Short Stories

BLOWN UP!

It is two years gone, but the memory is glued to my head, forming part of my reality and shaping my entire being. This memory, which I cannot obscure in my mind, keeps hunting me. Whenever I see a trailer carrying crude oil, I hasten my steps; I stay far away because it gives me goosebumps. The repellent feeling makes me travel back in time to that fateful day; a day when an unfair judgment was executed on the poor masses whose mistakes anchor on their quests to survive a dehumanized society.

It was in November 2021; the day started like every other sunny day. We, I and other road vendors or as commuters call us, “hawkers,” set out of our shanty to sell our wares. The East-West road was our selling space. The road was and still is so bad with many potholes; people rumored that the road had been awarded multiple times without any repairs done on it yet. But out of our survival struggle, we appreciated the state of the road as cars slowed down while passing the terrible spots, enabling passengers to buy our wares.

“Mineral, mortuary standard dey here!” 

“Buy plantain chips!”

“Your sweet orange dey here!”

These words were chorused by the hawkers.

  “Dimma, e be like say market no go plenty today o?” Mama Doubra asked.

  “I dey sell small small,” I answered as I balanced the full bowl of assorted soft drinks on my head, feeling comfortable with the way I rapped pidgin instead of the semi-impeccable English I spoke all the time before joining the road selling business.

“Na wa! Na so men things dey be!” She exclaimed.

“Wetin concern man for market wey no dey?” I asked, a bit confused.

“No be dem say na man world? See as e strong like the chim chim Edafe de sell. If na woman world, e for soft wella.” She laughed mischievously.

I laughed also; I couldn’t hold back the laughter. Mama Doubra had a way of making situations light even when she had seen tougher days. She lost her husband to a stray bullet from an exchange of gunfire between police and robbers raiding a bank. As his company’s accountant, he had gone to carry out transactions on that awful day he was caught in the crossfire. He was one of those reported by the media as “a victim of circumstance,” and no compensation was given to their families. He was buried at the city’s cemetery because their lands at the village were heavily polluted by oil spillage from government-owned pipes. Mama Doubra alleged that the spillage was caused by vandals and rusted pipes, which the companies managing the oil wells have failed to maintain. In all, the inhabitants of the land were abandoned to suffer the trauma of eviction from their ancestral homes, even in death!

Well, life became tough for Mama Doubra, who was a housewife while her husband was alive; she had to care for herself and three children with little support from her husband’s only sibling, who really had many mouths to feed due to his ‘half dozen’ litter of children. Her children, Doubra, Ebiere, and Tega, joined her in hawking after school hours to make more sales, to put food on the table, and pay their school fees.

“Mineral!” “Mineral!” I heard a passenger screaming. 

I hurriedly ran to the vehicle to sell drinks before another hawker would chance me. It was like a competition but a friendly one; we all looked out for each other. Sometimes, when one finished selling one’s wares, one would help the other sell off their wares. We were like family even when we grudgingly accommodated new vendors; the grudge does not last as we all need each other to survive. This communality was one life lesson I cherished about commoners; it was a gift the rich do not possess. One might ask if I have ever lived with the rich to judge them this way. Well, I have lived in an estate where everyone minded their business and cared less about helping the other. But that was six years ago….

—

Before I came to the shanty, I had already worked as a paid live-in house help between 2015 and 2017. Let me drift to my background for a clearer view of my present. I am from a poor family, not just poor, but my family’s situation was right  between poor and abject poverty. My parents did not help the situation as they produced seven children with no consideration of our future. Sometimes, I wondered if it was out of their ignorance of family planning (as awareness of family planning was minute in the rural area where we resided) or just their own way of embracing the benevolence of nature as they pride in the number of children God had blessed them with. They loved us but rarely showed it; they were always busy cultivating our small piece of land or working on other people’s farms to make ends meet. The day I finished secondary school, it was like a university graduation for them because they had to pay through their nose for me to complete and get a secondary school certificate. While my classmates were anticipating writing the JAMB exam to further their education into a tertiary institution, I stared at the lacuna my background had carved for me even when I was one of the best five in my class.  As the first child of the family, I automatically inherited the bulk of responsibilities; furthering my education was off the hook as my parents could barely afford a square meal for the family. All I could think of was how to contribute to the feeding of the family and the school fees of my siblings, who were more at home than in school due to unpaid fees. I remembered my mother calling me out from the floor space I shared with my siblings to the curtain-demarcated space we called the bedroom.

“Chidimma! Chidimma, wake up! She tapped me. I was a light sleeper; I did not need vigorous shaking before waking. As I squinted through my semi-opened eyes, I observed no light was seeping through the crack on our door. 

“But, Mama, it is not yet morning,” I cried, confused.

“Yes, I know. Your father wants to speak with you,” she said.

I gradually stood up and carefully maneuvered my way to the bedroom with the help of the lit lantern lowered and kept near the door. I avoided stepping on my siblings lying on mats all over the floor.

As I approached the wooden bed my parents shared, I saw my dad’s silhouette; he was sitting on the bed. He summoned me to sit on the bed. I knew this was going to be a serious conversation because my parents would only wake us up by this time when they wanted to punish us or discuss something important. My mind was blank as I could not remember committing any offense during the day. In fact, I was to be celebrated as my result for the West African Examination Council (WAEC) came out brilliant; I credited all my courses except the Igbo Language, which I got pass (funny how a language I used frequently was the least of my scores). So, I was not so tense about being summoned, just curious. 

“Ada, sit down here,” my father beckoned. He does not call me by my name. He calls me “Ada” or “Adannaya.” I sat at the foot of the bed, and my mother sat near my dad. I could not see their faces clearly, but I knew they were facing me. My father started the discussion.

“Adannaya, I know you are wondering why I called you. Well, it is about your future. First, I acknowledge how you made us proud with a wonderful result. It shows that you are setting the pace for your siblings.” He paused a bit, and his voice, when it came again, was strained and low. I felt the helplessness in his voice.

“But I wish I had the money to further your education. It’s quite unfortunate that I am making just a little from farming. I am happy that you have attained a height I was not able to achieve; I barely finished junior secondary when I lost my parents in an accident. As an orphan and only child of my parents, I have struggled this far with your mother to provide the little I can. Now that you have finished secondary school, you need to help the family. Your younger ones will need assistance to go to school.” My father took a deep breath before he continued.

“This is why I contacted Madam Philo, the woman who gave me that farm job at the back of the market. Her daughter stays in Warri with her family. So, you will join them soon as a help,” he concluded.

  “But Papa, I don’t know her or anything about being ahouse help!” I interjected. How can my father plan my life without seeking my opinion? I could have found a job as a salesgirl at the only fuel station in Obizi town, or better yet, worked in people’s farms, as most of these people were either old or living in cities but needed someone to maintain their farmlands. Papa was unfortunate to have just one, as his father was a stranger from another village. As a stranger, grandpa was gifted two small pieces of land by good neighbors – where he built his house that we occupy, and the other piece we farm every year. The yearly farming has weakened the farmland, hence yielding a poor harvest every year. But all these were not my concern; all my brain kept attempting to comprehend was how to separate from my family at this stage of my life. 

“Ada, you don’t need to know them before you can stay with them. I have made a better decision for you because if you stay here with us, you might end up like me or your mother. But over there, you will be paid. Don’t forget us; remember your younger ones. So prepare to leave by Sunday; she will be here to take you to the city.” He said conclusively. Whenever, my father ended a discussion in that tone, it simply meant that there was no more room for further conversation. With decision made, I grudgingly found my way back to the mat. As I lay there, I thought of how my life in the city would turn out.

Years later, my father’s decision turned out to be fair. My journey to the city yielded positive results. I lived with Madam Philo’s daughter, Mrs. Angela, for almost two years before she relocated to the United Kingdom with her family. Mrs. Angela and her husband lived in a duplex at Century Estate; they were good to me. They paid me a stipend of forty thousand naira monthly; feeding and clothing were on them. I had a room at the boy’s quarter and practically had everything I needed. I saved part of the money but ensured I sent fifteen or, at times, twenty thousand naira monthly to my parents. My parents had no account number, so I sent their allowances to the account of Mr. Malachy, who runs the only Point of Sale (POS) service in the village. All they did was to meet him and collect the cash. However, I had to leave when Mrs. Angela and her family relocated to the United Kingdom in September 2017. It was the same period I got admission to study Computer Science at Delta State Polytechnic, Ozoro. Mrs. Angela was so kind to pay my first school fees. I continued sending money back home; I was making little profit from sales of recharge cards to students at school.

—

I finished the polytechnic with a merit in Ordinary National Diploma (OND) in 2019. I could not progress to a Higher National Diploma (HND) as the financial pressure was so much on me. The recharge card business has dwindled as airtime could be purchased using mobile bank applications. So, I decided to look for a job, but the available jobs were teaching jobs in private secondary schools. I was offered jobs with low pay, between twenty-five to thirty thousand naira. The stress of teaching Mathematical and Computer Science to three classes was much more than the money. The three months I worked as a teacher were not easy as I needed to renew my six months house rent. I also had my parents and siblings to assist; all these, my meager salary was to sustain. I was getting depressed with my situation before Ebiere, my former classmate and friend whom I still maintain a relationship with, heard of my plight and allowed me to stay with her at her shanty. It was at the shanty that I met Mama Doubra, who later introduced me to hawking wares at the East-West road. I started a hawking business in February 2020.

 “My sister, instead of that slavery you dey do for that your madam for school, e go better you join this buying and selling business,” She told me one of the days I went to beg food from her. 

I was feeding from hand-to-mouth, barely eating a meal in a day. My friend moved in with her boyfriend not quite long ago after I came to stay at the shanty; I was left alone in her shanty. Mama Doubra was my last hope whenever the worms in my stomach started attacking my intestines like 100 pins pricking the skin at once. 

“Is the business lucrative?” I inquired curiously.

  “I mean, money dey the business?” I rephrased so that she would understood better.

“Money dey am if you de fast. In a day, you fit sell up to fifteen to twenty thousand naira and your gain go fit pass five thousand naira,” she replied.

The gain piqued my interest. Imagine making up to thirty thousand naira gain in a week! That is my salary for a whole month!

“I will like to join you but er… I don’t have the capital … I mean startup cash for now,” I stammered. 

“That one no be wahala,” She intoned. “I trust you, so I go give you twenty thousand naira but you go payback before next month o,” she warned.

“Don’t worry, I go payback,” I promised. 

That was how I resigned from my teaching job and joined the hawking business. In all earnest, I made much more than thirty thousand naira gain in some weeks. I increased my parents’ allowances to forty thousand naira monthly and fed my ulcer acquainted stomach well. Though the business was lucrative, I started saving towards getting a shop and starting a new business. We were all hustling hard for a better tomorrow until tragedy struck and changed my life.

— 

After outrunning other hawkers to sell drinks to occupants of a bus maneuvering its way out of a deeper pothole, I crossed to the other side of the road, where we kept our bulk wares. I needed to reload my bowl with drinks. As I arranged my wares, I heard a screeching noise and a loud thud a bit far off at the other side of the road. As someone who hated running towards an accident site to avoid further danger, I moved further but maintained a distance at the opposite side of the road. The next thing I saw was Mama Doubra and her children running towards where I was standing. I almost took off thinking that something awful was up.

“You de here de mope, you no hear say trailer wey carry fuel fall,” she screamed while emptying her bowl of drinks in the sack they kept their unsold wares.

“E fall on top any car? Person die?” I panicked, dreading an affirmation.

“Dem lucky, nobody die. One bus wey de near am just drive fiam e no tey na im the trailer use speed enter that big porthole wey dey there,” she hurriedly answered while emptying her bowl and those of her kids.

“Thank God o!” I said. But I was a bit confused with the quickness of Mama Doubra and her children. I also observed that many of the hawkers were running towards the accident site with empty bowl. Some were making calls for their people to bring gallons from home.

 “Mama Doubra, abeg no be trailer fall? Abi e get wetin dem de share for there this one people dey carry bowls dey run go there?

“Yes o!” She said as she urged her kids to follow her. “Na trailer wey carry fuel fall. So we dey go collect our shares as na our so-called leaders dey Aso Rock de eat the money wey the oil de give. Na we get this one now … na Manner from heaven be this one.” She turned to her children. “Doubra, make una de run go collect our share before other people go collect am.” She said as they abandoned me and ran off to scoop fuel. 

“But Mama Doubra, e dangerous for una to go scoop fuel. E fit catch fire” I interjected

“Dimma, nothing de happen. No be first time this kind thing de happen. No fear, come make we go jare! She urged. But I refused and maintained a distance away from the site as I knew how inflammable fuel could be. 

Immediately the trailer fell, that side of the road was automatically sealed by those scooping oil. There was a heavy gridlock at the other side of the road as both those going and coming were eager to bypass the spot. It took no much time for me to finish selling off my drinks. I decided to leave for home as the stench of the fuel was so strong and made me feel so sick. As I was about getting to the road where I was to veer off from the express road, I heard a loud blast boom!  The sound was so deafening that for a second, my brain could not coordinate anything as I stood still – trapped within time. Gradually, my body came alive and I felt a heat wave which intensified as I turned towards the direction of the express road.  My brain quickly merged the dots and instantly, I looked up to see thick black fumes coming from the direction of where the trailer fell. 

THE TRAILER HAS BLOWN UP! 

My mind immediately flashed to Mama Doubra and her kids. I was confused if I should run towards the burning site. But the heat was so intense and people were fleeing towards my direction, running for their dear lives. There was total chaos as nothing could be done about the fire; no fire service (even where they have one, they hardly ever have water). The entire environment became polluted with the stench of fuel, smoke, and burnt flesh. I ran back but lingered outside till midnight, peering at faces to see if I could find Mama Doubra or her kids. Survivors stood in groups away from danger site; we were helpless about the situation as the heat wave detered us from making attempts to save victims. We were all talking at once and different tales on how the fire started emerged – some said it was a phone call that triggered it, some said it was smoke from a vehicle; a man claimed it was a cigarette flame from a passerby. 

At this point I felt dread all over me. I felt like throwing up and using the toilet at once. I decided to run home to see if by chance Mama Doubra and the kids ran home through the other road. As I got home, I banged on their door but there was no response. They were not there; some other hawkers were also missing. Some came back much later after lingering outside for a while. But Mama Doubra and her kids did not come back. My fears gave way to tears as I realized that the worsr had happened; I cried uncontrollably. They were like family to me and we looked out for each other. I could not sleep throughout the night as I was scared of the inevitable. It was at the wee hours of the morning that I slipped into a light sleep. But I was awakened by a bang on my zinc-made door. Some of my neighbors had decided to go check for traces of the missing people as the fire had subsided. The sight that greeted us was one that would ever stick to my memory … it was so gruesome! Human bodies were scattered all over; they were littered all over the ground like roasted animals. There were also burnt cars littered all over the place. People said that there were human carcasses in some of the cars. I did not want to get closer as the fire was still burning a little in some places.

  I cried like I never did before. 

Voices of wailing family members and friends filled the whole atmosphere. A woman fell on the floor sobbing bitterly. She said her pregnant sister was among those burnt to death. A man looked desolately to the sky as he questioned God for wiping off his entire family. Everyone was traumatized by the blast. The victims were not identifiable as they were burnt beyond recognition. The sight and stench of human flesh was so horrifying that I could not breathe properly or stand to watch any more. I strolled to where Mama Doubra kept her wares the previous day, it was no longer there. I knew that even death cannot prevent people from looting; probably out of quest to survive or just the bestial human trait. I held my head in my hand as I cried my way home. How can a full family be wiped off in such a tragic manner? If I had joined Mama Doubra, I could have also been dead and my family would suffer the more!

Later that day, all local News stations reported the incidence as breaking News. While some News station gave an almost accurate report, others downplayed the cause of the accident and the number of victims involved. The government blamed the victims for risking their lives by scooping spilled fuel, but they deceitfully refused mentioning the major cause of death which is basically their inability to provide good roads and other basic amenities for the people. They decided to give the victims mass burial as evacuation of corpses took three days to commence. 

After few days, nothing was heard about the accident again as the government focused their attention on buying exotic cars for their senators. 

—

Two years after quitting hawking wares at the East-West road, the East-West road still remains the same. Hawkers and commercial drivers carry out their activities like no mass extermination ever happened there. Trillions are still mentioned at Senate sittings without the poor masses feeling positive impact.

For me, life was not the same anymore. I could not continue hawking with the memory of Mama Doubra and her kids together with the sight of burnt bodies that hunt my memory. After the accident, I had nightmares for three months as I kept seeing the gory sight of human bodies flung around whenever I shut my eyes. I had to move out of the shanty and I rented a room and a shop (at Warri) where I sell food stuff. It is quite a lucrative business, though the economy keeps getting bad. Two of my siblings are done with their secondary school studies. They are living with me and helping with the business. My parents are proud of the woman I have become. But I know that I could not have done it alone if not for the help of Mama Doubra; she contributed towards my success. God bless her soul! Since every 2nd of November in the Catholic Church is categorized as “All Souls’ Day” a day we remember our loved ones that have left us, I always book Mass for Mama Doubra, her kids, and all those blown up by failed leadership.

Uba Somtochukwu Anthonet 

The Weight of Unripe Mangoes 

The sun spilled gold across the earth every morning in the place where Adanna was born, a small cluster of mud-brick homes ringed by palm trees that swayed like gossiping aunties. Here, the air smelled of red dust and roasted corn, and the river curled through the land like a ribbon carelessly dropped by a child. Adanna was the third of seven children born to Mazi Okeke and his wife, Nneka, in a house made of mud bricks and dreams that stretched too thin to hold. Adanna’s eyes were wide and brown, like the river that ran through the village, reflecting everything but revealing little. Her hands were quick, her laughter soft, and her spirit restless, though she hid it well beneath the weight of her chores and the expectations that clung to her like damp cloth after rain.

Mazi Okeke was a man of few words but many rules. He had fought in the Biafran War as a young man, and the scars on his chest were not just from bullets but from the promises he made to himself: that his children would never know hunger, that they would rise above the dust of their ancestors’ failures. He sold yams at the market in Onitsha, and when the harvests were good, he bought tins of milk and bags of rice to stack in the corner of their small parlor. Nneka, his wife, was the heartbeat of the home—her voice sharp when the children misbehaved, her hands gentle when they fell ill. She pounded yam with a rhythm that could wake the dead, and her prayers at night were long, as if she could bargain with God for a better tomorrow.

Adanna was different from her siblings, though no one said it aloud. Her brothers, Chike and Obiora, were loud and brash, dreaming of motorcycles and city jobs. Her sisters—Ngozi, Ifeoma, and little Chinwe—giggled over boys and braided each other’s hair with beads stolen from Nneka’s sewing basket. Kelechi, the youngest, was still a baby, clinging to Nneka’s wrapper as she worked. But Adanna? Adanna watched. She watched the egrets lift into the sky at dusk, their wings cutting through the orange haze. She watched the women at the stream gossip about husbands who drank too much palm wine. She watched the world and wondered why it felt so small.

Her father had decided her fate when she was twelve. “Adanna will marry Chukwuma, the tailor’s son,” he announced one evening, his voice heavy with the certainty of a man who had seen too much to doubt himself. Chukwuma was a good boy, everyone agreed—tall, with a smile that showed all his teeth, and hands that could sew a shirt so fine it looked like it belonged in Lagos. His father owned a shop in the market, and his mother sent baskets of mangoes to Mazi Okeke as a promise of alliance. Adanna said nothing. She nodded, because that was what daughters did, and carried the weight of it like a basket of unripe mangoes—bitter, heavy, and not yet hers to taste.

The years passed, and Adanna grew into a young woman of seventeen. Her body softened, her hips widened, and her hair, when she let it loose from its tight cornrows, fell past her shoulders in waves that caught the light. The village noticed. The women at the stream began to call her “Nwa oma,” beautiful child, and the men lingered too long when she passed with her water pot balanced on her head. Chukwuma visited often, bringing her small gifts—a bolt of ankara fabric, a pair of earrings shaped like stars. He spoke of their future with a quiet confidence: a house near the church, three children, a sewing machine of her own. Adanna smiled, because that was what fiancées did, but inside, her heart churned like the river after a storm.

One day, as the dry season tightened its grip on Umuofia and the air smelled of dust and smoke, a stranger arrived. Her name was Ifeyinwa, and she was not like anyone Adanna had ever seen. She wore a long dress of deep blue, with silver threads that shimmered like moonlight, and her hair was cropped short, defying the village’s love of long braids. She carried a leather bag slung over her shoulder, and her voice was loud, unapologetic, as she spoke to the elders under the iroko tree. Ifeyinwa was a teacher, she said, sent by an organization in Abuja to start a school for girls. She had studied in London, traveled to Nairobi, and seen the world beyond the yam fields and the dusty roads.

The village buzzed with her arrival. Some called her proud, others called her mad. “What does a woman need with so much learning for?” Mazi Okeke muttered, spitting into the dirt. “She will bring trouble.” But Adanna watched Ifeyinwa with a hunger she could not name. She lingered near the iroko tree, pretending to sweep the compound, and listened as Ifeyinwa spoke of books and numbers, of women who flew planes and built bridges. For the first time, Adanna felt the unripe mangoes in her chest begin to shift, as if they might one day ripen.

Ifeyinwa noticed her. “You,” she said one afternoon, pointing at Adanna as she carried a basket of cassava to the house. “What’s your name?” Adanna hesitated, then whispered, “Adanna.” Ifeyinwa smiled, her teeth white against her dark skin. “Come to the school tomorrow. Bring your sisters if you want. We start at eight.”

That night, Adanna lay on her mat, staring at the thatched roof as the crickets sang outside. She thought of Chukwuma’s smile, her father’s rules, her mother’s prayers. She thought of the river, how it flowed beyond the village, beyond the horizon, to places she had never seen. When morning came, she rose before the sun, slipped on her best dress—the yellow one with faded flowers—and walked to the school.

The classroom was a small building with a tin roof and walls painted white. There were no desks yet, just mats on the floor, but Ifeyinwa had brought books—thick ones with glossy covers, thin ones with yellowed pages. Adanna sat with Ngozi and Ifeoma, who had come reluctantly, and listened as Ifeyinwa taught them to read English words, to add numbers, to draw maps of places called Ghana and Brazil. The other girls giggled and fidgeted, but Adanna drank it in, her fingers tracing the letters as if they were keys to a locked door.

Weeks turned into months, and Adanna changed. Her voice grew firmer, her questions sharper. She began to dream—not of Chukwuma’s house or three children, but of cities with tall buildings, of classrooms filled with girls like her. Chukwuma noticed. “You’re different,” he said one evening, his brow furrowed as they sat under the mango tree behind her father’s compound. “What is this school doing to you?” Adanna looked at him, at the boy she was supposed to love, and said, “It’s showing me who I can be.”

The storm came on a Sunday, after church. Mazi Okeke had heard the whispers—how Adanna stayed late at the school, how she argued with Chukwuma, how she spoke of leaving Umuofia. He called her into the parlor, where the air smelled of palm oil and anger. “You will stop this nonsense,” he said, his voice low and hard. “Chukwuma is a good man. You will marry him next month, and that is the end of it.” Nneka stood in the doorway, silent, her hands twisting the edge of her wrapper.

Adanna felt the unripe mangoes again, heavy and sour, but this time, she did not bow her head. “Papa,” she said, her voice trembling but clear, “I want more. I want to learn. I want to see the world. I cannot marry Chukwuma, not now.” The room went still. Mazi Okeke’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “You will obey me,” he said, “or you will leave this house.”

She left.

It was not easy. She packed her yellow dress, her books, and the earrings Chukwuma had given her—because even in her defiance, she did not hate him. Ifeyinwa took her in, gave her a mat in the small room behind the school, and promised to help her finish her studies. The village whispered, called her ungrateful, called her lost. Nneka wept when she saw her at the stream, but did not speak. Chukwuma married another girl, a quiet one who smiled at his gifts. And Adanna? Adanna read. She wrote. She learned. She failed exams and passed others, cried into her pillow some nights, and laughed with Ifeyinwa over cups of tea on others.

Years later, when the mangoes in Umuofia ripened and fell heavy on the ground, Adanna returned. She wore a suit now, gray and sharp, and carried a bag like Ifeyinwa’s. She had become a teacher, too—not in London or Nairobi, but in Onitsha, where she taught girls with wide eyes and restless spirits. Mazi Okeke was older now, his hair gray, his hands slower. He looked at her, at the woman his daughter had become, and said nothing. But when she handed him a book she had written—her name bold on the cover—he took it, and his fingers lingered on the pages.

The lesson was not in the leaving or the staying, but in the choosing. Adanna had carried the weight of unripe mangoes for years, but she had waited, worked, and watched them ripen into something sweet, something hers. And in that, she found not just freedom, but a way to bring light back to the village that had once tried to dim her.

The Biddings of January   

Offloading thousands of bread, setting them in the pantry and filling the kitchen drums with water was an every Sunday chore in Peasant Palace boarding school except it was ‘Pleasant’ inscribed on my cardigan. The principal mentioned this might be the last time we would eat bread since there was crisis in most of the states. He said he could smell a civil war in the air. The second of its kind that Nigeria would experience. All I could perceive was my brother’s syrup. The kind he took when his cough was as constant as his breath. My very own brother. My heart shook.

The feeling of working was the same. The pain in my back, ache in my wrist and pounding headache at its finest. I would always judge the school for putting us through all manner of stress. I was loosing weight each day. 

“This experience will make you strong.” My aunt would say right after I had finished tabling my complaint. Her short visits to the house to check on her sister’s children was something I considered as a therapy session. Yet, there was nothing either of us could do. Sometimes I wondered why we enjoyed the feeling of being so helpless. I wanted to break free from whatever tied me down and maybe just talking about it wasn’t going to change anything.

“I had to be here so my brother wouldn’t have to. He’s sick. He needs my father’s undivided attention. I didn’t want my stepmom to send him here so I came in his place.” I told Dioma the first day I arrived. She was the library prefect and we lived in Ata, the same rural neighborhood but she was a day student. She always had the liberty to go home to her parents while I stayed with the other girls in Ikpeama’s dormitory. 

“Please, help me and look after him. He’s all I have.” I said helplessly when she told me she saw him playing outside our yard. 

*

Being relieved from the duties tonight felt like a crime. Dioma was trying to help me cope with the news that my brother was terribly sick again and this time, everyone feared the worse. She saw my family on their way home from the hospital in the morning. She overheard them saying they would leave for Abuja tomorrow morning to see another doctor. I lost my peace. What if I never get to see my brother again? And of course, my guardian does not care. Tochi needs me. I didn’t want to fail him once more. 

I was guilty. Why did I leave him and come here? He is on his sick bed fighting for his life. 

A ticking time bomb was right over my head like it would erupt anytime soon. We listened to the radio earlier and we heard of the curfew and tight security that will take effect from tomorrow. The country was shaking and so was my brother’s health.

*

“Can you calm down?” Adesua held my shoulders, worry etched on her face. “You are making it so obvious that you’re scared.” 

“I’m sorry. I just want to see my brother.” My knees was wobbly and my hands sweaty.

“If you keep shaking like this, you won’t.” 

I frowned. This task would be hard. 

Adesua got up, mumbling something about how Dioma put me under so much stress by mentioning my sick brother. Maybe it was better if I wasn’t told.

“Lotanna.” A figure approached us, standing at the entrance of the quadrangle. I shuddered even though I saw him walking. “Dioma said you were sick. Why aren’t you in bed?” Faraday questioned coming close enough to tower over me from where I sat on a low bench. He was the class captain and always up in everybody’s business.

“She needed some air.” Adesua butted in, grinning.

“We have two hours until lights out. Don’t stay too long out here.” Faraday directed to me before leaving. 

“Let’s go now or we may never succeed.” Adesua urged, reaching for my hand. It was time to go. 

*

As the night wore on, we made our way to the other side of the school. It was a long walk of maneuvering long grasses and sticky soil. Adesua has done this a thousand times. I was in good hands. Or so I thought. I wondered what I would tell them when I got home. Would anything I say justify running away from school?

We got to the fence.

“Right outside these walls, the lorry is waiting for us. All we have to do is go over that rusted gate.” 

I quietly followed her instructions. Climbing past the iron bars was the easy part of the journey. It was like making my way up on a mango tree. When we got to the other side, I was afraid we would get caught. 

“The lorry.” Adesua whispered sauntering towards the vehicle while I clutched an arm around hers. 

If we get caught, we are getting expelled. That would be much worse for me. We go to the driver’s side. 

Adesua shoved a tied piece of clothe into his hand. “We can go now.” 

“Let’s wait. There is a boy coming.” The driver retorted.

Adesua looked at me, cursed under her breath and we climbed into the back of the lorry. 

After ten minutes of waiting, we heard the gate shaking. Someone was coming. My heart sank with every second it took the person to cross over. The figure rushed to the driver’s side. He got into the back with us and it didn’t even take a second for us to realize it was Faraday.

“Where are you going?” I interrogated when the vehicle started moving.

“I’m coming with you, just in case anything happens.”

I was astound. Adesua smiled and I couldn’t help but feel better.

The silence stretched as we watched our school get lost amidst the darkness. Cold didn’t take time in embracing us and I held Adesua close for comfort.

Sitting in a lorry that smelt like bread for an hour had me nauseous. With every bump on the road, I felt closer to Tochi.  I felt like I could call out his name and see him running towards me. 

My principal would be disappointed. I’ve always wanted to be one of the good ones. Yet, I have the desire to do something. 

I shut my eyes, joining Adesua to sleep.

After a while, Edwin woke me up.

“We are now in Atta.” 

*

We walked towards the neighborhood, holding each other. The roads were deserted and Adesua’s torch had gone dim. The lorry driver was filling up his tank for another journey to the school and we would meet him at the filling station. 

We went through the back of the house, trying to be as sneaky as possible. While my friends waited outside, I climbed into Tochi’s room. He was fast asleep. I reached out, my fingers intertwining with his, and I felt a surge of relief. Tears streamed down my face. I whispered his name.  In that moment, everything else faded away – the school, the crisis, the uncertainty. I knew I’d made the right decision, no matter the cost.

As I held him close, all that remained was the unshakeable knowledge that I’d do anything to protect him.

Okorie Moses Chibuike

The Day I Didn’t Crucify Christ

Until the day I entered Rev. Fr. Jide’s house as his new houseboy, I never knew that sins were categorized into big and small. Prior to my coming to Father Jide’s house, I had been at my small village, Umunnachi, where I grew up under my paternal aunt, a poor widow who was religious to the core. In retrospect, I used to wonder whether she gloried in her poverty, because of the way she argued in favour of the biblical Lazarus whenever the story of The rich man and Lazarus was brought up anywhere; according to her, every christian must be contented like Lazarus was, and not acquire much like the rich man. That it’s sinful to be rich, and that’s why Lazarus found himself in the bosom of father Abraham, while the rich man found himself in hell. Not everyone bought into her belief anyways. 

It was from my aunty that I always heard that every sin can lead one to hellfire. She visited no other places except her small farmland near Agbo stream and the smallish pentecostal church building located behind the narrow village square. Also she would not allow me associate with my peers, neither was I allowed to go to Pa Chioke’s house to peer into his television from the window, like my peers always did. She said I will go to hellfire if I watched television. Everything was just a sin to my aunty. 

So when, at adolescence, I came to Father Jide’s house in the city, I was almost as religious as my aunty until I gradually learnt that Father Jide and his denomination were not as scrutinizing as my aunty’s. As I stayed with Father I started imbibing the easier way of their worship. It was as if the tight suffocating garment of religious obligation I wore at my aunty’s house was replaced with a loose one of sin and grace at Father Jide’s house. I did a lot of offenses and only got mild scoldings as the punishment. I knew many times I lied to Father Jide but he didn’t know. Or maybe he knew but just that he has adjusted himself to always accept human beings as they were. So father Jide and his denomination allowed almost everything to go, after all one could always go to confessions after any deliberate sin and get his atrocities absolved; after which the person can go back to his vomits again. I was enjoying this kind of faith. 

But the day Father Jide caught me poring into a magazine that has the pictures of naked women posing in sexually attractive ways, he became astonished. I had expected him to give me one of those serious-sounding but inconsequential warnings, but he came over to where I sat, raised his right hand and landed loud-sounding slaps at my both cheeks. I was dazed. It was the first time I’ve seen Father reacted in this way over my offense. He took the magazine from me and ordered me to follow him. We came to the sitting room and he sat me down and said, ‘Obumneme, you can commit any sin you want, but you see any sin of immorality? It is a very big sin,’ I was surprised at his calm voice. He continued, “it takes more than just going for confession to forgive any sin of immorality. It’s a sin against one’s body and committing it is equivalent to crucifying Jesus Christ the second time….’ He continued to talk but I wasn’t listening any longer, my mind was busy mulling over the many nights that I’ve crucified Jesus the second time by touching myself after watching similar magazines and afterwards feel pleasurable release that plunges me into deep sleeps. What would father do if I let him know about it? How would he even react if I show him many other magazines in my custody, beneath my cloth box? 

I continued to crucify Christ the second time without father knowing, until that evening of an easter Sunday, when one of the ladies that used to visit father called him on the telephone and told him she was coming. From the tone of her voice over the phone, I knew immediately the particular one. It was Rose, the one father told me was his neice. Father wasn’t expecting her to come that Sunday, the day Christ historically arose from the grave, so he told her to come the next day that he was not around. He lied in front of me but he didn’t look perturbed, it was a small sin in his denomination anyways. The voice at the other end of the phone insisted on coming and said that she was already close to the house. 

Immediately the call ended, father hurriedly went into his room, came out on his priestly cassock and spoke in a hushed tone, ‘if any lady comes here, I mean my neice, if she comes, tell her that I was invited to a family prayer somewhere and I will be spending the night there.’ He hurried to the door and I followed behind, but, immediately he opened the door he stopped and turned to me, ‘tell her to spend the night here if she wishes, since she’s coming from a far place.’ He dashed off. I didn’t know why he was running from his niece. 

Two ladies visited father that evening. One was Rose while the other I didn’t actually know, although I’ve seen her in the church discussing with father one Sunday after mass. I told her what I told Rose about father, and she left immediately, muttering something that sounded like ‘nonsense man who can’t keep to his promises.’ I wasn’t sure who she was referring to. 

Rose waited behind in the sitting room, and after a while started eating the food she came with; I was sure she brought it for Father. After the meal, she went straight to Father’s room and came out after a while back to the sitting room. She was putting on Father’s cloth, an Arsenal football club jersey. She must have bathed, for she was smelling of deodorant, and she wasn’t wearing any bra, so the roundness of her big breasts saluted my roaming sights. She knew my eyes were following her around. 

She went back into father’s room and came out with a chess board and requested that I join her. I wasn’t good at chess game but I’ve learnt a little bit of it from watching Father play it with his friends sometimes. At least I could detect when someone wants to play some tricks. I was a walk-over for her nevertheless. She knew the game in and out, so it was easy for her to beat me well. Later on she lost interest and carried the chessboard back into Father’s room. She didn’t come out again. 

I was about to crucify Christ the second time before I sleep when her voice came from inside Father’s room. She called me to come. When I entered father’s room she was not wearing anything except the wrapper she tied around her body, which stopped just above her breasts. Immediately I saw her something happened inside my body, there was a straightening movement between my thighs. 

‘Obum can you please sleep here with me, I’m afraid to sleep alone here.’ I vulnerably agreed. Something was already working inside of me which I wasn’t in control of. She climbed Father’s bed and motioned me to join her. When I climbed the bed, she turned to face the wall. I was already sweating out of curiosity, was waiting for something to start happening, but no way. Maybe she was waiting for me to make an audacious first move. She was supposed to make the first move, I thought to myself. But she was just there, not yet showing anything. But I waited, hoping. 

When I saw Father Jide in the midnight watching I and Rose as we lay on his bed, I thought I was dreaming. I rubbed my eyes severally. He was standing there looking at us, his face expressionless. I climbed down immediately and stood there looking downwards, I couldn’t meet his gaze. Rose was still on the bed snoring. ‘Obumneme so you decided to crucify Christ the second time even on His resurrection day?’ His voice came, calm but ominous. 

‘No sir I d…’ Before I could finish my reply, he lunged forward and hit me hard on the face. I didn’t know whether he did that with his fist or a hard object, because the blow sent me sprawling. Before I could recover from it, he had already brought out his belt and was hitting me with its iron head, all over my body. I screamed and screamed but it was as if my screaming energized him, for the rhythm of the lashes became more vigorous at each scream. The noise woke Rose up and she sat up and just watched. Her wrapper hung loosely against her breasts, almost felling off, but she didn’t bother to adjust it. I was sure she was seeing everything through dreamy eyes. 

Father was now using everything, belt, fists, legs. 

After Father pushed me out of his room, I overheard his altercation with Rose. Rose was shouting something, but father’s voice rose highest; ‘who are you talking to? Do I look like a little boy to you? How could you stoop this low Rose? Are you this loose? An ordinary houseboy? Rose you are a disappointment. You have destroyed everything, everything Rose!’ They went on and on and on and then there was a scream. 

Father came out afterwards and gave me some money, saying that he wouldn’t want to see me in his house the following morning. He said it was because I wanted to crucify Christ again on the day of His resurrection. But I knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth. 

The next morning, on the Easter Monday, I took my luggage and returned to my aunty in Umunnachi. 

Oguejiofor V. Omeje  

The Revenge 

He said to me: Ask not, my friend, if this tale is true,  

For fiction wears a convincing hue.  

Wrap up a lie in a cloak so grand,  

And soon it sells at the world’s demand.  

Forget the names, the time, the place,  

And let your mind the story embrace.  

The golden rule is, just drift along,  

Suspend your doubt and trust the song.  

‘I’m listening’, I said. 

‘In those days before Owerre is divided, when Okpoko the bird buried his parents on his head because Earth has yet to beget Lands; when Adada river has not deserted Ibagwa Aka town in anger; when animals still ran their kingdoms and affairs with men; when Sky and Earth lived as husband and wife. That was before the Great Deluge which caused humans and animals to go their separate ways, Ohe married Nkwo and they beget Nska town’. 

He paused again and before I could say anything, he continued.

‘There was a meeting of illustrious sons of Nska to explain the philosophical base of Solo-M’onu as to whether it is true that wisdom and knowledge is domiciled in Owerre the last child of Nkwo and Ohe after Nru, Nkpunano and Ihe. As they stream in Otobo Nska Square for the meeting; the sun is still at its best although it is far past noon. The Udara tree at the centre of the square can no longer provide enough shade so people have to spread beyond her jurisdiction’. 

The meeting is about to start, but it is statutory in gerontocratic system that Ishiwu Ogbodu the Nru being the elder in Nska shall present kola nut. He is indecisive to present a half dried kola nut to the Assembly; so he whispers to Ugwu Alumona his Nkpụnanọ subordinate in confidence:

‘I don’t think it is befitting that I present this drab kola nut to my people?’

‘Bring it, let me see,’ Ugwu Alumona requested. 

The unsuspecting Ishiwu Ogbodu gives the kola nut to Ugwu Alumona who immediately consecrates it and to the bewilderment of Ishiwu Ogbodu, presents it to the Assembly. Thus, Nkpunano treacherously supplants Nru his elder brother and becomes the senior in Nska till this day. Nru and his off springs have not forgiven him till this day that the ancestors have blessed all of them with many more villages and communities. This quest for vengeance has been passed on from one generation to another.

Immediately the meeting was called to order; Dimogude the Agụdịegwu (Ferocious Tiger) of Owerre Dialoke ancient Kingdom succinctly theorized that ‘Solo-M’onu’, shows how words of the mouth become the yardstick for measuring wisdom. A concept that: wisdom and knowledge is measured by soundness of speech than any other factor. 

 His orature held everybody spell bound. The cheering crowd did not allow him to finish before they surge and carry him shoulder-high. Soon after, his brothers quarrel saying that they could also theorize wisdom from other Nska words.

In the uproar, the British on a short tour at Nska at the time had the opportunity to witness the event and so thrilled record something in their jotter. They support the idea that others be given opportunity to defend their ideology. They suppress their surprise that the whole process is akin to western scholarly activity. Since then, there have been concerted schemes to change the method in order to suit colonial interest.

‘ ‘On the day, Ishwu Ogbodu of Nru town came out to convince the teeming crowd that ‘Zik’-Ife’ is wisdom personified’. He says: ‘Zike’ is to show/teach, while Ife is light/illuminate. Thus ideating a torch bearer; an illuminator, dispenser of knowledge, therefore someone who has light has wisdom because light, wisdom and knowledge is the tripod of life repository of wisdom and understanding. A great teacher or leader! The British again take records’.

There is no difference on the occasion when Ugwu Obayi from Nkpunano mounted the podium and used Awo-lo’wo to demonstrate elasticity and resilience. He was terse and boastful but he carried the day:

‘Awo-lo’wo is the wisdom and ability to maneuver your enemies for survival. The fang of a snake is nothing to the inflated skin of a toad.  Heavy object that runs over an inflated toad on a soft sandy earth can only flatten but not crush it. Is this not wisdom?’ 

He rolled his eyes over the appreciating throng and continued: ‘show me a toad and I’d give you elasticity, doggedness and resilience. For ‘Awo’ the toad ‘lo’ to swallow ‘awo’ another toad; means that a creature eats its kind (another creature) for survival. After all, life feeds on life to survive. An inflated tube like a toad is fixed on a wheel has incredible capacity to carry weighty loads and the capacity to sustain pressure. Is it not wisdom that makes the toad live on land and in water successfully? If you lack wisdom my people, go and study the life of a toad. Its wisdom is inborn’ A postulation that birthed the idea that only the resilient, the elastic and the tough skinned like toad can survive hard times. Again, the British did their recording’.

 Finally, Nwa Onah from Ihe town advanced the superiority of Abuba-kacha; meaning that ‘Abuba’ feather ‘kacha’ ranks higher than all in wisdom and greatness. Feather is very light yet; it has the capability to lift any object irrespective of size and weight air borne.’

 He convinces the people that the study of feather gives rise to the idea of aeronautics. At the end, he proves the wisdom in the power of unity. That looking at a single feather, it cannot achieve anything but when they gather in unity, nothing can be impossible for them. 

But the British feel threatened by this highly established system and display of native intelligence among Nska people and must do something urgently about it. Having studied the hierarchies and dynamics of the system for some time and discovering that attainment to Solo-M’onu is a mere title with no financial commitment, they resolve to make it suit the interest of the colonial administration and to reflect western ideologies.  

The first measure taken to achieve this aim was to campaign that the contest cannot elicit much clout due to its over-Africaness, introduction of purchase of forms for the positions and the politics of creation of additional towns in Nska from four to nine. They doctored the names to ease their pronunciations, for example:

Solo-M’onu is now Solomon

Zik’Ife – Zik

Awo-lo’wo – Awo

Abuba-kacha – Abubaka

This subtle addition of some other criteria with a taint of stringency is for easy manipulation of the process for the benefit of their cronies who in all standards, are not supposed to take up any public office in Nska. The financial commitment of the position of Solo-M’onu is being higher than others and as such must be conferred in England. Added to these are that it is no longer by death that a position be declared vacant but also when the holder is incapacitated by accident, ill health or old age and that a community could hold as many Delegates as possible in as much as the contestants could purchase the form and the fellow cleared by the British administrator in Nska and pass the interview. They conclude that holders of the positions shall be considered as warrant chiefs in the British administration, with Solomon being superior, followed by Zik,  Awo and Abuba. 

  But the people of Nska did not see anything wrong with this thwart; rather they see it as positive development, because those corrupt ones who frequent the colonial administrators have confused the people’s mind. If any dares challenge them, they would tell a tale that would make the British regard such an enemy of the colonial administration and the consequences are obvious.

So in far away London, decision was reached to invite Ishwu Ogbodu of Nru (the incumbent Zik) to the Queen’s birthday, to be conferred the title of Solomon. He took with him Ugwu Obayi of Nkpunano who would subsequently move to Zik position. 

The major obstacle facing the Ozhioko Council and other title holders in Nska at this time as the practice of Fire Ball Technology is now rare is the means to travel to London. It didn’t occur to them that the British has the means; for no one knew how they came in the first place. In those days when kidnapping was a mere show of strength, when the intent was not for money or to acquire slaves but as a stern warning to certain communities, people travel on Fire Ball. At that time, a community’s ability to kidnap is like possession of nuclear weapon and, the yardstick for measuring progress is the ability to kidnap. In those days, people moved in small armed groups, but never at night. Walking alone in a lonely path during the day was as dangerous as walking late at night therefore, only the strong medicine men who prepared dangerous war charms like the Ulu of Umuaro and Oke Ite of Umuoji practiced Fire Ball Technology. Such charms are prepared in the dead of the night and the blood of a man is usually used to revamp it. In most cases, due to scarcity of men at such odd times, the medicine man becomes the victim. So any medicine man who deals in such dangerous venture can only escape through Fire Ball Technology.

There was once a clever medicine man that prepared such charm and is ready to hand it over. He is already aware that he is being waylaid along the road to be slaughtered for the charm, so he cleverly tricked his clients. 

‘It is getting to the time I will not utter a word again.’ He said to them. ‘I’ll now go into the forest to collect some particular roots and herbs. When I return, observe keenly when I dance round and throw them into the fire, because if I utter a word from then, the whole preparation will be a failure.’ He paused to evaluate their countenances. 

‘We are listening.’ One of his clients interjected.

‘You can get the man whose blood will be used to activate the charm ready. Remember, it must be done before sun-set after I’ve gone.’

While the people are applying their delay tactics waiting to grab the medicine man or one of his acolytes at the appointed time, the medicine man goes into the forest and collected special roots and herbs. He charges his clients to prepare a burn-fire. He tells them that the efficacy of the charm solely depended on the magnitude of the burn-fire.  As the fire is charging and getting to a certain magnitude, the medicine man and his acolytes are on the ready. When they started circling around the fire; only the acolytes chant incantations. By now, the medicine man communicates through nonverbal signs. Throwing in the last bits of the roots and herbs, the medicine man and his acolytes jump into the furnace simultaneously.  As soon as they did, there is a loud explosion ‘boom!’ which cause all the clients take to their heels in untold fright. I doubt they would ever return to that charm business again judging from the way they fled the scene! 

With the explosion, a ball of fire which conveys the medicine man and his team takes off immediately into the thick darkness. Sometimes at night, you use to see such ball of fire appear from nowhere and disappear again into darkness. This is the kind of thing Lord Lugga calls UFO. Whatever that means, I don’t know, but I remember that Ọdọwọ Nwa Otikpo once asked Lord Lugga whether they practice such indigenous technology in London? Lord Lugga who spoke through his interpreter told us that in Physics class, it is called UFO but called black magic in this primitive hell of a place! We all stood up; cleaned the dust off our buttocks with our hands and left.

When the Fire Ball reaches the Ọnu-Ngwu – destination of its passengers, it ejects them with a thud. Sometimes, during the ejection, novices in the art get dizzy with the ejecting-force and sometimes too, minor injuries are sustained. The white missionary had severally warned us to stop practicing this kind of nonsense magic because it is a sin against God and all those that practice it shall go to hell on the last day. Many heed the warning and the white men arrange a special day when these medicine men brought all their charms and carved deities to Ashor Government Hill where the white men live. From there, the white missionaries take them away in loaded trucks to some unknown places.

When the news broke that Zik and Awo are travelling to London in the white man’s sea boat, it was rumored that the only reason they could not travel via Fire Ball Technology is that they may not find Ọnu-Ngwu – the landing port and the special roots and leaves for the burn fire in case of take off because, London is not like Nska where bushes surround everywhere. 

Zik and Awo are finally escorted to the river in a fanfare and received in Buckingham palace by the Queen’s party. There were over three thousand people seated; but the amazing thing is the tranquility of the vast hall. It is not as boisterous as back home where less than twenty people are uncontrollable rowdy like Ogige Nska market at its peak.

After the first course and light dance, the Master of Ceremony announces siesta break. Everybody leave the hall except Zik and Awo who have no place to go. Even if they are offered a place, it is a taboo in Nska for anyone to sleep in the afternoon lest he turn into an antelope and get shot by a hunter. This is very true to some extent because, many families and clans bear surnames or names of animals that incarnated them. Some bear names like the Kite family: Umu-Egbe; the Antelope family: Umu-Ele; the Snake family Umu Agwo; the Rat family: Umu-Oke; Elephant family: Umu-Enyi but I’m of the Tiger family. We do not also sleep during the day but I don’t think it’s because of any hunter rather, hunters are afraid of us from the big cat family.

Now, Zik and Awo wander away in the maze of the palace and eventually find themselves in the Queen’s kitchen. They are awed by the enormous kitchen whose size is far bigger than many homesteads in Nska put together. The chests, burners, China wares, cutleries and many other things unknown to them are like in dreamland.

Awo opens a drawer and there he finds golden spoons. He is marveled. 

‘See, here are golden spoons, take this while I take the other so that we can use it to ground our superiority especially over those who claim they are white man’s friends at home’ he said to Zik in whisper.

Zik is pensive but tries to conceal his feeling. In his mind, he has failed to prove his Zikiness. In his mind, he muses ‘Why should it be an Awo who has yet to attain the position of a Zik that would discover such treasure?’ Then a thought comes upon him. He smiles deviously.

‘Why are you so quiet and peevish, are you taking the spoon or not?’ Awo asked.

‘I shall not take. The taking could be misconstrued as stealing.’ Zik answered flatly. 

‘Well, I don’t think so’ said Awo as he takes the golden spoon and stuck it into his inner suit pocket. Zik pretends to look away disinterestedly.

 ‘With this golden spoon’ Awo said, ‘my people could get me crowned.’

Zik thinks deeply on the word ‘crown.’ ‘Now, to crown him is another supplanting game to become the Solomon. I see…I see…, so he plans to be the next Solomon instead of waiting for his turn.’ Zik is convinced by this thought. 

‘Did you say your people will get you crowned?’ Zik queries without waiting for any answer. ‘Crown you the Solomon … just like the same trick your fore sires Nkpunano the Son of Ezogwuda used to supplant mine in the years of yore to become the senior in Nska? We shall see how you’d succeed.’

Zik keeps brooding until they return to the hall for the second course.

After an address by Master of Ceremony, and few commentaries, it is time for light refreshment. Zik stands up and walks boldly to the centre stage. Everybody is surprised as he collects the microphone from Master of Ceremony.

‘What has this nigger up his sleeves?’ They think.

Soon, Zik climbs the podium and starts to address the crowd.

‘Ladies an’ gentle men…, ladies an’ gentle men.’ He re-echoes. ‘In honour to the great Queen,’ he bows to the Queen. ‘I shall show this great assembly the stuff great Nska Igbo of Africa is made of.’ 

He moves confidently as he speaks. People are so exited and clap in anticipation of what is to come next. He walks briskly down to the crowd and points at a white man.  

‘You…yes…you, come here,’ he commands.

‘You mean… I?’ the white man asks sheepishly.

‘Yes, come on.’ Zik replies. 

May be it is as a result of Zik’s boldness or strange spirit of fun that makes the white man to play along. 

‘Now, all of you look up here.’  Zik says as he pulls out the golden spoon from his trouser pocket. 

The Queen saw it and closes her mouth with both hands in awe. Raising the golden spoon up Zik says, ‘I shall make this spoon disappear and reappear before all of you now.’ 

The crowd yell and clap and their hands in wild amusement. Zik spins around in a-Michael-Jackson fashion. At this point we notice the Queen hurriedly rush towards the direction of her kitchen, followed hotly by her attendants. It may be as a result of this uncommon scenario or, out of their excitement that they did not notice how the spoon disappeared. The spinning stopped when the ululation reaches a crescendo. Zik manages to control and calm the jubilant spectators down with the assistance of Master of Ceremony who, I think is pleased to be working with Zik now.

Follow me.’ Zik commands the Master of Ceremony and the other white man.

They follow him to Awo’s seat.

‘Bundle him out.’ He say to them.

Awo too seems to be enjoying this strange improvised drama Zik is directing. In a mild shuffle, the two white men manage to drag Awo up to the stage. 

‘Search him.’ Zik commands.

The time they search Awo and find the supposedly disappeared golden spoon on him coincides with the Queen’s return to the hall. As Zik raise Awo’s spoon for people to see, there is a mixed response as the Queen cried out.

‘Oh! I’m kill’t, … I’m kill’t. The blackguards! My golden utensils, oh! I’m kill’t.’

The Queen’s continued shrill divides the people’s opinion. They surge forward and in what seem to be jubilation for Zik’s magical performance, some carry him shoulder-high round and round the hall. The other divide that feel pity for the Queen whom Awo has robbed of her golden utensils descend on Awo. This brings the party to unexpected end. Awo is seriously wounded and taken to the hospital. Zik is at least satisfied having avenged Nkpunanọ’s transgression on his tenth or there about generation.

The next day is departure. Only Zik left because Awo is not yet discharged from the hospital.   Back home, there is a rousing reception but, alas, Awo is missing. 

‘Where is Awo?’ The people of Nkpunano mostly ask.

Zik tells them bluntly. ‘Awo was caught in possession of the Queen of England’s golden spoon, the type I have here,’ he shows it to them. There is murmuring.

‘Your son Awo is in jail in London for stealing. That’s what I’m saying and some Nkpunano people are here murmuring what I don’t know. See here, I am rewarded with this golden spoon, the type he stole, for my outstanding argumentum balderdash and London logic.’ 

Thus, Zik bamboozles them and go on his way in high spirits having avenged an ancient-imaginary – mythical wrongdoing.

The people of Nkpunano hated their son Awo with great hatred after Zik’s account. How can a man of such standing steal?

When Awo finally returns, it takes him months to convince his people that Zik wrecked a revenge on him over the myth of seniority in Nska.

Then one Ozhioko said ‘This is preposterous. How could Zik take revenge over a story that neither his own nor our own great grand sires knew anything about? If this suplantation myth actually happened in the era when animals ran their kingdoms alongside men, how could the present generation bear any responsibility of its outcome?’ 

‘I’m surprise that you ask this question’ replied another Ozhioko. ‘Is it not the same way they tell you that one Adam and Eve whom our fathers never knew, ate a forbidden fruit since many thousands years ago and as a result, you and not I have become partakers of the crime and get the recompen of for it. What’s the difference?’

‘And the garden where the forbidden fruit tree is said to be planted is here in Nru Nska community. In Idenyi Nkwọ’s forest now called, Garden of Eden! Can anybody corroborate this myth?’ asked another.

‘Well, if the Council of Ozhioko Nska corroborates it, then it is true’ a woman added.

‘Before the corroboration’ added the man who started the corroboration agenda, ‘let us also add that Adam Asadu married Eve Ugwu or something like that. They must have surnames.’

Before they disperse to their different destinations, the people of Nkpunano swear that they would do to Zik what Lord Lugga did to Nska. 

 ‘Why are we so full of revenge?’ An Ozhioko from Nru asked. ‘If we keep taking vengeance on every wrong, we may be preparing for future anarchy which is not good for our peaceful coexistence. Our people say that forgiveness is the way of the brave.’ 

This opinion for forgiveness was almost generally accepted by the people when a woman spoiled the day.

‘The church has love as its cardinal law. It always encourages people to forgive their adversaries and even pray for them. Now I don’t think this command is from God.’

‘Where is it from then?’ Somebody asked.

‘If you follow the story of that missionary whom Okonkwo asked about the wife of God…’

‘Do you mean Okonkwo of Umuofia, whose daughter Ezinma is married to here in Nska?’ 

‘Yes,’ said the woman, ‘these unbelievable abstract tales…, well, I want to say that nobody goes to equity with dirty hands. How can their God expect people to forgive when he has not been able to forgive Lucifer the devil and pray for him?’ 

‘Hm! This calls for sober reflection,’ a man said, ‘I’m surprised the Ozhioko Council has not deliberated over this.’

That is how the argument and counter argument continue until they get exhausted. In the end, Nkpunano still insists on revenge.

Following the heated argument, I forgot to ask him about “What Lord Lugga did to Nska’, but I’d soon do that. When I do, I’ll let you know.

The end.