Category Archives: Workshop story

WS 8: Assassin’s Creed by Osemhen Akhibi


His name was Yusuf and, in a symbolic act of national cleansing, he was supposed to assassinate the President of the Federal Republic of Nigeria on Independence Day.

The hiss of radio static from the walkie-talkie was his only company as he stood in the shadows of the amphitheatre waiting for a signal from the man he called General. He assembled his gun, the tripod and the scope with the ease that came from practicing this exact routine sixteen hours of every day for the past six months. Six months since the General had confidently walked up to him in a men’s room at the Transcorp, signed him a cheque and tabled plans for a coup that could only succeed if Yusuf played his part.

One shot only. Read the rest of this entry

WS 7: Bittersweet Symphony by Irene Nwoye


I walked into the room, to the familiar smell of drugs and disinfectants. My poor friend lay recuperating on the bed beside the window. She opened her eyes lazily as I approached her. We hugged; and I joked about how her soppy eyes made her look drunk. She laughed, but it appeared she had done it more out of obligation, like a live audience in a sitcom ever staring at a hovering “Applause” sign and laughing their brains out whenever it blinked. But I was resilient and I knew I had to do everything I could to cheer her up. It wasn’t long before I got her bursting with laughter; she would slap my thigh, occasionally screaming “Are you serious?!” amidst the heated gossip.

And then I felt them; Read the rest of this entry

WS 6: Spa Day by Tolu Talabi


I hear the sound of water splashing and I open my eyes. I’m lying in a lounge chair by a pool. The girl standing across from me squeals as her friend in the water splashes her again. It’s a hot and sunny day, perfect for being in the pool.


But not for me… at least not yet. I just want to lie here and rest.


I lean forward lazily and adjust my sunglasses. I notice more people streaming out of the resort’s main building headed towards the pool.

Read the rest of this entry

WS 5: Single by Nkem Awachie


Probably, in your first relationship, you’ll be idealistic, fresh from secondary school, a virgin, and determined to remain one till you wed. Unfortunately, your first love keeps asking for a bite of the golden fruit. You stick to your hymen, sure that in time he’ll realise what a rare gem you are, pop the question, sweep you to marital bliss and cherish you till death. He won’t. After a calculated period of begging, he’ll write you off as impossible and dump you for the closest piece of ass available.
You’ll be heartbroken, but confident that the next man will be smart enough to see what a treasure you are. After two more eligible bachelors have come and gone, you’ll think to yourself,
‘Ah! Heck! What’s life without a little compromise?’ Read the rest of this entry

WS 4: One Chance by Emezuom Nworgu


“This is the problem with Nigeria”, said the leader of the robbers. “Nobody speaks the truth. Look at you, all of you”, he shouted. “Not even one person, I mean just one person could speak the truth about how much money he or she had in his or her pocket, wallet or handbag. And yet everybody hopes for Nigeria to be good”, he snapped. “Haba!”
Read the rest of this entry

WS 3: The Cemetery at No. 16 by Funke Ogundimu


I stepped over Baba Sura to get out of my room.

He died at 69 from gunshot wounds. He was an old soldier, who fought in the Biafra war. After retiring from the Nigerian army, he joined the Nigerian Legionnaires and worked as a gateman in a bank. A gang of robbers mowed him down at the bank gate.

My foot falls echoed as I walked slowly down the dank corridor with my bucket. The water in the well would be ice cold; excellent for an afternoon bath. I walked by eight empty alternating rooms. No. 16’s rusty zinc roof creaked as it absorbed heat from the blazing sun.

Read the rest of this entry

WS 2: What Friends Do by Elnathan John


I knew Melanie would leave for the Calabar festival. It didn’t matter that John needed her around.

I would miss mass with the Pope for the Calabar Carnival”, she retorted when John tried to make her feel guilty for planning a trip when he was still recovering from malaria.


Melanie was often irritated by John’s intensity. His being a poet who always discussed poetry didn’t help either.

I thought you loved poetry”, he wailed, when she was finally able to tell him she was getting bored of the constant poetry talk.


Well, I stopped liking it, like I stop liking anything when I’ve had too much of it”, she replied rolling her eyes.

  Read the rest of this entry

WS 1: What if I was Fat by Chinyere Obi-Obasi


He watched his wife walk into the bedroom smiling dragging her body like a cobra that swallowed a goat. She could only be coming from the kitchen. As she made her way towards him on the bed, he pulled his body further up in order to position himself strategically on the pillow. It was 10a.m. His head was heavy from inadequate sleep. Since their 11 years old identical twins left for the boarding house, they spent Friday night watching films till the early hours of the morning. He felt like going back to bed.

‘Sweetheart. I am preparing this sumptuous breakfast,’ she said and fell on him. He moved a bit because she smelt of onions.
Read the rest of this entry