Daily Archives: July 18, 2011

WS 19: Them by Gboyega Otolorin

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It’s amazing how many times I see them. I see them on the bus. I see them at school. I see them at Mr. Toni’s lesson. I see them at church, especially during Tuesday Bible Study. I see them everywhere.

What makes all of it truly remarkable is that they’re invisible. Everybody walks past them, they don’t see them; but I can. Ok, Ellie sees them too but she doesn’t count, does she? Everyone knows Ellie is ‘that mad half-caste girl who lives with Dr. Durotoye’. It’s not surprising that she sees them too.

I told Feyi about them. My Feyi, sweet Feyi. She told me they didn’t ‘really’ exist; that I always had a wild imagination, a wild brainspace. I told her about Ellie, about how Ellie sees them too, about how Ellie knew what they looked like without me telling her. Feyi was doubtful. I mean, everybody knows Ellie’s crazy, right? Right? Read the rest of this entry

WS 18: Waiting for Independence by Wame Molefhe

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This is an excerpt from a very beautifully told story by Wame.

Look for Wame’s new book ‘Go Tell the Sun‘ on store shelves.

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Ipelegeng searched for her grandfather’s spectacles in the kitchen first, and then in the living room where next to the blue chair he used when he watched TV.  She would have put off going to her grandfather’s room longer but her grandfather called to her.

      Ipelegeng, where are you with my spectacles?”

      Ipelegeng hesitated at the bedroom door before pushing it open. There were too many reminders of how old her grandfather was getting: false teeth soaking in a glass by the side of his bed, a cup of tea, full and forgotten, the nightlight still on. Her eyes flew to the chest of drawers and the picture of her grandmother and grandfather. Her grandmother’s funeral programme was on the side table. Ipelegeng felt tears stinging her eyes.

      The room felt like a dark night brewing a thunderstorm. The scent of mothballs hung heavily in the air. There was a hint of benzene that her grandfather used to clean his suit that hung on the doorknob. She tugged on the cord that parted the heavy curtains, then she opened the windows and the scent of morula fruit floated into the room.

      Ipelegeng! What’s keeping you?” Read the rest of this entry

WS 17: Passion by ‘Pemi Aguda

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She evoked all sorts of emotions in him. Strong, potent emotions. It was why he’d married her. No woman had enveloped him in such a fervid manner. He’d wanted to possess her, body and soul. And it wasn’t just her beauty, he’d seen many beautiful women. She had fair skin with very black hair and dark, dark eyes.

And all that poise. He’d told his mother he’d never met such a lady. Her every deed was in a regal manner. Like some goddess come to inhabit a queen. Head held high on that long graceful neck. That neck he’d lately been having visions of snapping in two. She was so damn cold. She hardly ever reacted to anything these days.. Those eyes just glazed over him like she expected nothing less from an earthling such as him. Read the rest of this entry

WS 16: It by Buchi Nduka

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When you hear about “it”, it has many sides but that depends on who is doing the telling and under what circumstance. We were never allowed to watch late night movies and I was never taught nor spoken to about “it”. If it was shown on TV we were asked to get out of the living room but this scenario hardly occurred because we always hurried out of the parlor when it got to the part of holding hands or a scene leading behind close doors.

As my mother would always say in Ibo, “Nwoke na Nwanyi a na chi”! Man and woman don’t move or talk or can not be friends depending on how our naive brains translated it at the time. A word was enough for the wise!
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THE BRASSIERE

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This assignment here is to write a story that is centred around an object. Any object. 

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You never lock your wardrobe door, hell, you don’t even close the damn thing. One of the hinges is coming loose so there is now a method to closing the door- lift gently, swing slowly from right to left, wait for the click, release- but this is not why you won’t close it. You want to see that which hangs from the yellow plastic hanger in the corner when you lie on the bed; that which has hung limply there since February 18, 2008. You never forget the date you hung it there; you remember it, mark it more religiously than your birthday or the day that wretch of a husband did you the favour of dying in his own vomit- the rumours don’t bother you- that his many drinks were poisoned by the women from the Madam Kosoko’s brothel to teach men who like to ‘fuck and run’ a lesson. Though you would never say it, you thought it was a brilliant thing those women did, for you did not know how much more you could take- the sermons from your mother and his mother on how a good Christian Nigerian women never brings shame by leaving. But this day in February is more important- it is real date of your emancipation.

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WS 15: Blame it on a yellow dress by Uche Okonkwo

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She knew nobody was allowed to touch her there; that secret place where even she felt ashamed to look. But Daddy wasn’t nobody. Huge, hairy Daddy, whose deep voice always surprised her when he spoke; Daddy with his preoccupied air and intimidating collection of professors’ books; Daddy who never seemed to see her.

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