KADARA STREET(by Meziem Rose)

There was noise everywhere. It was amazing really. Considering that the concert was holding in a football field five streets away but the wind was able to carry the noise all the way across. It was either that or I was mistaking the noise for the excitement that buzzed in the street where I was making my hair. Iya muyiwa was even humming to herself with delight as she twisted and turned my hair to form an intricate maze of weaving; She was plaiting the Evelyn King hairstyle and I instructed her to add a little more shakara to the style, like I always wanted it. It was my job to make my hairstyle outstanding; after all I was in charge of the Hair Roster being the Social Prefect. It was only fair that my hair should be a mighty signboard screaming: “This is what you are supposed to plait!” That way it was easier to punish defaulters whilst flaunting my extravagant hairstyle.

Iya muyiwa’s humming was pleasant at first but it now seemed like she was paying more attention to the melody than the artwork she was constructing on my head and I was not about to let her ruin my scalp. “E de roraa (take it easy now) “, it was all I could do to prevent myself from screaming at her. “Pele my dear” she replied. If only I had eyes at the back of my head, she would have frozen from the spine-chilling glare than was plastered on my face. It’s a pity we weren’t in her shop, the ginormous grandmother mirror would have helped convey the message. Instead we were stationed in front of her house, my chair facing the road while she stood behind me weaving my hair. My frown even deepened when I saw Aunty Deborah approaching. The woman was a pest, not just an ordinary pest. The specie of mosquitoes that appear to whisper absurdities in your ears when you are preparing for a good night’s rest. She approached us dragging her feet, her usual way of announcing her presence. The smug smile on her face was just too peculiar, it was obvious that she came bearing gossip. “E ku ise o (well done o)”, she was too pre-occupied with finding where to seat that she didn’t notice that Iya muyiwa barely paid her any attention. She wouldn’t have cared either, all she wanted to do was let out the steaming gossip that was burning in her chest. She leaned against the wall and began to speak, “Iya muyiwa, e tie mo nnkan to sele (you don’t even know what happened). Waheed Odupa is performing in the football field at Kadara Street and the organisers just found out that he isn’t the only one that agreed to perform. Maberu just called and confirmed that he was on his way to the event and now there is a huge fire on the mountain”. Iya muyiwa was now interested, truth be told I was too. “Which fire is on the mountain again Deborah”, Iya muyiwa replied in the most i-don’t-like-you-but-your-gist-makes-sense tone I had ever heard. She went on and on about how the two rival musicians had never performed in the same show for years, talk less of being in the same place at the same time. The organisers were having a hard time trying to get Waheed and his cohorts to leave the show without informing them about the reason. A big fight was about to ensue between the organisers and Waheed’s people when they found out that he was asked to leave because of another musician. We could only imagine what would happen when Maberu's people arrive at the scene and the cat is let out of the bag.

Not too long after, we could see people coming down from Kadara street in hurried steps. In their twos and then in threes and soon enough their steps seemed to be even more hurried. I was very uncomfortable sitting by the roadside and watching people hurry past like something was about to happen. “Iya muyiwa, don’t you think we should go inside?” She sensed the fear in my voice and she gave my head a soft pat, “You worry too much, Abidemi, they are probably excited because of the show and all the drama, I suspect Maberu’s people are even here already. Its nothing, so ti gbo (do you hear)?” True to her words, Malaika’s people were around and people were no longer walking back home. People were running; men, women and children alike. We were snapped out of our ignorance with the sound of gunshots. Before we knew what was happening, two big men headed straight for us carrying knives. Iya Muyiwa and Aunty Deborah took to their heels and locked the doors behind them. There was not enough time for me to stand, clear around my chair and make a run for it. So I froze. They grabbed me; one of the men held the knife against my throat while the other ran his hands through my body searching for valuables. I tried not to look into the eyes of the guy with the knife as his partner took my phone and money and ran his hands in places that had never been touched. I looked up in shock and I met the thief’s gaze. His eyes were red, like the colour of the sun setting behind him. He wasn’t too happy that I saw his face, the main reason I had tried to avoid it earlier. I tried not to talk so I held my breath, pleading with my eyes. With a swift move of his hand, the knife ran through my throat and blood came racing down. Like it was in a hurry to be introduced to my blue satin blouse. I sat on the chair struggling to let air into my lungs and past the blood that was choking me, but it all bubbled out the slit in my throat. I shouldn’t have held my breath earlier, it would have been nice to take one last breath. What does breathing feel like again? I could hardly remember.

OH BABY!(by Chiekwe Onyinye)

The baby was sick. She was blinking faster than normal. I panicked; I loved her with her big eyes and red, rosy cheeks. I was only ten, but I carried her so frequently, mother used to ask me where I got my energy from. Now lifting her from her cot, I carried her to mother in the kitchen.

"Mommy, Bernie is sick, she’s blinking too fast". Mother said nothing, just kept chopping. I repeated it, tapping her hard.
"He", she said, finally turning to me, not looking at Bernie. "He has been blinking rapidly. Bernie is male"
I was angry; Bernie was a girl! I wanted a sister, not a brother. This was a frequent argument between my parents and me. But right now, what did it matter what sex Bernie was? She...he was sick! I was only ten but I knew about death. About a year ago, my grandmother had died in my presence.
My panic mounted. Mother was always like this with Bernie. It was obvious she did not love her…him, she never hid it. But it wasn't enough reason not to care; correcting me about his sex instead of finding a solution. The baby kept blinking, more rapidly even.

I was hysterical, I tapped mother harder. Not turning this time, she said. “Obinna, when I’m done with dinner, I'll see to Bernie”.
Now, I was furious. I hurried to my room and took out the parcel I always kept hidden in Bernie’s cot.

Mother had recently begun to complain to my father about me and my unusual strength, warning him that I needed to be watched closely. This was after the incident with her mother.
I hoped the strength she spoke so much about wouldn’t fail me now.

Back to the kitchen, mother was still chopping. I stood directly behind her. “Mommy...” She ignored me. I kept calling her, tugging at her cloth until finally dropping her chopping knife, she sighed and started turning to me.
As she turned, I plunged the knife in my hand into her side.
I watched as her eyes widened in shock, then narrowed with pain. She tried to speak but only blood spurted out.  She finally fell…on the same side I had plunged the knife into, driving it deeper in.

My father returned home. I heard the routine car honk, heard the front door open, heard him call out for mother, then me. His voice drew closer. Then he came into the kitchen. His eyes flew to his wife lying on the floor in a pool of her own blood and me standing there, now holding the dripping knife.
The horror on his face reminded me of the look on my mother's face when she came home one day to find her mother with her head severely bashed in, and me sitting beside the body crying softly and holding a big stick covered with blood.
A terrible fight had ensued between my parents afterwards; my mother had insisted on what she saw while my father had stood up for me; I was simply too young to have carried out what vicious act mother was accusing me of. Besides, his only son could do no wrong.
That was about a year ago.

Tears streaming down my face, I pointed to the baby now laying in the corner "Bernie was sick, but mommy kept chopping. Now she's dead; Bernie’s dead"
The horror on his face was replaced with realization. For the first time ever, he didn’t playfully correct me about the sex of the baby; neither did he remind me that Bernie was actually a doll.
I was devastated too; I had lost my favourite doll, Bernie.

UNSPOKEN(by Meziem Rose)

“My name is Edidiong and I am HIV Positive”. She was nervous, they could tell. Surely, she was expecting everyone to hurl stones at her or probably start running. They could also tell this was her first time of saying it out loud and she was still far from getting comfortable in her own skin. “Hello Edidiong”. “Hello Edidiong” resonated from all corners of the small classroom where everyone was seated. She kept her eyes fixed to the small Heart to Heart flex banner that hung against the black board. She could not look anyone in the eyes. “Relax Edidiong”, the doctor said. “Everyone seated here is also HIV Positive, you are not alone”. It was automatic the way tears came flowing down her eyes which were still fixated on the banner. James who was closest to her tried to comfort her but the minute his hand touched hers, she leapt out of her seat and headed straight for the door. The doctor sprang up and followed her. “Edidiong, wait!” she screamed as she hurried after her as fast as her short legs could carry her. As if it were on second thought, Edidiong stood still. She was a very strange girl, the doctor thought to herself, but then the virus could turn even the most peculiar of people to hollowed-out souls, broken, dark and obviously strange.
”Edidiong, why did you leave? I told you it was okay.” She turned around like clockwork and faced the doctor but her eyes were no longer the timid ones that were transfixed to the banner back at the classroom. These eyes were cold, dark and full of an emotion scarier than anything the doctor had ever seen.
“I thought you said it is a support group?” The doctor nodded. “Then why was that man trying to touch me?” Touching Edidiong out of reassurance could mean getting choked to death so the doctor decided to keep her hands to herself.
“He wasn’t trying to touch you, he just wanted to….”
“I know what he wanted”, Edidiong cut in, at the verge of screaming. “I know what they all want”. She knew arguing with her would be to no avail, the young lady obviously had it all figured out in her head.
“Don’t worry, I will take you as far away from him as possible. You will seat in between Franca and Isioma. Is that okay?”
Silence.
The doctor took her silence for assent and led her back to the classroom. True to her words, Edidiong was soon seated in between two ordinary looking ladies. The support group meeting proceeded as usual. Edidiong was marvelled by the testimonies of other people; there were different cases for different people. The person she felt the most pity for was a guy called David, he wasn’t like the rest of them who God was trying to punish for their wrongdoings;  he contracted the virus from the barber’s shop in his village back at Uduma. At least if he was telling the truth, no one could really know for sure. When it got to Edidiong’s turn, she looked helplessly at the doctor and slowly shook her head. The doctor, who by this time was already introduced as Dr. Elizabeth Ugwu, took the hint and re-assured the class that Edidiong would testify in the next meeting. Everyone could see Edidiong’s chest heave, the sigh of relief was heartfelt. Soon enough, the meeting was dismissed and they all went their separate ways. All except Dr Ugwu and Edidiong. There was still a lot of work to be done on the young lady and the doctor made it her duty to persuade her by all means to attend the next meeting.

The journey back to Nekede was stressful. She had to travel to Udi every week for the support group meeting; it had been 2 months now since she first joined. There were new people with new testimonies; some cases were alike, others were so bizarre you wondered if anyone in the world was safe from the disease. She still had not gotten around to sharing her testimony. Even though she was far away from Nekede, she couldn’t shake the feeling that news will get back to the campus somehow and her life would be ruined. The irony; as if her life wasn’t ruined anyways. She tried to hold back her tears, it seemed like the only thing she did nowadays: holding back tears. On the bright side she was getting better and better at it. All she had to do was focus on a spot and hold on tight to something, anything. Like the handbill in her hands. Isioma had invited everyone to a church program, she was in such a hurry to leave the meeting that she just grabbed the handbill and made for the door. She spread out the crumpled handbill and read. “ARK OF FIRE MINISTERIES” Blah. Blah. Blah. “DELIVER US FROM ALL EVIL”. Oh she needed delivering alright, from almost everything in her life. She looked at the Pastor on the handbill; the middle-aged looked like the Pastor-est Pastor that ever Pastored.Whatever that means. She decided to go for the program, she felt safe with Isioma and she had a good feeling about it. It had been a long time she talked to the big man upstairs and it was mostly because she was ashamed. It was a crusade after all, she hoped that among the hundreds of people who would gather, maybe (just maybe) he would barely notice her.

AMEN! AMEN! HOLY GHOST……… FIRE!!!!! Edidiong thought she would go deaf at the end of the night. For people who came to be delivered, they seemed awfully excited. The pastor, on his own, was hopping from one end of the stage to another like there was fire burning inside his shoes. He could have used up a whole packet of handkerchiefs by now, judging from how the sweat carefully drew maps of different nations on his sky blue shirt. Edidiong was getting uncomfortable, she kept adjusting herself on the plastic chair so much that the legs of the chair began to bend under her weight. She caught the eye of an old lady who was staring at her suspiciously, what with the way she was adjusting on her seat after every chant of Holy Ghost Fire. Edidiong laughed out loud. She couldn’t hear the sound of her laughter amidst all the fire brand chants of the congregation but it felt good to laugh again. Maybe the excitement was rubbing off on her after all. Soon the hulabaloo died down and the pastor began to prophesy; “There is a brother here that is about to lose his job…” “There is a lady here with the issue of blood…” “There is a barren woman here…” “I see a sister here that is HIV Positive...” Edidiong shot up from her chair, she could not believe it. He noticed her! The big man upstairs noticed her!  She listened intently for the remaining half of the prophecy. “The bible says that he was bruised for our transgressions, wounded for our iniquities, the chastisement of our peace was upon him and by his stripes you are healed in JESUS Name” The crowd erupted with thundering Amens and Halleluias and a few people fell onto the floor leaving  broken plastic chairs in their wake. “Go back to the clinic that diagnosed you, don’t go to a new clinic. Oh Jesus, I said go back to the same clinic that diagnosed you, God is delivering you from that evil tonight. I. can’t. Hear. Your. Amen!” The crowd thundered their Amen with Edidiong’s voice mixed up in the jamboree. It wasn’t a coincidence, it wasn’t a coincidence. Isioma was also jumping up and about and it occurred to Edidiong that she wasn’t the only sister in the grounds diagnosed with HIV; there could be hundreds of them even . All the same, she had made up her mind, she was going to take the chance and head back to the primary health clinic in Nekede.

The clinic smelt the same. A mixture of drugs, cheap antiseptic and crushed dreams. Yes, same old, same old. She walked into the clinic presented her card and got processed. She headed over to the lab and took her seat amongst the sick, the old and the probably dying. It was a crowded place, she was only lucky enough to seat at the edge of the bench facing the entrance. It had been a little over an hour that she sat when she saw a very round nurse approaching. It might have been six months since she was sentenced to death but she would never forget the face of the nurse who dealt the blow. She tried to hide her face and she was doing a very good job of it when she suddenly heard “you there, yellow paw paw, follow me” She looked up at the nurse, wondering what other life shattering news she came to bring. Her eyes met the nurse’s and the nurse gasped. “Oh my God. She is here o, Dr.Obinna, she came” Luckily, Dr.Obinna was nearby and he appeared in the hallway in no time. He looked up at her, hardly believing his eyes. There was something in his eyes that seemed like a mixture of both relief and something else, maybe regret? Soon some nurses gathered and were whispering to each other, shaking up a frenzy. Edidiong was bewildered as the doctor led her into the office and closed the door behind them.
“Doctor I don’t understand. What happened? Am I going to die today?”
“Nobody is dying here today, my dear. What’s your name? Your full name”.
“Edidiong Bassey sir”
“Not Etim Edidiong”
“No, Edidiong Bassey sir”. She sat through at least a half-hour long lecture about human beings and there fallible nature. How technology isn’t what it is in Nigeria compared to other countries and how stressful hospital work could be. Edidiong listened very carefully but was restless all the same. Did she also have cancer? Was the HIV not enough?
“We made a mistake ma. The test results we gave you was for one Etim Edidiong. Funny enough, Nurse Ethel brought up your name in the ward prayers yesterday morning. We all thought that since you didn’t attend your heart to heart sessions in the clinic; it could have happened that maybe you made a rash decision and took your life. Words cannot express how deeply sorry I am, how deeply sorry we all are” Edidiong was still having a hard time processing all that she had heard
“Doctor, I don’t understand what are you saying? What is going on?”
“Edidiong, you don’t have the virus, you’re not going to die. You are a healthy woman” The world was spinning, the hospital was moving round in circles. The doctor was not surprised when she fell to the floor.
Edidiong was leaving the hospital a different person. It didn’t matter that she had thought of killing herself and tried it twice to no avail; she was healthy. It didn’t matter that the taxi guy and his cohorts had their way with her and left her for dead; she was healthy. It didn’t matter that she spent years dealing with her uncle sneaking into her room with his sons at night; she was healthy. It didn’t matter that she was still broken, battered and ashamed. None of that mattered, she was going to live. Bright light; End of the tunnel.

Wedding Ringer (by Chiekwe Onyinye

In your room, you are surfing the net, network is incredibly fast; the mobile network you got is bae. There’s another bae- on the bed, the queen of your heart is sitting crossed-legged looking intently into her phone. Even with her face scrubbed clean of make-up, she’s still the cutest thing. Feeling warm, you think: fast network, bae with you; today is looking good.
Suddenly, bae exclaims, “oh my God, Ogechi is getting married!”
Your heart stops. Your fingers freeze on the laptop keyboard.
She gushes on, “Wow, Ogechi got engaged last night. My gosh, the ring is diviiine! These pictures are soo pretty!!
Just last night, and the pictures are already out? Haba! Why couldn’t Ogechi wait? You don’t feel warm anymore, you feel hot. Already, you are sweating. 

Today is not looking so good anymore.

Bae is still talking, “but why didn’t she tell me?”
Well in Ogechi’s defense, she only heard last night. You only reply her in your mind, you don’t say a word; bae mustn’t know you are listening. So, you pull your laptop closer and gaze into it intently .
Bae continues, “I know why she didn’t tell me. She doesn’t want me to feel bad. You and I, we’ve been dating for two years, yet nothing, no ring; she and Stephen just started dating five months ago and they are already engaged. I’ll call her”
We? Bae wants you to know she’s talking to you, so she’s bringing you into the conversation.  
Refusing to take the bait, you squint at the laptop and type away, looking busier than ever.

Now, bae is on the phone with Ogechi. You wish you were lying on the bed; you would have acted like you were asleep. Or dead.
“… after only 5 months of dating? Stephen knew what he wanted and he went for it. Some people need forever to make up their minds… Tony? Hmm…he’s fine. He’s here; we were just talking about … oh, all right, he’ll hear… okay darling, congrats again. Byee.”
Silence.
But silence is dangerous;  you know this. There is nothing you can do about it however, so you wait.
And wait.
Now, your heart is pounding; you pray to God to let this cup pass over you. But this is a cross you must carry, because bae finally breaks the silence.
“Ogechi says hi”.
You ignore her; you are very engrossed in your work. You frown at the laptop screen and shake your head; it’s serious work you are doing on this laptop…
“Tony!”
You turn reluctantly and give bae the ‘I don’t wish to be disturbed’ look.
She starts, “Ogechi is …” and stops. You don’t know whether to be relieved or further worried.
She resumes, “You know Stephen?”.
Yes, you know Stephen, Ogechi’s boyfriend, just yesterday turned fiancé. But you don’t think it’s safe to agree just yet, so you simply frown and look confused.
“Let me remind you”, says bae. “The same Stephen you went to watch match w ith that day we were supposed to see, and I kept calling and…”
You quickly agree; yes, you know Stephen.
Victorious nod.
Then, “He proposed to Ogechi yesterday!”
Dramatic pause.
You: “Wow! Ogechi is engaged, congrats to her”. You are smiling broadly; it’s a pleasant surprise. However, bae is not smiling. “She is engaged, because she was proposed to. By Stephen. Her boyfriend of five months.”
Hmm, how to reply that…
“Tony, do you love me? Do you want to build a future with me?” Bae’s soft voice is tugging at your heartstrings. Of course you love her; she’s your future. You tell her this.
“So why aren’t we engaged after two years? Just five months and they are engaged…”
You want to tell her it doesn’t matter when Stephen proposed; you’re not him. You also want to tell her that you love her, you want to spend forever with her, you want your kids to have her amazing sense of humour and beautiful eyes, and you feel terrible that you did not propose to her on her birthday, last week. The ring you got was too loose- you tested it while she was asleep- so you had sent it back to be resized. You want everything to be perfect for her. But you don’t want to ruin the surprise, so you say, “such is life”.
Bae is aghast, “what?!”
Although your father has told you that when a woman asks “what”, she wants you to change what you said, not repeat it. Still you say, “Such is life”.
Wham! The pillow she throws at you hits your head and drops to the floor.
You grin broadly; even if she threw pillows at you throughout the day, you wouldn’t mind. The bother would be nothing compared to the exhilarating feeling you’ll have later tonight, as you slip the ring into her finger.

Iku

Funmi centered a soft penetrating gaze on the child - her baby - whose tender body was pressed to her bosom. The child resembled everything beautiful to the human eye. A glowing light skin, large brown eyes that expressed warmth, pouting pink lips and soft dark hair; but there was a problem, the baby also resembled his late grandfather, Iku.

"Yemi, I'm really scared. This child looks so much like your father" she cried to her husband who was standing in front of her; arms folded and head bowed.
Was his father really back?
No! His father wasn't coming back.
Then he bent down, his buttocks kissing the heel of his black shoes, and he said to his wife "honey, my father is not coming back. The pastor has said we should name him Toluwa , God's own".

Yemi's father was all shades of darkness. His name meant "death" and he lived up to his name. His signature words, "watch and see" were said with eyes piercing into yours, as if he was speaking to your soul. Iku had an intimidating height and long bow legs that could fit two mortars. Rumour had it that his bow legs were the price he paid in exchange for diabolic powers. Iku invoked death or chronic illness on the slightest provocation. One morning, a young boy called him a disgusting man, that evening his corpse was found lying on the outskirts of the village, his stomach the size of a pumpkin, maggots streaming in and out of every hole in his naked body.

On the day Iku died, he sent a message to his son: "You abandoned me for twenty years, I will come back and hunt your family for another twenty years... I will come back!". The following month, Funmi became pregnant.

*****
As the father of the child, it was Yemi's duty to give the child his first name. So on the day of the naming ceremony, he held the child in his hands and spoke: "I name this child Toluwa  and he will grow up to be strong like his father" Then he smiled to the crowd and said "watch and see".

An act of love

April 15 1998.

In terms of loudness, the loud blarring of the police sirens a few metres away from us was second only to the two shots that had been  fired from the SIG Pro my brother was now holding.  I do not know which of the rounds that killed John, but what I do know is that there was a hole in his chest, and one in his head; blood flowing from both holes like freed slaves as he laid dead in front of us; my brother and me.

April 15 2016.
10:30am
I pick my favourite suit from the wardrobe and a matching pair of shoes - both of them blue. The shoes are somewhat tight, but I don't mind; today is a special day.

"Honey must you go for this business meeting sef?..." My wife's soft voice rings from the far side of our bed. "...every Saturday, meeting, na wa o!"
"Baby, you know I wouldn't have to leave  if this meeting was not important. Besides, I didn't go on our wedding day remember?"
She laughs and says "goodbye"

11:00am.
"I was beginning to think you wouldn't show up" says my brother from the other end of the table"
"Today is not my wedding" I try to be funny again, but he ignores my effort.
"How's your wife? Have you told her yet?"
I feel the weight of guilt on my chest.
"No, not yet..." I finally reply. "...But I'll tell her soon".

"Oya oga come dey go, time don reach!" An impatient voice erupts from behind my brother.
It was the prison warden's.
As I watch my brother being taken away, our eyes meet one more time. And I see the strength in his eyes, the same one I saw exactly  18 years ago; when he collected the gun from my bloody hands and then told the policemen "arrest me, I did it".

Mama is not dead

His heart jumped with his legs as soon as he saw the doctor come out of the room where mama was being treated. His fingers were cold, his heart was racing, his chest suddenly felt heavy.

"Doctor, how is she? how is my mother?"- even his voice spoke fear.

Silence

"Answer me doctor, how is she?" he asked again, this time grabbing the ward coat of the light skinned doctor with both hands, his eyes dead on the doctor's.
"I'm sorry, we lost her" the doctor's tone was low and sad.

Then slowly, he released the doctor from his grip, as tears gathered like a small stream in his eyes- getting ready to flow. Then he said "how can you say you have lost her?" Now, turning to the nurse that had helped take mama to the ER, flashing a sad smile at her, he said "my sister remember that fat woman I brought in about 20 minutes ago?" he paused to hear her reply; but her response was only but a sad stare. So he continued..
"that woman is my mother, she is the one I ask of. You people took her to that room, you can not have lost her just like that.

So he asked again, the tears still traped in his eyes, the smile still sad "How is my mother?"

"She is dead".

The news hit him like a wrecking ball, sending him helplessly to the ground and crushing the faint hope that held back his tears. He wept.

Suddenly, he stood up. He wiped his tears with his hands, straightened his cloth and smiled to himself as he said "mama is not dead, these people are joking". Then he left the hospital.

* 10 years later *

Ugo was more tired of asking people for direction, than his legs were tired of walking in the scourching sun. This will be the last person I will ask, he thought to himself as his eyes caught sight of a man sitting alone on a stool beside a mechanic workshop; his head lowered.

"Sir, how can I get to Fiction Isle tower?" he asked.
The stranger raised his head and flashed a smile at Ugo - that sad smile -  revealing a set of teeth that looked like they hadnt been washed for years. Then he said "mama is not dead, these people are joking".

Beggar!

"Excuse me sir! Excuse me sir!"

I turn back, he is standing some metres away from me, close to a pillar in the church compound. Why didn't he call me earlier when I walked past the pillar? Did he not see me pass?
"Excuse me sir". He signals that he wants to speak with me. I stop walking. I can't walk back to the pillar, he should come to me - forward ever, backward never.

He walks up to me - slowly. I feel irritated already. Bros add one more leg na.
"Sir please I want to ask you for something".
Of course, he is a beggar! His hair looks like partially weeded grass, his clothes have seen better days; he surely has come to beg for money.
"ok, ask". I reply
"Please I need a job,  can you be of help?" I am suprised! He probably has not come to beg for money after all. I am still not convinced, he surely wants my money.

"What did you say?" I ask. I probably did not hear him well
"Please I need a job, any job. Can you help me?"
He picks his words, talking as slow as he walked. His set of teeth are revealed when he says "need"  - he drags "need" - those teeth bear the same colour as his shirt - yellow and brown.

I appreciate his dignity; I am not totally convinced though- he will still beg for money, I am certain. I lead him to the parish office; a job in the church is an official thing, so you apply in the parish office.
The office is locked, I forgot they do not open on saturdays.
"Come on Monday" I tell him.
He thanks me and leaves. I am suprised, he did not beg for transport money. Myabe he is not a beggar.

I am still lost in astonishment when I see him coming back. I knew it! bloody beggar!. He has come for the usual- transport fare: "I stay in kafanchan, please I need 200 naira to complete my transport" or some story like that - all lies.

He is getting closer, now I am rehearsing how I will tell him that I do not have money. "ehya! Me too I'm broke. Infact I stay at kafanchan too; let's trek home together".

He is finally here, his eyes fixed on mine. I am ready to hear the 'touching story' he will tell me...

"Please sir, what time should I come on Monday"
What!?
"10am, come by 10"
I am completely  stunned.

It is love

Eniola sat in her bedroom listening, as the voices of her husband and his friends broke through the walls of the well furnished sitting room; they were speaking rather loudly.

"So you mean you pound yam for her? a very deep voice sounded from the sitting room.
"That one is even small Akpor, Nonso washes her clothes too" another voice said, a sharp contrast to the first voice
"And her underwear o, her underwear! Abi Nonso you won lie sey you no dey wash woman pant?" A third voice added. It seemed close.

"Chai!" The first two voices chorused.

"You guys should not make a big deal out of this..." it was her husband's voice. "...It is not wrong if I do all these things occassionally.."
"Nonso it is not occassionally!" Akpor cut in.
"Well.." Nonso continued ..."I love my wife an..."
"Eehhnn!" All three voices chorused before he could finish talking.

Eniola's phone rang, it was her mum.
"Mummy ekasan"
"Omo daada. Ba wo ni?"
"I am fine ma" she replied
"Baba gave me a new one o" her mother said. "Any woman he sees will be like maalu in his eyes. Should I bring it?"

Eseosa's gait

Eseosa was late! But when I saw her approaching from about a hundred metres away, the anger that had formed venom stains on my chest was quickly washed away by the clear water our hearts danced in - love.

Eseosa's gait reminded me of the day I first saw her; before our love story began.

I used to be the choirmaster of the church choir, and dont even me ask if I could sing. When Eseosa walked into the choir room that evening, singing came to a halt for some seconds! Well, that was 'partially' my fault because I had stopped conducting; my hands froze in the air -  in a suspended state - while my gaze shifted from the soprano singers who hardly hit the right notes, to the Angel that walked on earth that day.

Everyone thought my reaction was as a result of the irritation I may have felt having to notice someone barge into the choir room and walk so majestically like she was the queen of the world; taking each step such that her opposite hip created a profound bulge, the bulge which also reflected between my legs.

Of course this was no irritation and on the contrary I actually thought she was the queen of the world!
So you would understand the joy that drew fine curves on my face, when her reply to the usual question I asked when an 'intruder' came in was "Yes sir, I have come to join"

*****

"Baby I'm so sorry..Traffic" she said as she sat down beside me quietly and kissed my pregnant lips. She did not mind public display of affection. And the park itself, was quite open.

"Baby Say something naa"
"What do you want me to say?" I wasn't smiling. "Babe I've been waiting for over an hour, you should have left home earlier" my voice was raised this time
"I know..I'm really sorry"
Then she gave me three kisses that formed a straight line on my neck - my 'weak' point.
I smiled at her, "You still should have left home earlier".
"Don't worry, I won't be late on our next date, I promise"

Those words struck my heart a thousand times. I knew there would not be a next date, I wasn't sure if I would be given another chance.

You see, about an hour ago, my body laid lifeless a few metres away from us, close to the road. The driver that hit me must have been drunk - I guess.

Telling tears

How can I forget? It's been years now, but how can I possibly forget, the anguish... the pain.

IMAGINE
  An experience marred with such sorrow, an experience which offers you the poisoned cup of immortal grief to drink from, and causes you to agonize over the everlasting impression in your stomach; such was my pitiable state the very first time I saw my dad cry.... I felt my heart reduced to a million pieces, like a shattered glass.

SILENCE
The drive to the cemetery was a silent one. Dad had opted against walking , he wanted to be in the car; I dont know why but I joined him. Our vehicle was the last in the convoy, we were followed by a long train of people, who were either very sober looking, or crying. I turned to dad. His dark shirt was in sharp contrast to his light face. I also noticed his eyes, though he hadn't shed a tear, but I saw so much sorrow and pain in his eyes. Those eyes that usually unveiled vigour and displayed happiness, were lost in sorrow. I could not bear to see dad in such state, so I turned my face away. The vigour in dad's eyes wasn't the only thing that was absent;  the ever present reflection of the laughter we almost always shared was gone. It had been replaced by dead silence, such silence that whispered sorrow in our ears.

TEARS
When we got to the cemetery, I turned to dad for only the second time - I had consciously avoided looking at him - dad's eyes were red, the kind of eyes you saw in monster movies. But this was no monster.This was my dad, my hero, my champion. Then I saw them, the tears. They flowed freely down to his cheeks, and I saw his lips take the arc shape. My dad was crying like a baby! Oh my! I felt a sharp knife pierced through my heart. Never had I seen him shed a tear.

TRADITION
"Sacrilege"!!  "Abomination"!! My uncle's effeminate voice rang from the side window.
"Kenechukwu, what are you doing?" He asked my dad. "Have you forgotten that it is against our tradition for an Okpala to show his tears? Wipe your tears Kene, those tears should stay hidden!"
At this point, I could no longer hold it. I do not know what came over me that instant, but I'm happy it did.
"To hell with tradition uncle, to hell with tradition!"  I saw the shock in uncle Nnamdi's eyes, he wasn't expecting it.
"why should he hide his tears"? I continued. I could feel different kinds of emotions flooding through me.
"where was tradition when you needed money for your little daughter's operation?"
Uncle Nnamdi kept mute!
"she died because of lack of medical care, what did tradition do uncle, tell me!"
He blinked several times trying to hold back the tears, but his eyes failed him. Uncle's tears drew fine lines across his face.
" My father is about to bury his wife and three children, at the same time.... "
Then I turned my face to dad. Our eyes met for the first time since the accident.
"....biko, let him weep".

Trying periods. (by Chiekwe O. Bridget)

The chill in the restaurant I find myself waiting for Ola is nothing compared to the chill my heart registers towards him. It is however, enough to make me wish I wore a jacket over the pretty, sleeveless dress he gave me as a gift on my last birthday. Another glance at my wrist reveals again, that I am not wearing a watch. Thus, I am once again, redirected to my phone where I see that only two minutes have passed since I last checked. Strangely, this discovery, rather than calm me, unleashes the anger which seconds ago merely bubbled underneath. My frown deepens, my fake fingernails tap hurriedly, unrhythmically against the glass table, my lips are a straight, blood-red line, my gaze on the restaurant's glass doors is unflinching.

I lift my gaze from the door and look around the restaurant where I have spent a little less than 10 minutes, to check if anyone else is witnessing my moment of rage. I notice that of the over twenty people here, no one is. Apparently, people here are more interested in their food, and/or dates, than in a lone, furious, albeit quite comely lady. How annoying! Ridiculously, this incites my anger. Another quick glance at my wrist...

Sighing impatiently, I return my gaze to the door. Unlike most females, I really do not mind being kept waiting for some minutes. However, my patience is unusually very thin today; I can not fathom why. Delicatetly, I finger the ring Ola gave me weeks ago on bended knee and consider returning it to him. Just then, as if summoned by the ring, I see him purposefully making his way towards the restaurant.

Where is his car? I wonder.

As he enters, his scent reaches me before he does, replacing the chill in my heart with a warm rush of love. He gets to the table, gives me the usual forehead kiss and launches into an explanation. I don't listen. Oddly, I focus on rekindling my anger.

"Are you going to continue apologising, or are we going to eat?"

His stung look pierces my heart. My eyes remain cold however.

"I'm sorry" he says, picking up the menu. "By the way, you look absolutely gorgeous; you make the dress look more beautiful. His grin is reaching both ears. "So what are you having?"

"I'm not hungry"

He calmly places the menu on the table. He is not grinning now.

"Becky, is this about the delay? I apologized-"

"Oh! And the anger is supposed to magically disappear because 'you apologized'?"

"- and explained to you. And no, that shouldn't 'disappear' your anger, but it should calm you a lit-”

"Ola, this is my calm -"

"This is not your calm, Rebecca. This is not even you. I apologised, did I not? Fine! I am deeply sorry I was fifteen minutes late, even though on several occasions, you have kept me waiting for much longer".

Silence. Then, "Baby, I am sorry for losing it. What can I do to make things right again?"

I stare at him. I have a lot to say. First, he is wrong; his lateness was by twelve minutes, not fifteen. Then, how dare he bring up the past? How dare he recount to me my past offences? I don't say any of these though. I only reply his last question.

"Go to hell".

A voice of reason tells me I am being unreasonable and unnecessarily difficult; I should take back what I said and apologise immediately. I do neither.
He picks the menu again. "It's a long way to hell, I might as well eat first".
I pick my bag. "Perfect. I'm leaving". His head is bent.
"I'm leaving", I repeat. He doesn't look up. He is still looking at the menu when I leave.
I have almost completed the long walk to the door when I remember that my dear fiancé arrived here on foot, and I am about to leave with my car. Forgetting my initial anger, I turn back immediately nd bump into a huge wall of chest- his.

What the..?!

My astonishment is turned to bewilderment when he hurriedly removes his already unbuttoned shirt and ties it around my waist, whispering urgently, "Your period...you are on! ".
"I am not!", for the umpteenth time that day, I speak without thinking.
"Except you had that part of your dress dyed blood red, you are honey".
Ignoring his sarcasm, I quickly check- to confirm that this is not one of his silly pranks. When I feel the tell tale dampness, a sharp gasp escapes my lips; my eyes g wide with shock.

"Let's go", Ola says, taking my hand. Dazed and confused, I allow myself to be led.

I feel the stares on our back as we leave. 
Outside, still stunned, I have an overwhelming urge to cry, but I restrain myself. I figure I have caused us enough embarrassment. He senses my unease and gently squeezes my hand. This is all I need.
The tears come with a force that abruptly halts my zombie-like walk. Ola, surprised by the tears, pulls me to himself and coos comforting words into my hair. In between sobs, I try to explain...
“I've never been so embarrassed in my whole liiife!” Hiccup. “How could I have been so careless?!!” Hiccup. “I didn't even know the stuff was coming ooout!!!” Prolonged wail.
Ola tries to console me. Since I went through a lot of stress the previous month, the period came earlier than it should have, he reasons. Also, the stain is not so bad, people did not even notice.
I hear the smile in his voice; I know he is lying through his teeth. Finally, the tears subside and I raise my head.

Do you want to go another round?, he asks me.

I shake my head no. I notice the impression of my make-up on his T-shirt, he does too. It’s not so bad I tell him, people will not even notice. Smiling, he shakes his head. We both know the tears are actually part of my 'period drama'- as he not-so-fondly calls it- and we have been through several crying spells before now, but he says nothing. He tenderly wipes my face with the shirttail hanging from my waist.
"Congratulations", he says "you ruined my T-shirt, my shirt and this lovely dress all in one day. We should drink to this". I ignore him.
We get to the car. He gives me the usual forehead kiss, says he is leaving. I ask where to. To hell, you sent me there earlier, remember? he teases.
Indeed, I remember- my unusual impatience, my irrational anger, my terrible, my overall (s)assiness. At some point, I even considered returning his ring! How could I have been that way to my Ola? Although, now I know that all of that was mere 'period drama', this realisation does not stop the pain that tightens my chest and threatens to choke me.

Lips trembling, tears welling in my eyes, I clasp my hands and try to steady my shaky voice. 
"Olaolu, I am so sorry. For everything".My voice shakes still, despite my efforts.
Seeing the warning signs of another uncontrollable outburst,Ola is shaking his head pleadingly.
"No, baby don't... It's fine. I was kidding, I'm here. Forever and alw-”
The tears come again, in torrents. This time, it is more emotions than hormones.                    
I think.