Tag Archives: workshop exercise

Kitchen Wahala


The challenge here is to: Write a story where the character is in the kitchen and expecting guest(s). Show through his/her gestures that he/she is going through a lot of crap in his/her life.


Grubby nails trail along a page in a recipe book, add 150cl of water into a pot. Gbenga sticks his hand into the cupboard over his head and rummages around for a measuring cup but comes up short. He’s knees creak as he drops unto the cracked linoleum floor. The light from the naked 60 watt bulb did not reach the under of the sink, lined with empty bottles. He squints trying to make out the contoured body of a coke bottle. He reaches for the nearest cobwebby one and groans upright.

“150cl in a pot”, he mumbles and stares at the stack of dirty plates flowing over his kitchen sink. He pries a moldy pot from it depths, washes the pot and places it on the burner.
He tears off a paper kitchen napkin and pats his oil smudged overalls for a pen. He divides 150 by 35 and figures it is 4.2857143.
He fills the pot with 4, 35cl coke bottles of water.
“Less .2857143cl,” he mutters and places the coke bottle aside. He glances at his wrist watch 5:36pm. 1 hour 9 minutes before Gina arrives.

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


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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I Have No Title

Macaroni is an extruded hollow pasta.

Image via Wikipedia

You, you and Lara, you had decided when you got married that every time you had friends over, you would feed them pasta. It was quick, it was easy and it was a crowd favourite. She understood that you were a writer, not a cook. She was like that in the beginning, understanding and supportive. She understood when you said you hated fish, she understood when you didn’t go with her to social functions, when you spent whole days at your computer, powered by caffeine and the insane craving for the perfect, perfect sentence. She understood, she let you work. Didn’t bug, didn’t fuss. But that was then. Read the rest of this entry