WOMEN OF STONES AND FLOWERS_ FLASH STORY 5

Sometime in the past, in the little hamlet of Umuowara, a woman lived who adored stones and flowers. With her bare hands, she grouped stones of different sizes and arranged them in rows around the outside of the wall of her single house. From a distance, you could see a dazzling continuum of sizes of stones on the ground, tidily growing bigger and away from the wall. And in her neatly swept compound, she heaped two mounds of stones, each of which boasted a posy of sunflowers in their center. Also, a hedge of red hibiscuses enclosed the compound. People came from far and near to gaze at the striking scenery. They talked of her fine sense of beauty for many years. And she loved to dance too and she was called “the bell of women” for her clarion call for order whenever there was disorder. But, see, as the years rolled by, she grew old and weak and only came out once in a great while to study her stones and flowers. One day, she left home and slept on the mountains. No one else looked for her except one woman. Yes, there was no one else that remembered that she was “the bell” except another woman. And this other woman was a beauty to behold. She was a flower among restless thorns. She never quarreled with other women. The only thing she knew how to do well was to spread joy and peace in the little hamlet of Umuowara. It was only this young flower of a woman that went in search of the woman of stones. But by the time she found her, the woman of stones had already caught a rare virus in the lonely bushes of the mountains that made her wince in pain and gave her uncontrollable hysteria. Whether it was a mammal or a mamba or the mountains that brought the ill wind, no one would ever know. The young woman took care of her for many days. Even the children of the old woman wondered at the care she received at the hands of the young woman.

But one fateful day, in a hysterical spell, the old woman involuntarily passed the virus to the flowery woman. It must have been through a bite or through the wind. No one knew for sure. But, ah, it was not of her own making. It was the will of God. No one else knew about this.  So for her remaining days on earth, the old woman knew joy at the hands of the young woman. But one day, the virus killed her. Suddenly, everyone else remembered that she was “the bell of women” and everyone else remembered her stones and flowers and that she danced beautifully.

And so it came to pass that the young woman became ill also. She lay wincing in pain for many days. And one day also, the virus took her. The day I saw both of them lying quietly side by side in a morgue, waiting to be buried, I knew I would not rest until I write this story for the world. This is because the young woman was my mother. The month they were buried was the most sober for the people of the little hamlet. Everyone resolved silently to always remember the beauty of flowers and stones. But, people of the world, why would they have to die before their beauty became understood? And why would the world continue to revolve around the sun without their precious beauty? Yet, every flower pure will bloom.

TONIA'S DAY _ FLASH STORY 4

She had been lying naked on a bed in a hotel room for eight hours running. The last man was merciless. He was much too big for her. So she passed out. Outside the door of the hotel room, two girls, each about twelve years old, lay spread-eagled on the corridor. Across the face of one of them was a horrifying gash that ran from ear to ear, cutting open her jaws. She lay face up. Her eyes, though glazed, seemed to have in them an angry stare. And her breasts stood like two exposed pyramids. Her pool of blood had already congealed. The other girl lay face down. A trace of blood had trickled down her parted legs and glided across the passage. Both girls were also naked. They were about a year older than the one inside. Their clothes lay in a pile at the far end of the corridor. A man in army-green uniform stood with a gun at that far end too. In place of a helmet or beret, he had a mottled bandanna barely covering his clean-shaven scalp. He was chewing gum. Rebel soldiers had taken over the capital town where the hotel stood. But he seemed indifferent. There had been such rumours lately and they had been proved false repeatedly. After a fierce border fight with the rebels early that morning, there had been no radio contact with the rest of his A-for-Action Company that was assigned to safeguard the vast presidential hotel. So he was just there, waiting for the man inside to come out so that he would go in. He stared at the nude figures on the floor and, though they were dead, his manhood stirred. These rebel girls are extremely beautiful, even as dead captives, thought the necrophile, not minding the gash on the face of one of them. At last the door opened and out stepped the latest rapist, smiling. The men hailed themselves and laughed as they made way for each other.

No sooner had the man of bandanna gone in than the other man fell down, convulsing. A new man was standing in the passageway, holding a silencer-fitted gun. He was wearing a foliage-festooned helmet and an army uniform with different shades of brown. Soon, the convulsing man lay still. A pool of blood had quickly formed underneath his ruffled uniform. The man with the silencer passed over him and looked at the two dead girls. He cursed under his breath. Then he broke open the door but met with a burst of gunfire. He was ready; for he had quickly ducked under gun range as he was about breaking in. Before his assailant could redirect his assault, the rebel soldier had already fired two bullets through the assailant’s army boots into his legs. The other man yelled, reaching for the girl on the bed for cover. He pointed his gun to her left temple.

“If you move, I will shoot her!” he shouted painfully.

The rebel soldier would not want it so, though he was not sure if she was still alive. He pointed his gun at him for a few seconds, standing up as he did so. Then he lowered the gun resignedly. That girl was his platoon leader’s sister and the other two outside were her friends.   

“Drop your weapon!” His opponent shouted again.

The man of brown uniform obeyed. Then he said, “We fight for light and not darkness. You shall be consumed.”

Unfortunately, a bullet from the other man’s gun pierced into his heart….

Just then the girl came to. The bandanna man pushed her onto the bed, still looking to have fun. His pains did not stop him. Hardly had he unzipped his trousers when a platoon of soldiers burst into the room. His body was riddled with bullets from a pump-action gun.  

“Tonia” The last shooter said.

“Brother Raymond.” The girl answered weakly, bushed by it all.

“You are safe now,” Raymond said as anger welled up inside him. He looked at his advance man on the floor. Tonia drew an unstained blanket onto her as Raymond fired another bullet into the enemy, “The battle is over.”

(C) Jeff Unaegbu, May 22, 2011.

PRIDE OF THE SPIDER CLAN (EXCERPTS) by Odili Ujubuonu

Prologue

“Welcome, Dara Isikamdi.”

Isikamdi dropped his gourd instantly, turned and faced her. “How are you?”

“I am fine.” Her lips unfolded into a smile. “Grandfather wants you.”

“Eze Kambite wants me?” He gazed at her. She was gap-toothed, and this stood out from the rest of her features.

“Yes.” She nodded. Her one hand fondled the anti-convulsion talisman around her long neck. Her other hand swung slowly beside her as though controlled by a mind detached from the one answering Isikamdi.

“Where is he?”

“In his obi.”

“Tell him I will be there soon.” He lifted the frothing gourd. Some wine spilled as he hurried away.

“O.” The girl ran out of the large compound through the adjoining small side gate.

Isikamdi had just returned from the morning rounds on his raffia palms, which he tapped for wine evenings and mornings. He hung his climbing ropes on the wall of his hut, went behind the house to wash his arms and mud-stained feet.

Why is Eze Kambite so eager to see me?

Moments earlier, on his way back, he had been informed that Kambite wanted to see him. Hardly had he entered his hut and the little girl rushed in with the same message. Isikamdi hoped that nothing bad had happened. Whatever it was, he reasoned, must be of essence.

Eze Kambite rarely engages in useless matters.

“Your meal is ready.” His wife hurried into the hut carrying his breakfast.

“Keep it for me. I will be back soon. I want to quickly meet with Nna anyi.”

“O.” She lowered the akpara, woven tray, on the bare floor, cast a sly look at the calabash containing the meal and adjusted her wrapper thoughtfully. She sensed worry in her husband’s strides and shrugged. With her index finger, she wiped the tiny beads of sweat that dotted the tip of her nose like morning dew on the skin of calabash.

۞ ۞ ۞

Ezechukwu’s compound sat on a prominent spot in Umuaro. Family lore had it that the founder was the leader of the first set of Aro who settled in Mbaozo. As the progenitor of the clan, he had ensured that everyone lived together. The largest household, Isikamdi’s home, had the family obi. This was the central meeting place for the entire Aro in Mbaozo. Other uncles of his lived in homesteads surrounding his compound. The closest among these households was the home of his father’s only brother, Eze Kambite.

“Dara Igiligi,” Kambite welcomed Isikamdi.

“Ezeakaibeya.” They shook hands. The last time Eze Kambite had invited him with as much urgency as today’s, was six months earlier. It had to do with Isikamdi’s mother. Thinking back to when he was a child, Isikamdi could not recall witnessing both adults quarrel. It was unsettling for them to begin now. His mother had recently made some strong allegations against Kambite. Isikamdi was yet to find the courage to go either to verify them or to ask the old man. He pushed the nagging thought out of his mind and focused on the likely reason for Kambite’s summons. Instinct told him his uncle had something else to discuss with him other than his mother.

Could it be Ijenna’s inability to get pregnant?

This was one of his mother’s most potent missiles against Kambite. She accused the old man of forcing a barren osu on Isikamdi to serve his personal interest and undercut her son’s social status. Isikamdi did not agree with her. His family, and indeed the rest of Aro, did not subscribe to the osu social caste system. He could marry from wherever he wanted except from a family of thieves, epileptics and lepers. Moreover, Kambite did not force him to marry Ijenna. He only asked if Isikamdi would like to be son-in-law to his young friend, Odidika.

“Sit down, my son.”

“Thank you.” Isikamdi sat on the outer end of the mud dais. “How is your wife?”

“She is in her hut, doing one thing or the other.”

Kambite lay face up on his reclining chair. The seat shone like everything else in his personal obi.

“Your servant does a good job on your furniture. How does he make these chairs shine like this?”

Eze Kambite gurgled. He examined the reclining chair as if confirming Isikamdi’s observation. “He is a skilled young man. His father was a carver and had shown him some herbs. Apart from that, I think he is very serious-minded.”

“You are right. The last polish he applied to the stools in the big obi still gleams.”

Kambite called his granddaughter.

“Yes, Grandfather,” she answered from somewhere behind his hut.

“Bring my goatskin bag.” He raised his voice and added, “We are moving over to the large obi.” He signalled to Isikamdi to come along.

As the older man stood up, a sense of foreboding descended on the younger one. Isikamdi detected a distant look in Kambite’s eyes. He was tempted to ask if there was a problem. He did not ask. Why pinch a parcel that would be opened?

His granddaughter met them seated inside the large spacious hall.

“Nna a, here it is.” She handed over the bag to him and was about to leave.

“Come back here,” Kambite barked. “Don’t you know that I may still need your help?” He hissed. “Take.” He gave her a piece of kola nut. “Go and wash it and then bring us water to wash our hands, Nwaokorie Ukato.”

She giggled as she sprinted out of the large obi.

“Children.” Isikamdi smiled. “Always in a hurry.”

“Her own case is a disease,” said Kambite. “This one forgets that she is a woman and that grace is the condiment of a good wife. How can she be behaving like Nwaokorie Ukato, the tanner, who rushes things like he would die the next minute?”

They both walked out of the obi. Isikamdi carried the chalk platter along with his left hand. He placed it before Kambite who began and he joined him in drawing white lines outside.

By the time they returned to the obi, the young girl was waiting.

“How are you?” Isikamdi rubbed her hair, affectionately, with his unstained left hand.

She handed him the washing bowl. “I am fine.” She lifted the platter containing the kola nut and followed him.

Both men washed their hands.

While still carrying the plate of kola, the girl went down on both knees as she handed it to her grandfather.

“It gladdens my heart whenever you take your time to do these little things.” Kambite smiled. “Oh, it makes me dream of hundreds of bags of cowries.”

The girl smiled shyly, tilted her head to one side and ran out of the obi.

The adults laughed. The sun brightened as if enlivened by the rush of the wind.

“I would have broken this kola in my compound but the issue for which I have called you is an obi matter.” He picked the red stone-coloured nut and looked at Isikamdi. He was more than Kambite’s nephew. He was, in fact, his son.

“You go ahead and break it, Father.” It embarrassed him whenever Kambite made it clear to guests that the large obi belonged to Isikamdi. It also did today as the old man repeated it even though it was just the two of them.

“So be it,” Kambite said, clearing his throat. As he raised the nut, his ever-watery eyes faced the empty sky. “Ibinukpabi, Ani Mbaozo, and Ogwugwu Mbaozo N’Abanta.” He cleared his throat and continued. “Ezechukwu, Nweke and other ancestors draw closer. Yesterday was yours, today is ours and tomorrow will be yours and ours. We have broken into a new day, as the chick cracks through the eggshell. As we live, give us enough to sustain us.”

“Ise,” Isikamdi chorused.

“If mother hen ceases to kwom-kwom can her chicks discern her voice?”

“It is not possible.”

“So provide us with what to eat but protect us from what will eat us.”

“Ise.”

“May Ezechukwu continue to prosper.”

“Ise.”

“As we increase, may we not be as populous as the ukpaka leaves that run in millions but cannot wrap even a grain of corn. Instead, may we be like the plantain leaves. They are few but each is large enough to shelter a man from rain.”

Isikamdi nodded.

“Guard us, guide us for we know nothing. We are like the little girl who only washes her stomach when asked to bath herself.”

“That is true.”

“May we live to see several Eke, Orie, Afọ and Nkwo market days.”

“Ise.”

“In unity with your love and trust, we will be cheery and we will be merry. I say this with ofo and ohi.”

“Ihiaa.”

The kola nut was broken.

“Ezeakaibeya,” Isikamdi cheered his uncle’s adroitness.

“Igiligiegbuenyi.” Eze Kambite dipped his hand into the goatskin bag by his side. He fished out a cob of alligator pepper, tore the fibrous leaves off and began to dispense the seeds into the kola nut plate. With a lobe of the nut in his hand, the old man stood up and stepped outside. He broke it slowly into little pieces and sprinkled them on the earlier drawn lines as he muttered some prayers.

When he returned, they ate their shares with alligator pepper and drank palm wine. Isikamdi could not recall the last time Kambite conducted such an elaborate ceremony in the obi.

“My son, the toad does not jump about in the wild sun for nothing,” he began. “I called you for a reason.” Kambite carefully avoided Isikamdi’s searching gaze. “There is nothing amiss and yet, there is something amiss. However, there is nothing the eyes see and shed blood instead of tears. If the stomach were not properly fitted, it cannot be ahead of the rest of the body.”

Isikamdi listened weighing every phrase, every word.

“Would you do anything for the honour and growth of this family, Isikamdi?”

“Father, you have been speaking in parables. You very well know I would, but a man does not say yes to a proposition he has not yet heard.”

Eze Kambite’s gaze was expressionless. He reclined on the chair and then sat upright again. He would choose his words carefully. If properly handled, Isikamdi would say yes to his plan. If he failed, the family’s fate would hang precariously in midair. “Isikamdi.”

“Nna anyi.”

“You remember the death of Ugobi?”

“Yes.”

“You must have been told about the deaths of my other wives. And you know about the deaths of my two daughters, Ifenna and Adaeze. Adaeze died on the day of her marriage.”

“Yes, my mother said so.” Isikamdi’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Every one of them died in mysterious circumstances. My father died when I could hardly tell if he was dark or fair-skinned. As if he knew that he would not live after my birth he named me Kambite, ‘let me live long,’ but did he live long?”

Isikamdi shook his head. He could tell that Kambite was heading towards a family puzzle.

“It took Nweke, your father, almost a lifetime to have you. He lost so many children. Not long after you came, he died. He left you to grow up, just like I did, without knowing your father.”

Isikamdi’s eyes were now glassy. The conversation was searing his heart in two. He hoped that Kambite would just get to the core of the matter.

He did not.

A lizard scurried to the white ritual lines and began to feast on the ants that had congregated on the libation wine.

“For several years, I have searched for a male child – the one to inherit my barn of yams, sit in my obi and answer my name when my bones would have been gathered to my ancestors – but I did not succeed. I consulted several diviners and medicine-men but none had the solution. I sacrificed to different oracles but none opened the door to a male child. My son, when it became obvious to me that I was challenging my chi to a fight, I gave up the search. I gave up the search for a male child, but I did not give up the search for why I failed to have one.” He looked directly into Isikamdi’s eyes and said, “If a man does not fight, the road that passes through his compound will forever be used by strangers. Also, if a man does not know the exact spot where the rain started beating him, he may never know where and when it stops.”

“That’s true,” Isikamdi whispered.

“By asking that we discuss this inside the ancestral obi is to let you know that you are not insulated from the problem. It is what is harping in the home of the rat that is harping in the home of the hare.”

Isikamdi felt a weight on his shoulders. He had always feared, even when he was growing up, that there was something wrong with his family. Something no one would discuss but each carried in his mind.

“Can you, my son, bear the weight of the secret of what I have discovered? Why Ijenna your wife has not missed her monthly flow of blood? And can you pay the price to save our family from extinction?” Kambite shot the last question with so much force that his nephew knew he did not want no for an answer.

Isikamdi was face down. He waited, thoughtfully, before asking, “Father, what is this all about?” Kambite had spoken for long and yet had said nothing. “Is there any problem?”

“Yes. There are problems.” Kambite’s brows furrowed.

“What are they, Father?”

“If I tell you the revelations, you will die just like I already know that I will die.”

“What will happen?”

“You will die and I shall follow suit. But your wife would be pregnant and your child would live.” His voice echoed a renewed vigour. “Your name shall be and your honour shall transcend the boundaries of Umuaro. Should you accomplish successfully what is expected of you, then Ezechukwu would attain a different position in Mbaozo. But, above all things, you have a choice to either refuse to know and let things be the way they are or hear me out and participate fully in its change.”

 A hawk on a palm tree outside the compound flappped its wings.

“What is this all about, Eze Kambite?” Isikamdi was uncomfortable. He could not place what his uncle meant.

“Isikamdi, you have one week to think it over. If you want to receive the secret then come back. Don’t discuss this with any living person. It is the beginning of the search for who you are; you must do it alone.” His voice pitched on a final note. He bent over and picked another lobe of kola nut with some seeds of alligator pepper and threw them all at once into his mouth. Some alligator pepper seeds escaped and one bounced on his knee and fell on the floor. It rolled mechanically, as if choosing its paths, until the tip of Isikamdi’s foot wedged it. He did not notice it for his mind was far.

A light wind shook the ogirisi tree in front of the obi and a dead flower fluttered down. It landed on the altar stone outside.

Isikamdi had smiled believing Kambite was broaching a problem that had secretly bothered him all his life. At the end, the old man wanted him dead. All his life he had believed that Kambite would do anything for him to live. Kambite had indeed saved him in the past. What went wrong today? Did it have anything to do with his mother? Isikamdi searched the older man to know if he really said what he just heard. The old man was the same – his eyes watery, his look distant. Isikamdi trembled inside. Not from fear. Not from anger. More of uncertainty.

What if Kambite were correct?

A gustier wind shook the ogirisi again and one of the purple flowers landed on the ritual lines. Isikamdi’s eyes followed it this time. A large green snake had captured the lizard on the ritual lines and was patiently swallowing it. The lizard’s head went first. The forelimbs followed, then the reptile’s trunk. Maybe moments later, the hind limbs and the long tail would go. Isikamdi felt like the lizard. “I have heard you.”

He left the obi more miserable than he had ever been all his life. From that moment onwards, Isikamdi could hardly think of anything else but the ominous subject raised by Eze Kambite.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Odili Ujubuoñu was born in Ukpor, Anambra State Nigeria. He has a degree in Political Science and an M.A in History from the University of Nigeria, Nsukka and University of Lagos. Odili has been referred to in several quarters as one of the few heirs of the Achebean tradition. He is the author of Pregnancy of the Gods, (2006) ANA/Jacaranda Prize Winner for 2006 and Treasure in the Winds (2008) ANA/Chevron Prize Winner for 2008. The book was also a nominee of the Nigerian Prize for Literature same year . Odili has worked in the business of Advertising as a copy writer for over twenty years.  He lives in Lagos with his wife, Chinelo and Children.

PUBLICATION DETAILS

Title:  Pride of the Spider Clan

Author’s name: Odili Ujubuoñu

ISBN:  978 – 978 – 912- 532- 6

Binding: Perfect binding (Paperback)

Pages : 404

Publication Date: April 2011

Publisher: Jalaa Writers Collective

Online Price: $5

Available on Amazon Kindle: : http://www.amazon.com/Pride-Spider-Clan-ebook/dp/B004W82QB2/ref=sr_1_1/175-4882589-6256820?ie=UTF8&m=A7B2F8DUJ88VZ&s=books&qid=1302689010&sr=1-1

BALCONY__Flash Story 3

(C) Jeff Unaegbu, 2010.

Sometime in the past, a baby girl, whose mother was very careless, was standing on the balcony of the third floor of a storey house. I was there on the same floor and on that balcony. But I was busy reading a book. Suddenly, I noticed that the child had incredibly passed through one of the narrow spaces between the guarding rails. There was nothing now to protect it from falling off into overwhelming vacancy ending about thirty-seven feet down below. This was a child that just learnt to stand on its feet. So, to catch its breath, it would not take long for it to fall back to four feet! People began to look up at the child and to gather on the ground below even as they whimpered in horrible trepidation of its fate. Of course, my heartbeat began to escalate. I thought that if I backed off from saving that child, I would regret it for the rest of my life; and if I tried and missed, my life would be no less horrible. It was a one-bullet chance. I stood up…. Steady now. Any sharp sound would distract the child from its brooding over gravity. And in its desire to see, it would trip and fall and fall and fall…. Some people looked up at me: How stupid and selfish for that fool up there to have allowed that child come to this? Other people looked up to me. Everyone held their breath. Seven seconds had passed. Strangely, the child somehow sensed that a step forward would mean something nasty not in its data of experiences. But, alas, its mother stupidly appeared on the ground below and became unable to control her instincts. My job got complicated. I sensed I had less than a second to save that child. But we were six feet apart and there was the rail between us. To make matters worse, the child’s attention was attracted by the muffled cry of its mother and, of course, she zeroed in on her and made to go forward and downward to her!  It happened in a second. One of her naïve legs was already up for the eternal leap, the other was already squatting dangerously and unsteadily for the added baby weight it was carrying. I snatched her back. I did not believe I made it. My hands were just shivering. The people began to dance and shout for joy. They all bounded up to the third floor and showered me with kisses and embraces. I just mopped....

GIRL ON A BUSY RAILROAD_ FLASH STORY II

Not so long ago, on a scorching day, a woman was sleeping in her stall where she sold lisle and gloves and stockings. No customer had called yet, and it was midday already. “Bad market”, it was called. Now, this was no news. It happened everyday. What did not happen everyday was that her little girl, who was about a year and some months old, got off from her loosened grip and got lost in the market place. Well, our little baby got onto a rail road and toddled along at the center of it.  No one noticed. Not anymore does anyone notice such a thing these days anyway. She toddled past a signpost that read, come in and get lost and also past some men roasting kebab, which they called suya. Then… she toddled past me. I did not see her in the normal sense of the word, see. I was busy writing a short story for an online competition. And I was there because I got inspired by the market. The sounds, the smells and colours all got into my head and helped me to write. Strange, isn’t it? Well, my eyes were stuck onto my writing pad when she wobbled by. But somehow I did not know I had seen her until three minutes later. My mind suddenly got me onto an alarm mood. At first, I was amused, because I did not know what the mango was wrong with my mind. Not until I had looked at the last sentence I wrote that I realized what was happening. The last sentence read: A little cherub tottered down the windy rail, alone, like Alice in wonderland. I suddenly dropped the pad and ran like I never did before. I could hear the blast of a train horn in the distance. It sounded like a Jewish shofar, sounding out a warning of things to come.  

Oh lord. Oh my God! My mind was beating fast. As I ran towards the direction she went, the rails were already nodding to the dim-dim-da moves of an approaching train. I was almost out of breath when I sighted her. Just about that instance, I saw the coming train ahead of me. She was standing, facing it and looking at it. Only ten seconds held her from zero.

Now, while racing towards her in those few seconds of life and death, I remembered the day I almost fell into a big pot of boiling soup. It was at a party. I had slipped on a banana peel and was just caught halfway by the hands of a teenage girl who was cooking the soup. I imagined the pain I would have gone through if I had fallen in, that was if I did not die. Well, that experience was nowhere near what I thought was about to happen. Worse, my asthma attack began. Oh lord. Oh my God!

I had no time to get the inhaler. There was no applauding audience. I thought that the only other person who saw that girl was the train driver. But he was much too near to apply any breaks. All he did was blast the awesome horn. I flew to my little girl. With all the breath in me, I dived across the rails, snatching her by her braided hair. We landed onto the opposite bank just in time as the train thundered past. My hair singed for the burning heat. But I did not care. The girl huddled under my arms. In a moment, the never ending coaches all got past….

There was calm. A gust of fresh air got to me. There was silence everywhere except for the sound of my shivering body, my gasps and the rustling leaves by the banks of the railroad. I fished out my inhaler and inhaled unsteadily. Then she began to cry. Its okay, its okay, my baby, the danger is gone. Spread them beautiful lips and smile. You are safe now….

What just happened?  A sudden burst of joy rose from within me and I kissed her braided hair and made her laugh amidst her tears. I carried her and brought her back to the market place. Problem was how to locate her people. We passed many stalls. I was pointing into each stall with a shaky finger to see if she would give any sign that she was home. She only chuckled and clung to me. Then she pointed at a sleeping woman and mumbled loudly. And as if touched by a magic wand, the lady awoke with a start and looked straight at us. Nothing in this world would make her understand that I was not there to kidnap her baby. A mob gathered, threatening to tear me apart….

Somehow, thank goodness, the police arrived and took me away. The police station was by a train station. Another crowd of people formed and they were pointing at me, ululating and clapping and shouting.  A train driver in his lemon overalls was standing there with them, paring his fingers smugly. In many different ways, they were all saying that I saved a little girl from being crushed by the train they had all just got off from. This unexpected lifeline was what saved me from only God knows what. Ouch, what a world!

Aha, back to my short story, where was I? Oh, never mind. Who cares, anyway….

CLARA'S NO JOKE__ A Flash Story

For the first time in our four-year-old relationship, I go with my fiancé, Eddy, to a hair salon. It is a crowded place run by Lady Clara, a fleshy black American. She has many hairdressers working for her. But most people prefer to get the treat directly from her deft fingers. If you say that you do not know who Clara is or where her salon is, people will take you for a newcomer to Abuja or a recluse. Clara’s Beauty Salon is a very popular place. Clara herself is a funny lady who does not mind that she is very fat. When you laugh at her tubby tummy and her legs that appear slim and unfit to carry her weight, she gives the thumbs up and pulls a face at you. She tries to make a joke almost every minute, hardly ever stopping for you to laugh as much as you want. She continues to talk, even when it is my turn to have my hair dressed and when I try to explain to her how I want my hair styled.

I ask if she heard me. She replies merrily, “I hear with my ears, honey, I do the talking with my mouth, okay?”

Laughter.

I remove my hairnet and sit down, facing her. She tucks my head backwards into her washbasin and quickly pours on my loose hair a bowl of hot water: viaam-viaam! What the heck!

Everyone is still laughing at her reply to me. She has moved on.

            “It’s in the breaking news today that a sister's long hairdo was ruined by a ceiling fan!”

            Loud Laughter. Now, of all her prattle, that one can pass as a joke.

            “Honey, I’m gonna make your hair thin, just the way you want it!”

Eddy walks into the salon, signals to me that he is going to his place to await my arrival. I nod my head in response. Clara did not note that he is my fiancé nor did she see that we signaled to each other. Ten minutes later, she is looking for fodder to stoke up her chatter, and the lot falls on my Eddy!

“Did someone just see a brother walk in here and walk out again?”

Muffled laughter. I prick my ears in alarm.

“I ask the question because …(Place your head this way. No, that way. Yes, hold it right there, sister.) because, I am about to take the real news to Clara FM!”

Stop her! Tell her he is your man!  I do not know whether it is curiosity that stops me from stopping her or a subtle intimidation created in me by an already expectant crowd of waiting women or both. My heart is thumping like drumbeats. My mouth is shut and pouting!

“Now, I am not telling one of my jokes here….”

(Thank God it is no joke, I think.)

“I hear the brother likes women a lot. He does not know a hair salon from a barber’s shop! (There is thunderous laughter.) He’s come here five times this week. (But that was no joke!) I’m gonna get my share of his cake next time! ”

 “STOP!” I yell and spring away from her.

I pick my things hurriedly and walk out as fast as I can. I wish I can just be deleted like a computer file. My hair is wet and the hairnet seems not to be doing its job of covering the mess properly. Of course, I do not want to see Eddy. So I go straight to my pad, throw myself on my bed and cry myself to sleep.