Your Birth Day

BIRTH DAY

You returned to Enugu on the 23^rd of October 2009 after your father’s burial.  You didn’t want to talk to anybody in your neighbourhood yet because you were tired. Your eyes were still heavy with the many tears you shaded for the eight days you stayed in the village. You left your mother and younger sisters at the village to escape the evil hand of the bad people over there as you were the only son of your father. Besides, you wanted to get to Enugu and prepare for your birthday that was to come on the 30^th day of October. You wouldn’t allow your father’s death and subsequent burial spoil your birth day. It was a very important day for you - your 27th birthday. 27 was a significant year in your Zodiac and you were determined to make it remarkable. You had drawn a red and black scorpion tattoo on your left biceps. You had planned to unveil the beautiful tattoo on that day. You also planned to adopt the nick name – Jupiter – for yourself in consonance with your zodiac planet. Joan your girl friend promised to bake you a grey cake shaped in your zodiac symbol. It was to be your biggest birthday ever.

 You walked straight into your room and slumped on the bed facing the window like a tree chopped down from the roots. Then you noticed that your window had not been properly closed for the eight days you had been away. Cobwebs now hung loosely on the frame of the window and dangled like a badly fixed PHCN wires as the breeze from outside moved them. The room stunk dusty. You didn’t border to clean your room because you knew Joan will soon come and help you with the arrangement as soon as you called her. You couldn’t bear the choking dusty smell so you decided to get busy with cleaning the room that was formerly your father’s as you were now the man of the house. As you opened the door to the room, something inside of you was expecting to hear your father’s voice from behind say; “James what are you looking for in there?” but the whole house was calm. The voice didn’t come. The door cricked and swung open. The entire room was in disarray. You meant to start with the cloth strewn bed. Then your eye went over the rust eaten black box that stuck out from under the bed. It was that kind of metallic box you used in primary school. It was not locked. It was the box you were never allowed to fiddle with while Daddy was alive. You sat on the bed and drew the box out from under the bed.  As you opened it, a community of cockroaches scampered for safety. One cockroach crept out of the box and you crushed it with your left foot. The box was full of papers that now looked brownish as if they were heat with fire. There were deposits of black rat shits that looked the shape and size of rice seedling scattered everywhere in the box. The papers were receipts and invoices and school fees receipts and repot cards. The first one on top was the receipt of the old Philips television that was in your sitting room before. The receipt said the TV was bought N25. It had some holes here and there on it and some cockroach larvas clung to it. You emptied the box upside down and more insects dispersed for safety. Right on top now was your Primary school report card with your name boldly written on it in a sprawling handwriting of a learner. You smiled at what your hand writing looked like then. No wonder your then primary school teacher aunty Chichi called it the struggling of a hen for food. You flapped the report card on your left wrist and screwed up your face against the dust it emitted. In the first page of the report card you saw an assignment you did with the teacher’s mark of good that stood like the NIKE sign across the paper. You smiled and whispered that you always took the first position in the class. Then you saw your birth certificate. It was brown now and some parts of it had been chopped off by the cockroaches, maybe. It now had jagged edges like a rat eaten rag. Then you dusted it and cleaned the surface with your palms. The date read 22nd February and the year had been chopped off. Your head felt swollen as you saw the date. You looked up at the name; it was still James Chineme David. That was your name. it was only your father that called you Chineme. It was like a dream. You had always celebrated October 30th as my birthday.

“Oh! God what do I do with this tattoo” you screamed and fell backward into the bed. You didn’t hear your phone ringing; you wouldn’t have picked it if you had heard it. Your head felt heavy and tears ran down the two sides of your eyes like a leaking tab. As you felt the scorpion tattoo engraved on your left biceps you sighed and thought about Oluwole. “There they can change the dates and even bring my age down.” You thought. You lay there thinking till you slept off.

Wet Hair by Eghosa Imasuen

Wet Hair by Eghosa Imasuen

Posted on November 15, 2012 | 5 Comments

“That is not dead, which can eternal lie.
Yet with strange eons, even death may die”
HP Lovecraft.

Why do you turn away from me, Papa?

Why do you ignore me? This is not like before. This is not my melancholia, not more evidence of my unhappiness.

Listen to me, Papa. Let me tell you what happened.

I ran through the bush. I ran till I felt my heart burst inside my chest. And I ran some more. My torn wrapper felt wet beneath the white shirt. Branches – canes and flogging sticks not yet plucked from the mangrove saplings – left bright wheals on my face and my arms, slapping me as I ran away from him. My blood formed a dark stain that spread from between my legs, through the wrapper and unto the outside of the shirt. This shirt, a gift from my new husband. My prince, Rafayel. The one you chose for me, Papa.

“Tonye!”

Pietro called after me as he pursued me through the soggy footholds of our swamps. He told me to stop; that he meant no harm; that he loved me and that everything would be alright.

Why had I been so foolish? When Pietro met me at the farm, why had I followed him? Why had I believed Rafayel had sent for me? Why had I believed anything Pietro said? When Pietro smiled at me with his brown broken teeth dancing around his tongue, like restless bats in the afternoon, why did I not remember the last time, the many times, I had seen him smile that smile? That smile of teeth stained brown by the smoke from the death-leaf that Rafayel told me his people burn and inhale. That smile that always left my stomach feeling like the devil had defecated in it.

“Tonye!”

Run, princess, run. He will not catch you. You are of the Ijaw. You are the daughter of warriors. 

Pietro attacked me. I followed him away from the path to where he said my Rafayel waited for me. Where he said his white hairy smelly brothers needed more of my medicine for the green fever that ate away at their faces; the green fever that left solid masses in their sides.

And I believed him. And he raped me.

Ah, but I fought him. I bit. I scratched. And then I ran. The village was not far. My father’s hamlet was not far. It was early evening yet, the full moon still fighting from behind pregnant clouds for supremacy with the red, dimming sun. I would meet the men gathered around the Amananaowei’s hut; your house, Papa, huddled and arguing loudly in the inner glow of gin-filled happiness about how to share the latest trinkets from the strangers from across the sea. Trinkets and shiny things exchanged for slaves from deeper in the bush; exchanged for nuts from the father of all trees, the palm. Yes, I would make it home. I would escape the snapping branches and the loud curses from this pale animal behind me. I would tell you what had happened. I would say what this friend of your friend had done to your daughter. I would smile when you swung your cutlass and lopped his head off. There was just the river to cross. Just the stream by whose bank my canoe lay.

But my canoe was not at the spot I had left it. I screamed. For help, for someone, for you, Papa, for Rafayel, for my brother, Dienye. But the only ones who answered back were frogs and owls and bush-babies. Pietro caught me halfway across the creek.

*

Why the screaming, Papa? Why do the women wail? I have not even told of everything? Turn away from the river and look at me, Papa.

I remember Pietro’s hands on my head pushing me into the water, deeper and deeper. I begged him. I shouted, “Please, don’t do this.” I remembered to say these words in the little I knew of his language, Portuguese. I held my breath. I tasted the mud of the creeks.

My wrapper loosened, my breasts now brushing against the white shiny shirt Rafayel gave me as a gift. The shirt now brown with water stained by the stilted roots of the mangrove. Fight him. Pull him in too. But why am I so weak.

“Please die,” he said. Through quivering lips the urgent pleading for me to depart this life. Through the miasma of dancing images – the water above my eyes, the lilies, my hair, strands stretched out by the hot comb and carried in eddies, and the mud-speckled waves of my floating white shirt – I saw his eyes. I thought I saw them smile.

*

Can you not hear me? What is this you drag out of the water? Another suicide? Is that why the women cry? Is this why you tear at your clothes, Papa? Where is Rafayel, Papa?

Pietro’s teeth were the last things I remember. And then the knives. A thousand blades of hot steel slammed into the back of my head as the water entered me and then I sank. Falling away from Pietro’s Hands, falling away from the floating roots of the hyacinth and the lilies. Then nothing.

*

I sank in darkness, seeing nothing, hearing only the rush of whispers as the water beat against the river bank, transmitted to me in waves.

Shafts of straight silver. The moon had risen. Like stripes from a horsewhip, they contorted me, arching my back, piercing pain and glorious pleasure. And I rose, not looking down, hypnotized in wonder by the moon-play on the underside of the river’s surface.

I heard voices? Indistinct, Papa, but who could mistake your voice? I came to you. I saw you with the men gathered not around your hut but at the river bank. I saw my canoe at your feet. I saw the question in your eyes. And I heard you call, I heard you all call.

“Tonye! Tonye . . .”

I heard you call, Papa. Why do you not hear me? The body you and Dienye pull out of the water distracts you. Why does Dienye cry? Who is the bloated, naked person wearing the stained-brown cloth of the foreigners?

Papa, I notice something new. Are you listening, Papa? I can swim without moving. I am waist-high in the water. My arms, slick like the oil from palm nuts, do not do any work, yet I swim. Below the surface I see nothing but the reflection of my naked breasts, and my hair, damp and strangely straight like that of the woman whose image hangs on the wall of the big room in Rafayel’s iron war-canoe. It is as though I end where the water begins.

Rafayel comes. Rafayel, thank the gods you are safe! Papa does not hear me. I come to tell you of your captain, your Pietro; of what he has stolen from me. My honour, Rafayel, my honour. Look, Rafayel, Pietro is behind you. See how he tries to hide his right hand. I choked on the chunk of flesh I bit off him.

Rafayel!

Rafayel!!

Rafayel!!!

Ah, Pietro turns. He hears me. The rapist hears me. See how the hairs on the back of his sun-burned, red neck stand like bristles on a porcupine. Oh, you are distracted too, Rafayel. By the body my people pull out of the water? Another drowning? Those have become common because of the fire-water you visitors sell. Turn the body over quickly and be done with your fascination with death. Turn the corpse over and I will give you good reason for a killing; Pietro’s death. Pietro who smiled at my pain. Pietro who thinks he has killed –

*

Is this me? Still wearing the foreigner’s shirt and cradled in the roots of the mangrove surrounded by my brother; my father, the Amananaowei; and my lover, the father of my unborn child, Rafayel? Did I die by Pietro’s hand; did I drown in the deep?

I see my white husband, tears in his eyes; I see him push my father and brother away. I see Rafayel take my face in his hands. Those hands. I see him breath into my lips, but I cannot feel him from here in the water. I rush at them all, stopping when I notice I have passed them already, drifted through them, no substance. No, it cannot be.

I stop and I see my father’s eyes. I hear what my father says, what my brother interprets for the Portuguese to understand. “It is a curse. A dark omen that one so young would take her own life. But she had always been sad, not content with what her people could give.”

That is not true. That is not true.

I see my father look at the white foreign dogs with new eyes, trusting eyes. I see that he has new sons already, to replace the daughter he has just lost. The daughter he lost when he handed me as a gift to the leader of the visitors from across the sea. There will be no Igbadai for me, no inquiry into the cause of this tragedy. I am lost.

*

Time passes.

I drift with it. What is time to my kind but the now, the present? My kind. I am joined by others. Floating spirits, some green-eyed, blazing little pots of fire behind half-closed eyelids, seductresses; others pale, tall giantesses with golden hair and golden-scaled fish tails below the waist; and the dark and lithe phantoms like me and with straightened hair like mine. They tell me stories, these women, these spectres, these undead. They tell me of the names the living call us, us wronged women. They tell me of the Rusalka of the cold north; the fish-women of Rafayel’s land; the Yemoja, goddesses of the slaves that my people sell; the Jengu from across the mountains to the east, progeny of Mojele and Moto. My sisters, my Onwuamapu, tell me of what we are meant to do. Stories of young lost men drawn into our embrace and our kisses. Stories of cold revenge and liquid fulfilment under moonlit nights. I do not want this existence so I drift, forever.

Weeks, years, decades, an age I spend on the shoreline singing my song. And I am worshipped with sacrifices and masqueraded festivals in the weeks before the full moon. Sacrifices given before the time when the silver shafts fill my veins with glorious light; when the children, receptive all, tell tales of me and my sisters. When the sensitive claim that they hear my songs. I see my people farm on dark putrid brown loam. I see the men fish. I see some of the new breed, offspring of Rafayel and his ilk. Like my unborn child would have been.

My people stand on the riverbank, a wonder-filled mixture of skin hues. Strange ashen men in white gowns, with bars of wood crossed topsy-turvy, chant inanities in my water; they bathe my people in short episodes, still speaking in their strange dead tongue. My people adopt a corruption of this high tongue. And soon I am given a new name. Mammy-Water. 

They start to forget me.

Strange new iron canoes inhabit my waters, with round sharp circular paddles churning up the surf, leaving in their wake a spray I find pleasant. I dance with these new ones. New bronze rods pierce my depths, shiny but soon scarred with barnacles from my teeth. They leak dark oil that stains my water. Kills the fish; drives away most of my sisters. But I do not care; I live only for the moonlight and I sit on the mangrove roots watching my people change. They do not farm anymore. I see no war canoes with cargo of captured slaves for the pale Potokri. I see no dark loam, only sterile white sand. I sing my songs alone. My people forget me. They forget that I am the river who feeds them. I start to dwindle into shadow, the full moon weaker and weaker in its power to revivify me. My songs dim, becoming wind blown strings dismissively interpreted by the new priests and shamans as the whistling of sussurating pines. My sisters pass me by, urging that I become what I am meant to be; but they know not to take from those I protect. I keep my promise: there shall be no vengeance for his girl. Until –

*

Rafayel, I see him alone, breathing fire and smoke from a thin reed that he kisses. How long has it been? Under the full moon he is still dark, still pale, still handsome, and still horrid. I am drawn to him. He sits alone on top of one of the platforms that the new stilts suspend, forlorn, his foot treading the water. I ignore the loud drums and strings and horns I hear from elsewhere, from where the rest of his people rejoice in revelry. I rise up with the water and he sees me.

No not Rafayel, he says, when I call his name.

No, not Rafayel. Not Pietro either. This one is paler, thicker, and with golden, almost white, hair. His eyes fascinate me, grey like the northern tribe of sisters, the Rusalka. Grey and sad. He speaks like a frog and lacks the syrupy skill of Rafayel’s tongue.

“What are you?” he asks. “What do you want?”

“You,” I say. I sing my song.

He is enthralled and reaches out to me, pulling me out of the water. His touch gives substance to my incorporeal nightmare, my fingertips form in contact with his, an effect like the moon-rise. My long wavy hair, my breasts, my heat. He wants me, this lovelorn white boy; homesick for one he calls Inga.

And I kiss him. Desire is a fever in me. I do not want him dead. No, my sisters. No soul for a soul. I want some of his heat, his essence that I see pulsing within him. He gasps and I feel it leeching into me. I laugh, trashing his face with my hair. I cannot stop, my eyes closed, my long hair caressing his shoulders as I slip down with him unto the cold metal floor.

I hear the voices.

“Hey, Köln. Where’s Dirk?”

“Not at your side? Then probably with one of the local girls in a private room on the platform.”

“Private room? That one. He is too shy. Says he’s got a lovely thing in Amsterdam.”

“Then check by the pressure pumps. The edge, where he hangs out with a ciggy, now and then.”

I turn to go but he grasps my hand. I look at him now. He is grey, now. His lips a shadow of white still wet with my water. “Who are you?” he asks.

Tell them Mammy-Water. Tell them Yemoja. Tell them LaSiren.

I look back as I slip into the water, dissolving once more into liquid death. I see his brothers rush to him, this Dirk. I see him breathe his last. And I smile. ♥

*Eghosa Imasuen was born on 19 May 1976, and grew up in Warri. He is a Medical Doctor, Bank Executive, Husband of Eniye Osawe-Imasuen and Father of twin boys. Fine Boys is available for purchase from the iBookstore, Kindle (US), Kindle (UK), Smashwords, Farafina (orders@kachifo.com, or visit our store at 253 Herbert Macaulay Way, Alagomeji, Yaba, or call 08077364217) and all major bookstores.

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The Convention

                                                          CONVENTION THINGS 
Hi pals, I come again to disturb the peace. 
We just came back from the Safeguard Your Heart District Convention of Circuit EE17. I so enjoyed it! The three days felt like thirty years outside this trouble filled world. So let me tell you a little about it. I won’t te

ll you everything that happened there shaa.

On the Thursday night before the convention, Bro Ejike called me on the phone and said the “Ntachi” group will be sleeping over in my house for the night. I said it would be a grand privilege to host them. He laughed and said they were coming to cook in my house that they wanted to carry some food to the assembly ground. I laughed and wondered how their food would taste. They say people that like food a lot don’t know how to cook and I believe that. 

*bend down let me whisper to your ears*

Ejike is the District Overseer of Ntachi Omeprazol congregation. Have you hear about them before? These guys are so funny to be with. They are UNEC students of Campus congregation. They have a sharp network that detects where there is free food; sumptuous ones at that. These guys can eat and eat and eat until you wonder where the foods enter. Notwithstanding, they all maintained athletic figures with flat six stones trunk that I envy so much. I love to have them around.
*don’t tell anybody I said that*

I was driving home from Zik Avenue when I saw Ejike and Awa carrying a cooler and a big nylon back. I called them and they said they were heading for my house and hopped into the car. Their presence in my house made us feel like the convention had already started. We all sat on the floor discussing many things ranging from how the young sisters in UNEC refused to help them do the cooking to how tired they were to cook now. They were so fortunate to have my younger brother Chidi at home. Chidi entered the kitchen and prepared the stew with Wisdom and Ejike rendering some little helps. I chattered with Awa all through the night till I slept off. 
It was Wisdom that woke me up in the morning and we did the morning text while two pots of rice were boiling in the kitchen. 

It was the first time I drove myself to an assembly. We went late though. It’s a pity I had to; I had some of my customers that I was supposed to see in the morning. One of them took the whole time bragging and telling me about all his dreams in life. They say the customer is a king you know. I had to wait for him to finish though I wasn’t listening. After all he was not ready to open an account at the moment. *Mtchewww* I just nodded like a red neck and made some throaty and nasal sounds like “mmhm”, “uhu” to make him feel I was listening. Soon my younger brother called and said time was “Agnes”. Then I had to cut the customer short. “A sogide Eze anya ekpuru nkata n’ihu gwa ya okwu”. I ran downstairs and jumped behind the wheels and called my brother and his friends. We joined the traffic at 9:25pm. Very late. I matched the throttle down and my red L sign dangled like a nursery school bell at the bumper and Venter of the car as we sped through Nike Road. “I send? That L has one year tenor to stay on the car. Whoever doesn’t like it should go and block a moving train. 

We arrived late at the assembly ground. As we stepped in, I heard the rasping voice of brother Nwakire(jnr). I thought it was his father. He and his father sounded alike. We met his wife on the walk way near the urinary where she was standing with a baby. Maybe their kid was disturbing. One attendant was standing at the entrance. He gave us the program and shook me firmly. He was my friend’s younger brother. We sought a seat near the right flank, where we could get fresh air. That was my favourite position – near the work way to the urinary. Then I realized we had missed two talks already. Too bad. 

I liked the symposium: Beware of Dangerous Heart Conditions! 
Brother Abel handled “cunning of heart”. After reading Proverb 7:10, 13 and 14, he defined cunning heart as a treacherous one, a tricky one, a deceptive one. When he asked “How can we guard against developing cunning heart? He introduced a “solilokwi”. Maybe it was soliloquy he wanted to say. But what I saw was not even a dramatic monologue they were two people on the demonstration. On the first part the sister was working in an office and her boss asked her out for lunch and she accepted. Maybe the “solilokwi” was when she said no brother has ever called her “angel” nor “sunshine” as her boss did. 
The speaker said that was the wrong thing to do for a true Christian. After all, the boss was not a witness. Now he introduced the right one. The boss came again and asked the girl out for a lunch, calling her different sweet names (u know the kind of names girls like na *winks*). She didn’t even allow the boss to finish before she shouted back; “no stop it!” with her left hand raised bitchily like “talk to the hands” and said “don’t you know I use my lunch hour for bible study”. 
I thought that too harsh and counterproductive for any witness. If I was the boss, I would have given her a query on insubordination and unprofessional behaviour  I thought she would have said “thank you, but I use my lunch time for bible study. Why not join me?” that would have been productive for informal witnessing. 

Bro Silvanus handled “Double heart”. He defined it as a heart that says improper things. When he asked; how can one acquire a double heart? He introduced a demonstration. A man was prepared for field service. While he was about leaving the house, his boss called him on the phone and he abandoned the field service and rushed to the office ignoring the complaints of his wife and children. I felt guilty when the speaker said that was the bad example. Then the right one came. The same man was prepared for field service and his boss called. He picked the phone amid his wife and children’s complaints and laughed into the mouth piece first and then told the boss bluntly “I am not just available now” and added that he wanted to stay with his family. 
I couldn’t help but wondered if the demonstration was ever rehearsed because it was impracticable. If I were the boss, I would sack the man, so that he could have ample time for his family. Why could he have said such a thing? “I am not just available now”; a show of gross insubordination, flippancy and lackadaisical attitude to work. If I don’t sack him, I would give him a strong query on gross insubordination, lackadaisical and negative attitude to work, and abscondment from duty. They needed to get civil servants to do that kind of demonstration and not a brother that has a small shop in Ogboete. It was so impracticable. 

The speaker now urged us to unify our hearts to serve Jehovah. When he quoted Matthew 6:24, I felt guilty again. I had wanted to skip the second day of the convention so as to be able to attend one of my customer’s functions. There and then I made a rethink though the customer threatened to close his account with me if I didn’t attend. 
*he can go to the nearest hell with his account*
Bro Joseph handled “half hearted”. He said almost the same thing that Bro Silvanus said on “double heart”. I couldn’t help but wonder the difference. He now introduced a demonstration of brothers that discussed football in field service. That was the bad example. Then in the next demonstration the partner to the brother that discussed football corrected him and they focused on the field service. I learnt from that too because I love to gist. 
*gossip is my number one hobby*
Brother Chigozie Njoku handled “In Want of Heart”. He likened it to the need for a heart transplant. He referred to ‘in want to heart” as foolishness, inexperienced or lacking of knowledge and cited Proverbs 7:7 and Proverbs 10:21. When he asked “what happens when we do not pay attention to our internal development?” he introduces a demonstration. He called it “solilokwi”. I wondered why they all abused that word. ‘Monologue” would have been a better expression since they are related. Some pronounced “solilikwo” and I wandered if they talked about palm wine because holy water remains ayaya. 
The demonstration was a dramatic monologue. A Christian sister had some chykers sending her some erotic and amorous text massages. In the first part she responded positively to the text. In the second one she detested the text and deleted it. 
When the keynote address started I was fast asleep. Don’t mind me; it was hunger that caused it. 
Immediately after the song for brake time, I saw Ejike calling me to give him the key to my car so that they could have access to the food in the booth. I called Chidi and handed him the key. I went to Sister Ike’s stand at the car park and ate free food. I just finished eating when Joy Atuadi, Kindy and other members of their crew came around. I called Joy “Mummy” in the usual manner drawing the last syllable like the mew of a cat. I shook Mary firmly and accused her of dodging me. She smiled shyly and said it was a lie. I then said I was joking and laughed. I liked to see her smile like that. I also liked her twitting voice. I was holding her hand when kindy came. I always feel tempted to call her “Kindness”. That “keendy” pronunciation never formed well in my lips but I call her that anyway. She handed me her red bag while she ate. I hung the bag on my crooked elbow and kept my arm bitchily like I was posing snake in the monkey shadow and walked round for everybody to see and have a good laugh. Some of them took pictures of me. Oluchi threatened to post the picture on facebook and I said “I no send, I no dey owe anybody” and swaggered to where Ude’s family shared food to more of the members of our congregation. Soon the soft tune melody started. Kindy came and snatched her bag from me and said bye. While walking through the auditorium alleyway, I met Gift. I called her. She was the girl I liked from afar. I had always looked at her from afar and waved. This time I called her. We shook hands and I smiled into her face. She smiled back and said I looked younger. My head got swollen with pride and appreciation. If I was a white man I would have blushed. I couldn't leave her hand though I didn’t like the freckles that were now taking full possession of her chins. I was still looking into her eyes without words when she wriggled out from my grip and said, “See you late”. 

The afternoon session was so interesting too. I will tell you more about it in our next issue. People na-eche m ooooooooo!

Adam'spen: BECOMING A WOMAN

Adam'spen: BECOMING A WOMAN: Nwanne stood in front of their new home at 50 Abam street Aba. She couldn’t see Onu and Otisi again to play with. “They must be big boys n...

BECOMING A WOMAN

Nwanne stood in front of their new home at 50 Abam street Aba. She couldn’t see Onu and Otisi again to play with. “They must be big boys now like these ash boys here”, she thought. She watched some boys playing football in the rain. She had marked this set of boys for their always being dusty. She called them ash boys because their bodies were always ash with the patches of dust on them. Even while it rained the dust on their bodies seemed not to be washing off. She stood at the window holding the burglary proof and watching the ash boys from the hole of missing louvers as they played naked in the rain. She felt like jumping into the rain to play with them but her mother had warned her against playing with boys. She would have liked to be born a boy if it were to be her choice to make. One of the boys shot the ball towards the stone goal post and the ball rolled close to the goal post and stopped locked in a murky water log. The goal keeper dashed towards the ball to kick it off but the ball drifted a little to the left as the water moved it and he missed it, kicked the air in a rapid swoosh and landed with his back on the dirty muddy ground. The other boys laughed out freely and threw themselves on the ground. Nwanne joined with laud laughter from the window and clapped too. One of the boys turned and made a face at her, sticking out his tongue and she opened her fingers at the boy still laughing.

“Shege JB”, she cursed playfully. If it were to be some years before now, she would have pulled off her cloth and ran into the rain to play football. She was sure she could play better than some of the boys but she wouldn’t play now that some little balls were growing on her chest; the kind of balls she couldn’t see on the chest of the boys of her age. She had thought they were boils because of the little pains she felt in them. Her mother said they were not boils when she complained and said they were called breasts; that they would soon grow bigger like those on her own chest; and that they would be producing milk and that her babies would have to suck and feed on them. She had felt so embarrassed the day she tried playing with boys of her age and some of them left the football and focused on watching the balls on her chest. Some of them tried to touch the balls but she didn’t allow them. She would have allowed them, if not for the pains she would feel at the touch.

Now she felt bad. She wanted to feel free and play naked in the rain. Even if she ran into the rain with her dress on, the football might hit her chest and the balls would start ache her. She couldn’t risk increasing the pains of the balls now. She drew up the upper part of her cloth and looked down into it to her chest. The area of the balls looked lighter than every other part of her abdomen. The balls were still there growing and softening by the day, just as her mother had said. She felt them with her left hand and sighed. She wondered what might be inside the balls. They felt strong like unripe tomato balls. As her fingers shoved across the edge of the tender breasts, she felt some pains and sighed again, and looked up straight into the rain. She was looking at nothing in particular. With her eyes on the droplets of the fading rain as they trickled down from the roof she could see the serenity in them. She felt like going into the world in the droplets to know how it felt in there. Then the voice came.

“Nwanne!” It was her mother calling and she jumped out of her imagination and scurried to the kitchen where Igbeneche was wrapping asusu with plantain leaves. She knew why she was being called. “Mma, let me get the trey pan ready” she said as she walked in and out of the kitchen. Igbeneche looked up watching her back as she sauntered bouncingly with her shoulders up like a tomboy towards the wall on which the tray leaned. She could notice the increase in the size of her back side and the curvy sides of her hips and her dark skin that shined oilier by the day. Her daughter was gradually developing into womanhood. She thought something about telling her to walk like a woman but just saying it had not worked. Igbeneche was worried that her daughter was acting masculine. She recalled her own days as a growing teenage girl in the village. She tried to compare herself with her daughter yet she couldn’t fix any similarity but the knock knees and the shrill voice they shared. She was just a picture of her late father. Igbeneche was still watching Nwanne till she picked the tray and turned. She could now see that her breasts are getting bigger despite the many cloths Nwanne wore to hide them. When would she get to terms with the fact that she was different from the boys?

Adam'spen: DON'T PING ME YET

Adam'spen: DON'T PING ME YET: Please don’t ping me yet! My BB had not been working for some time. Glo network had been so so erratic; but mine was a special case. I r...

WHAT A WAY TO DIE!

Ntinti paced up and down Mama Chinyere’s stall like one of the customers buzzing around, waiting for their turns to buy Akara. He looked around at intervals and scanned the environment. No one noticed him. Nobody hailed him and called him “ntinti na obi Aba” the way they used to. He didn’t want that either. Everybody wanted to buy akara and leave.  Like a kite would a straying chicken, he intently spied the black nylon bag that Mama Chinyere kept under the kitchen stool she sat on. When he felt nobody looked, Ntinti napped the nylon bag like a cat and zoomed off through the back of the stall through the bush part that led to the main road of eastern avenue.

 “hol’am! Hol’am! Onye-oshi hol’am!” little Chiamaka that was playing under the akara table screamed and the crowd of hungry customers re-echoed and chased after Ntinti. He was so nimble. None among the hungry chaser could get close to him. He tried to turn into the bush by the left but unfortunately a man coming out from there with his trousers on hand, kicked him on the chest to the ground. The nylon fell aside and the crowd pounced on Ntinti with various objects. He didn’t scream. He didn’t fight back. All he needed was an escape route. While he struggled to stand up from the ground, somebody threw a motor tyre on him and another emptied a cup of fuel on his head and yet another threw in embers of firewood and set him ablaze.

Danga the road side vulcanizer picked up the nylon and opened it. An awful smell oozed out; and he threw it away. Behold! It was a fold of children’s napkin that was white before, drenched in a pool of urine and brownish watery stool. The crowd dispersed with sighing. Faces bent. Feet dragged. There was silence everywhere in the world but the “mtchwww mtchwww sighs of puckered lips. Then came the cry of the raven from the almond tree in front of mama chinyere’s stall: “nkankankakwaraka!” what a way to die!

DON'T PING ME YET

Please don’t ping me yet!

My BB had not been working for some time. Glo network had been so so erratic; but mine was a special case. I recharged my phone on Monday. I didn’t know that Glo BB network had been down since the Sunday night before. I subscribed for BIS and the silly thing cut my hard earned N1,400. I tried to ping my friend Poka; it bounced, hung and returned with a red X. I tried again and the same thing continued. I dialed 555 but the link did not connect. When I got to the office the next day, Chinwe the managers secretary told me it was a general problem with all Glo subscribers at the moment. I shrugged with frustration.

“Why has Glo chosen to be falling hands like this?” I hissed and turned on the scrabble game on the phone; that was all I used the phone for since most of my people didn’t know my Glo number to call me with. When the Glo BB network finally came up, mine did not work still. I went to a Glo customer service center at Ogui road Enugu. 

I alighted from the bus at stadium bus stop and gave the bus conductor two wads of N20 note. He inspected them like there were some infectious diseases on them and handed me one back.

“oga change this one” he winced.

“whats wrong with it” I asked as I collected the money.

“ you no dey see the tape and the tear tear for the side?” he barked and waved his hand like he wanted to shove the money down from my hand. The expression on my face didn’t change. I didn’t show any emotion.

“so what do I do then? Do I look like Sanusi?” I asked and looked away.

“oga change this thing now mek I comot here” he barked again.

“nnna you can go and complain to CBN not me. As for me I aint changing nothing for you” I said matter-of-factly and looked away again. I was ready to unleash the anger that I have built for Glo on him. Now the passengers in the bus started complaining. I didn’t look at them. I just held the money out for the conductor the way we held banana for monkeys at my school zoo.

“Ok, if you wan chop chop now!” he said resigningly and hopped back on the door of the bus like a monkey. I gently placed the money into my front pocket and was meant to cross the road; when the driver called me back with outstretched hand. I placed the money into his palms and hissed a long sigh.  I would have cursed: “your father! You for dey there dey wait make I change am”, but the words couldn’t form on my puckered lips. I crossed the road without looking back.

The Glo office was a one storey building. The former ETB which had now become Sterling Bank was on the ground floor. The security man at the gate upstairs motioned me to a green plastic seat beside the door. I sat gently and exchanged greetings with the girl sitting opposite. I was never the type that always greeted girls before they started thinking I was interested in them. But this one was different. I didn’t care what she might have thought. She was my spec; a little tall, dark, beautiful and slim but not skinny. Behind her was the Glo wi-fi promo flyers pasted on the wall and the round red Sterling Bank logo beside it. I wondered why Glo had refused to separate from ETB; even into Sterling bank.  I was trying to read the instruction on the wall besides me when the security boy in green T-shirt and face cap called me to move over to a customer service personnel.

The customer service guy I met was a little taller than me. He was dark with some short strands of hair on his jaw. I took a furtive look at the name plate on his table. It said Chukwu and a first name that started with either an “m” or a “w” – I just can’t recall anymore; maybe because his name was not worth being stored in my creative head.

“Ok how can I help you? He said with brows arched upwards as if he met a foe. His lips moved quirkily up and down as he chewed some gum like a cheap back yard akwuna. I couldn’t trace any smile on his face. I was nearly infuriated by such an unconscionable question. I was sure he wasn’t to help me but to do the job for which he was employed. I held myself and tried to suppress the anger boiling inside of me already. After a little silence and fixed gaze at his oily face, I tossed my phone to him and said:

“I subscribed on Tuesday and it’s not been working “

He picked the phone, looked at it and pushed it back;

“Your battery is drained, so there is nothing we can do”. I didn’t touch the phone. I was still, just watching him and holding down my emotions. After some seconds he picked the phone again and plugged a charger to it. I breathed out loudly. After some minutes he checked the phone and said:

“You have to switch off the phone and…”

“I’ve done that over and over”, I cut him short.

He pressed some buttons again and said: “you have to recharge your account. You have only N19 here and…”

“I know that, and I had over N700 there before now and it didn’t work”; I cut him short again

“Maybe I will have to transfer you to another person to attend to you. I’ve even closed for the day”, he sighed and kept a straight face. I just gave out a dried wry smile and said nothing. What he didn’t know was that I was ready for trouble; I was ready to hold him down in the office till my phone started working. I wanted to tell him that he must be the one to attend to me. I wanted to tell him that my phone must work before he would go home for the day. I wanted to tell him that there was no way he would close for the day while I was still in his office. I wanted to bang on his table and shout: “are you stupid?” those words didn’t form. I held myself and gave out another wry smile and sighed. I tossed a wad of N200 on his table and he recharged my account. There was dead silence in the hall as I watched him press some things on my phone and then on his computer like a bad work man that quarreled with his tools. He sighed severally. Only the shwap shwap sound of the cleaners mop behind me and the clattering of the key boards and the snail sound of chukwu’s hisses could be heard in the entire world.

“Everything is okay here, so why is this phone not browsing?” he grunted. I looked away since he asked himself.

“let me see” the lady beside him said and collected the phone. He breathed out and stood up.

“ehe, please have it; I don’t want to lose my temper” the guy said. I felt like slamming a clenched fist on his keyboard and saying: “I don’t care if you have a temper to lose or not! All I know is that this phone must work tonight.” I held myself back with great struggle. My legs quaked with anger. I gave out the dried wry smile again and sighed and said nothing. The lady looked at me and sighed. I wondered if these people ever heard that “customer is king”.

“Please sir, we have tried all available remedies here. Can you come tomorrow let me send a mail to Lagos now about this issue? Maybe we will have to do a SIM swap for you. I believe the problem is with your SIM. You see our SIMs are no longer here and it’s already past 5pm”. Her voice was apologetic. It was then that I saw the marriage ring on her finger. She was fair with so many freckles on her face.

“Can I get back my N1400 for the BIS and use it for calls? I don’t think I would want Glo BB services again”, I said as I snatched my phone from her; I didn’t want to hear what she had to say. I worked out. I only wondered if she thought I was jobless so as to have the time to always come to her office to look at their ugly misfortune inducing face.

On the 14^th being the Saturday I missed the assembly, I sneaked out from the training hall after a lunch of fried rice and chicken. Outside our office at presidential road Enugu, I flagged down a cab. It was one of the state government facilitated cabs. The driver was a young man of about my age. He didn’t argue anything about price. He accepted N200. I got to the Glo office at Ogui road at 1:22pm. The security boy at the gate motioned me to a green seat besides the door. From there I watched Chukwu the customer service guy explaining the use of a modem to a pretty girl in front of him. He had seen me and perhaps was trying to buy more time with the girl so that his colleague would attend to me. Then the girl stood up and dusted her ass. She didn’t smile and she didn’t say “thank you” the way a satisfied customer would. Her face was blank; no expressions. She worked passed me, looking straight. The security boy motioned me to the seat in front of Chukwu. I sat there for some 5mins. Chukwu didn’t look up. He was keying some data from a piece of paper into his system. He looked up at intervals chewing at his gum like regurgitating goat without looking at me.

“Excuse me bro, will u attend to me? I have things to do; I just sneaked out of a seminar.” I said in a low voice, to call his attention.

“I… I am sending a report to Lagos. I have closed for the day. You know this is Saturday. I am supposed to have left here since 12noon.” Chukwu stuttered without looking up. I got annoyed.

“Is that why you ignored me? Do you think I’ve come here to watch your ugly face? Is this how you treat your customers?” I behaved as if I did not understand what he had said and pushed my phone to him. Then the lady that attended to me on the first day appeared from behind me.

“Ok, she is here. She was the one handling your issue before.” chukwu said and I didn’t say a word to him. I had decided to ensure that nobody left the office until my phone worked.

Now I could see the lady in full; the fair lady with pinkish freckles all over her face. She collected the phone from Chukwu. The skin of his arm looked smooth and healthy. She walked over to a table by my left and I followed her, backing the customer saucy Chukwu. She had so many black spots on her legs that looked like souvenir of childhood chicken pox. She gave me a form to fill and switched off my phone and removed the SIM and tore a new SIM pack and slide the new SIM into my phone.

“Give me N200”, she said keeping a straight face ,looking at her system like she gave me some money to keep for her.

“Why?” I said calmly.

“Ok you don’t want a SIM swap?” she said and hurriedly opened my phone removed the new SIM and togged the form I have filled under her table. She continued “you will have to wait until I get a response from the head office about your issue they’ve not responded to the mail I sent them.” Irritation crept into her voice. I looked at Chukwu at the other side of the table behind me. He was standing now scratching his crotch and watching.

“What the hell is wrong with all of you here?”I yelled and smacked her table and continued; “look here freckle face, if this phone doesn’t work today, nobody will leave this stinking office. Look at you trying to get angry at me, are you supposed to be angrier than me in this case? Your network is bad, I subscribed and you collected my money without providing the services. What nonsense do you think you are employed to do here if not to solve my problem? And you have the guts to tell me rubbish. If you must know it know; I don’t know any head office; all I know is Glo and you two here are the GLo I know. My phone must work today. Your Father!” my eyes were red now. The veins on my fore head stood out like the roots of a stubborn tree. I stepped back a little with arms akimbo and the dead silence returned. She pressed some buttons on her key board and then on my phone. Chukwu was sitting now. He too didn’t say a word.

“Try the phone now’’, she said and pushed the phone to me. I pinged Nitty and it went through. I didn’t tell freckle face that the phone was working now.  I fondled out some wads of money from my front pocket and tossed a N100 note on her table for the new SIM and worked away.

After 3hrs the phone stopped working again till now.

I’ve not had chance to go back there.

This time, I will go in my karate pants and snickers.

I might have to break someone’s jaw if the phone doesn’t work.

So if you have this pin “22D93802”, don’t ping me yet!

Banker's Training School Diary: day2

                                                                   Day Two.

The second day the training class was to be held in another branch at Sanusi Fafunwa Street. I had decided to always get to the class earlier than I did the previous day. Jumoke had said there was going to be an Early Bird Prize for the most punctual of the class. I was poised and itching to grab the prize. I didn't find it hard to locate Sanusi Fafunwa Street; the Okada man knew the locale. That was why I liked Okada. They seemed to know everywhere. With the Okada men there is no way you could lose your way insofar as you have the money to pay them. Just say it, they know it. The Sanusi Fafunwa Branch was also beautifully decorated with a huge Xmas tree by the gate and some lines of Xmas light dangling from the roof of the building to the walls and other beautiful green and red flowers here and there. From outside, the building looked smaller than the other branches I had visited. One of the security men at the gate wore a Father-Christmas cap together with his uniform. He was the one that smiled at me and threw the gate open for me without asking for an ID. He must have seen my folder with the bold Z logo on it. I arrived at Sanusi Fafunwa branch at 6:45am. I thought I was early enough till I stepped into the class. Some people had already come as early as 6:10am as shown on the clock in column of the attendance list. I was the 25^th on the list.

“Do these people sleep at all? Maybe they are resident in VI" I consoled myself knowing I had lost the early bird prize. The class in Sanusi Fafunwa Street was bigger than that at Aademola Adetokumbo Street -- same sitting arrangement, same lightening but Sanusi was chillier. At the front of the class was a giant Air conditioner that stood like a refrigerator besides the big black speakers.

I was looking for where to sit when the veranda got noisier. Many people trickled in and queued at the table where the attendance list lay.

“The staff buses have arrived” the girl at the back seat said and checked her time. From the window I could still see the two staff buses making a U turn at the Ajose Adogun roundabout. The round about I had decided to call Zenith roundabout because of the various decorations of Zenith Bank logo on it.

 The day saw a lot of bonding and socialization; even those I thought were deaf and dumb proved to be the parrots. As for me, I had to mingle too. At the back was a group of four guys, at the centre was another group of five girls and a guy. I looked around and chose a group to join. The group I joined composed of people of various tribes. I liked it. Besides me was Adetutu a Yoruba girl. She was dark, tall and good looking. Her girlish voice reminded me of the Alice in wonder land tape I used to listen to when I was younger. Tutu had the shape I so much desired of a girl -- moderate sized everything (don't ask me what) and flat Tommy. Tutu was the talkative of the group. She did all the talking and laughed all through. They told stories of what happened in some branches of the bank where the branch manager ordered all the marketers to kneel down on the bare flow for not getting businesses. The story was so strange to me. Salamatu was the quiet type. She just sat calmly and watched without words. Only the contortion of her face changed at intervals as response to the story.

"I won’t kneel if I were to be there" I boasted, unsure of myself.

“ah see you; you will even crawl on the ground" Chidimma said. I didn't want to argue. I always carried some kind of male chauvinistic mind set - never to argue with a woman. Chidimma had an intimidating appearance.  She was the extraordinarily bold and confident type. She spoke very refined or do I say funkifised English. Her accent was good and lacked the inconsistency of 'wanna be' hyper-correction. I tried talking to her always just to decipher some inconsistencies in here pronunciations, which I didn't see. The class kicked of for the day when Ronke stepped in and sashayed to the podium.

“oo az not written is name here?” she said waving the attendance sheet. Emeka turned and winked at me. I gave him a thumb up. He was poking fun at Ronke’s mother tongue interference. Ronke took the class on nominations for class president. Uche protested and said the class was a mature one and needed no president and entire class affirmed to that. Ronke tried to explain why the class needed a president but the noise in the class over powered her whispery voice. She gave up and then nominated Richard as the class transaction officer. Richard was the one that went out to make cash withdrawals and deposits for other members. He was the cool fine boy I envied for his popularity with the girls.

The class nominated Chidimma in charge of vote of thank at the end of each lecture. She was either to give the thanks or appoint someone else to do that. That must not be unconnected with her accent. She said "na na na na" for "no" and "yea" with low rising tone for “yes”. Chidimma wore artificial eye lashes that stood so straight like the edges of a tooth brush. She had long finger nails that looked more natural than artificial with pink nail polish on them. Her hair style was the type that covered her left eye at intervals and she would remove them so attractively with her index finger. The swing of her head as she removed the hair gave her the look of a movie star. I guessed she liked big things.

"You are going to give the vote of thanks today", she leaned over my shoulder and whispered in my ears as we filed out for breakfast.

"Me? Why me?" I asked rather excited. I always wanted an opportunity to speak in public. I wanted to show that I could speak good English too. Immediately, I started thinking of what to say. I wouldn't want to mess myself up in front of the class. I sat alone at the extreme left corner of the hall taking my tea and snacks as I thought of what to say. It was unlike the student’s politics thing I used to do in school. This was to be corporate. I wouldn’t have to billow; “greatest lions and lionesses!’ as I did in school. I thought of some sesquipedalian words that would shake the class.

Amaka later joined the group as we regrouped after breakfast.  Just like every other Zenith girl, Amaka was beautiful. The most conspicuous thing on her face was the wide gap on her teeth that looked like she lost a tooth in front. She had big bursts that made her appear misleadingly fat. She was the type some mischievous Igbo boys would call "Nkiruka" or bright future.

All through the class for the day, I kept thinking of what to say as votes of thanks that I didn't get the sense of the lecture till the end. The lunch was a plate of rice with full chicken or full turkey as usual.

"SIR WITHOUT MINSING WORD, I WOULD SAY THAT THE LECTURE WAS EXTEMPORANEOUSLY DELIVERD. AND ON BEHALF OF THE MEMBERS OF THIS CLASS I WANT TO SAY A VERY BIG THANK YOU TO YOU. AND WE PROMISE TO PUT WHAT YOU'VE TAUGHT US TO GOOD USE. THANK YOU."

That was the vote of thanks. The entire class stood up and clapped and clapped and clapped until Mr. Femi left the class. I was still standing and clapping with the microphone on my hand when Chidimma tapped me and whispered:

“That comment was superb! Extemporaneously” she smiled and collected the microphone from me. My face creased more with smiles. I felt relieved. My heart palpitation came down.

At the end of the class, we trekked back to Ademola Adetokumbo Branch to join the staff bus. I walked down with omowumi. She was the jovial type. I head felt bigger when she asked me the meaning of “extemporaneous” and I explained gaily. We couldn't talk for so long because I was feeling hungry moreover, Oloshola was interfering. He spoke Yoruba to the girl. I never liked to receive less attention in any gathering, so I left both of them together at the car park and went into the Ademola Adetokumbo branch canteen. I had to eat something.

"Please Madam I want to buy food" I told the fair fat woman behind the counter in the canteen looking forward for some food.

"No... Bros, we don't sell food here" the response came like a thunder bolt on my head. My stomach made a very loud rumbling sound "kprrrrrrrrr" and I turned to see if the people around there heard the sound. Nobody cared. They were watching the war scenes of Middle East on CNN.

"Please madam I am very hungry can I get anything to eat?" I begged. I couldn’t say why I felt that hungry. My share of the lunch of rice and turkey was big enough.

The woman smiled and gestured me to wait. The deep dimples on her chicks remained in my minds eyes as she turned and walked into the room behind her. I liked dimples though I didn’t have one. When I was younger, I had always pressed my cheek with the index fingers to create some dimples there for no avail. The woman later emerged with a bowl of hot rice and a chicken lap.

“Ha! This is exactly what I never expected. Thank you so much Madam." I said and rushed through the food hungrily like a ravenous wolf. From the canteen I hear the sound of the staff bus and dashed off leaving the food unfinished. The bus was already joining the traffic when I came out. I joined the bus and slept all through the journey till VGC.