue over her lips. “Be ready, Romeo.” She planted a kiss on Stef’s lips. He pulled back, grimacing. “Are you deaf? I said I’ve got a girlfriend.” “Oh, yeah? What’s her name?” Drew challenged. “Maisie,” Stef said. Phillip laughed again. “The lily ass is lying. He’s never even kissed anyone. Come on, admit it, Freckle Face!” “I’m not lying! I have one, too. And we’ve done more than kissing. And she is gorgeous. Not fat like Irene.” The room went quiet. All three boys looked at Irene. “Go stuff yourself.” She walked out of the room. Stef heard her heels doing damage to the wooden stairs. “I told you I didn’t want to go out with Irene. I told you she’s fat,” Stef said. “Now you’ve ruined it,” Drew said. “I can’t believe you’re such a dumb ass. I was doing you a favour.” Phillip giggled like a girl. “It would have been one, sweet joke, man. Irene and Stef-” African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“Shut up, Phillip!” Drew said. Stef sat back on his bed. “Why don’t you back the hell off!” Drew threw his hands in the air. “All right. Keep your pants on, will you? Watch it, little brother, or everyone will start thinking you’re gay.” “I’m not gay!” “Then stop acting the fuck gay!” “What are you talking about?” “You look like a wimp. You act like a wimp. You don’t play rugby and you’re only into your science and your computer and your books.” “I’m not like you! That doesn’t mean I’m gay. I get straight As!” “Exactly. That’s so gay.” “Fuck off.” Stef jumped up. Drew kicked at Stef as he ran past them. Stef found his mother in the garden potting around. “I don’t want to share a room with Drew anymore.” “What are you talking about Stef?” “I want my own room, Mom.” “We don’t have an extra room.” “We have. I can convert the basement.” “It’s damp and cold down there. And the washing machine is noisy. The bedroom upstairs has an adjoining bathroom. What’s this suddenly all about?” “I want my privacy.” “I’m not rich, Stef. I can’t buy another house. I wish I could, but I just can’t.” “I’m just asking you for the basement. What’s the big deal?” “Fine.” She turned her back on him and dug her spade into the soil. “Move in and see how long you’ll last.” “Fine.” He kicked up the soil from the flowerbed.

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When his science teacher started complaining about his grades Stef made a weak effort for little less than a week. If his focus wasn’t on Maisie Moonwalker, it was on Maisie Miller. He had the increasing sense that he must take their relationship to a new level. How, eluded him. He thought about it for two weeks straight and finally came up with his plan. With his mother’s online banking profile number and password Stef ordered a dozen red roses through an online store and had them delivered to Maisie Miller. That part was easy. Stealing his mother’s mobile phone had become trickier. His mother suspected either him or Drew of deliberately misplacing her phone to make calls but since she couldn’t find any proof on the call log, the motive remained a mystery and Matilda gave up questioning Stef. A week later, Stef sent a huge white teddy bear and another week later he found some provocative red underwear while surfing the net. It took him two days to come to a decision on sizes, of which he had no idea. Finally, still uncertain, he chose something that a brunette, more or less Maisie’s size, modelled. In each case the message read, ‘From your secret admirer.’ Night after night he fantasized about how surprised Maisie was going to be, the expression on her face when she received the gifts, her happiness and awe of him when he finally confessed to having been her admirer all along. Once he got started he was overcome with desires of things to send her, and he found ample ideas to fire his creativity on the net. Entire days were consumed with searches for the perfect gifts. He considered a gorilla-gram, but he couldn’t risk spending more of his mother’s money. Anyway, someone at Matilda’s office had shown her how to lock her mobile phone with a code that he had no chance of cracking. Instead he consoled himself by making up for the gaps in-between gifts by sending increasingly intense messages from the Gmail account in Phillip du Plessis’ name, confessing his fantasies. It took Matilda a week after the underwear had been charged to African Short Stories Vol. 2

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realize that money had disappeared from her account. Stef arrived home from school to find his mother home early and her friend, Sylvia, sitting across from her at their kitchen table. As he fixed himself a sandwich and a cup of hot chocolate he listened to his mother’s account of how she had realized that she had been robbed. It happened at the pharmacy when she had to pay for medicine. She had ended up leaving the bag of aspirin and cough syrup behind, red-faced, when her card was rejected. She walked straight to the bank to request a statement that she would normally have received a month later, only to discover that her money had been electronically displaced, apparently with her code and password. There was only one explanation -someone had hacked into her account. The manager saw her without delay and suggested that they trace the path of the payment for starters. In the meantime she had changed her password. Stef left the women in the kitchen, mumbling a greeting under his breath as he made for his room. There were no messages in the chat room. For the remainder of the afternoon he went through his emails, ensuring that there was nothing that could lead to the discovery of his abuse of his mother’s account. As the day turned into night he got increasingly anxious, not certain at all if the bank had the ability to delve so deeply enough to disclose when and from where the payments had been made. He imagined all kinds of specialized software programs finding the trail back to his iPad, sniffing him out with their advanced electronic bloodhound packages. It was only a matter of time before his mother would put two and two together and realize that her phone had been missing on the days the transfers were made. She would remember, and so would Drew, because his mother had made both of them search for her phone. Drew had teased his mother about becoming forgetful but even Drew would add up the facts and come to a logical conclusion. By the time his mother called him for dinner, Stef had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

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Stef looked at the French beans on his plate. Drew chewed noisily. “So the bank manager is going to trace the payments,” Matilda took a sip of wine. Her face was lined with worry. “It is all so bizarre. I’ve heard about hackers but I’ve never thought it could happen to me.” “What’s going to happen to the person if they catch him?” Stef asked. “I hope he will go to jail,” she sniffed. “You could sue the bank,” Drew offered, “if their firewall wasn’t efficient.” Stef brushed his fingers through his hair, pulling at the thin threads. He swallowed. His leg wouldn’t stop pumping under the table. He had to talk to Maisie Moonwalker. He needed a conversation with her so much that he wanted to crawl right into her head. He excused himself and went to the basement. He logged in to the chat room: Buck: I’m glad you’re in. Moonwalker: Me too. I’ve been waiting for you. What’s up? I’ve decided to tell you a secret about myself. At last. Can’t wait. I have a stalker. No ways! I know. It’s crazy. What does he do? He sends me flowers and stuff. What’s the difference between a stalker and an admirer? The stalker watches you. How do you know he is watching you? A hunch. You know? You can just feel the eyes on you. Wow. How does it feel to have a stalker? Weird. Funny. At first it was kind of flattering, but now it’s just crazy. I think it’s someone I know. It’s gives me the jeepy creepies. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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How come? He knows what I’m doing, and where I am. I know, because he sends me these messages, saying stuff. What you going to do now? My parents spoke to the cops. Wow. And? Nothing they can do. He hasn’t showed himself or made threats. They want to take my computer away. That’s heavy. Guys are so funny. Not all guys. No, not everyone. You’re not. I’m not? You’re a gentleman, and mature. You’re too nice. My boyfriend freaked out. About your stalker? Yes. About something he sent me. He won’t believe I’m innocent. He sounds like an ass. Sorry. No, you’re right. He is an A-hole. For not supporting me. Do you still want to be with him? We broke up last night. Sorry. It’s OK. He obviously doesn’t deserve you. I wish we could meet. Me too. Why don’t we? Too far. Where are you? Maybe in a different country. Lots of people who meet on the net get together. I don’t mean to push. You’re not pushy. I’m just not good at face to face talking. Literary Society International, LSi

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It’s a pity. Why? Because I really like you, Buck Rogers. … Moonwalker: Are you there? I don’t know what to say. In a good or bad way? GOOD! I wish you’d tell me your name. Buck Rogers. Be serious. I am. I want to tell you a secret. Not some silly secret about a crazy stalker. A really, deep secret. But I’m not telling it to Buck Rogers. This is who I am. Then put your photo on and let me tell you to your face. I want to tell you my name. My real name. And THAT secret. How big is your secret? It’s about you. I’ll think about it. Don’t play hard to get. OK, I won’t. Got to go. Got a test tomorrow. X0X Good luck. XXXX

He looked through his mother’s albums and Drew’s photos. He even considered searching the net for pictures. Maisie Moonwalker would never know if he borrowed a face from some male model. But if she did an internet search and found him out… Once more he considered leaving his photo box blank, but they had reached the point where it was going to look real suspicious that he still didn’t have a cyber face. Then an idea struck him. He paged through the school’s old yearbooks. That was it! He scanned the photo and uploaded it to his chat site profile. He looked at Drew’s face on his African Short Stories Vol. 2

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iPad screen and grinned. He was the cyber king. Nice to finally meet you face to face, Buck. Hi. You are… OMG. What?? Gorgeous! Why didn’t you want to put your photo up? Tired of girls who just go for looks. Well, now you’ve found me. I didn’t go for your looks. Yeah. What did you go for? Buck Roger’s charm, and spelling. Funny. I’m not joking. Tell me then. You promised. Your secret. I like you. That all? I really like you. That all? Haha. I think I’m a little bit in love with you. A little? OK! A lot. I LOVE YOU BUCK ROGERS! … Moonwalker: Aren’t you going to say anything? I’m starting to feel silly here. Sorry, I’m blown away. You can tell me the truth. If I’ve made my name A it’s OK. I love you Maisie Miller.

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felt frozen to his core. The next day Stef moved back into Drew’s room on doctor’s orders. He hated hearing how his mother asked the doctor if she could settle the house call fee after payday, and he hated even more how reluctantly the doctor agreed. He hated everything about his life. He had checked back to the chat room several times. Nothing. He wanted his mother to leave the room so that he could visit the chat lounge but he could see that she had something on her mind by the indecisive way she opened and closed the curtains after the doctor had left. Matilda sat down on his bed. “I hope you and Drew will make peace, Stef.” Stef crossed his arms and looked down. “He started it.” Matilda pulled at the threads of the bedspread. “Stef, did you or Drew steal my code to make those purchases?” Stef lifted his head. “No, Mom!” She sighed. “I don’t know what to think anymore. Flowers and …underwear. This girl lives in Johannesburg.” She sounded confused. Stef’s voice remained surprisingly calm. “Mom, we don’t even know anyone in Jo’burg.” Her chest heaved. She blew out another sigh. “I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of this.” She got up quietly. “Do you need anything?” “No. I just want to sleep.” Matilda checked his head with the palm of her hand. “Call me if the fever starts again.” She walked to the door, hesitated, and turned. “Stef, I’m think I’m going to take your iPad away for a while.” When she saw his face, she said, “Not now. When you’re back in school. Your grades are dropping.” She walked through the door. As soon as the door closed behind her Stef started up his iPad. When he saw that Maisie Miller had tagged him on a message his African Short Stories Vol. 2

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heart began to hammer in his chest. He clicked on the tag. It took him straight to the public chat room. As he read her message, his eyes widened slowly and then brimmed with angry tears. Notice to everyone in Cyber Chat: Buck Rogers is a perverted stalker and a fake! Please paste his photo and this message on your message boards so that no unsuspecting cyber surfer suffers from… He swatted at his eyes with his sleeve. He had to blink several time to continue reading. His eyes skipped to the end of the long insult. …a total nutcase and a very sad man. Ban Buck Rogers from your chat rooms. People like him should be prosecuted. He must be suffering from a small dick syndrome.

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He shut the iPad cover with force. He jumped from the bed and walked up and down the room feeling helpless and trapped until he finally stopped in front of the window. He grabbed the windowsill, tears falling onto the wooden frame. His freckled hands shook. Stef brooded. It was the worst week of his life. On top of how Maisie Moonwalker had humiliated him despite everything he had done for her, Auntie Rika had come to visit. His mother had asked her for money to see them through. Stef couldn’t stand his mother’s older sister. He sat at the kitchen table with Drew, his aunt and his mother, barely touching his food. “What’s wrong with Stef?” auntie Rika asked in a loud voice. “Rika, don’t speak like he’s not here. Ask him,” Matilda said. She replied anyway, “Stef is sick. He’s got the flu.” Rika nodded as if the world suddenly made sense. “What’s happening with the theft case? Is the bank going to repay you?” Matilda looked sideways at her sons. “I’m not laying charges. I think it’s wise to just drop it.” “Why?” Rika asked. “What’s fair is fair. You must insist on Literary Society International, LSi

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getting your money back. It’s not your fault that someone hacked into your account. That’s what I’ve always said about this silly banking stuff on computers. I told you. Can’t trust it.” “Drew’s doing so well at university, Rika.” Matilda turned to Drew. “Tell auntie Rika, Drew. He is going to be such a good civil engineer.” “And you, Stefan?” Rika looked at him from under the rim of her glasses. “I’m going to work. I’m not finishing school,” Stef mumbled, his bottom lip pushed out. “Stef!” Matilda put her knife and fork down with a clang. “What, Mom?” Stef looked up. “We haven’t talked about that.” He jumped up, letting his paper napkin drift to the floor. “Do we have to talk about everything? Talk…talk…talk… that’s all we ever do in this house.” He stormed to the door. “This is my life!” Rika lifted her eyebrows and pursed her lips. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked before he could slam the door. Drew snorted. His voice drifted through the closed door. “Hormones.” Stef rushed to his room. He booted up the iPad and accessed the Project Moon folder. He sat for an hour creating a new scrapbook. He cut and pasted Buck Rogers' and Maisie Moonflower’s most intimate conversations, all of which he had saved, into a Word document. He added the song they had shared after their first cyber date, and the degrading comments she had made about her friends and her boyfriend. He put the photos she had pasted in their private chat room that midnight when she came home from a party, drunk. He placed the photo she had sent him of her underwear right underneath, plus the text where they got as close to cyber shag as one could get. Then he logged into the public chat lounge and posted his scrapbook entitled Maisie Moonwalker is a slut on the general message board. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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Stef argued afterwards that he could never forgive Maisie Moonwalker. But he could forgive Maisie Miller. Maisie Miller had been corrupted by Maisie Moonwalker, that’s all. Maisie Miller would never have done to him what Maisie Moonwalker did. Moonwalker deserved what she got. But everyone was hot on his cyber ass so he had to cancel his chat room subscription and delete his whole history. He even wiped out his Gmail and Hotmail footprints. Now he felt completely cyberless, all because of Maisie Moonwalker. He hated her. He had never felt more alone or identity-less in all of his life. His mother and Drew acted strange around him. Their intimate conversations became even more hushed, excluding him. He had no plans of going to jail or to military school. He would drop out of school without telling anyone. By the time they all realized he wasn’t in class, it would be too late, he reckoned. They wouldn’t find him. He chose a day to leave when his mother was at work and wouldn’t be able to stand in his way. Drew watched Stef throw his clothes into a tog bag. “You’re breaking Mom’s heart, man. Don’t do this. At least finish school.” “What for?” Stef took his iPad and zipped it into its protective case. “You can’t take that. It’s not even yours. It’s Mom’s.” Stef gave Drew a cutting look. “What do you care? She never uses it. Besides, she’s got the laptop.” Drew shook his head. “What will you do?” “Find a job.” “What kind of job do you think you’ll get without a matric certificate? You’re making a mistake, Stef.” “Piss off.” He threw a pair of trainers in the bag. “Look, Stef, I know I’ve been hard on you about playing rugby and all that, but I was looking out for your best interest.” He hesitated. “And I know it’s you who made those bank transfers.” Literary Society International, LSi

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“I didn’t do shit.” Drew leaned against the wall. “It’s spending all that time with your nose in your computer and your books, Stef. It’s not normal.” Stef threw the sling of the bag over his shoulder. “She’s never loved me -Mom. You’ve always been the one. Now you can have her all to yourself.” Drew looked like a mixture of regret and relief when he walked from their room. He walked out of the house, down the road, all the way to the bus stop, where he caught the number nine to Central Station. From there he bought a ticket to Johannesburg with Auntie Rika’s money he had taken from his mother’s purse.

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Stef piggybacked on an unlocked Wi-Fi network with a strong signal and accessed Google Maps. The bitch had changed her mobile number. It was all right. He had a good schedule of how she passed her days, where she went and when. She had also terminated her chat room membership and changed her email address. He sat on the steps of the English department, like he had every morning for the past week. At nine sharp he entered the lecture hall from the door at the back and sat down in the same seat he had since the previous Monday. Ten minutes later she walked in with two girls. They sat down in the middle aisle. He made notes about her behaviour on his iPad. After the lecture he pulled from his bag the book he had stolen from the bookstore and opened it, covering his face. He watched her shoes from under the book’s pages as she climbed the stairs. The feet passed him and then stopped. She backtracked. “Excuse me.” Her voice was sweet. He lowered the book. “Yes?” He was pleased with how surprised he sounded. She pointed at the cover. “I can’t believe you are reading this. This is so unusual. Nobody does anymore.” “Oh, this classic? It’s one of my favourites. I’ve read it like six African Short Stories Vol. 2

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times already.” She sat down next to him. “May I?” She held out her hand for the book. “Sure.” He handed it to her and moved up a seat. She fanned the pages. “Where are you from?” “A very small place. You won’t know it.” “What makes you so sure?” “Nobody does.” “What’s your name?” “Stef.” “I’m Maisie.” “Hi Maisie. Why are you taking English literature? What are you studying?” She laughed. “To become a teacher of course, like everyone here. Aren’t you?” She tilted her head and looked at him in a funny way. “Yeah, of course. Sorry. I’m… not… so good with…” he stammered. “That’s all right. You’re shy, aren’t you?” He didn’t answer. “I think it’s sweet,” Maisie said. “I don’t like guys who are overconfident.” When he still remained quiet, she said: “Do you like the course?” “Very much. It’s cool. I love reading. We could compare notes, if you like.” He paused. “If your boyfriend won’t mind.” Her face changed. “I don’t have one of those.” He looked at his hands. “Why? I mean… I don’t want to pry or anything, but you’re very …pretty.” She smiled. “You’re such an innocent. I can tell. Anyway, had a bad experience with a guy.” “Oh.” She laughed again, this time bitter. “I’ve never even met the guy. I suppose you could say it was a cyber romance. Bad. Bad.” “Oh. I’m sorry.” Literary Society International, LSi

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She smiled. “It’s okay. How about you? Are you a computer wiz?” “Not really. Not a fan. I don’t really like computers.” She rested her chin on her hand. “Good. I don’t really like people who are too much into their computers. I prefer talking face to face, don’t you think?” “Oh, yes. Computers drive people mad, didn’t you know?” He sounded too enthusiastic and checked himself. He toned his voice down. “That’s my opinion, anyway.” She smiled again. “I do, as a matter of fact, know that.” She handed him back his book and got up. “Got to go.” She paused at the end of the aisle. “Do you know a lot of people here?” He shook his head. “I’m new in town. Haven’t met many people.” He looked at his hands again. “I’m not very social.” She thought some more and seemed to have made up her mind about something. “Listen, do you want to join us for lunch? It’s just me and my two girlfriends.” She pointed with her thumb to the door. “They’re out back.” He put up an uncertain face. “I don’t know… won’t they mind?” “Of course not. They’re really nice. Come on,” she urged. “We’ll talk about the book.” “All right,” he said slowly. He picked up his bag, and followed Maisie Miller into the daylight.

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An Endless Shore NN Dzenchuo *

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J

oshua Ebuntene reclined on a small mattress rolled on the floor as the afternoon rays from the sun peeped through the cracks in his room. Made of old planks, it was a room of about four square metres. It was the only liveable one as others were either leaking from the roof or had the side boards missing. And he was granted rent-free stay. So that was how the mechanic began to enjoy the status of concierge of the house. Shifting to a more relaxed posture, back against the door, he started counting his money. There were ten thousand Francs in all. He divided them carefully: five thousand on his right, and smaller bills of two thousand, one thousand, and five hundreds directly between his drawn legs as he rested on his butt. The horse game had made him a rich man. He had absented from work close to a week, excusing himself on health grounds. But Pa Kala knew very well what a whiff of money would do to the young motor mechanic’s mind. Now Joshua was planning how to buy electronic items to show his glories first-hand to his sweetheart. Then he heard sounds of footsteps shuffling towards his door and his vulpine instinct flexed. Quickly he gathered all the dough. He was bundling the bills and pushing them under the mattress when the door rattled at the hinges and opened. His heart skipped a beat, doubling up when the mechanic saw the unwary visitor. His house arrangement flashed in his mind: greased overalls hanging on nails pinned to planks, a small stove by the side, a pan with spoons and dirty plastic plates on the upturned lid. He blinked severally but Emanga’s smile soon overcame his qualm. “Joshua, hi,” she greeted, giving a sweeping glance on the room with her eyes for something to sit on. Literary Society International, LSi

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“Welcome Emanga! I no bi know say yu go cam visit,” he stuttered. “Like to surprise people,” she smiled causing his mind to question how the hell she came to know his room and even the road to his home. “Do you not want me, I can go?” she said, boldly beating his own imagination. She made to turn. “I de go!” “No! No! No be so, ah no get chairs for my house, wusai yu go sitdon now-eh?” “Don’t bother. I just wanted to greet you. I was on my way back home.” The yellow spots of peering sunlight cast on her sky blue tunic and blue skirts school uniform variegated hues albeit beautiful to behold. “Wait outside,” the host said as she half-opened the rickety old door, wood dust splashing down to the floor, thickening an earlier coating. Emanga stood outside, waiting. Joshua went down, looking over and over again his shoulders to make sure she wasn’t peeping. He drew out two green bucks, strutted towards the door and opened it. Emanga stood looking as he proffered his arm. “Tak’m, buy yaself something.” He was repulsed by her refusal. “No! Thank you, I have money at home! Besides, buy something for your house: plastics, carpet, curtains and window blinds. “I go do that, but just take the money,” the host insisted, the proffered double five thousand notes sagging in the grip of his fingers. “Just wanted to check on you. My Uncle and I: we passed by the garage; they said you were sick.” Joshua scratched his head, “But now I de fine.” His hand was now down. “Make I cam buy you chop, yu di hungry?” “No! I’m fine, Josh,” Emanga smiled again, the gap in his tooth wreathing her face. “Cam inside,” he said. “What?” African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“Want tok with yu,” he expounded. “We are talking already. Anything the matter?” she halffrowned, not moving. “I like yu Emanga!” Silence. “Yu be my Beby,” the word mechanically whizzed out the mechanic’s mouth. Her gaze was pinned to the floor, staring at her toes squeezed into a pair of black sandals. She followed his pull by the hand back into his room. He breathes wordlessly into her face. Emanga’s gait limped as she clutched her schoolbag. Barely had Joshua pulled her closer when her hands like thrusters jabbed his chest. “No! I’m writing my exams. I don’t want this!” She was like a young hen unused to the sideways wooing dance of a cock, yet Emanga was intimidated by this intimacy and made but feeble efforts to disengage herself. “I just want to wish you success,” he mused. “She nodded without realizing his mouth on hers, the momentary embrace of their lips, and then she fought back, shoving him away. “Let me go.” “Next time.” The guest pushed the door open as she left the room, taking a bend by a gutter and walking a few yards, passing the geranium flowers by the lane leading to the main road. The whole place looked more different now than before she came. Hot sweat ran down Joshua’s back. He seemed afloat in a wave of his own fancies. If she reports the incident to her uncle, he thought… I will be asked to leave the garage… But at least I love her… And the wave exploded in an endless shore of delight.

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Midnight Marauders Hilary Frank-Ito *

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T

he forest was dark, completely dark. The stars and moon had hidden themselves away. Indeed the forest was always dim even in blistering sunlight crowded as it was with gigantic trees. And in this night empty of moonlight the depths of darkness simply overwhelmed the eyes. Still Izidor saw the men all dressed in cloths of nature, white dots covering their bare chests and faces as they chanted and danced eerily in the heart of the woods. It was the Agadaga dance: the supernatural dance of wizards in the dead of night. There they held their meetings and hatched their many plans for havoc. To join in the dance entailed strict ritual precautions. It was forbidden amongst them to even discuss the dance with non initiates. They proceeded in circular motions around a huge black flaming clay pot. Their bodies cast frightening large shadows across the gloom where unsuspecting humans were often spirited away even before the pitiable voice of their helpless cries were heard. The men numbered only about ten to fifteen but the aura of evil around them was deep and intense. ‘Evil night marauders’, Izidor thought quietly. Perched on the tree branch he watched, his body still, his heart tumbling over his chest. If they ever spotted him it would mean his end. He remembered his wife and six children and his death flashed before his eyes. Numb with terror he listened to the whispering voice of the night echoing from the depths of the forest. Squatting beside the flame was a heavy fleshed out man who tied a plain red scarf round his naked waist. A wooden mask adorned his face. By his side sat a small basket packed with palm nuts like some lambs to the slaughter. Then the huge one threw up his face with his mask pointing to the cloud of leaves overlapping African Short Stories Vol. 2

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the men. He stood as if he was expecting some alien to drop down from the sky. A gentle breeze blew through the leaves and the plants waved back and forth. The men encircling the fire then stood still watching the one at the centre. The night was now at its fullness. Puncturing the stillness of the hour was the noise of an owl bellowing from afar. With his face still looking upwards, he positioned his right hand with the fingers spread over the basket, inviting the spirits to dwell upon the contents of the basket and provoke good response to his summons. The flame flickered and from the basket came a thick puff of smoke. The huge one turned his face to welcome the smoke, while the men hailed and continued their ritual circle. Then with his left hand he picked a palm nut from the basket. He raised the nut up above his head while voicing a name that was marked for destruction. He pronounced each name three times, stretching his voice longer and louder on subsequent calls. In between every call he took a deep breathe as the forest reverberated towards the unwary target in the subliminal realms. Then he brought one nut after the other, spitting out a curse and placing them on a stone slab. He extended his right hand to pick up an iron sledge. With the strength of vengeance he hammered the nuts with the iron sledge held firmly in his right fist. As he struck, some few lucky nuts amazingly flew into the darkness. And the Agadaga dancers stopped momentarily in anger to shout a bitter “Wooooo!” in the direction the nut had fled. But for those palm nuts that shattered between the stone and sledge the wizards leapt in jubilation, chanting and gyrating in macabre celebration. It was said that humans were invoked into the nuts. The ones that fled into the bush signified the victims had narrowly escaped the wrath of sudden death while any nut that got smashed meant the painful end of one life on that evil night. No one who had the misfortune of crossing the path of Agadaga dancers ever lived to tell the story. Izidor watched, frozen with shock and grief as he glimpsed the illuminating rays from the pot of Literary Society International, LSi

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fire. It was the same flame into which all the crashed nuts were gathered and poured to burn to ashes. Slowly he began to feel the perspiration congregating on his forehead, trickling down his cheeks and then converging at his chin. The cold night did little to mitigate his profuse sweating.

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It was the sweat that forced Izidor out of his trance. He woke to find himself drenched but relieved to be within the safety of his room -away from the evil forest and that terrifying midnight. Then he shuddered to he imagine how often such things happened and how the night harboured so many transgressions.

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The Apostles NN Dzenchuo *

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A

beautiful Makossa jive was filtering through the airwaves from speaker boxes in front of a line of stalls. These electronic dealers knew what the evening commuters love best. Like most business hubs Molyko by night was quite a place. The neon-lit decorations of business premises and single floors and storey buildings greeted his sight as Rev. Father Marcus drove by in his vehicle, his white rosary dangling by his rear mirror. He marched the brakes and the car came to a halt by the unfinished side culvert that was already recorded in the files of the Ministry of Urban Planning in Yaoundé as a completed project. But city dwellers were used to such yawning traps that made victim of the unwary. Did our people not say that he who treads a road crisscrossed by soldier ants must always be on the match? Only the drunk or strange would return with injured feet. The priest stood in front the shop nodding to the Afro beat of ‘Agather’ by Francis Bebey -a gem in the annals of music. He had been looking for this collection for some time now. “How much?” he said pointing to the speaker box. “Sah, you no fit buy that one woofer; we de sell na that one dem,” the sales boy said, pointing to a group of smaller black woofers. On the front were stock China-made wares: glass burners, flat screen TVs, DVD decks and glass tables. Also on display were rolled plastic carpets amongst assorted items on shelves with barely a foot’s space inside. From the door one could peer into the face of the shop owner seated inside. The boy outside waited for the priest to confirm which woofer speaker box he wanted. “This music, I want the CD -how much?” he said. “One tauzen, Fadda!” The sales boy had come to discover the Literary Society International, LSi

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costumer was a clergy. “No! Young man, it is sold for five hundred. That is the price for CDs!” “OK Fadda, bring’m. Assah no yu God fit bless me!” the boy smiled. From a roll of CDs he pulled out an audio, “Tak’m,” he handed the plate to the priest. “No video?” the cleric handed him a five hundred Francs bill. “No Fadda! It rare for see’m. I never ever see’m, I swear to God,” he said causally. “Shut up! You swear like that when you lie!” the priest rebuked. “Na true…” But the cleric had already turned and was gone. “Fadda dem too like Makossa? Na wah-oh!” he said, shrugging his shoulders. His meeting with the apostolic group always held at the right time -at sundown. Many of the group members had already arrived in fear of the hard line priest who sometimes equated late coming to witchcraft. The hardiness of this man of God was beginning to coerce Christians in the parish to relegate or trim off their unhelpful habits of procrastination. Their spiritual lives were proving to be merely emblematic; he was insisting that God must be paramount in their everyday lives: -Procrastinators, like the lazy tenant who was given a talent by his Master, would not inherit the Kingdom of God. Many a Christian was noted to be punctual in tribal meeting, subscribing to all its monetary demands, sometimes yoked by tradition. But to come to mass he would miss the Liturgy of the Gospel, rushing with gaping mouth and half-closed eyes, trance like, to swallow communion and say the Hail Mary. And when it came to offertory, many would bring to God but leftover change or remainder coins from the previous day’s draught of beer. So the priest was hard on the Christians, exposing the new dispensation they had found themselves in: African Short Stories Vol. 2

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-If the Jews of olden days could contribute a tenth of their earnings, or more, yet were never known to suffer want, how much would God have provided for their health, peace, love and neighbourliness if they had contributed for the propagation of the Gospel light, the new illumination that empowers moral, mental and intellectual faculties into a blazing spiritual monument that turns the globe to continental neighbourhood? The lazy ones who came to church for social gathering barely struggled to avoid Father Marcus’ rebukes. Others, though, hurried to church and meetings on time. They sat on the concrete slabs in the church compound, peering down the road, waiting for a sign of his vehicle. Today as the last sunrays kissed the mountain top, the contours of the hills became more pronounced like trails of clouds passing lazily by as the saffron reflections bathed the Buea surroundings with the arrival of Father Marcus’ vehicle. “So I hear you are head of our apostolic group.” That was Commisioner Massango pointedly asking Dr. Muma. “Yes, I am,” Muma replied. “How do you face yourself in a meeting with them?” the security boss quizzed disdainfully. “Why!” “It should look sordid for you.” “But what for?” Muma queried, growing nervous. “So you ask? Last primaries you didn’t spend even half the sum allocated to you!” “What is that supposed to mean?” Muma was beginning to have cramps. “You signed for eight million; yet all the tribal groups and the Njangi meeting, and even our St. Jude Apostolic all-in-all received just over three million,” the commissioner returned, removing his black beret and stashing it in the shoulder strap. “By the survey we kept on the spending, how come you now have two additional plots in New Layout?” Literary Society International, LSi

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The panic cramps turned to violent hiccoughs. “Hietie-eh!” she sneezed. “Hietie-eh!!” the sneeze again was followed by quick breathing in and out. Horror now began to take hold of the security chief. “Sorry ma’am, are you ok?” he demanded, “Can I take you to hospital? “Let us go General Hospital?” the commissioner insisted, supporting her on the back and breasts. “I shall be fine. I need to go home,” the lecturer managed to word out, her breathing gradually normalising. “Can I drive you home?” he tried to soothe her. “I can drive. Don’t bother yourself!” Her gaze on him remained unfocussed; her looks were frail. “Then call somebody, I guess you can’t handle the steering wheel?” “I must rest awhile. Just let me be. Thanks for the concern!” The commissioner’s lips quivered uncertainly but no words came out. The man had not expected this near heart-attack from just one sudden outburst of accusation from him. It was the reverend father himself who had to take the lady to hospital.

Father Marcus returned from hospital and had just at the most a half hour’s rest before going out for his weekly ritual to administer communion to the sick and impaired. Public alarm about Dr. Muma’s sudden heart attack had spread with the speed of wind. Although looking slightly frail she was responding well in the hospital except some guilty glints at the back of her eyes -decipherable, maybe, only to those who could psychoanalyse a personality. From the University of Buea, friends and colleagues and students trooped in to empathise, telling her ‘Ashia!’ Commissioner Massango who had felt a pang of guilt at the African Short Stories Vol. 2

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incident also visited. “I was trying to see how we can engage young groups, sister,” he fretted. The patient cast a stolen glance at her party comrade and turned her face to the door, barely absorbing his feigned goodwill. “Thank you for the visit,” was all she could say as she reclined in her hospital bed. Massango left, knowing fine well it was his accusation that had thrown the paranoid woman in that intense state. But her sheer will, like all iron ladies were known for, would sustain her spirit, he thought. Dr. Muma would pull through.

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Strange Turn Hilda Gathanga *

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J

ackie admired herself as she looked at her outfit in the mirror. She loved the way the pink high heels made her look taller and sexier. Her pale pink dress hugged her body indecently. Ken would stand no chance at all resisting her, she mused. The doorbell rang and she hurried to answer. “Hey, Ken, please come in,” she invited him in, swaying her hips more as he followed her inside. “Unfortunately, I can’t stay for long. I need to get back to the office,” Ken told her as he took a seat. “Relax. I know you have the whole lunch hour for yourself.” She observed him as he looked around the house. The sitting area had been tastefully furnished. The electronics were the latest in the market.He was a handsome middle-aged man. She knew he was married with two teenage children. He fulfilled the definition of tall, dark and handsome. She mused how much he made through his numerous business deals as she surveyed him and his smart casual dressing. Clearly, he was a far cry from Tim economically. But she could sacrifice for his good looks. He could become her next lover. She could easily seduce and take him from Sandra. “What is the emergency?” Ken asked her sarcastically. Jackie practised self-control. A sharp remark had been ready for his question. “It is an emergency. That’s why I insisted that you come immediately. Tim is dead.” She watched as Ken’s eyes grew wide with shock. They were both quiet for a few minutes. Tim, her lover had been in the hospital for the last two months in critical condition after a nasty road accident. Tim and Ken had been in campus together and Tim had African Short Stories Vol. 2

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hired Ken in his real estate company late last year. Most of the time, on Friday nights, Ken would come with his lover, Sandra, and they would spend the evenings having fun in the local pubs. “Has the family been informed?” Ken asked. “Not yet. I will inform his sister who lives here in the city soon.” “Why the delay?” Ken frowned. “Ken, the last time we went out just before Tim’s accident, I remember his telling you to deposit ten million Kes for him.” “Oh yes.” Ken looked lost in thought. “After the accident, I held on to the money, just in case his treatment bills surpassed his health insurance cover.” Jackie nodded. It had been speculated that Tim would relapse into a coma that might make his hospital bills very high. “How about we don’t tell anyone about the money and split it between us?” Jackie made her voice sound sweet and sexy as she made the bold suggestion. She was however watchful like a hawk to see what Ken’s initial reaction would be. He blinked quickly and Jackie knew that he would agree to her suggestion. “It is not our money.” “That has never stopped you,” Jackie answered quickly. “As Tim’s agent in the bank I know that you have been stealing money once in a while from the company!” “How dare you!” Jackie watched as Ken angrily stood up and stared down at her. She smiled, unfazed. “Sit down, I am not a fool. Tim was too busy doing many businesses that he did not really follow up on the accounts. He told me to be his personal accountant. I noticed the discrepancies but chose not to tell. I knew one day I would need your help.” She watched him sit with a defeated expression. “What do you want?” “Simple. We share the money, fifty-fifty.” Literary Society International, LSi

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Ken continued watching her. Jackie ignored the animosity that she could feel coming from him. She could make any man do what she wanted. “Ok, I will withdraw the money from my account and bring it.” “Ken, let us do this quickly!” Jackie was excited. “Wait up! His wife has to be given something.” “Why?” she asked angrily. “She will get her share of the company anyway since Tim and Andrew are the owners. Andrew will ensure she is taken care of. I should have my share of the ten million. I have been with him for the last five years. I deserve my share of the money.” She loved the good life and she was not willing to work hard for it at all. Why work hard when someone else could do the work and bring the money to her? Her affairs with married men had started on campus. A close friend had shown her how to get rid of being broke and she had never looked back since then. She came from a stable middle-class background with good academic record so she was not disadvantaged in any way. She just wanted more out of life in mind-blowing speed. She had found a way to get what she wanted. Ken watched her warily as she looked at him expectantly. It was easy to see why Tim had been fascinated with the woman. Her frame was little; her bust and bosom, however, were well endowed. She had great style in dressing and accessorising her outfits. The heavy make-up on her brown face was professionally applied. Her hair was held up in a pony-tail dark weave with streaks of blonde. The beautiful exterior quite well concealed the venom inside her. He understood the calculating scheming woman she was. His disgust for her almost choked him as he stared at her. Her pupils were swimming in greed, her fingers tapping the sofa’s seat handle, impatiently waiting to hold the money in her hands. “If I do this, you have to promise me that we will never see each other again.” African Short Stories Vol. 2

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“Oh!” She blinked at him suggestively. “Is that really what you want, Ken? The whole time I was with Tim I felt a growing attraction between us. Now that he is gone who knows what can happen?” He swallowed his repulsion again. The woman actually thought that he would want to be with her after he had seen how greedy and manipulative she was. “No, thank you. I prefer we cut the links completely.” Her eyes narrowed speculatively. “That’s okay, Ken.” He had often glanced at the staff under him through his transparent office walls many times at Tim’s real estate firm. They were a team of ten, seated in an open office under a mass of activity, as some answered the phone while others retrieved information from the database. Ken had felt sorry for them as they struggled to beat deadlines in their dark suits and cultured voices all in order to deliver quality customer service. The gains were small each year. Someone needed a big leap to advance in social class. Thank God he had found a way to get some higher returns. He appreciated his manager’s position and the special amenities that came with it. The splendid view of Nairobi’s town buildings from his office, the latest Apple laptop and huge allowances for fuel and airtime credit were some of the benefits. The salary, however, was not enough. Some of his friends were in different levels driving better cars and living in bigger houses located at more prestigious areas in the city. Thank God with his share of the money he would be able to buy a Prado and a house in a decent neighbourhood. He had always been a competitive person. Even as a child he had wanted to perform better than his brother. He had wanted the best toys. At school and on campus he had wanted the best grades. In relationships he wanted the best women. He knew that his marriage was a facade he would never learn to uncover anyway. However he liked the idea of being known as a married man in society. At work he wanted the best promotions and opportunities available. In the society he wanted the best houses and cars among Literary Society International, LSi

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his peers. “Aren’t you even curious to find out how Tim was able to make such ridiculous money within such a short time?” she asked him. He lifted his eyebrows. “Not really. At times the less you know the higher your chances of survival.” “It will be for your own good to hear it out.” He stared at her without saying a word. “Ken, you and I are very alike.” There it was again. Her conspiratorial attitude that assumed they could be great allies. His disgust was back again. “Really?” He could barely veil his contempt. “Yes. We both want a comfortable life. We are tired of struggling and are willing to do everything within our powers to improve our standards of living.” “Get to the point!” he snapped as he glanced quickly at his watch. “Tim was involved in large land transactions. He would buy large pieces of land and subdivide them. He would then sell the subdivided pieces of land to companies involved in constructing residential homes. The companies would develop houses for the middle-income segments of society.” Ken nodded. “I knew that. He had told me about some of his businesses. I know the profits from such transactions are high.” “There are things he did not tell you about. The profits were even higher when dealing with some of his partners. He would initially get into an agreement with the landowner. He would later come back to the landowner with his partners and pretend that it was the first time he was involved in the transaction. If the land was really for twenty million Kes, the landowner would ask for twenty five in front of the new partner. Then he would split the excess with the land owner.” “You mean Tim was simply a thief?” “Well, not exactly. Let us just say he was an opportunist. Land prices are really speculative. Secondly, the price depends on the African Short Stories Vol. 2

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bargaining power of the buyer. He had been buying land a lot so he knew how to approach the old men and get the best prices.” “Why get so greedy? A man could make high profits on the sale of the land anyway.” “That is the power of attraction that money has. Once you experience the power it gives, you can only want more. Would you like someone to call you a thief, Ken?” He flinched. “No. I guess, like Tim, I am an opportunist. It is not my fault that Tim did not really monitor the deposits into his accounts,” he rationalised. “Jackie I am not interested in shoddy deals. Aggrieved partners may choose other means to address their anger at Tim’s dishonesty.” She laughed loudly. It was the sweetest laugh he had heard in a long time. It was infectious. He focussed on how her choices in life repulsed him. Maybe a relationship could have materialised if there was no plan to steal Tim’s money. Now there was no chance. “For instance, maybe Tim’s accident was planned,” he feigned. It was Jackie’s turn to flinch nervously. “It was a horrible road accident. I will not allow you to make me paranoid.” Jackie continued in a soft voice. “Tim was always in control and very careful. That is what made me agree to be his girlfriend. I knew he would take care of me financially. Always.” Ken smirked. “Don’t you mean mistress?” “His marriage was dead. You and I know that he rarely visited her anymore. I ensured that he forgot about her.Tim was so good to me I was contemplating having his baby” “A father, a fourth time,” Ken said sarcastically. “My personal life is none of your business!” she fought back. “We ought to give the wife some of the money Jackie...” “Jackie, I think Ken is a very wise man!” a third, calm voice interjected. They both jumped at the sound of the third, calm voice. Andrew entered the house and sat down. He was a middle-aged man of coconut brown complexion and tall stature. Ken had always Literary Society International, LSi

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taken his instructions from Tim and rarely interacted with Andrew. He felt weak even as his heart beat furiously. He could see that Jackie was in a daze. He was going to lose his job because of this witch of a woman! Why had he even agreed to her suggestion over Tim’s money? “Andrew. These days you do not even knock before you enter my house?” Jackie was sarcastic. “I am sorry. The conversation was so interesting I was unable to control myself. I had to join in,” Andrew laughed as he turned to Ken. “Hi Ken, I have been looking for you. I remembered Tim had mentioned that he gave you some money to deposit. I looked into our accounts and could not see the deposit entry. Is this the money Tim’s wife cannot be given a share?” Ken trembled as he observed Andrew’s face betray emotions ranging from indignation, disappointment and disgust. “Tim would have wanted me to have the money,” Jackie told Andrew. “You know how much he loved me and trusted me as his girlfriend and personal accountant. He told you so often in the business meetings we had in this house.” Ken was watching her wondering what kind of a woman Jackie was. She was calm now. Her confidence had come back. Though it relieved him that she would handle the situation he regretted thinking of getting involved in this deal. He wanted the conversation to end. He wanted to go back to his office. He did not want this money. “What about the wife?” Andrew asked in a low voice. “What about her?” Jackie repeated his question. Andrew smiled. “The company is in big debt, Jackie. I doubt there will much left after liquidation. Tim overstretched the company and took huge loans which I have been trying to extend and now the creditors have sensed that something is not right.” “I do not understand you,” Ken spoke up for the first time. “The company is bankrupt. There is no money. The ten million is the only money that the wife can get and the two of you were African Short Stories Vol. 2

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conspiring to take her money and leave her with nothing. She was his wife. Tim was her husband.” Jackie had kept quiet. Ken was now having a splitting headache. The situation was even worse that he thought. “My father left us destitute. He would, however, squander his money with all manner of women in the city,” Andrew’s voice was passionate for the first time. “My mother struggled to raise us and it is a miracle what my siblings and I have been able to achieve. My father died a pauper having spent all his money. Personally, I have little pity for women who separate a man from his wife.” Andrew was bitter as he looked at Jackie. “I will take the money to the wife,” he informed them. “Let us forget that we even had this conversation and move on with our lives.” He stood up and left. Ken did not even stay for a minute after Andrew left. He needed to apply for a new job. Hannah looked wide-eyed at the brown man who had just arrived. He was the polished sort. He looked out of place in Busia village with his blue suit and pink-striped tie. His black shoes were already covered with heavy dust. He looked out of place in her hut. As usual, every time she had a visitor from the city she felt more self-conscious about her home. She was highly conscious of the dusty floor and rough mud walls as she glanced at the three stones at the corner of the hut on which she prepared the food for her family. Her seven year-old twins seated next to her could not stop staring at the man. Hannah knew they were resisting the urge to ask questions and touch his clothes. She had been feeding her twins when he entered without announcing himself. She had turned round, startled, afraid that he was a dangerous man. However, his dressing made her relax. She was a bit hopeful. Maybe her husband had thought of her. Maybe he had sent some money finally. Maybe he had sent for her. “Go out and play for a while,” she told the children. They did not move. A stern look from their mother caused them to rise Literary Society International, LSi

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hurriedly, although with much reluctance. Andrew went straight to the point. “Tim is dead. He died in a vehicle accident.” Hannah’s head was reeling. “Your husband and I formed a company soon after you came to this village. The company, unfortunately, is now bankrupt. However there was some money he had left unused. And I have brought your share of the money.” The image of her husband mingled with the voice of this man as he spoke. Now she remembered her husband’s very words as he was sending her away from his life. “I think you should go back to the village. Life in Nairobi has become increasingly expensive. I am not able to sustain both of us.” She had trembled as she listened to her husband change the course of her life forever. She had wanted to tell him that she had seen the crumpled receipts of various hotels across the country on nights he had been away on work assignments. It was always bed and breakfast for two. She had heard his whispered sweet words to his lover in the dead of the night when he was lying next to her in their bed. They were words that had been spoken to her in the early years of their marriage. But in time his tone had turned harsh toward her. She bit her lip. Her body was still aching from his beating the previous week. She packed her clothes the next day and left. She had tried to adapt to living with her mother in law and two sisters. There had been a lot of visits and financial assistance in the beginning but as time went by he had become scarce. Calls to him grew tense and she eventually accepted that their communication was unwelcome to him. Her twelve-year olds could no longer go to school. Her children were past school-attending ages but there was no money. Andrew spoke again, as if he had read her mind: “With this money you can take the children to school, start a business and become independent.” “Why are you being kind to me?” It was all that Hannah could African Short Stories Vol. 2

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ask him. Briefly the man explained. “I was shocked when Tim told me that he had sent you back to the village. I observed the way he forgot about his family while he lived his life in the city. It displeased me and when I got a chance to be kind to you, I took it.” He got up to leave. She stared after him as tears streamed across her cheeks. It was the first time she would cry. Her own husband had abandoned and mistreated her. The tears flowed. But she had been shown incredible kindness. And this by a total stranger.

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Village Meeting Chin Ce *

I

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t was well past the dusk; the government radio was about reeling the talk after the news -something about government's billion naira budget for the rehabilitation of the national square at the capital. But the gong just then interrupted. Loudly, persistently, it drew everyone to a matter that demanded attention at home: 'Gong-a-gong-a-gong! Gong-a-gong-agong! Gong-a-gong-a-gong!' It came in so urgently that I was forced to lower the volume of the transistor just as Big Mam had begun her own hollering: 'Put off that radie and let's know the matter! Put off that noise, I said.' So I turned off the noisy broadcast with a swish. The voice of the town crier was wafting in from the distance of the gong. 'Listen-o! Every-one listen!' It was Ham our apprentice crier. His usually tremulous and diffident voice was now growing more confident with practice. Ham was beginning to relish in his new role as the natural successor to ageing Long John. Listen- o! Koloko is calling- o! We want to see e- very one! Young or old, man and woman We want to see e- very one- o! Now at Olom Koloko-oo!! And the voice cracked with another loud gong-a-gong-a-gong, moving off to be heard faintly from the further distance where the message was being relayed again and again for the benefit of every homestead. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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'These people,' I shook my head. It must be the usual talk about Koloko's bad roads. They had cried hoarse at the separation of a whole clan by a mere gully but no one ever paid them any attention. Later when I went to Buff's place only to discover he was not there, and I checked Dickie and it turned out he too had left, I needed no further prompting to hurry forward to our village hall: the ground of Olom Koloko. The entire steps to the great hall were already filled with men, women, youths and elderly men. I could make out Dickie’s oblong head as he sniggered to Buff over some matter of amusement. The arena was agog with buzzing voices and a pleasant tension which everyone had converged to rather enjoy. De Tuma was on the stage. It consisted of the sandy frontage of the village hall facing the steps where council village men and women sat. 'What is the fella saying?’ I whispered to Buff who motioned for me to listen. De Tuma was telling a story of olden days when people showed befitting examples of themselves. I could see why my friends were rather amused. It had become Tuma's trademark to begin a speech with stories of those times when people behaved themselves, when elders taught the young and the young learnt from them. 'Nowadays elders no longer teach the young ones or show befitting examples,' he charged, 'and so we young men have not learned from them. In short,' he pointed his hand at no one in particular, 'Elders go and look at yourselves again because it is from your homes that we can guard our brood from the threat of the hawks. That is all from my lips, my people!' De Tuma rested his point to take his seat in his usual abrupt manner. A few people made supportive noises. De Tom was next. When he took the ground Buff hailed him 'President!' 'Defender of the union!' Dickie added. I capped the last title: 'King of the Wheelers.' De Tom, head of Drivers' Union of Koloko, began in a tone of Literary Society International, LSi

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grunting and coughing like his faulty engine that seemed always about to give up but rarely did. 'I was to be in a meeting with the boys tonight but when I heard the gong I told my second-incommand, this must be important.' He had a deep, mean growl that accompanied his every speech. His jowl would distend and sometimes, to the extent of his agitation, really threaten to go puff, puff. 'Never mind that our crier is a young voice, but the gong we will know what it means, don't we?' 'Who doesn't?' someone rebuffed him. 'We do, we do, don't teach us tradition here, please,' another snapped. Yet with that false start, De Tom was soon to gain momentum. 'I am happy that most of us are here. Anyone who is not here must have a good reason. But that is a matter for council to decide. What I am saying is that…' ‘You should move to your main point!’ Uncle Goodman sitting next to Bap interrupted. 'Let me finish. I am yet to land on my feet,' De Tom protested. 'Please land squarely and don't keep us waiting,' Goodman returned. 'I didn't know he's still fond of these things,' he muttered to Bap who motioned for patience. 'All I am saying is that the gong sounding like it sounded just a few moments ago and our doing what we are now doing in this assembly is keeping alive how our fathers used to do it. Never mind the politics of the end-age which has brought nothing but hardship upon our people, but the reason, let me say it now, the reason why things are this way in Olom is what we all know and are, perhaps, afraid of saying. But those of us who are drivers and drive through many places have known and seen and heard many things, and this is what I want to say now, that when things begin to spoil, when the water has run bad…' 'Tom, make your point!' Bap shouted stamping hard on the floor in complete exasperation. African Short Stories Vol. 2

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But Tom continued as if he never heard. 'We should look at the source to see if it is where the dirt comes, and once we clear the source of the dirt the flow of the water will be clear, and that is how we have kept the stream running all these years before politics came and divided us. That was why our woman here today used to visit the Nkume stream every two or three market days to clear the foot paths right through the stream's source. And all is so that the water we drink will be clean and healthy for everyone. 'This man! What exactly is he saying?' Ofor asked looking round and back to the crowd as if expecting some help from any one in the assembly. 'Look, I have a child that is down with malaria. I won't stay long here listening to Thomas and his winding preaching,' he complained. 'What I am saying is, perhaps, what we all know,' De Tom coughed a second and longer time -probably to gather steam. Then he burst again with the spark of a recharged battery. 'I am saying let us all go downstream and join our woman to clear the paths as we used to do, clear the waters and reach the source, and once we clear it of all impurity our village will be well again. Young people will respect their elders, and our women will honour their husbands, and we the husbands will give them their due and Olom Koloko will be what it used to be. So our elders I am saying you are the source. Please look among yourselves because it is through you that this problem is flowing. That is all I have for you my people!' 'That was what Tuma had said in a few words!' Okon sneered in contempt. Adede lent his own voice: 'Why does Thomas always like to talk in such elderly, roundabout manner?' 'So that makes him one of them,' Dickie proffered. 'And one of our problems,' I put in. 'He should be fined seven thousand Naira!' 'No,' Buff proposed. 'Let's fine him four wheels and tyres so he will sell his old taxi van to buy them.' Literary Society International, LSi

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But the women's voices resounded sharply from behind: 'Shut your mouths, you boys with heads like monster drums!' A few others spoke after the De Tom still blaming the elders till De Boy also rose to have his say. He tottered to Olom ground with unsteady but highly decisive steps. 'What is wrong with that man?' someone muttered. 'He knows he can't speak!' 'Wha- wha- what we are, em- em- I want to add... (Choke).' Everyone usually wondered why De Boy always felt he must make a point of holding the village assembly spellbound with his natural gift of drama. His face contorted, his hand flailing about for the nearest object to hit in order to get out the words, the balding, good fellow who often shared some drinks with us at Mika's bar, would not be deterred by prompting and helpful gestures until he had said the same point about the need for elders of Olom Koloko to re-examine this craze for monetary gratification at the expense of the entire good of the village. When was it told that Koloko could be bought or sold for a mere bundle of dirty Nigerian notes? When he finished everyone heaved a sigh of relief just as women's voices began to rise as of one accord. 'Let's hear from our woman leader,' some younger women chorused. 'Our head woman shall speak our mind!' they declared with the authority that rarely showed, but sounded shrill and definitive whenever it did. Da Aina, head of the women, took the floor. Imposing and always formidable, in a single wrapper tied casually high up her chest, her blue long-sleeved blouse glistened under the fluorescent that barely illuminated the ground with its unsteady flickering. Her loud, shrill voice rang for silence. That voice had sent shudders of fright through me a few days before in the grisly heat of the afternoon sun when the women of Koloko, led by her, had barged into our compound chanting their songs and carrying green cassava leaves. 'There he is!' Bap had told them. 'Tell it to him directly!' And African Short Stories Vol. 2

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before I could ask what the matter was all about I found myself engulfed in a deluge of sweat, and heaving bosoms. Da Aina had grabbed me by the ears as they yelled out their latest ban on some of our recent, horrible activities. 'One thousand five hundred, the day we catch you with even a broken stem of our cassava plant! One thousand-’ they shoved in my ears the cassava leaves they carried for added measure while their chorus thundered: 'Five hundred Naira!!!' And they had gone, as abruptly as they did come, heading grandly, noisily in the direction of Buff's compound and leaving me wondering what great aura of power had visited me from its coven. Needless to say, that was the end of the game for those layabouts who broke cassava plants to play a game of guns and bullets. As Big Mam had spat in support after the woman had gone, whoever heard of sane people playing games on farm lands? Now again standing under the poor electricity of Olom Koloko hall, Da Aina looked taller, grander and more formidable. 'The elders have spoiled the village!' her voice was no-nonsense and point-black. 'Because they lost the wisdom to teach the young who look up to them! 'What happens when the nanny is chewing her cud?' she bleated the question. 'The tender ones are watching the rhythm of her mouth!' came the women's chorus. This was followed by roars of applause among them, while our mesmerised men could only watch. Da Aina raised her aims revealing her flabby Christian-mother's muscles and there was quietness again in the seated assembly. 'If we do not change the curse of ‘I-don't-care’ that threatens us all in our village, how can we redeem our land? Those we sent to speak in our behalf have fallen in the silence of the dumb. Who brings those men who only remember our village when they need our votes for their politics? Elders, look at you again. Many eyes are watching you. The legs that walk Wam-Wam must remember that- ' Literary Society International, LSi

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'The eyes that move Zam-Zam are watching them!!!' came the loud, eager chorus of women's voices again. 'Our women, did I speak your minds? Da Aina queried. ‘You spoke our minds indeed!!’ returned the women. Da Aina had finished and taken her position among her fellow women warriors. That was when Bap took the ground. The grand headmaster, my father, marched forward with the steady pace of his calling; his face looked deceptively calm, masking the potent burst of his temper that often came like the flare of a match. It was getting late and one or two had commented that the learned master will have the last floor while others protested that they were yet to say their minds too. The noise was beginning to rise. 'I am going to tell you the story of tortoise and his children,' Bap began and the noise subsided. Even Dickie and Buff were thrilled. Usually when Bap spoke everyone listened. 'Tortoise brought a new woman to the clan and, for reasons known to him, warned all his randy boys: "Let no one touch even a scale of her body!" 'Every one in the clan obeyed father tortoise and avoided the newest young and beautiful member like a caste -that is, not touching a scale of her body. 'But you know how trouble would rear up like a snake when a fair woman is brought in among men. Soon it was discovered that the newest, young and beautiful woman of the clan, even in her pariah state, had become pregnant! ''Who did it?'' was the consternated cry among the household. Soon, again, it was discovered that it was father tortoise himself who broke his own rule. ''Why,'' the eldest tortoise son was indignant. ''She was touchable all these times and you told us never to touch even a scale of her beautiful body!'' 'And Tortoise replied. ''All is well my boys. If you follow my African Short Stories Vol. 2

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words and not my deeds!''' The whole of Olom Koloko seemed to break out in one din of laughter as Bap concluded on the same note as those who had spoken before him: 'You see, my people, we have elders who do not keep their words.' Bap's story was the last of the back-breaking blow against the old men of the village, and it helped to seal the verdict. The elders must watch themselves from now on. The meeting was over and everyone was beginning to rouse to a hurried exit. Some recalled one or two matters waiting at home to be attended to. But I heard Diokpa, one of the eldest men of the village. He had been unnoticed all through the talks, having sat still and quietly in the chair reserved for him. He was making a point to elder Johnson. He was saying: 'You and I, John my brother, are the oldest men of the clan. Is that not so?' Pa Johnson scratched his generous white hairs and mentioned my Old Bap's name and one other person. 'Yes. You, me and Obeku; there are three or more of us,' Diokpa continued 'And they are all calling elders, elders. Now Mika is no more an elder. So are Omenka and even Thomas: chiefs are they not? Now why can’t they tell us who and who among us here are the elders who spoiled the land of Koloko?' But all of Olom Koloko were walking their different ways; the women carried their faint kerosene lanterns while the men shone pale torches. All were plodding to the beckoning escape of their various homesteads.

Literary Society International, LSi

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About the Contributors AIKORIOGIE, Augustine Marvis teaches literary stylistics and pragmatics at the department of English, University of Benin where he wrote ‘From Behind the Scene’ and ‘Corps Members’ Strike.’ His poem ‘A Coffin in Government house’ is slated for an anthology. CE, Chin: Fellow of the Literary Society int., Chin Ce is author of several books of poetry, critical essays and prose narratives. The titles in this volume are taken from his fictions: The Oracle, Children of Koloko and Gamji College. DZENCHUO, NN: Anglophone Cameroonian and the author of three poetry collections: The Griot's Hymns, Songs of African Roses, and Creeds of Primeval Griots. Dzenchuo contributed ‘The Regents of Opposa-motto’ from Buea his birth place. His stories ‘Endless Shore’ and ‘The Apostles’ are taken from an unpublished novelette Two Eyes and a Teardrop. EBUKA, Godwin Chudwin is a graduate of the University of Abuja, Nigeria. “Sacred Murder” is his first shot at story writing. FRANK-ITO, Hilary studied in Nigeria and England. He has been columnist and commentator for newspaper and radio. His fiction has appeared in a local anthology. He plays cricket and currently lectures in Nigeria. GATHANGA, Hilda is a short story writer from Nairobi. Her novelette, Heaven on Earth, was part of Drumbeats romance series. ‘Money, the least of his worries,’ and ‘Strange Turn’ are her recent contributions to the African story project. MIKAILU, David: Fulbright scholar and teaching assistant with the social and cultural analysis department of New York University. He is currently with the University of Abuja where he contributed ‘The Almajiri.’ ‘Ragtag Army’ 'New Guns in Town,’ and ‘Down the Bend’ are taken from his unpublished work Kamikaze. Literary Society International, LSi

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OKEKE, Mary-Jane is a female writer from Nigeria. OTIENO, Wayne Owino writes from Kenya. PAULS, Charmaine: South African-born writer with varied career paths that include public relations, journalism, advertising and brand marketing. Since writing full-time from 2009 she has published eight novels as well as short stories and articles. Her work ‘The Book Club’ reflects the cultural diversity in South Africa while ‘Virtual Love’ dramatises dysfunctional teenage issues in our digital age. RAÏHANI, Mohamed Saïd: Moroccan translator, poet, novelist and short-story writer is a member of Moroccan Writers’ Union. He is the author of The Singularity Will (a semiotic study on first names) and two short fiction collections: Waiting for the Morning and The Season of Migration to Anywhere. UGOKWE, Emmanuel contributed his piece from Nigeria.

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About the Editor

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AFRICAN writer from Nigeria Chin Ce has authored several books of poetry, critical essays and prose fictions. Dwelling on the foibles of individuals in society Ce’s oeuvre seek to arouse the reader from docile acceptance of mundane options to active interrogation of dogma, belief systems and the challenge of personal freedom. This effort culminates in an awakening to what he calls the collective -in which one and all become conscious and authentic representatives of the greater whole. As research fellow of the Literary Society, int., and co-editor of the journal of African literature and culture, Ce has tutored younger writers and scholars on the art of narrative and criticism of African cultural expressions.

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FOR years IRCALC has presented critical commentaries and reviews on contemporary African (and Diaspora) writers namely: Achebe . Aidoo . Allende . Andreas . Armah . Atta . Ba . Bandele-Thomas . Bessora . Beti . Biyaoula . Brathwaite . Camara . Ce . Coetzee . Couto . D’Aguiar . Dasylva . Dlamini . Emecheta . Enekwe . Ezeigbo . Fall . Farah . Forna . Gordimer . Head . Iyayi . Kane . Kuti . Lopes . Magona . Mahfouz . Makeba . Mpe . Naipaul . Ndongo . Ngugi. Nkengasong . Ofeimun . Ojaide . Okri . Onwueme . Osammor . Osofisan . Osundare . Mabanckou . Naylor . Ousmane .Oyono . Rotimi . Roumain . Soyinka . Ushie . Uways . Vassanji . Vera . Wilson... Plus: - Angolan Writing . Camerounian Birth Songs . Hindi Movies in Africa . Igbo War; Marriage and Birth Songs . New Kenyan Writers . Nigerian Pidgin Rhetoric . Oral Performance among the Graffi . Rumuji Women Dance . Rwandese Insigamigani Texts . Yoruba Satirical Songs . Zimbabwean Popular Music

In the journals of Critical Studies, African Literature, and New Poetry Published for the International Research Council on African Literature and Culture (IRCALC) by Progeny and Lulu Press, NC. USA.

EDITORIAL DIRECTORS AFRICA RESEARCH CENTRE Chin CE - Charles SMITH

PROJECT EDITORS

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EBONYI STATE UNIVERSITY Gmt EMEZUE ONTARIO STATE COLLEGE Irene MARQUES

The journals of African Literature [JAL], Literature and Culture [JALC], New Poetry [NP] and Critical Studies [CS] are the projects of the International Research Council on African Literature and Culture [IRCALC] comprising works of contributing scholars from institutions around the world and providing a web based platform for distribution of criticisms, reviews, images and ideas of African art and thought. Available online, JAL, JALC, NP and CS usually come with new, insightful arguments on creative expressions from Africa and her entire Diaspora. The Editors routinely welcome contributions on African and non African writings which combine a comparative appreciation of an African work or advance theories of literature and culture which incorporate indigenous, historical or contemporary paradigms around African texts and discourse. For years this IRCALC initiative has given impetus for the emergence of a wealth of scholarly publications on Africa’s literary and cultural heritage. A collegiate project, IRCALC CS, JAL, JALC and NP are internationally and double blind reviewed with most submissions subject to extensive assessors’ revisions. CS, JAL, JALC and NP are indexed with the MLA International Bibliography as electronic and print journal specialties on African Literature and Culture.

Progeny

Visit our website for further information: http://www.africaresearch.org Editors’ Tel: +1 416 205 0362 or +233 246 55 3194 or +234 803 669 5552 Send email subscription enquiry to [email protected] Submissions enquiry to [email protected] THE INTERNATIONAL RESEARCH COUNCIL ON AFRICAN LITERATURE AND CULTURE (IRCALC)

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Bequeathing an enduring tenet for the creative enterprise, African Short Stories vol 2 boldly seeks to upturn the status quo by the art of narration. Whether they are stories of the whistle blower estranged and yet sounding the warning for heaven and earth to hear, or a ragtag army fleeing in the wake of a monstrous reptilian onslaught upon the peace, there pervades a sense of ultimate victory in this collection. We can feel the gentle kick of a baby in the womb of a maiden in desperation, or we can muse at the two adolescent genii on the trail of their dreams from the sunset of mutual deceit into the daylight of true becoming. Victory is laid out in that awesome kindness of a total stranger which affirms the divinity latent in even our most harrowing existence. With thirty five stories in two parts these literary experiments compel attention to the courageous hearts and minds that brighten the African universe of narration. Their vibrant notes coming from all corners of north, west, east and south fill us with encouragement and optimism for the contemporary short fiction in Africa.

ISBN: 978-9-783-60358-5 90000

9 789783 603585

ANTHOLOGY

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FOR THE INTERNATIONAL SOCIETY OF LITERARY FELLOWS

AFRICAN SHORT STORIES 2 CHIN CE [ED]

AFRICAN SHORT STORIES Volume 2

Lsi

AFRICAN SHORT STORIES Volume 2

Edited by Chin Ce For The International Society of Literary Fellows (Lsi)