A Collection of Short Stories

A Collection of Short Stories

“...In Tales from the other Side, many names, who have cut their teeth in literature by
becoming digital pioneers of online storytelling strut their stuff and it is beautiful to behold.
This is fresh, imaginative and innovative writing. I recommend this collection to any reader
who wants to reach out and touch the souls and muses of a beautiful generation of writers.”
Ikhide R. Ikheloa, critic, teacher and lover of new African writing
“... this is an important, era-defining collection peopled by disparate writers most of whom
met each other on social media but what surprises is the lack of references to the internet,
social media or technology by a generation of writers defined by it.”
Toni Kan, poet, novelist, teacher and author of Nights of the creaking Bed
“...the themes are contemporary and are generally handled competently by this crop of
new writers. The writers here are largely unheard of, but they have been active on social
media. This collection is their taking to the field, a considerable bid in getting a greater share
of literary attention and validation.”
Richard Ali, Publisher and author of City of Memories

First Published as an e-book in 2015 by Atmos Books and BlackText Publishing
Copyright © All featured writers and content creators 2015
all rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form
by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise except for brief
quotations in critical reviews or articles, without either the prior written permission of the publisher/s or
author/s.
the various stories/contents within this book remain properties of the individual
writers/content creators
ISBN: 978-1517453725
copyright 2015

Credits
Managing Editor/Curator:
Bankole Banjo
Editor:
Kenechi Uzochukwu
Associate Editors:
Eketi Aime Ette
Ayo Inika
Iquo Diana Abasi
Ibifiri Kamson
Toromade Samson Adedire
Copy Editor/Proofreader:
Modupe Gbemi
Cover Design/Concept:
Seun Robinson
seunrobinson@outlook.com
Book Support:
Seun Odukoya

To the one who made it against
the run of play. We are good. Very good.

Foreword
Angels of Redemption – Hymar David
Behind the Scenes – Eketi Ette
Birthright – Miracle Adebayo
Cracks – Sibbyl Whyte
Double Promotion – Shittu Fowora
Fourteen years – Bankole Banjo
Jibril – Olisaeloka Onyekaonwu
Open Your Eyes – Su’eddie Agema
Passenger 13E – Aideyan Daniel
Pretty Bird – TJ Benson
Sour Kisses – Jennifer Emelife
The Indomie Man – Michael Ogah
Wanted: For fear study – Raymond Elenwoke
We only die once – Jumoke Omisore
Whispering Waters – Soogun Omoniyi
Afterword
Acknowledgements

He turns around. It’s been calling him for a while now, but he’s tried to ignore it. The party is in
full swing right now and by God, he’s going to try and fit in. Parties are not his thing, but he’s
going to try. All of his friends are here, and he knows the celebrant. Well, not like they’ve hung
out or anything, but he must have said hello to her once or twice; they go to the same school
and roll in the same circles after all. That’s got to count for something, at least.
But he can’t resist the pull, the call that only he can hear. So he stops dancing for a moment
and listens. He walks backward slowly, slowly, four steps, five, six, seven. He stops. He closes
his eyes, shuts away the world. He listens. The music, the laughter, everything falls away
into nothingness, and the voice is clearer now. His nostrils flare as he breathes in the evening
air; it is warm and full of promises.
And the voice is louder now. It beckons. It pulls.
He turns.
A few feet in front of him is a gorge so deep the bottom is not visible. There is the sound of
running water, but the darkness down there is absolute.
There is a bridge.
It is a narrow, stone bridge with two weather-beaten, oak pillars that stretch so far above,
they are lost in the clouds. They stand sentinel, two guardians as old as Time. Their tales are
etched within them in deep lines that swirl and glow in the dying light. The other side of the
bridge is lost in mist, and from within it a voice, haunting in its beauty and filled with untold
promises, whispers one word.
Come.

He walks forward, and suddenly it is as though the earth falls away. He is on the bridge with
no idea as to how he got there, but it does not matter.
No.
Nothing matters but the other side of the mist, and all that it holds…
And we’re off!
Hello, and welcome to the maiden edition of Tales From The Other Side. This is what happens
when you have too much talent with no harness. What happens is that this talent says “You
know what, Forget this! Time to fly!” And then it promptly jumps off the cliff.
What happens next, well, that depends on the view of those who see. ‘It’s a Bird! No, it’s a
Plane. No, it’s…’
You get the drift.
Tales from the other side is as eclectic a collection as you will find. It is filled with stories that
are not afraid to break the mould, to take risks. Stories that have been hiding in the Other Side
for too long and are now ready to burst forth.
And the most awesome part of all this is that each and every story you are about to read, is
true. At least to the writers. After all, who are we but Messengers and Tale-bearers?
So come on in, and at the end of it all, I will take you to meet the gang.
Raymond Elenwoke
13th August, 2015.
Port Harcourt, Nigeria.

Angels of Redemption
Hymar David
Angels of
Redemption
Hymar David
2
Tales from the Other Side

Hymar David
Angels of Redemption
“And those who go to bed, climaxing with the devil
Wake up militants, summoning God.”
**
-Shittu Fowora.
After some time, your muscles grow accustomed to the weight of the gun. You no longer
suffer cramps from marching all day in the heat of the forest, craving sleep, water and
home. Your reflexes sharpen, your senses become attuned to sounds other than twigs breaking
under marching feet, urine hitting dead leaves scattered on the ground, and ushed exchanges in
Hausa. You hear birds taking flight from umbrella trees as your troop approach, the whispering of the
leaves as the wind pass through them; forest voices. You are becoming one with the forest and one
of them.
By the third day, you find a coil of rope from which you weave a makeshift sling to carry the weapon
across your shoulder. Like you carried your bag when you went to school. Alfa barks instructions,
his thickly bearded face conveying the menace he tries too hard to pass across with harsh words.
But you are not afraid of him, he would not hurt you; he never used his whip back at the Quranic
school. In the forest, the only thing that terrifies you is the excitement in the voices of the boys
marching alongside you. Boys you grew up with. Boys you know. Or used to know.
Their muted conversations are full of demolition, carnage and righteousness. They talk about their
duty to the Prophet, the sacrifice they are more than willing to render. They ooze adrenaline and
bloodlust. They put the fear of Allah in you.
Yes, you fear Allah. You fear whatever can suddenly possess little boys my age , trap their budding
adolescence in hourglasses of savagery, to make them believe they are angels of repercussions
3

Angels of Redemption
Hymar David
and redemption.
How old is Sheu? Nine? Ten? And Garba and Usman, barely thirteen.
What of Muda? You all knew he still had to be woken by his mother nightly mid-sleep so he doesn’t
wet his bed. And Usman? Usman who had never won a fight at school or the streets. Usman who
got beaten up by Jamila, a girl his age; here, talking about murder in the name of Allah, repeating
everything Alfa told everybody the morning after the raid, like a venerable sacrament.
It is hard to believe that barely five days ago, most of you were in your school shorts, playing four-aside
after-school football with unripe grapefruits plucked from a tree beside the school grounds. Your
shirts folded into Your bags, your names scribbled at the collars in case of mix-ups and thefts.
“ Pass! Pass!” You remember Muda screaming vainly at Sheu.
Sheu,best dribbler and ball hogger, faked a pass, drove past Usman and Ahmed, feinted a shot,
displaced Saheed and drove home with his left. 3-0.
“ Aliyu,” Ahmed’s voice brings you back. “ You never say anything.”
You keep walking. Alfa says it would be half an hour more before you reach where the others are
camped. You shift the gun from left shoulder to right, the balance offers no relief; you sling the rope
over your shoulder, passing it across your body, under your right arm, the gun dangling behind you.
4
Tales from the Other Side

Hymar David
Angels of Redemption
“I am just thinking,” you blurt out.
“About what?” Usman asks in that grown-up voice he has adopted since the march began.
You shrug, but no shoulder work. You look at the trees, sensing the eyes of the other boys boring
qustions into your back. Already you can see a stretch of makeshift tents made of parched grass
and bamboo shoots, figures moving in the distance, black kaftans, faint smoke clouds. A black flag
flutters a welcome in the wind. Apprehension grips your chest.
The chatter picks up. You hear mallam Ibrahim’s name bandied about in reverential tones.. He’s
the prophet’s right hand of justice. He’s the man who was marked by Allah for the Cause. He’s the
Saviour. Redeemer.
A hush hovers your troop as you approach the camp. You see smoke and smell the faint aroma
of something cooking. Conversation fades as your troop pass sentries wielding menace like the
machine guns they tote. They have straw hats and some wore army camouflages most likely
stripped off dead soldiers . Nobody is talking anymore.
Mallam Ibrahim is sitting on a chair, wearing a white turban, white kaftan and marching boots. He is
fondling prayer beads with both hands. Two men flank him, their machine guns pointing skywards.
The wind carries jollof rice aroma to you. It brings memories laced with nostalgia.
5

Angels of Redemption
Hymar David
Sallah memories; a goat roasting on a spit, fascinated children watching and pointing, motherly
voices scolding children playing too close to the fire, Your little sister Maryam’s beautiful new dress
complete with the plastic sunglasses she lost later in the day, the raucous laughter of the men
skinning the goat.
Alfa walks towards Mallam Ibrahim and bows when he comes to a stop before him. Mallam Ibrahim
makes a gesture that looks dismissive. Alfa rises and turns towards the troop.
“ Durk usa!” he barks.
Obediently, you fall on your knees before Mallam Ibrahim. You watch the Mallam’s eyes sweep
through the troop of about fifty little boys and teens; survivors of Boko Haram raids on Jasia and
Girawa villages that had left their parents and siblings and childhoods dead.
You remember the thunder that woke you up the night of the raid. The way the sky lit up in bright,
furious red. You remember the patter of frenzied footfalls, your lungs suddenly filling with smoke,
the fear that stripped the bass from your father’s voice when he called your name. You remember
standing outside, alone, watching your house burn, the warmth from the inferno offering a queer
comfort from the cold. You remember a hand on your shoulder then a blow across your face. Then
you remember nothing but stars and dark clouds. For a while.
Mallam Ibrahim rises and walks towards your troop. He looks each boy in the eye as he passes
them. When he reaches you, you notice the black dot on his forehead, souvenirs from periods
spent in prayer, temple repeatedly kissing the earth. Your father has the prayer dot too. His was even
6
Tales from the Other Side

Hymar David
Angels of Redemption
more pronounced.
“We are the messengers of Allah,” Mallam Ibrahim starts speaking. “We are sent to bring judgement
on this world of infidels.”
You don’t get it. How’s your father an infidel, or your mother? Quiet people who lived devout lives.
Your father was always scolding you and your sister, but he never once hit either of you. And your
mother had a voice so soft, every word was music, beautiful music.
You listen to him. His voice rises and rises like firewood smoke ascending to become clouds. The
boys shed their sober demeanours. Their voices rise in cheer and defiant chants. Reflexively, you
join in. Your voice is not yours, it is too loud, too impassioned, too much like theirs.
The women finish the cooking and pass steaming platefuls around. The food scalds your tongue
and makes your eyes to water. But you eat every grain, even flicking the runaway pieces on your
shirt into your mouth. As you do that, your mother’s voice echoes in your head, “Stop eating like a
beggar,” and nostalgia washes over you again. For a place that used to be home.
Night comes, you lie awake, staring at the stars from an aperture in the roof where the grass parts
wide enough. Sleeping bodies surround you.
Sleep robs the boys of their aggression and bloodlust. They are boys once more. Boys whimpering
in their sleep, boys sleeptalking. Boys lying there, innocent, pure and at peace with the world. Your
playmates. And friends.
7

Angels of Redemption
Hymar David
Tomorrow, they will wake up and become—will have to be— soldiers. Hardboiled and cold. They will
cradle machine-guns and chant defiance and cheer mallam Ibrahim when he makes his speeches.
If they remember anything from life as they used to know it, they will not show it. They will join the
older men to raid villages for supplies and recruits and killing sprees. And you will join them. You
will learn war overnight. You will learn unquestioning devotion to Allah’s cause, battle chants and
amnesia.
You will become one of them.
Hymar David grew up in Lagos and Ogun states. He spends
more time causing trouble on Facebook than he does writing.
Luckily, it pays; the causing trouble and, sometimes, the writing.
8
Tales from the Other Side

Behind
The
Scene
Eketi Ette

Eketi Ette
Behind The Scene
Be careful how you weep for the dead, for you do not know who dug his grave with his own
hands
—An Ikot Ntefon Saying
It was a balmy Saturday afternoon when Uko died. There was scarcely anyone who did
not grieve for his death. The men shook their heads, patted his father on the back and
whispered words of comfort. The women wailed and beat their chests with both hands,
cursing death and its theft of one of humanity’s finest.
“Ete, song idem. Be strong,” they said, with countenances that belied the platitudes they
offered. The man is approaching his sixties; how could he be strong? He’d just lost his only
child.
Ete Ikpa nodded as each sympathizer came forward. His face bore his grief, but buried in
his heart where no one could see, was a fury swelling like the evening tide on the banks of
the Calabar River.
“He died without even having eaten his evening meal,” he ground out angrily.
“Ete, kuyak ado ufuna. Don’t let it worry you. Whether he ate or not, he is now with God,” a
woman to his left said in a gentle voice. Ete Ikpa’s ears perked up at her voice and his foot
stilled. Maria Akpan—he hadn’t heard or seen her come in. She lived five houses away and
sold fabrics at Udua Nkim, the local market where he also plied his wares. Their eyes met
and held for two seconds, before his withdrew his gaze and began to gnash his teeth.
*****
Maria Akpan busied herself with preparing the evening meal, moiling over the rickety stove.
She poked at the contraption, adjusting the inner metal chamber, in a bid to reduce the
fumes it was coughing up.
11

Behind The Scene
Eketi Ette
“Someone should open that backyard door,” she called out. “Quickly, before this smoke kills
me.” From somewhere in the belly of the tiny house, her second son ran to do her bidding.
An hour later, the meal was ready and she called out to her daughter. Ima trudged into the
kitchen, muttering under her breath about being sent on errands when her younger brothers
were idling around watching television.
“My friend, will you shut up and pass me those plates!” her mother barked, pointing at the
basket of plastic plates beside the tall water barrel. Ima’s frown promptly dispersed. The
fear of their mother’s cane was the beginning of wisdom, and insolence could cost her her
share of the tantalizing yam porridge bubbling in the pot.
“I saw Ete Ikpa today,” Ima reports, certain the subject matter would assuage her mother’s
annoyance. “He looks just as sad as that first day.”
By this time, three months had passed since his Ete Ikpa lost his son.
“Hmmm,” Maria said non-committally. “It is well.”
*****
Everyone in Ikot Ntefon knew Ete Ikpa. He sold ikpa unam, thick, leathery cow skin that
he wheeled around in his barrow. Every day, he went from stall to stall at the meat sellers’
section of the market, selling his wares and making friends. It wasn’t long before most of the
meat sellers stopped buying from the abattoir and patronized him for their supply.
“Customer, you’ve come. How’s your wife and the baby?” asked Eno, one of his regular
buyers.
“They’re fine,” Ete Ikpa replied with a grin that revealed slightly browned teeth. Until a few
months before, he had been a bachelor. Not out of choice, for being single at fifty-three had
12
Tales from the Other Side

Eketi Ette
Behind The Scene
not been his plan. But time had passed and none of the women he fancied had welcomed
his advances, not even after he bought a piece of land and built a three-bedroom
bungalow. Not until when he’d gone home on a visit to his aged mother and met Uduak.
She was young and beautiful, a dropout of the nearby College of Education and a lady
many would never have expected will look at him twice. But for some reason, she took to
him. A whirlwind romance had blossomed, more out of his ardour than of hers, which soon
culminated in his paying her dowry.
“Greet them for me,” said the woman in the next stall.
Ikpa nodded his head and went down the muddy passage, calling out to his customers and
passers-by.
“Buy your ikpa,” he shouted, “Two-two hundred…two-two hundred.”
*****
“Is your brother back?” Maria asked, just before she heard her oldest son noisily wipe his
feet on the doormat outside the back door in that unique way of his — two taps of his feet
twice and a swipe on the foot mat, before he entered the house.
“Ebe, amenyong. My husband, welcome,” she greeted with a smile as he walked into the
kitchen. He’d been her pillar ever since her husband passed on from this world.
“Mma, good evening,” Essien replied. He was a handsome young man of twenty-nine, and
an industrious electrician who worked at the local NEPA office.
“What happened? Why is there no light?” he asked, frowning at the rechargeable lantern
they were using.
“They came and cut it,” his sister said, referring to the staff of the electricity company.
“Did you tell them I live here?” he asked.
13

Behind The Scene
Eketi Ette
“Essien, don’t worry about it. Go and bath, then come and eat. You can sort it out
tomorrow.”
“Iyo, Mma. It’s too hot to sleep without a fan. Let me go and reconnect the light. Just dish
out my food—I’ll be back soon.” He turned away.
“Essien, no!” his mother exclaimed. “Eat first, please. You can fix it later.”
“Mma what is it?” both children stared at her, puzzled.
“Nothing,” she mumbled. “Go. Your food will be waiting.”
Shaking his head dismissively, Essien picked up his bag of tools and a torch-light.
He headed outside.
*****
There were no secrets in Ikot Ntefon. So when Ete Ikpa’s young wife absconded with one
of the students of the College of Education, leaving her infant son at the mercy of his elderly
father, everyone knew. Everyone also expected the man would have the baby reared by a
close relative since his mother was too old to care for one.
But the man surprised them all. He took his son with him to see his mother and when he
returned a month later, he’d become very adept at caring for Uko. Each morning, he would
bath and dress him with care, then lovingly place him on one side of the wheelbarrow. The
barrow now had two partitions: the bigger part for his cow skins and the other for the baby.
In this way, he would make his way to the abattoir and then his rounds in the market.
The dimpled, button-nosed baby became the darling of all the market women. Honorary
mothers, grandmothers and aunties, they always had something for him—a few pieces of
baby clothes, fish, pap, wooden toys, small cash gifts here and there. And whenever his
father was very busy, a willing babysitter was always found.
14
Tales from the Other Side

Eketi Ette
Behind The Scene
In this way they went on for four years, Uko happily gurgling in the barrow, his father
laughing as he pushed him along.
*****
A wail tore through the muted sounds of the twilight evening, startling everyone who
heard it. It was one of pure agony; guttural and helpless. It was immediately attended by a
blinding flash, much fiercer than lightning, which fired up the night sky. Several loud sparks
accompanied a subsequent wail. This time, people poured out of their homes, abandoning
their supper, curious to find out what was going on.
When she beheld the sight, Ima let out a loud wail. Her brother Essien was dangling from
the electric pole adjacent their house, his body burning from the volume of the electric
voltage that coursed through it.
“Nne mi oooo,” she cried, throwing herself on the ground.
Maria rushed out at the shout and in her haste, knocked over her plate of yam porridge.
Outside, her eyes quickly took in everything. The shocked, gawking neighbours. Her
weeping daughter. Then her gaze slowly went up to the spectre on the electric pole. Her
heart slowed to a stop. Then it began to pound furiously.
“He has taken his revenge,” she whispered.
They had to carry her inside. Hours later, to the consternation of her children and everyone
else, she wouldn’t stop whispering those words: “He has taken his revenge.”
*****
The truth never stays covert, least of all in a small town like Ikot Ntefon. Three days after
Essien’s death, a well-meaning customer stopped by Ete Ikpa’s house. The man had taken
to spending most of his days on his porch morose, mindlessly watching as people go by.
15

Behind The Scene
Eketi Ette
After greeting him, she sat on a stool he’d kept aside for visitors and said, “Did you hear of
Maria’s son? He died three days ago, from electric shock.”
Nothing could have prepared her for his reaction. Like one possessed, Ete Ikpa suddenly
burst into laughter—loud, long and sinister.
“I told her to let the boy eat first. I begged. But did she listen? No. She didn’t let my son
have his evening meal. So I took her son before he could have his own,” he spat. Then he
laughed again, hissed and looked away into the distance.
The woman got up and staggered backwards, terrified. She made her way out of the
compound back first, spreading the word as she went.
Eketi Ette was born in Calabar. She’s a lawyer, freelance Editor
and ghostwriter.
Eketi loves dogs, experimenting with recipes, movies, travelling
to new places and dance. She also enjoys learning new
languages and can say hello in at least seven. Her works are
published in The Songhai 12--an anthology, on her blog, http://
rachaelzheart.wordpress.com/; AfricanHadithi.com and various
blogs, and magazines. You can find her on Twitter @Ketimay;
@ketimae on Instagram and Eketi Aimé Ette on Facebook.
16
Tales from the Other Side

Birthright
Miracle Adebayo

Miracle Adebayo
Birthright
***
“It is as it has always been. He is the excellency of honor, the excellency of strength.
The first born son is no mere issue.”
***
Loss has a way of eliciting flashbacks. Of memories we’d rather be rid of.
Daddy’s death did that to me. I always thought he would be around until he was
old and senile, weary of this side of eternity. His death, much like his life, had been tedious.
A heart attack. Mommy called me, distraught and inarticulate. I would not travel to Abuja
that day, although I knew she needed me. I just wasn’t ready to admit what massive blow
Daddy’s demise had dealt me.
In life, you might find yourself in the sore plight of that one parent you could never please.
The one you strived to impress all your life, but somehow never made good. Yes, there
may be accomplishments you are mighty proud of, but all of which means nothing to that
parent. For me, that parent was Daddy. It mattered little that I was his spitting image, having
inherited his eyes, adroit limbs and sturdy frame. Oft times growing up when I caught him
looking at me, his gaze was a third part longing, a third part disappointment. Those were
the parts I knew.
When I eventually cried, it was not because I missed him. I wept because I’d never
impressed him, not with my academic degrees nor my relatively decent job.
***
I shall not bear the derision to my grave. You ought to know. And here is why.
19

Birthright
Miracle Adebayo
***
The room I slept in was musty. The mattress was lopsided, like whoever occupied it before
me had favoured one side. The only window in the room overlooked the courtyard. Through
it streamed in the voices of neighbours who had come to grieve with us. Daddy built this
house in the village years ago. It was my second time here yet it felt old and unfamiliar. If it
were left to me, Daddy would be buried in Abuja, where he spent most of his life. Please
why should we pretend that Honorable Akin Akingbule had any consanguinity with his
people? He left this place and all it represented behind forever as soon as he paddled unto
the banks of more pleasant shores. Here is now a strange land to the remains of a man
who hailed from there. Abuja knew him better than this place.
A loud wail from the courtyard jarred me out of my cogitations. It brings to mind of artifice
and chicanery, the crocodile tears of hired mourners.
“Sister? Sister.”
Her soft voice filtered into my consciousness and I felt the hairs on my neck stand on end.
When I slowly looked up, she was standing there. Oluwadara, my only sibling, and the last
person I wanted to see.
***
At your birth, I was overjoyed. ‘A son,’ I erroneously thought. Had you been one we could
have ruled the world. Together. Darkness breeding darkness.
***
In a moment like this one, when I thought of how much I did not like my sister, I was wont to
believe that I had a dark soul. I didn’t hate her, no; but I despised her intensely.
20
Tales from the Other Side

Miracle Adebayo
Birthright
‘May I come in?’ she asked, fluttering her hands in that peculiar manner unique to her.
I stood still, my eyes settling on her curvy frame. Her beauty had always overwhelmed me,
ever since we were little children. She had always been the lovelier, chubbier and more
attractive one.
‘Yes.’
She entered and invaded me with an embrace. Subconsciously, my body refused the
gesture a welcome. I hadn’t seen her in two years. Not since the birth of her only son,
Jason.
A scowl possessed my face as I thought of the boy.
When Mommy called and solemnly reported that Dara was with child, there had been
neither shock nor pity. I always reckoned her comeliness would someday be her undoing.
It did not help matters that she went around charming every man who showed the slightest
interest in her. She was twenty-three when Mommy called me with the disclosure, newly
graduated from the university.
“Come home first and see her. Maybe she will speak to you,” mother had pleaded.
I wondered why she thought I was the best person to talk to Dara. “And Daddy?”
“He has not spoken…yet”
I wondered if this would have been his reaction had it been me.
I didn’t go home and neither did I call my sister. My warnings of her precocious ways having
fallen on dead ears, I had no more words for her. When the baby was born, I went home
for his christening. I was curious as to why Papa had agreed to host the naming ceremony
of an illegitimate child.
Jealousy tore at me the moment I arrived at the gate. It was a lavish feast. Our compound
21

Birthright
Miracle Adebayo
was bursting at the seams with well-wishers. Daddy walked around, grinning like a monarch
unto whom a heir had been finally born and Dara was all smiles and sparkles. Hearty
felicitations serenaded her, along with gifts for her bundle of joy. I was livid. I faked a smile
throughout the entire event, congratulating my sister woodenly and fuming at my father’s
absurdity.
“Oh sis, I’m relieved Daddy finally came around!” Dara gushed. “From the moment he set
eyes on Jason, he loosened up. Even Mommy was quite srprised.”
“Listen, if you make this mistake again, he won’t be won over even if the baby is Jesus
Christ,” I remarked with a smirk. “By the way, is the father here?”
“No. He…he..he couldn’t make it. He couldn’t make it due to urgent work obligations and
he is far away”, she replied with a clumsy hesitation. “He sent money”
“Good. I’m glad he’s taking responsibility,” I lied and hid my indignation behind a straight
face feigning concern.
***
No thing you become can ease the blow. No height you attain can undo the ignominy.
***
As I sat on the sagging bed and listened to my sister yammer on about Jason, I
remembered that day.
“It’s so hard for Jay. He loved Daddy so much and now he’s no longer with us…” Dara
sniffled.
“Mommy said something about a lawyer meeting with us,” I changed the subject, unwilling
to indulge her grief.
22
Tales from the Other Side

Miracle Adebayo
Birthright
“Yes. It appears he wants to read Daddy’s will today.”
“Daddy has a will?”
Her eyes widened. “You didn’t know?”
“Erm…of course I knew. I…forgot.” I thought one of the sure perks of being the first born
was that you were let in on crucial details before anyone else. I knew my father was no
pauper but I hadn’t supposed he was wealthy enough to have a will.
“Come and see Jason”, my sister announces excitedly. “He talks a lot now.”
I nodded, distracted. If my father had written a will, then it could only mean one thing. I
was going to be an heiress. For once in my life, it felt good to be first. This time, being first
wouldn’t mean giving up something, but getting something. Suddenly I felt better since
Daddy’s passing. Maybe I’d managed to impress him somehow after all.
“Yes. Let me come and see Jason” I smiled
***
What I do, is not out of hatred. You of all people should understand selfishness that goes
beyond the grave.
***
Even Mommy seemed uneasy when the lawyer arrived. Where Daddy had exuded strength,
Mommy was fragile. I’d often wondered how she managed being married to him.
Members of my father’s extended family cast disapproving glances at the lawyer as
Mommy led the way to the living room. Thieves, I apprised bitterly. They want their share of
a fortune they never labored for. Who among them had had to survive Daddy’s magisterial,
overbearing ways all these years?
23

Birthright
Miracle Adebayo
“I won’t take much of your time, ladies.” The lawyer’s eyes settled on Mommy as she patted
a fretful Jason. I concealed my disgust. The boy was just a rotten brat, dismissing the
obvious fact that all toddlers possibly behave in much the same manner.
“This contains your father’s last wishes,’ he continued, as he opened the folder in front of
him. ‘Who is the older sister? Temitope?’
“I am.”
“Your father wanted you to have this,” he handed me a slim envelope. “He asked that you
only open it after the will has been read.”
I nodded and ignored the bells sounding off in my head.
“Now, let us begin.” Taking out a notarized original document, he began to read.
I don’t know the exact second the world began to fade. Perhaps it was when he mentioned
that Jason was my father’s sole beneficiary, with Dara having power of attorney until he
reaches twenty-one. Or maybe it was when he said my father had left me this ramshackled
house he built in the village.
Something was wrong. I turned to look at my sister’s face, to be sure I had not suddenly
become hearing impaired. When our eyes met, I saw what her lips did not speak. Triumph.
I stood up on wobbly knees, too stung to speak. My gaze rested on Mama who looked
like she was torn between pity for me and pleasure for her grandson. Suddenly I wanted to
vomit. In one fell swoop, my birthright, the sole thing that was me and mine, gone.
It wasn’t until I got into my car that I remembered I was still holding the envelope. With
trembling hands, I opened it…
***
24
Tales from the Other Side

What I do, is not out of hatred. You of all people should understand selfishness that goes
beyond the grave.
I name Jason Akingbami Akinwole my sole heir. He is to carry on the Akingbule family name.
Be kind to my son. Adieu.
Daddy.
Mimi Adebayo is a writer and blogger. Although she has a
degree in law, she spends most of her time with her books and
writing tools. She prefers the insides of a library to that of a court
room. Her works have been described as real, simple but deep.
Even though she does mostly prose fiction, she does freelance
writing for magazines too and writes for fun from her blog www.
mimiadebayo.com. She has a keen interest in screen writing and
hopes to get into the movie industry sometime.

Cracks
Sibbyl Whyte

Cracks
Sibbyl Whyte
They have barely spent three months in the new house when the girl, Evelyn, notices
a crack in her bedroom wall. It is tiny, like an earthworm wriggling behind her calendar
towards the ceiling. She stands on the headboard and traces it, wondering if it will grow.
She hears raised voices, a thud and a scream and runs to the door. Peeking out, she
watches her dad storm out of the parents’ bedroom contorting his face and twisting his
wrist like one in pain. She swallows her call and closes the door, suddenly scared.
The fear follows her around and she refuses to look her parents in the eyes so they don’t
catch its shadow shimmering behind lashes straight and long like her mother’s. During
dinner, she joins the twins in their foot-fight under the table. She mistakenly hits daddy’s
legs and mumbles a sorry but he laughs and joins them. Mum smiles at her and spears a
piece of plantain off dad’s plate with a laugh. Life is good.
Now and then, she checks on her earthwormy crack. It grows as she grows. It is as wide
as a centipede the night before she goes to boarding school. She already misses everyone,
everything and she cries herself to sleep. The morning before she leaves, father hugs her,
tells her he will miss her, and heads to his office and meetings. The twins cry, wanting to be
with her to the end but mum says no, she has an important meeting by noon. They hug till
mum’s words prise them apart and she waves and waves till the gate closes on their sad,
identical faces. Evelyn cries all the way to school, but her mum does not notice. She is on
the phone laughing - with someone she calls Lex dear - like she used to do with daddy
before she got her new job.
First Holiday. She is so happy to be back with her family. The first night she is a storyteller,
regaling them with school tales. The next morning, she wakes to the changes. Mum applies
heavy makeup but it doesn’t quite hide her red, puffy eyes or the pinkish imprint of fingers
on her fair face. Dad eats his breakfast without talking and leaves the house without the
28
Tales from the Other Side

Sibbyl Whyte
Cracks
customary family hug. The twins are unchanged, playing at the table till Chizaram, snaps
at Chimaobi and a fight ensues. Mother rushes out - late for work - and instructs Evelyn to
make lunch and dinner just in case they return late. She stares at her breakfast, appetite
lost. She yells at the still bickering twins, they listen and finish their food. She packs up and
does the dishes while they migrate to their room and games. Chores finished, she lies in
bed and looks upon the crack now as wide as the baby snake her father once found in the
flower hedges and killed. She knows everything has changed.
Later, after her siesta, she inspects the house for cracks. Thirteen of them she finds—
seven in her parents’ bedroom. She knows some people say thirteen is an unlucky number
but seven is good. Seven gifts of the Holy Spirit. Seven days of creation. She learnt that in
catechism.
In the night, they sit for dinner; daddy complains, mum flinches and bows her head,
apologetic. He smiles then, a baring of fangs like a lion they once saw at the zoo. Evelyn
coughs, trying to dislodge the lump in her throat and the words form:
“Daddy, do you know our house is breaking?
“How?” He asks, a spoonful of rice halfway to his mouth. The twins turn to look at her.
“There are many cracks in the walls. Especially in you and mummy’s room,” she says,
looking from one to the other. “Haven’t you people seen them?”
29

Cracks
Sibbyl Whyte
“Oh. That? Nothing will happen, it will not make the house break, my dear.” His words
come out in mishmash as he chews on his meat and leaves the table, phone ringing in his
pocket.
“Evelyn, stop talking. You children finish your food and go to bed. I will clean up,” her mother
says, pushing back her chair, in pursuit of her husband.
She nods and looks down on her food. It is difficult to chew now; unspoken words war
with each spoonful she swallows. From their bedroom she hears the shouts that beget the
slaps that beget the slamming of doors; daddy gone. Why can’t they see it? The house
is breaking, everything is changing. She shovels the food in, hardly chewing, not tasting.
Maybe nothing is wrong with her parents. Maybe every house breaks into pieces too.
Once, when the house was being built, dad had taken them all one Saturday afternoon to
watch. She had seen the men moulding blocks, sweat streaming down their backs as they
mixed cement, sand and water. Maybe it is the fault of the builders. Maybe they added
too much water and the blocks became weak in some parts. Maybe the walls would stop
breaking at one point. Maybe... She chews viciously on the meat, bites her tongue and
tastes blood. Standing up, she packs up the plates, careful not to let angry tears drop.
Years come, years go.
It is New Year’s Eve. The New Year will be Evelyn’s last in secondary school. She looks
forward to the university where she would be free of rules and spend more time away from
home if she feels like it. She gazes at the crack which stopped growing after it became a
30
Tales from the Other Side

Sibbyl Whyte
Cracks
baby-snake and hears the raised voices in the living room. These days they do not bother
to retreat to their bedroom, anywhere is a battlefield. Home does not make her happy as
it used to. The twins feel the same way. She knows. It is them with headphones plugged
in and music turned on high to drown the voices at war. It is the look in their eyes when
both parents are home: sad, watchful, following the voices and footsteps as if waiting for
something to happen.
Sometimes, nothing happens. Most times it does.
An argument, raised voices, flared tempers.
Hands rise, blows fall, and bodies bruise.
Curses, tears, slammed doors...silence.
Listening hearts break, nightmares, resolutions never to become like their parents.
Days go, nights come, and the cracks deepen, unseen, waiting for an earthquake.
Sibbyl Whyte is a Nigerian writer who is subject to the whims
of her headstrong chi. Bits of her imagination have appeared on
Gypsiana - her laptop, Facebook, Naijastories, The Clip Magazine
and in anthologies of fiction and poetry such as A Basket of
Tales, and the SEVHAGE Flood anthologies, The Rainbow Lied
and The Promise This Time Was Not a Flood. She is currently
at work on the untold stories in her head.
31

Double
Promotion
Shittu Fowora

Double Promotion
Shittu Fowora
Spreading her arms open, “Is it you...” she said, more excited than surprised. Iyanifa
had stopped by to pass time with her this Friday evening. Weekends are mostly for
relaxation for both women.
Particularly Mama Kpodo, who in her mid-sixties still looked forty, nails manicured with finical
attention paid to her youthful radiant skin. Having recently retired from civil service, what she
does most was churching, gardening and following style trends on FashionTV network.
“You met me well,” she said, ushering her friend to the couch then made for the refrigerator
and returned with a jug of pureed soursop and apples. “Have something to cool down Iyanifa.”
Her friend took one hurried gulp and dropped what was left in the cup on the tuffet beside
her —then crossed her legs, and paid heed to the motions of the anchor showing on the TV.
“Mama you really looked elegant on Sunday. You danced like you won the jackpot,” Iyanifa
said.
“Oh dear, more than the jackpot…I tell you, more than the jackpot,” she beamed fulfilment, as
she picked and munched pieces of fried plantain from the saucer before her.
“Tinuke got double promotion at her place of work two months back. She credited my account
with bundles. Why would I not celebrate, Iyanifa?”
“Ah! That is kind of her; some daughters-in-law make you forget you never had a daughter.
She’s a good-hearted woman. A very good-hearted woman,” piped her friend
“I tell you; even Kpodo’s new job was all due to her persistence. This one pays better and is
closer home,” she finished, retying her headgear.
“I have only God to thank for these blessings,’’ Iyanifa said, while draining the frothy fruit drink
in her hand.
The evening stirred well, with its usualness. Drinks and banter punctuated with lines from
34
Tales from the Other Side

Shittu Fowora
Double Promotion
‘Amazing Grace’ the version by Soweto Choir, Ladysmith Black Mambazo or lyrics from
Senzenina Acappella. The visiting neighbour left before night thickened.
While it was a tough decision to reach –later in the year, Kpodo and Tinuke left for Glasgow
and promised Mama to remain in touch as much as they could. Sniffles and snivels, teary
eyes and embrace; they left, reassuring Mama she’ll be fine. They will keep in touch.
Kpodo thought, well with some good money in the kitty, what’s the point slaving like some
day-labourer on construction sites in the scorching heat of the Persian Gulf. “Tinuke, this thing
is your passion. I’ll be okay monitoring the business front while you work,” he had said, gulping
down some Scotch.
She looked him in the face, almost betraying her suspicion. He, perhaps, thought the proceeds
from the sales of his late father’s properties were enough to live on forever.
Tinuke called to check on her mother and her mother-in-law once in a while. Kpodo hardly
did. She’s been more graceful with support and gifts lately. Back in Nigeria, she would
occasionally drive in to drop gift hampers loaded with mugs, beverages, small-chops and
tong ho-green tea. Items she knew Mama Kpodo treasured much.
Kpodo continued, “You choose to validate the worth of your certificate. It is fine. For me, I’ll
be fine being at home.” She took a swig from his whisky and sighed. This had remained her
basis for quarrel, sometimes passing into momentary fencing against him.
35

Double Promotion
Shittu Fowora
She feared too much time left in the hands of one who had the kind of face that stopped
you in your tracks could lead to the unimaginable. He’s slim, trendy, with an almost flawlessly
symmetrical face. She sees it in the way listeners hung on his words and reciprocate his smile
so quickly. They want to be close to him just like she does.
Even with all the chances that came his way he’d always told her, in all the four years three
months they courted, he was a one-woman-man who prized Tinuke’s industry and support
more than the plumpness of ‘things in lycra’ or doll faces slobbered with lipsticks.
Her first stinker was to come three months into their marriage after a steamy weekend at a
resort. An alert sounded in her cell phone. She picked it up. Read through it and stopped.
“Kpodo!” she sounded with alarm that clearly stirred her partner. “Who the hell is she?” she
continued.
“She? What are you on about?” He interjected, with a slight on his face, his left hand still in
his pocket while drawing closer to her. “What do you mean Tinu?”
She handed him the phone and watched his countenance for cues. “O! This? ‘Twas in error,
I was going to text Greg for a meet up.”
“Greg? And when did Greg become ‘Sweets’! ” She paused for effect, her decibel rising,
“How! How do you intend making it up to you Sweets with Greg?”
Her annoyance combusted into so much gas and ember the lodge could come down any
moment. It took a lot of pleading to get through it.
36
Tales from the Other Side

Shittu Fowora
Double Promotion
The next day, they rode home while Sufjan Stevens, “The Only Thing” from the car stereo filled
up their silence. Not satisfied, she thought to ring Greg up. She shelved it. “Kpodo, are you,
by any chance a bi?”
Kpodo did not respond and continued to hum. “Kpodo! I am talking to you.” She prodded.
“Tinuke!” he said without looking her way. “What’s the matter…I am driving.” he said.
She held her lips in what would cut a piece of carrot into two, and then switched off the stereo
system. “Are you involved with Greg?” she shot straight at him.
He looked to her side, before he could refocus on the wheels; he had a near brush at a
Nissan navigating past them. “No!” He chortled. “Unbelievable!” He added, flabbergasted. No
further exchanges until they got home.
Tinuke will spot her best suits on work days; she carried on an air of one who had the next
twenty years of life planned out. It was evident in the way she kept markers for special dates,
treats and diaries. The idea of Scotland was originally hers. She had thought, Glasgow where
men from various walks of life awakened every morning in their usual process in pursuit of
promise, prospects and possibilities, Kpodo would find a reason to be man—her kind of
man; that Kpodo would be more hardworking and enterprising like the resourceful personnel
and workers staffing one of the greatest shipbuilding centres of the world.
Save for Fridays when she closed by 2pm, other days were more exerting for her. Sometimes
she gets home past 7pm. Kpodo and Tinuke had amazing time on evenings of Fridays and
37

Double Promotion
Shittu Fowora
weekends. Many times he does the dinner and waits for her. Regardless of his slacking, that
was one thing she gave him extra hugs for – setting the table for gourmet indulgence.
“You mean the world to me,” he would say. She will pout, pull a face, snigger and chuckle as
if to deny the fact she felt most safe in his arms. “I love you too K-dodo”. Spent, in between
snuggles and banters they would fall asleep, sometimes only waking up in the wee-hours
of the night then dragging themselves out of the couch into the bedroom –snuggling up like
kittens.
One Tuesday evening, on the pretext of going to catch a match within the neighborhood, he
took a quick shower and dashed out of the house.
“K honey, don’t stay too long…” she said in half warning and half plea. “No, sweetheart, I
wouldn’t. It is just 90 mins max. I’ll be back soon”. He kissed her on the shoulder and leapt
out like there was a prize waiting where he went.
He didn’t return until way into the midnight. “Welcome” She didn’t say more than that. She
simply helped him pull off his T-shirt, sniffed it –without him taking a cue, before dropping it
into the laundry basket and slouching back into the double-bed.
His evening outings became more frequent. At times Greg came around and she’s since
been comfortable with the idea of him. After all, she thought, he had all day to frolic around but
no such thing had happened. She now knew her earlier suspicions were probably misplaced.
38
Tales from the Other Side

Shittu Fowora
Double Promotion
One of such evenings, tired from work and bored to the bones, she called home to know how
things fared. Positive feedback. She engaged a former work colleague who now oversees
most of the unit she once headed –in a chat. Good feedback too.
“….But Eno is now in Edinburgh.”
‘Really?’
“Yes Tinuke, she’d since left,” her colleague said,
“ she got a study grant or so…” she finished.
Somewhat taken aback, “That’s interesting.” Tinuke said,
“Edinburgh is about an hour away from here.” Tinuke’s lungs stifled.
Eno, her erstwhile office assistant at Cadbury Limited would have reached out to her, she
thought. She went in to have a shower and then dinner of fried rice, egg sauce and sautéed
plantain before Kpodo returned.
“Eno in Edinburgh?” Something instinctive fed her concerns even more. She placed a call
through to her husband. “K, love,” she said and stayed her breath awhile.
“Yes Tee, hope I am not about to be arrested?” He said in mild banter.
“Nope,” she said, still trying to guess what’s up. “Just make sure you get home on time,” she
said. “…sure sure, I’ll be with you soonest.”
Her phone app indicated a shopping mall around Victoria Street in Edinburgh. Without Eno in
the picture, she wouldn’t have been this uptight about Kpodo’s whereabouts.
39

Double Promotion
Shittu Fowora
For the next forty-eight days that followed, she would realise Kpodo, her darling husband was
frequenting Edinburgh. If she thought he hung all evening with Greg, whom she once feared
could have been seeing Kpodo, she was wrong. For she had, by herself, in spite of how
knackered she was, driven a few times to Greg’s apartment without notice, only to realise
Kpodo was never really always with Greg. Her eyes welled up, her nose pinched.
Another Wednesday she called Kpodo at lunch time to inquire if he’d had lunch. “Trust that
my dear. Done a full plate and my lips still taste as sweet as your sauce.” He said. “Okay love,”
she said, half-broken. Location: Golden Jubilee Hospital, Clydebank.
Something spiked her guts even more. The Thursday she secretly obtained Eno’s mobile
number from yet another junior staff back in Nigeria, she ran it through websites with the
keenness of a fish-sniffing cat. She took leave from office to tend to an ‘emergency’. Her
superiors at work bought it.
She got a hamper and filled it up with perfumes and wines, should she discover Eno there –a
surprise, innocent visit would have been it. Then with the details of her finds, she drove to the
location where she suspected Eno stayed. While driving, a call came in and got dropped.
She didn’t mind, her acceleration gave no hoots about who called or who didn’t.
“Eno? In this Edinburgh?” she muttered in suppressed contempt.
On getting to the street, she parked her car on a marked lot; picked her basket-load, engaged
the locks and walked around searching for the house closest to her mark…She placed a call
40
Tales from the Other Side

Shittu Fowora
Double Promotion
through. Her nose was sweaty; her hands, unsteady.
“How may I help you,” the voice at the other end said.
“Please, may I speak with the owner of the phone?” she said in the calmest of voices ever.
She’ll be surprised at her own gestures.
“Ma’am, can you call back later? She’s about to be discharged from the maternity unit,” the
recipient said.
“Where’s that? Please…” she asked. “Golden Jubilee Hospital,” she answered.
On reaching Golden Jubilee Hospital, Clydebank, she met a black parturient woman, with
twins; and met eyeball to eyeball with Kpodo –who suddenly lost his face, lost his voice and
lost his pace. The basket fell off Tinuke’s hands and shards splintered all over.
Shittu Fowora, a lifelong fan of history and the power of words has
recently been motivated by the winsomeness of birds and the wisdom
of ants. Having been stung more than twice while attempting to lounge
in trees to write verses, he now spends more time around electronic
gadgets, at other times, he’s in bed, not sleeping.
His works have recently appeared in or forthcoming from Sentinel
Quarterly Review, Monkeystarpress, Thewritemag, Helen Literary
Magazine, DANSE MACABRE, Abbreviate Journal, Arc and writerscafe.
org
41

Fourteen
Years
Bankole Banjo

Fourteen Years
Bankole Banjo
Ray’s submission was as expected. Having contributed several short stories to Jaguda
Quarterly, the young writer’s love for blood and gore had become familiar. A cursory
scan of the opening paragraph once again proves the genius with which the writer curates
devastation.
However, there was something unnerving about this entry that suggested it was more than
fiction. A sinister veil clung to every word, and line after line, the tale built to a tempo too
haunting to dismiss.
The Editor-in-chief reached for his Dunhill cigarette, lit up, laid back on the recliner, and began
reading the story a fourth time.
***
The mandate was clear: they were to bring his head.
The Hyenas understood the task. The legend had been told from generation to generation.
They were the privileged ones; the ones chosen to add another glorious chapter to the legacy
of the Society.
The six of them waited in consummate silence.
In a few minutes, they would earn their spots in the Hyenas’ Hall of Fame and become part of
the Hyenas’ thriving folklore. They would be immortalized.
This was the day the Hyenas had chosen. They would rejoice and be glad in it.
*
Church bores him. The rites and rituals are a drag. For many years he avoided any kind of
congregational worship. But this day, he is left with no other choice. He had asked the hand
of a retired Archbishop’s last daughter in marriage. There was no way the renowned clergy
man would give his blessings anywhere else but in church.
“If anyone has any reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, please
44
Tales from the Other Side

Bankole Banjo
Fourteen Years
speak up now or forever hold your peace,” the officiating Bishop announced unrushed, each
word reverberating off the silence in the cathedral.
Inwardly, he sighs. Having never witnessed such an objection in his many years on earth,
he adjudges this portion another banal requirement that ought to be done away with. He
desperately wants to yawn, but he puts up a sterling veneer. It is an art well honed from years
of practice. After all, he is going to be the Archbishop’s son-in-law.
“If there is no one, then we shall proceed,” said the Bishop in a rote manner with which
persons conversant with church weddings are all too familiar.
“Before nko,” the groom mutters to himself as the Bishop broaches a sermonette about the
sanctity of marriage. He hears without really listening and waits for the only part that matters
to him.
“Do you, Adeagbo David, take Ilekhomon Elizabeth, as your lawfully wedded wife, to have
and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness
and in health, until death do you part?
“I do,” he answers firmly with a depth and fullness in his voice, as he peered lovingly yet intently
into the eyes of his pretty bride. She blushes shyly, and casts a glance of adoration at the
diamond-encrusted ring rested on her fourth finger.
The Bishop turns to the woman and recites the same lines.
“I do,” she replies with tangible excitement and the church comes alive with a standing ovation.
“You may now kiss the bride,” the Bishop shouts above the thunderous applause.
*
That was the sign they had been waiting for.
All six of them got out of the mini bus and jogged towards the east window of the cathedral.
They approached with axes in hand, chanting the Creed of the Hyenas in unison;
45

Fourteen Years
Bankole Banjo
“…to do as told, to defend as needed, to fight, to die, to kill, to protect, whatever it
may cost me, even the ultimate price, to defend the honour of the Hyenas worldwide.”
At the sighting of them, congregants seated close to the exit sprang up in frenzy and
pandemonium ensued. Soon, the hysteria spreads across the massive cathedral like a fierce
tidal wave. Horror had come to church.
*
He hears the familiar chant from afar. It is something from his past, from a dark corner of his life
he never wants to relive. He sees them as he turns sharply towards the exit. They look like a
Nollywood version of The Expendables: purple bandanas draped securely across prominent
foreheads, taut biceps encased in snug black T-shirts. They look exactly the way he must
have looked that Friday afternoon fourteen years ago.
*
Akeem became the Amir of the Muslim Students’ Society, Federal University of Lagos in the
latter part of 2002. Smallish and whippet-thin with a brush of goatee on a narrow face, the
Amir was respected by his ummah but fiercely avoided by the rest of the student populace
due to his aggressive views on campus gangsterism. Sermon after sermon, he berated the evil
and swore that given the chance he would do everything within his powers to rid the tertiary
institution of the menace. That vehement commitment had compelled him into the student
union, where he was eventually elected President of the Students’ Union Government; thanks
to the massive support of his course mates in Mass Communication –the largest department
on campus- and the Muslim student society. It was then they began to call him Alfa Aluta. He
couldn’t have asked for a better nickname.
Alfa Aluta went after known and suspected cultists with cutthroat ferocity. Many were arrested,
some were dismissed from school while others faced legal prosecution and ended up behind
bars. Many more were forced to publicly denounce their membership. In one semester, the
university was purged. Fellow students cheered him on and the authorities applauded his
quest. He became a hero.
46
Tales from the Other Side

Bankole Banjo
Fourteen Years
But he had made enemies amongst the various fractured confraternities. Only one cult group
mustered enough leverage to take him on. They called themselves the Hyenas.
The rumour mill had it that the Brotherhood of the Hyenas sought to avenge the ridicule their
members had suffered at Alfa Aluta’s hands. From a different campus, they set up a strike
force of six and went after the unionist. One Friday afternoon, as he left the mosque after
juma’at, Alfa Aluta was shot dead. Two quick-fire shots to the chest brought him down.
The riots that disclosed his murder were unprecedented in the University’s history. Property
belonging to suspects were vandalized and or looted. Cars were axed down and set on fire.
The halls thought to be housing the culprits were burnt down. Those believed to be girlfriends
of the cultists were publicly assaulted. Anarchy was set loose to the hilt. To arrest the tension,
the Vice Chancellor announced an indefinite closure of the campus. And everyone went
home.
Days later, it was announced that the 6 suspects had been rounded up across four different
campuses and taken into police custody. Curiously, five of them died while in custody. Only
one escaped. Word got around that he was escorted out of the country by a team of police
officers. It turned out he was the only son of the State’s Commissioner of Police.
It didn’t take long for the Hyenas to gather that it was the boy who ratted them out. The
Brotherhood declared him persona non grata amongst the rank and file of confraternities and
a pledge was made to ensure the renegade paid for the breach of trust with his life.
***
The editor rubbed his eyes with both palms as the familiarity of the story hit home. Slowly,
memories flooded him with astonishing clarity. He got up from the recliner and peered down
the length of the swimming pool. There was no soul in sight.
But he knew he was not alone. He could perceive the foretoken of death, a fetor in the air like
that of decaying rat in a stuffy room.
“Hi, Davo,” a voice came out of the gloom.
47

Fourteen Years
Bankole Banjo
The editor froze and peered into the darkness. No one had called him Davo since he had
been smuggled out of the country years ago. And no one had, since he returned 8 months
ago.
“It’s been a while, brother,” the voice said emphatically. Following those words, six silhouettes
stepped out of the shadows. Five of them held small axes, while the sixth was armed with a
sawed-off shotgun. David could barely make out the bandanas on their heads.
Hyenas!
“Guys, please. Don’t do this. Please my brothers…”
The eerie slide of metal over metal stopped him as the one with the pump action readied his
weapon. Ignoring his growing panic, they began to recite the Creed.
“…to do as told, to defend as needed, to fight, to die, to kill, to protect, whatever it
may cost me...”
He had forgotten all about the finality of the Creed. In that instant, he broke into a run.
The pump action rifle went to work with characteristic aplomb. The first bullets carved a fistsize
hole through his spine and slammed his fleeing frame forward against the tiled floor. The
shooter stepped closer to the fallen man. Ignoring the feverish twitches of his victim’s body,
a desperate sign of death subjugating life, he pulled back the barrel, chambered the next
cartridge and pumped another round of shots into the editor’s forehead, splattering his brains
all over the pool.
Satisfied, they faded off into the shadows. They had earned their legend.
***
The text message had just one word: DONE. Fourteen years of pain and vengeance had
been finally put to rest. Literally.
Rasheedah rose from bed, and did ablution. She then threw her hijab around her head and
48
Tales from the Other Side

Bankole Banjo
Fourteen Years
rolled out her prayer mat. She would make prayers for the repose of her dear brother’s soul,
the one they called Alfa Aluta, the one who first called her Ray.
“Inna Lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un,” she solemnly began. A dam of grief bursts giving way to
streams of tears.
Bankole writes to live. Winner of the Christmas Nostalgia
Contest (Naija Stories 2012); Finalist, Farafina New African
Writing contest (2013); Gold Winner, Young Lagos Advertising
Ideas Festival (young LAIF 2012); Winner, Miami Ad School
Scholarship competition (2014); he currently heads the Creative
Team at the Lagos office of a multinational ad agency. His short
stories have been featured in a couple of anthologies including
the ANA Review (2013), Of Tears and Kisses, a collection
of short stories on Naija Stories (2012), A Basket of Tales, a
Benue ANA publication (2015), amongst others. He tweets via @
banky_writes.
49

Jibril
Olisaeloka Onyekaonwu

Jibril
Olisaeloka Onyekaonwu
Hide us; deliver us from our nakedness . . .
Christopher Okigbo
Lament of the Drums
***
Abu Danjuma read the letter for the third time. Each phrase brought with it recollections
too powerful to shove aside. He remembered the wrongs he had done, the lives
he had cut short. And satisfaction coursed through him. He felt as though he was floating in
midair. He regretted that he did not discover the power that killing gave much earlier than now.
He thought of men he had beheaded; of how easily his blade cut through the throat of his
victims, how invincible the squirting blood made him feel. The vain struggles of the slaughtered
gave him enormous power, a heady sense of euphoria. The women were disappointing; he
raped them because the urge overpowered him, and he killed them because he had to. He
never hurt children. There was something about children that arrests his senses, gave him
chills. Their eyes—there was something about their eyes, both haunting and weakening.
Sighing, he rumpled the letter into a ball. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he
exhaled and wondered why it was that things had never felt so right. A crusade had never felt
so successful even before it was executed, before it was even planned.
He tossed the paper into a basket. He went to the mirror that hung on the wall of the half lit
room, and when he looked into it, he grinned proudly at himself. He grinned because of what
the letter from the supreme leader said.
He was going to lead the kill.
***
52
Tales from the Other Side

Olisaeloka Onyekaonwu
Jibril
After making certain the machine guns would not disappoint, Abu Danjuma walked
determinedly out of the armory. Beside him was his assistant commander, the lanky Umar,
who was notorious for severing his victims’ testicles before pulling the trigger.
The two walked out of the bungalow, into the large open field hidden in the heart of the forest,
to examine the vehicles that would be used to carry out the crusade.
“You look disturbed, sah,” Umar said.
Abu Danjuma gave a wan smile. “Do I?”
“Yes, sah.”
“I’m not.”
“It will go fine, sah. You have never failed. Tonight we will prove our faithfulness to Allah.”
“I do not worry about failure,” Abu said. “I only worry that there will not be enough people to
kill.”
***
The first time Baba woke me up in the middle of the night was the day a scorpion stung my
younger brother, Salim. Baba would later take a lantern and start a midnight hunt in the house
for scorpions. He found none. When I went outside to know what was happening, I saw my
brother, stripped waist down, his buttocks glistening, oily. Mother was rubbing something on
his behind and he was screaming as though he was being circumcised a second time. That
was three years ago.
The second time Baba woke me up from sleep at midnight was today. My eyes snapped
open and I found myself gazing upwards into the horrified face of Baba.
“Get up, Jibril, get up now!” he instructed in panic. His breath smelt like cow dung.
53

Jibril
Olisaeloka Onyekaonwu
I groaned and started rolling on the mat. I felt a sense of freedom, something unusual.
Normally, if I moved on the mat at night, my body would make contact with Salim who always
shared the mat with me. But not now. Salim was nowhere in the room and . . . A thunderous
slap on the back of my neck stunned me to wakefulness, and sent me staggering to my feet.
I blurted out, “Sannu Baba.”
Instead of an answer, Baba gripped my wrist and yanked me towards the direction of the
room’s door. “ka yi gudu!” he said. “Run! Run and don’t look back!”
I didn’t run and I kept looking at him with my blurred sight; he seemed to have three heads
and I wasn’t sure the voice I heard was his.
“RUN!” he shouted.
My heart skipped. I’m not sure I would have ran had I not heard the spine-breaking snap of
a gunshot, had Baba not slumped on the ground, a blank look overtaking his scared eyes in
a jiffy.
***
There was pandemonium in the village. There were cracks of gunfire here and there and
everybody was running. Some were diving into bushes, others were falling to bullets. Children
were crying, and, as though they too were mourning the chaos, the cows began to moo.
The goats would not stop bleating. In the distance, I saw houses burning. The gunshots were
becoming louder now, closer.
I stood in the night, dazed, clueless of what to do. I had no idea where Mother was and Salim
seemed to have vanished to Allah-knows-where. I thought of dashing for the nearest bush
but my legs wouldn’t move. My bones seemed to have become steel. Then I heard it: the
unpleasant hum of engines coming from the direction of the road that led to the market, the
54
Tales from the Other Side

Olisaeloka Onyekaonwu
Jibril
proud, cries of “Allahu Akbar!”
Then I knew at once who they were. And my heart froze.
RUN!
I spun around and darted towards the bush where Baba had killed a ram during the last
Sallah. I ran and ran until my feet no longer felt the earth, until I felt I was flying. But that feeling
did not last long. My leg hit a stone and I found myself lunging forward, head first, into the
bush.
I dragged myself to my feet in an attempt to run further into the bush, into the dark. But I
staggered, then fell. The pain, like a river surging through a broken dam, spread quickly from
my foot to other parts of my body. My mouth snapped open in a scream, and suddenly, a
large palm covered my mouth.
***
“Are you blind?” Abu Danjuma roared. “Can’t you see that he is just a boy?”
“I didn’t shoot, sah,” Umar said innocently, lowering his gun.
They were beside a van.
“Is the boy dead?” Abu Danjuma asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Then go and find out!”
Umar, gun in hand, went.
***
I opened my eyes and I saw Mallam Usman looking down at me
55

Jibril
Olisaeloka Onyekaonwu
“You survived, Jibril,” he said quietly. His red eyes seemed to be saying a lot of things, things
I did not understand. “You made it.”
I moaned. It was morning and sunshine was pouring its rays into my face. I blinked. There
were trees and leaves and grasses everywhere. Everywhere was silent. Then, I heard birds
chirp. I gazed feebly at him and I wondered why I hated him so much.
I didn’t like Mallam Usman. There was no reason; just a baseless animosity. The first time I
saw Mallam Usman was the morning he came with his brothers to ask for my younger sister,
Zainab’s, hand in marriage. I hated him at sight. I didn’t like the way he laughed, the way his
eyes brightened. And his voice drove me nuts, made my stomach spin around until I felt I
would vomit my bowels out. The man is brutish. I believe it was a mistake that Zainab gave
him her hand and became his sixth wife. One day, I know, Zainab will realize that she made a
mistake. She would run home, and never wish to return to him ever again.
My hate for Mallam heightened when the man returned from Mecca and everyone started
treating him as though he was some demigod. They started calling him Alhaji. I didn’t like that.
Mallam should not be called an Alhaji; he does not deserve the title. He does not deserve
anything.
“Sannu,” I croaked. It was hell to speak. “W—where are we?”
Mallam Usman hesitated and said slowly, “I dragged you out of the village at night. I don’t
know this place.”
“W—what?”
“I don’t know where we are,” he said, and suddenly, tears dripped from his eyes. He didn’t
wipe them off. It was as though he didn’t notice them. Then, in a deep, soulful voice, he said,
“The vandals attacked our village and killed . . . they killed people. My wives are . . . are gone
and my . . . my baby was b—urnt a—live. My Aisha was burnt.” He burst into tears.
56
Tales from the Other Side

Olisaeloka Onyekaonwu
Jibril
“But Zainab . . . My mother, where is she? And Salim . . . where is Salim?”
“All k—killed.”
“No. No . . .”
“I’m sorry, Jibril.”
“No. . .”
“Jibril. . .”
“NOOO!”
Mallam Usman wrapped his arms around me as I wailed, unable to embody my anguish. He
smelt of sweat, of wet onions. He was sobbing, shuddering to the core of his being. And
his tears gave me the courage to really mourn, and to hope; to believe that everything that
happened was one nightmare we all would someday wake up from, laughing.
Olisaeloka Onyekaonwu is 19. He studies Mass
Communication at the University of Benin, Nigeria. He strongly
believes that women with low hair cut are the most beautiful
people in the world.
57

Open
Your
Eyes
Su’eddie Agema

Open Your Eyes
Su’eddie Agema
Are you asleep?
Listen to the drumming. It is the rain, marching to the hands of Baver the drummer. Do you
remember his tale? Baver, the keeper of the heavenly drums. When the tears of the Almighty
fall in torrents, he directs them in unison like a marching band. Tap tap tap tap… and many
more taps… The sounds are like stones being thrown. With each succeeding tap that misses
the roof and hits the ground, there’s a hole created and fresh breath to a dusty earth; a smell
that should leave you smiling in the hope of a good night’s rest.
You remember the words of your father that whenever Baver sets out to beat his drum, there
will be trouble. You do not need to see the red dots that peek from the place that should be
the top of your wardrobe to be certain of this, but you see two menacing eyes accompanied
by strange squeaks.
Even as your legs start to dance a step that would have had Michael Jackson envious, you
become the child once more who ran into the arms of his father. The memory of one of those
nights comes to your mind. You had run and dived into his bed screaming: Daddy!
“What is it? Is it the rain?” he had asked.
“It is the dark!”
“Ah… The dark. But I thought you were a strong boy?”
“Yes, Daddy. I am a big boy.”
At that time, you flexed your muscle, forgetting the fear. In the presence of your father you
always found the ability to be a superhero. Your father had roared:
“Hoohooohooo! My big boy. Now, let me tell you a story. It is about the skies. Whenever you
60
Tales from the Other Side

Su’eddie Agema
Open Your Eyes
see rain falling from the skies, it is Aôndo, the Almighty, crying. Sometimes, He cries. They
are His tears …”
“Daddy, is He crying because His mummy was a phoenix?”
He had sighed deeply, like on many other occasions when you had asked such a question.
Your mother was a phoenix, according to your father. A phoenix was a bird who died by
burning into ashes so that a new one could be born. Sigh.
“Yes, He cries because of a phoenix. But His story is different. It is His son he cries for. He sent
His phoenix son to the world who died and rose… But that is a tale for a different time. Now,
listen. Every time the tears fall, Baver the drummer of the skies directs the tears making them
hit one at a time. Listen, as it drums: tap, tap, tap… You can almost dance to it… Tap ta…”
“I will be a drummer!”
“Yes, you will be and a fine drummer too. But be careful son. For on nights when the drums
beat too loud…”
Silence as your father paused, looked around to be sure no one was listening. You had
looked around too. Then you looked at him, fully attentive, waiting to hear the next words:
“As you hear the rains hit the sand, know it is Baver who warns to be careful: evil looms the
land. If you look carefully, evil comes together and a lot falls apart… Ahhhhhh!”
“Arrrrrrghhhhhh!”
“Hoohooohoo … You are a big boy, never forget. You are five but you have the strength to
conquer if you can believe in yourself. But watch out, for on that night when the drums of the
roof match that of the beats into the ground, there will be fears, for then the tears would give
cause for our cares…”
61

Open Your Eyes
Su’eddie Agema
“How will I know?”
“Red eyes… Thunder… Lightning…”
You banish the memories and smile. Ah. Childhood. Such a wonderful time of innocence.
You had always thought of your mother as a phoenix. You imagined a million times over how
she must have burnt to ashes and then, just as everyone cried on, you emerged, more
beautiful. She had passed on soon after you found life…
A full light shines and suddenly day steals the night making everywhere bright.
In that second you look up quickly up above your wardrobe and see the giant rodents. There
must be five of them. Are those claws in their hands? It seems like the clap is to announce it
is their time. Then the darkness comes again…
GBUUUUUUM! GBUUUUUUUM! GBUUUUUUUUUUUMM….
The red eyes – ten now – glow down at you like beads of coal burning, coming slowly. You
want to shout but open your mouth and discover fear has eaten your voice. You order your
legs but it seems they are stuck. Your eyes begin to dart from one edge to another… It seems
they are slowly changing positions, bidding their time without taking their eyes off their prize:
you.
Somehow you rush to the window and open it. Lightning does the transformation and you
see a pig in a distance dodge to the side as a lightning bolt hits where it had been before...
Then the thunder rolls the big drum again.
You look and see something crawling in a corner of the room. You rush back to your bed and
look around as the eyes come closer. You draw your wrapper over you. Baver drums harder,
and you know there’s a justification for your fright. You close your eyes and pray that when you
open them, it will no longer be night… Praying that it will be light… Your teeth chatter as you
62
Tales from the Other Side

Su’eddie Agema
Open Your Eyes
shiver…. You squeeze your eyes tighter and almost feel the veins in your head knotting up…
Then you open your eyes and look straight into the eyes of…
Your father.
“Akile, are you mad? What are you doing?”
“Eh…”
“Were you dreaming about your rats again?”
“Yes, Sir,” you say as you try to take the room in. It is still dark. It is cool and everywhere looks
like it had rained. “Daddy, please, what was I doing?”
“You were screaming and running around like a lunatic…all the while, staying in one place on
the bed.”
You think about it for a second but it doesn’t connect. You wonder if there was a time you did
that… Even in the so-called dream. You wonder where your wrapper is.
“Did it rain?”
“Of course. Baver sent his warning too. Didn’t you notice?” he says and winks. “Sleep well.”
With that, he goes out.
“M sugh u,” you throw after his departing frame, thanking him. You feel comfortable now and
smile. Your father always had a way of taking away the fear. To think that you are now an
adult but need him to ease your worries. You close your eyes, grateful to have had him. Then,
something connects in your head… Your father. Your father! He died seven years ago on a
night like this. Baver had played his drums and you had been frightened. He rushed into your
room and lightning had struck him… frying him to the spot…
63

Open Your Eyes
Su’eddie Agema
You begin to shiver as your ears find the tap of the roof once more. Tap tap tap…
BOOOOOOOOV! You feel the wrapper on you, dragged off slowly… Your eyes are still
squeezed tighter… You feel the veins in your head knotting up…
Then you open your eyes…
Su’eddie Vershima Agema is the author of three poetry
collections including Home Equals Holes: Tale of an Exile
(Joint Prize Winner, Association of Nigerian Authors Prize for
Poetry 2014); Bring our casket home: Tales one shouldn’t tell
(longlisted for the Association of Nigerian Authors Poetry Prize
2013) and a short story collection, The Bottom of another Tale.
His poem, ‘Tales one shouldn’t tell often’ was shortlisted for the
Saraba/PEN Nigeria Poetry Prize 2013. Su’eddie was included
in EGC’s Top 50 Nigerian Contemporary Poets in 2013 and
2014. He is the Chairman of the Association of Nigerian Authors
(Benue State Chapter), as well as Editor and Executive Officer at
SEVHAGE. Su’eddie’s personal blog is http://sueddie.wordpress.
com. He also blogs at http://sevhagereviews.wordpress.com,
http://naijastories.com/author/sueddie @sueddieagema on
Twitter.
64
Tales from the Other Side

Passenger
13E
Aideyan Daniel

Aideyan Daniel
Passenger 13E
He fished his phone out of his pocket, glad to have finally secured a seat on the last
flight of the day to Abuja.
‘Emeka Amadi. Seat 13E,’ he muttered, reading the words on his ticket quietly to himself
before dumping it in the seat pocket before him.
He plugged his earphones into his ears as the plane began to taxi, glad to have a seat to
rest his head on as the swaying and complaining of the passengers standing in the aisle
reminded him that a lot more people were in worse situations than himself.
‘Na only for Naija na im plane go dey carry passengers like molue, useless airline,’ a
passenger standing in the aisle cursed.
‘If not that I have something important to do in Abuja today, I won’t take this shit,’ another
passenger, dressed in a well-tailored suit, complained, slipping his handkerchief back into
his jacket pocket as the cabin began to cool. The air-conditioning system of the plane had
only just been put on as the plane began to taxi.
He pressed the play button on his music player, effectively drowning out the complaining
passengers from his world. In a country run on the rule of law, ethics and order, Kira Airlines
would have been shut down by now and he would not have been qualified to be on the
flight.
***
‘Should I make a toast for you?’ Kelly asked as she stepped into the kitchen. Emeka
seemed to be searching for something as his eyes scanned the counter top. He was silent.
With his jacket folded over his right arm, he walked towards the fridge, stopping right in front
of it.
67

Passenger 13E
Aideyan Daniel
‘Baby, is anything the matter?’ She asked, as she moved closer to him.
She didn’t feel the usual scent of his perfume as she got close to him but that was the last
thing on her mind right now as she wrapped her hands around him from behind - but as
has been the norm over the past two days, her hands grasped onto nothing but thin air.
Her eyes scanned the room for her husband whom she had just seen some moments ago,
flickering until it rested on the newspaper on the counter top. With trembling hands, she
picked up the newspaper and it was the same SATURDAY PUNCH she had first seen three
days ago, brought in by Obinna, her husband’s younger brother. She hoped it was all a
hoax as her eyes lowered to the large fonts on the front cover.
HORROR FRIDAY AS KIRA AIRCRAFT CRASHES: 152 Passengers Feared Dead
‘Baby...don’t go,’ she sobbed, her voice breaking with every word as she closed her hands
up around her belly. ‘Who will help me care for Justin and Josh?’ She asked no one in
particular as hot tears streamed down her face.
‘Where is the key to the Lexus Jeep?’ Obinna’s voice boomed, upsetting the tranquility of
the kitchen.
‘Where are you going to?’ Kelly replied, her voice weak, her eyes sad, and her cheeks still
damp with the wetness of her tears.
‘And how is that your business?’ Obinna retorted, his eyes filling up with fury.
‘No... I.. just wa..wanted you to get something for me,’ Kelly stammered, taken aback by
Obinna’s reaction.
68
Tales from the Other Side

Aideyan Daniel
Passenger 13E
‘Oh! So after killing my son in a plane crash, you want to turn his younger brother into your
house-boy abiiiiiiii?’ A female voice interrupted, You want to turn a married man into your
house-boy, Kelechi? Ehn?!?’ The woman thundered, the black wrapper she tied around her
waist loosening and about to fall off her as she advanced menacingly towards Kelly. She
was in combat mode.
Obinna pulled back his mother, not because he wanted to protect his sister-in-law
but because he could see from the spark in Kelly’s eyes, a readiness to fight back if
approached and he wasn’t ready to get caught up in a cat-fight, at least not when the
elephant fight over properties was still to come. There were more important things at the
moment than two fighting women and the key to the Lexus Jeep was one of them.
So this is where dead people end up?
***
Utter darkness.
He tried to peer through the darkness but all he could see was more darkness, no pearly
gates and no burning pits, just utter darkness.
His thoughts raced wildly, like the eyes of a seventeen year old boy on the pages of Playboy
magazine for the first time, but the picture in his mind was unflinching - his wife and twin
boys. Kel, as he fondly called her. “My Kel.” “She must be so distraught now. And my boys.
My boys. My dear boys”, Emeka laments hopelessly.
Death had come suddenly and even though he had not penned down a will, he was glad
to have taken his younger brother Obinna into confidence regarding his business. At least
he was confident his brother would take his wife through the processes of the business and
69

Passenger 13E
Aideyan Daniel
make sure the company continued to flourish. That way, he knew his family would remain
catered for.
He felt such great sadness that he would not be around to watch his boys grow and give
them the support only a father could. “And Kel, how would she survive this? Just how?”
He felt his tears roll down without restraints as a horde of thoughts continued to maneuver
his mind like a race track. So spirits too cry?
And then he heard the voices again, very distant and barely audible. He felt the chill run
down his spine, and like a man shot with a dose of insanity, he sprang to his feet and
dashed into the darkness.
He heard the rustling of twigs as he stomped past trees to destination unknown. He was
not sure if he was headed towards heaven or if his feet were carting him over to hell, but
one thing was certain, he was not ready to remain in purgatory.
***
Kelly could not believe she was asking Obinna for permission for the use of the one
remaining car in the house after he had confiscated her husband’s Lexus Jeep and her
Camry a few days before.
Obinna’s face bore a devious smile as his eyes stole another glance at the mirror to see
how good of a fit his brother’s shirt was on him. He couldn’t help but be amazed at how
tradition had managed to tame the lioness that his brother had called a wife. Where she
normally would have given orders, he relished as she spoke with entreaty.
‘Does the driver need to take them to the end of year party? If you say Stella will accompany
70
Tales from the Other Side

Aideyan Daniel
Passenger 13E
them, then I suggest they use a taxi cos’ the driver is taking me to the meeting with the
airline people,’ he said matter of factly as he continued ransacking his brother’s study.
Kelly watched her brother-in-law as he violated what used to be her husband’s altar,
searching for documents that he had no idea how they’d come about. She despised him
but she had become too weak to fight, her fully shorn head is the picture of a woman
subdued. She blamed her parents for insisting that she obey tradition, endure and remain
in her husband’s house, if only to prove that she had no hands in his death. But how could
she have caused a plane crash?
Daddy???
It was Joshua. She was sure she just heard her son from the living room.
‘Your children are beginning to lose their minds just like you. They have started seeing things
too,’ Obinna chuckled wickedly, his hands still shuffling carelessly and hastily through the
files on the shelf.
Daddy!!!
Kelly turned to leave the room and just as suddenly, a sight stopped her dead in her tracks.
Standing by the door with Justin and Josh in his arms was her husband, Emeka Amadi.
She tried to scream but remained transfixed on the same spot.
Obinna felt an eerie silence in the room, but he knew he was not alone. ‘Now the madness
is a contagion or is it, it is heredit...,’ the word stuck in his throat as he turned around to find
his older brother standing at the entrance and holding on tightly to his sons.
Obinna instantly felt a hot liquid run down his thighs. He was peeing on himself. He
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Passenger 13E
Aideyan Daniel
bounded out the door.
***
Emeka’s eyes doubled open as his wife handed him newspapers whose front pages were
splattered with the grotesque images of the ill-fated aircraft, with his name spelt out as
Passenger 13E on the flight manifest.
He saw the burning questions in her eyes and wondered how many words it would take to
tell her all about his cancelled Abuja appointment, his resold flight ticket, his hypnosis and
kidnap by money-ritualists and his eventual escape from the jungles of Isase.
These were tales from his side but right now he needed to hear the tales from the other
side. Like why his wife had shaved off her long lustrous dark hair or why his brother peed on
his pants and ran out of the house instead of being delighted at his return.
As he gazed into his wife’s now misty eyes, he met a warmth and relief more than heart
could hold.
He was certain the tale would be nothing short of interesting.
Aideyan Daniel is a trained engineer turned writer and he
currently lives in the city of Lagos. His story arcs have been
featured inThe Naked Convos and he’s the Platform manager
at AideYarn, a blog where he contributes short stories and nonfiction
pieces. He can be reached on twitter @Aideyandaniel.’
72
Tales from the Other Side

Pretty
Bird
TJ Benson

TJ Benson
Pretty Bird
The war had just ended and people were remembering how to fall in love again.
That was when she met him at a makeshift healing centre not far from a wrecked
village. He had been wounded in the war against the machines and that was good enough
reason. He said her eyes were his reason. He refused to be discharged after the metal bits
had been removed from his leg. Rumour had it that some people were rebuilding some
villages nearby and settling in. Could they find a place together? At least until some form of
government was set up. This was not the time to live alone. She smiled at her tray of needles
and said yes. But he would do all the building and repairs. She would try to remember how
to cook. The last time she cooked had been before the war.
He took off his blood-stained jacket and put it on her shoulder. It was getting cold, he said.
That was the first time she felt something. But she could never be sure. After a war where all
you loved was taken away, you unlearn love. You learn how to detach from fond memories,
unless you wanted to die before you die. She had no wish to die. So she’d survived a war
without knowing why. Until he came into the centre with his blue eyes. Eyes that had been
altered for night vision by some tech kid in what used to be India. He said he used to be
Nigerian. She said she used to be Ghanaian. It was the first time she was admitting out loud,
that the world as she knew it had ended.
They took off at night. The ruins, which ranged from small craters to deep chasms that ate
up entire roads, led the way to the first village. They got there just as the sun was rising from
behind the hills of rubble. All the good buildings were occupied. They found a compound of
circular and square huts at the fringe of the village. Most of them had been torn down by the
faceless machines, for which no organization or nation had claimed responsibility. Nobody
ever saw them; just the fire and bullets they spat from the sky. And the charred remains when
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Pretty Bird
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they were shot down.
He used some of the remains to cover the gaps in the walls of the hut they finally chose. They
slept on the bare earthen floor and gazed at the stars through an opening in the roof until
sleep overcame them. Someone had once said that the stars which were visible now, had
died eons ago, that their light was just reaching earth because they were light years away.
She wondered if in constellations above, the last six years had not happened. If somewhere
in the consciousness of those stars, she was still a little girl on her way to the National
Assembly for a school excursion. Sleep met her still thinking of things she had not wondered
about during the course of the war. And this was all because of him.
The next day, he continued fixing up the compound. He used his blue eyes to check for
radioactivity. He tried to fix the pit latrine but it was filled with rotten bodies. They had probably
been hiding here during the heat scourge. In the third year of the war, everyone had gone
into hiding. Soon, machines that could identify heat signatures came. Almost all animal life
became extinct by the end of that year. He used plastic cement to cover the floor. The hut
would become a kitchen. She urged him to hurry.
In four months, all humans would be deactivated from the wireless metabolism satellite.
Those who had not died stayed connected to it by swallowing metabots, life tablets provided
by organizations that were still in existence. Every edible thing had either been destroyed by
the machines or poisoned with radioactivity. Providing metabots was one of the few human
attempts at resistance; determination to survive, to outlive the war. They had kept her alive,
waking up to those horrible days of explosions, chaos and relocation, to tend to the dying.
To be honest, she had felt an ache of disappointment when the war ended. It had been on
a night like this, when she was about to slip the tasteless metabot pill in her mouth. A cry
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TJ Benson
Pretty Bird
rang out in the still darkness, one she had first misunderstood to be a sign of danger. Then it
had multiplied into a thousand joyous voices. Another nurse had stumbled into the foxhole,
screaming hysterically, before passing out in her arms. She had laid the body down, then
curled up in a foetal position on the ground and stared at the night sky till morning. That was
the morning they brought him in.
By the end of the first month of their cohabitation he was already halfway into preparations for
their disconnect; he had found some salt, large pieces of scrap metal and a plastic bowl with
which to perform electrolysis, that would generate electricity for them to cook with or just light
up the place. He converted the latrine into a kitchen and when he discovered moisture on
the walls of an abandoned behind the hut, he expanded the bottom of the well, using a large
piece of blunt scrap metal as a spade, and planted the seeds he had gathered on his path
of war around the world. Qat shrub from Yemen. Hazel nuts from America. She was terrified
when he spilled them out of his pocket; she could not handle the unpredictable. Spontaneity
used to be exciting, until the machines came hurtling out of the sky. He apologised for keeping
his seeds a secret from her. He could understand her fear; the war had left everyone on the
edge. She too came to understand this his way of doing things.
As the weeks to deactivation drew nearer, the more desperate whatever it was they shared
became. Then he brought up the ridiculous idea of marriage. She didn’t see the point of an
apocalyptic union. She wanted them to move into a proper compound, one that had other
people. He preferred the solitude. He talked too much, she said, for someone who cherished
solitude. She was too cold, he said, for someone who cherished the company of others. For
a moment, neither one spoke. He got the sensation of treading thin ice. Then she threw her
head back and laughed. He chuckled a little, breaking sweat all over. He walked close to her
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Pretty Bird
TJ Benson
to watch the wonder of a woman’s laugh. It was out of place in their world, this laughter.
She followed him down the well that afternoon to see the growing plants. Every plant had
germinated, the dwarf mango already producing fruits that would be ripe by the week of
deactivation. The yam tendrils snaked up the well-wall, reaching for sunlight, while the
peppers and tomatoes glowed a bright red. She fondled the leaves with the tips of her finger
and smiled at him, then plucked a tomato and fed it to him.
“I know you won’t taste it and it won’t do anything in your body,” she said when he resisted.
“Just feel the flesh on your tongue.”
That night for the first time, she showed him the rest of her flesh, after they both said a quick
prayer to God, just in case he was still there.
The next morning, she woke up to find him with a sharpened blade in his hand, poised to
strike a bird perched at the mouth of the well. He wasn’t even wearing his clothes. She came
from behind and embraced his taut body, truly happy. She felt his muscles tense, then relax.
“Do you even know what day it is? Leave the bird alone.”
“But it’s a vulture,” he said without looking back. “We can have it for dinner. You know how
rare meat is.”
“It’s a pretty bird,” she said, turning him to her. The look on her face melted him.
“For you,” he said and walked to the door.
She laughed, picking up his jacket from the ground. A black box the size of a palm, with a
face of glass fell out from one of the pockets. He knew the rules. No human was allowed
to use any electronic device. The machines had found them easy to hack and with mobile
phones, televisions, personal computers and home appliances, they had wiped out millions.
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Pretty Bird
She pushed aside the tinge of fear and smiled at him as he shooed off the vulture and
disappeared down the well. She was relearning trust. She pressed the jacket to her chest for
strength. He came out from the well with everything they would need to create some semblance
of a meal. They laughed over their failed culinary experiments and soon found themselves
on the floor of the kitchen, in a mess of soft, over-boiled yam. By evening however, she had
mastered the electrolysis cooking system he created. This was only possible because she
chased him out of the kitchen. He stumbled out, giggling when she resorted to tickling. He
distracted himself from distracting her, by cleaning her ankara print wrapper and his coat.
When the moon was in the centre of the sky, she brought the food served in bent metal bowls
and he brought their clothes. They dined in the hut, with only the moonlight for illumination, the
partial darkness heightening their senses of taste as the protective numbness wore off from
their tongues. Mashed yam. Crushed roasted groundnuts. Pepper and onion sauce.
Then the door of the hut was smashed in, banishing the silence of the night. Five men in war
armour circled them. They came in peace, they said from behind their glass masks. Why
weren’t the two of them wearing any? Gas masks were required to adjust to the surrounding
oxygen, since the metabolism satellite had been deactivated. He explained that they were not
aware of that instruction; they had not left their compound since they moved in. The ex-soldier
who had been speaking nodded.
“New information has been discovered,” he bellowed through his mask. A human or a set
of humans, probably environmental care fanatics, were responsible for the control of the
machines. A team of scientists and programmers had cracked the code of the computer virus
program that had overridden all telecommunication systems. It revealed that the machines
were man-made, not alien, as they’d first believed. Had they noticed any strange behaviour
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in anyone they’d met since the war ended? Suspects would be those more adjusted to
the situation, those with solutions and a lack of anxiety or fear. They may have preserved
some things from before the war, maybe paintings or leaves. They would be extremely
knowledgeable in post-war survival, for they must have spent years in training, preparing for it.
He shook his head and said no. The men turned to her and repeated their question. Bile rose
to the back of her throat. The phone, she said.
“What?” he asked, taking her arm and rubbing gently.
She returned his gaze. The phone. The seeds. The electrolysis. He screamed as the men
electrocuted him into submission, the bluish light on of the moon illuminating her face, as she
calmly stared at the food. He begged her to talk to them, to say something as they chained
and dragged him away. She leaned on the door and stared at the moon instead, a hand on
her stomach.
TJ Benson is a creative photographer and short story writer wose
prose have been featured in online journals like the Kalahari Review,
African Hadithi, Munyori Review, the 14 th issue of the Sentinel literary
magazine and anthologies like the Contemporary Literary Review
India, Paragram ‘Remember’ anthology and more recently, the Jalada
Afrofuture anthology and the 118 th issue of Transition. He is the founder
of www.kaanem.com, a digital art space for expression among young
people. He recently completed a collection of prose-poetry and
parables titled ‘The devil’s Music’. His collection of photography and
poetry titled ‘Self’ would be published in 2016 and is currently at work
on a novel titled ‘the Madhouse’.
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Tales from the Other Side

Sour
Kisses
Jennifer Emelife

Jennifer Chinenye Emelife
Sour Kisses
Life slipped out of her, breathlessly, stiff, like leaf off its branch. But just before she
gave in, she toured cities of her heinous life. She visited, once more, the shadows
she inhabited, shadows that lived in her also. And there was that mansion. In it, she traced
her ruin to the semen mapped bed. She coughed as she remembered that she had slept
with the cursed one; one whose darning laid in the juice of experienced loins. She knew
this, but the price was too charming. A hundred nights would not earn her such money. So
she dared. It was her lifestyle, even though her name was Adakaego.
As voices she could not decipher flew round her head, her skin turned white, like the inside
of an unripe mango brutally scrapped of its covers. Her bones glowered out of her skin,
almost bare and seeking covers too. The doctors had found nothing wrong with her. Not
when she started shedding hairs, not when her nails pulverised. Not even when her skin
began to vanish. But death was not hers, she believed. She trudged on, gathering breath
after breath until her head suddenly began to spin. Voices, yet again…
*
‘Are you sure you want to do this, Ada? That man is diabolic!’
‘Ehen, would that be the first time? Who doesn’t know that all these politicians are evil? I
just want to do this and get done with it. Lord, Clara, my younger brother needs to get out
of that stupid jail! The bail is big. Those people are threatening. If we are charged to court,
where do I get the money to hire a lawyer? All because he stole five thousand naira from his
boss!’ Ada said, spreading out her arms.
Clara sat back in bed, silent. She understood her friend’s frustration, but she was not sure
Hon. Obiano was the man to play games with. Many scary stories had been told about his
sex escapades. True, theirs was a business of courage and sometimes, stupid faith, but
Clara could not make up her mind about this latest client.
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‘Let’s think this through, carefully, Ada. Come, sit down’ Clara gestured her friend to the
space she had made for her on the bed.
Ada sat down and sighed, her head bowed in her palms. ‘I’m tired Clara, why do things
have to be always difficult? My mother, she is still battling with cancer. Her surgery is
close, I’m not even talking about my studies anymore. Everyone at home believes I’m the
hardworking undergraduate in school, with a part-time job. But look at me, Clara, look at us.
What are we becoming?’
‘I know. I know, Ada. But we will be fine. A few more games and we are done,’ Clara said.
‘But all the girls had warned you too when Femi came with his offers. Remember Femi?
Femi of the big firm?’ Ada spoke, not paying attention to her friend. ‘They said he cut off
breasts of girls he slept with and stuck them in his own chest, while he tortured them
gleefully, his finger in their vaginas, to death. But look at you, Clara. Alive, your big boobs,
all staring at me!’
Clara laughed so hard at this. She knew it was the way with the brothel girls to say
disparaging things about clients, especially when they wanted such clients themselves. She
had slept with Femi and nothing surreal happened.
‘Oh dear,’ Clara sighed, ‘just be careful, Ada. Be careful, okay? If you find his thing changing
into monster heads like in the movies, run o. Never mind that you are naked, run for your life
o!’
Both girls laughed at the joke. They had come a long way together, fought pain and shared
each other’s joy. They tried to live in oblivion of the life they had chosen. Or the life that
had chosen them. Humour was an escape with an everyday resolution to quit, whenever
guilt surged in. The laughter died out. Ada spoke softly, eyes shut, as though seeing a
vision. ‘Things will surely change after this, Clara. Ten million naira is no small money. I will
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Sour Kisses
get my brother out of jail, pay for my mother’s surgery. We will start up a business, leave
this damn hole and get back to school. Because we do not belong here.’ As it was in their
fashion, Clara held her friend’s palm. ‘I believe,’ she responded. Then repeated, ‘I believe, I
believe’like a church person renewing baptismal vows at Mass.
Ada was gone for six days and Clara feared they had, perhaps, pushed their faith to the
extreme. Ada’s lines were unreachable and terror clogged her throat every time a strange
caller rang her phone. She feared the bad news looming, waiting to break over her: Ada
was found in a hotel room, bleeding from her vagina. She recoiled at the thought. Ada was
found lying dead on a road, naked with private parts missing. Clara sprung to her feet and
puked at the possibility of this news. She vaulted over objects in the room and ran to the
bathroom, washed her face and breathed fast. She did not hear the knock, so as the door
creaked open, she slipped on the wet floor and fell out of the bathroom; trembling.
‘Why are you looking that way?’ came the shocked voice.
‘Ada!’ Clara cried and rushed to her friend in embrace.
‘You scared me, girl. The way you looked…’
‘No, you scared the shit out of me, Ada! Six frigging days, not a call!I was worried!’
‘Business was tight,’ Ada chuckled, pulling her friend down to the bed. She took her phone
out of her handbag, tapped on the message icon and handed it to Clara. It was a bank
credit alert.
Clara yelled when she saw the figure. ‘20 what? 20 what? Wait, I gotta count these zeroes
properly. One, two, three…’
‘Oh, stop being ridiculous,’ Ada laughed, snatching the phone from her friend. ‘Yes, it
is what it is’ and standing, she added, ‘twenty million naira, and this is Ada, alive and
bubbling!’
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Jennifer Chinenye Emelife
The two friends tossed up their room in excitement. Clara could not believe it, too good to
be true, she kept saying, flinging everything she laid her hands on.
Life went on smoothly for them in the weeks that followed. Ada sent money home to
her mother, began processes of releasing her brother from jail and found a pleasant
accommodation for herself and Clara. She was the lady in charge until she fell sick. Severe
Typhoid, she was told at the hospital, ‘you should rest’. Clara was somewhat glad about her
illness; she was tired of being bossed around. Ada granted her access to her debit card,
being ill and not able to move around. Clara was overwhelmed by the money entrusted to
her. She forgot completely about their plans to get back to school, forgot about her sick
friend, and squandered the new found wealth in the most obnoxious manner. She bought
herself a car and started up a new business.
Ada, too weak to fight back, was bothered about the nightmares she had. Though, the
doctor, in her last visit to the hospital, had said she was recovering, thoughts of Hon.
Obiano began to crawl back to her head. Did she let him suck her with vinegar in his
mouth? She started reflecting on how strange the sex had been. The man fingered with
his big toe and insisted that she sucked his armpit. He sucked her vagina with vinegar in
his mouth, amidst her protest. The sex was anal in the most sordid manner as the man
scooped his semen from the bed into his mouth and forced them into hers in a kiss.
Weren’t these signs she could not have ignored? She could have fled after the first day, but
an additional ten million naira was too tempting to be ignored, she thought as she reached
for the strange looking bottle standing on the tray containing her medications. Clara, who
was fond of herbal treatments, had brought it home from an herbal pharmacy. She said she
was tired of her taking pills that were not effective. ‘This is calming, a kind of tranquilizer. It
will give you peace of mind. You can read the instructions on the label.’ Clara had explained,
dropping the bottle in the tray and dashing out to her boutique. Ada shook her head at the
thought of her friend, gulped 10ml of the strange content and laid herself to rest.
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Jennifer Chinenye Emelife
Sour Kisses
*
Ada, lying unconscious in her sick bed, felt a hero. She thought of her mother who was
recuperating, her brother who was now out of jail and in school. Greed seemed righteous at the
moment and then she recognised clearly the voice talking.
Kneeling beside her bedpost was Clara, crying, ‘It wasn’t Hon. Obiano, Ada. It was me. Do you
remember now?’ Her voice was faint because she had been talking for long, ‘I was envious of
your sudden wealth. Remember the strange bottle? It was no tranquilizer. It was…’ Clara’s voice
trailed off as she noticed Ada’s eyes blink and stop.
Jennifer Chinenye Emelife is a teacher who loves to write.
She lives in Lagos and works as Correspondent for Praxis Arts
and Literature Magazine; www.praxismagonline.com
87

The
Indomie
Man
Michael Ogah

The Indomie Man
Michael Ogah
My love is sick.
When he needs me, I don’t need him. When I need him, he doesn’t need me. Yet
sometimes, most of the time, we need each other.
My love is infected with a virus. I must find a way to cure it.
Today, I go again to see the man. The man who will take all of my worries away. He kisses
me on the forehead and asks why it took me so long to come see him. I say nothing. He
asks if I am hungry, and then he makes me some noodles. He chops the onions and red
peppers clad only in his boxers. He mixes them in with one cracked egg. It is dark, from the
usual NEPA wahala, and I lie on his bed, listening to the susurrus of the wind in the trees.
He leaves a rechargeable lantern in his room for my use. I rise quietly- so he doesn’t hear
the bed squeak- and walk slowly to the kitchen door to watch him cook. He stands tall and
it feels as if I have only just noticed.
I cannot explain why I come here. Neither am I able to articulate what I hope to find with
him. He loves me. He’s said it to me times without number. And, he said it again when he
kissed my lips. “I only kiss girls I truly love on the lips,” he once told me. That day he asked
that I please say I loved him too, but I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t because I do not feel the same.
To admit otherwise would be sham and chicanery.
I like him. Or I like that I could be with him this way, but love? Love is what I had long ago
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Tales from the Other Side

Michael Ogah
The Indomie Man
with my “first”. We did it and he never even told me he loved me. He’d never pick my call
after that day. I‘d been had, I thought, and felt so ashamed. I wanted more than it with him.
The heart is such a fickle thing. I’d wished to be rid of desire; to need no one and to not be
needed. It seems a liberating a contemplation. But such will never be the case.
I stand there and watch this man stir the dish. He is breathtaking. He is stupendously goodlooking.
He moves from stove to sink with a commander’s swagger, and I quickly lean back
to avoid his seeing me. A misstep, and I knock over the dustbin falling headlong into the
kitchen.
“Are you ok?” He turns swiftly to help me up.
“I need some water to drink so I...”
“Are you sure?” he asks with a smile. “I knew you were watching me all the while” he adds
without judgment, and fills a tumbler with water from a nearby jerry can. “I’d known.”
I ask how, surprised and a bit embarrassed by the revelation.
“I sensed you”, he says, handing me the cup of water.
Unable to deny he seems to possess an intimate knowledge of how enthralled I am by him,
I look sideways, wistfully at nothing exactly, before excusing myself from the kitchen.
When the meal is done, he brings the cooking pot to the bedroom, places it on a tray and
dishes it out onto a round yellow plate. We sit on his bed, our backs to the wall. He spoonfeeds
me like a parent does a toddler, dipping the fork into the noodles, twirling it enough
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The Indomie Man
Michael Ogah
times to fetch a forkful, and bringing it up to my mouth with his left palm underneath the
cutlery. The man is kind, and very careful. I note.
“From the very first day I saw you, I thought you were very decent.” He pauses as if to let
me take it in. “I had friends who told me they’d only like to fuck you, but I told them you
aren’t that type of girl. Because I want you for myself. And because I prefer to preserve their
idea of you” he says.
“And what idea was that?,” I wonder out aloud.
“That you are a church girl, virgin.”
“Thank you.” I respond meekly. “But you do know I am not a virgin, right?””
“I know,” he says without emotion, princing his fingers beneath my lip, picking a stray noodle
strand and putting it in his mouth. Aroused, I squirm in my seat. He has no squabbles
eating what falls from my mouth.
His spontaneity draws me under. I find his poise and manners irresistible.
When the meal is done, I thank him with genuine affection. Then I strap on my sandals
ready to head home.
“Please, don’t leave yet. Stay a while longer,” he pleads.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get going. It’s kinda getting late”
“Ok,” he replies dejectedly but with understanding in his voice. “So when will I see you
again?”
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Tales from the Other Side

Michael Ogah
The Indomie Man
“I’ll see you when I see you,” I answer him, making for the door.
He grabs me by one arm and follows now, all the way to door. I stop. He leans forward
and kisses me softly then slowly lets go. I stare blankly into his eyes, heart racing as I am
overwhelmed with the sincerity and gravity of the gesture. I push him. I push him back. I
push him all the way back until we are both back in the bedroom and he eventually drops
unto the mattress on his back. Then I kick off my sandals and mount him. He is unbelievably
quiet as I pull my skirt out of the way and spread my legs. In a split second, he locks his
hefty chiselled arms around my waist, and switches our positions. Then he invades my
mouth, tongue coiling and recoiling around mine whilst his hands fondled places. I moan
and sway my hips beneath his mass determined to match his fire.
He stops. Abruptly.
“Spend the night,” he blurts out. “For once. Please. I’d love you to”
“Oh shit,” I check my watch for time. It is 9.45pm.
“I’m sorry. Maybe some other time,” I raced to the door with my sandals in my hand until I
boarded a taxi.
On the drive home, I mentally slap myself over and over. I can not understand why I go to
see him in the first place. Also, why kiss him back? Now he’d probably think me easy to
get, another loose girl just like the rest.
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The Indomie Man
Michael Ogah
I have a boyfriend, but he does not know that. He does not need to know. I love my
boyfriend. I sincerely do. He is the perfect boyfriend; a lover and good listener. He never
forgets our anniversaries or my birthday and we have really great times when together. What
I find and do with the indomie man I simply can not explain.
How is it possible to be in love with that one special someone yet find such consuming
desire with another? What currency can buy a seared conscience back? One does not
have to be doing it for money to be a prostitute, I reckon. I am a prostitute. I get paid in
power. I am a dictator. He will never be free.
The next day I take a taxi to his house to make things right. I go in the day time because my
mother once told me the night belongs to the Devil.
He is seated outside, wearing those tight, fitting underpants that carve out his beautiful,
manly legs like a soldier from ancient Greece. On sighting me from a short mile he stands
up, smiles, approaches and embraces me from behind. I am lost for a moment in the
security of his embrace, how his hands encircle me entirely. I can feel my breasts squeeze
together and touch from how tightly he takes me in. Grateful I will not have to look in his
eyes when I speak, I make a go for it.
“I have someone.” I spit out the words. “It is not right for me to want you, or have you believe
you may have me. I’m sorry. I should have told you about him. Forgive me.”
It has been two months. I still think of him; his delicious curried indomie, his ease, his
mannerisms, his quiet strength. I still think about the smell of him. Someday I’ will be over
him. Some day, I won’t feel so ashamed to have felt things, unutterable things for him. God
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Michael Ogah
The Indomie Man
will take the feelings away and I’ll finally be able to behold the man without lust in my eyes.
I’d have found the cure for this virus.
Michael Ogah is a graduate of law from the Nigerian
Law School. He is an avid member of the Abuja Literary
Society, and is currently working on a novel.
95

Wanted:
For fear
Study
Raymond Elenwoke

Wanted: For fear Study
Raymond Elenwoke
Rec. “Testing, testing. Hello?”
Stop.
Rewind.
Play.
‘Testing, testing. Hello?’
Stop.
Rewind.
Rec.
July 14 th , 2015. Time: 11am.
This is Dr Ahmed Suleiman on the commencement of my field test on THE
PSYCHOLOGICAL AND PHYSIOLOGICAL EFFECTS OF FEAR: A CASE STUDY OF
THE HUMAN MIND AND BODY. For the purpose of this study I have acquired various…
specimens. These specimens have been selected with great care, each having diverse
strengths and weaknesses. They number four; two males and two females. I will attempt to
study the effect of various external stimuli on their physical and mental well-being. Before I
do so, however, I will attempt to clear the air, so to speak.
The Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary states that ‘Fear is the bad feeling you have
when you are in danger, when something bad might happen, or when something frightens
you.’ This definition is apt, and will do, for the purposes of this study.
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Wanted: For fear Study
On the other hand, Arthur J. Westermayr posits that ‘Fear is the great force that prompts
acts of self-preservation and operates as effectively in the brute as in the human animal.’ He
goes as far as to suggest that fear is present in some way, even in plants. Plants, however,
are not the subject of this study.
What follows is a live test conducted on Abimbola Olukoya, who for the purposes of this
study shall be called Subject No 3.
Stop.
He stretches his neck first one way, then the other, pushes his chair back from his
impeccably organized desk, and rises to his feet, taking his recorder with him. He turns and
walks to the closet and puts on a surgical gown, gloves and a hat, and then walks out. He
leaves the mask behind so that his voice will be clear in the recording. He goes down the
hall to his left, then through a plastic curtain into a brightly-lit, white-tiled, windowless room.
There are various air vents on the wall. A table runs along the wall opposite the door, ending
in a sink. It is covered with various medical apparatus: scalpels, surgical saws, syringes,
various vials and other medical assortment. In front of the sink is a table on wheels, with a
large, covered metal container on it. And in the centre of the room, beneath the glare of
a light bulb focused downwards, connected to a heart rate monitor, is a woman. She is
covered with a sheet, and her head, wrists and ankles strapped to the bed frame whose
base is bolted to the floor. The sheet covering her is stained in some places; red, pusyellow.
There is movement beneath it in various places, from her writhing and from…
something else. She is crying; her voice hoarse.
Dr Ahmed walks in, and when she sees him, she screams with renewed vigor, bucking
against her straps. She begins to plead, telling him she will tell no one if he just releases her.
Dr Ahmed pulls the table in front of the sink and sets it beside her, then takes out his
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Wanted: For fear Study
Raymond Elenwoke
recorder and places it on the table. He is not worried about it picking up his voice and her
screams; he will filter out the unnecessary sounds later before he saves it in his archives.
He hits REC.
Subject No 3. Day 2.
The subject shows signs of lucidity. However, there seems to be a degradation of the will
from yesterday, with the subject previously portraying emotions ranging from outrage to
anger, to defiance, to hope. Now, I shall begin with a preliminary physical examination of the
subject.
Her pupils are a little dilated, and her epithelium appears to be scarred. Her facial muscles
feel weak and pliable; no more tautness in the neck muscles as well. I am now taking away
the sheet covering her.
Her skin is generally pale. She is-
A moan escapes her lips as she closes her eyes. She is crying resignedly now, a weak
sound that conveys the hopelessness of her situation as she recites the names of her
children and her husband in a mantra. She is too tired to even flinch from his touches; she
wishes it will all just end. The pain seems almost distant, like different itches she wishes to
scratch but cannot. Dr Ahmed takes a small metal cup from inside the metal container and
opens it; the worms are bloated, some not moving. Oblivious to her pleas, he forces the
entire content of the cup down her throat; she tries to fight, gagging, and then lapsing into
a coughing fit. He clamps her mouth shut as she screams silently, her mouth full. She can
feel the worms slithering down her throat; there is an itch within her chest now. She feels a
strange, sucking sensation down her throat and into her stomach; they have began feeding.
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Wanted: For fear Study
Dr Ahmed continues through it all.
-worms, some of which appear bloated, having gorged on the subject’s blood and flesh,
seem to have burrowed deeper into the flesh of the subject with no evidence of their
presence but dried blood tracks. The wounds - a roughly circular patch of flesh on the left
side of the subject’s stomach and a one-inch incision on the right thigh - show no signs
of clotting however; perhaps this is as a result of the action of the worms. The surface of
the flesh feels porous. A slightly nauseating smell emanates from them, and there seems
to be some pus developing within, in addition to the discoloration of the wounds from
the reddish pink that was present yesterday at the time of incision, to a red/brown/yellow
hue. The edges of the wounds also show signs of discoloration. I expect them both to be
gangrenous in a few hours.
He takes out a small, white, covered plastic dish. He opens it, and then picks up the cut out
flesh floating in fluid stained pink with blood. He holds it up to the light, then turns it over and
carefully covers the wound with it, worms and all.
Subject shows obvious discomfort upon placement of the cut-out flesh on the stomach
wound. I will now proceed to sew both injuries shut.
He prepares the surgical needles, and then walks around to her right side. He repositions
the light above him, and then pushes the worms with his right index finger deeper into her
wound. She screams.
And when he starts to sew it shut, she passes out.
Subject No 3 has shown a rapid deterioration in mental resolve within a matter of twenty four
hours. While she showed admirable courage in the beginning of her captivity and outrage at
her bondage, the inevitability of the situation she is in has proven to be a lot bigger than her
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courage and faith can withstand, and has, as a result, devolved into a crying, broken shell.
Perhaps this is due to the situations she has been exposed to; I cannot authoritatively say,
as she seems too damaged for further tests. I believe it is time to study how she reacts to
other external stimuli.
She comes to, her head unusually heavy and light at the same time, her throat dry. Dr
Ahmed places a cup of water in front of her and parted her lips with a straw connected to
it; she sips almost gratefully, too tired to struggle as he loosens the strap holding her head
a little bit and holds her head up. When she is done, he places the cup back on the table,
and then re-tightens the strap. She fixes her eyes somewhere beyond the light, too tired to
close her eyes. A whirring sound, at first distant but growing in insistence, starts to resonate
around the room. She latches onto it and finally works her head to an angle to look.
He is holding a small, circular saw.
Her eyes go wide with shock.
The presence of a new threat seems to have an effect on her as she is now struggling even
harder than I thought possible. Her words straddle the divide between pleas and denial. I
will now proceed to dismember her right hand.
She screams loud enough to wake the dead. It is a scream torn from her darkest
nightmares, her deepest fears. She almost disbelieves, but the pain, and the warm blood
splattering her face and stomach is too real. She urinates on herself, not that she notices.
She struggles against her bonds, trying as much as she can to pull away, but it is all to no
avail. Nothing else matters but the blood and the pain, and escaping it all.
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Wanted: For fear Study
And when the void reaches up to her, she gratefully embraces it.
The subject appears to have passed out once again. At this moment, I will check on the
other subjects. I am particularly interested in how well Subject No 2 fared with the vipers,
given the cutlass he has as a weapon.
I will resume shortly.
12:43pm.
Stop.
So my name is Raymond Elenwoke, an Accountant by
day and a Horror/Thriller/SF writer at night, and most other
times. At least I like to think so. I blog at www.thrillsandchills.
wordpress.com as well as www.ruk4christ.blogspot.com.
You can meet me on Facebook (Raymond Elenwoke) or on
Twitter (@lewokes).
Readings? I stay in PH. Why am I like this?
Here, hold my Fanta.
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We only
die once
Jumoke Omisore

We only die once
Jumoke Omisore
I
follow him into his apartment because I am tired of running from death. All day, the
sun had baked my head and burnt the skin of my caramel-hued back. My stomach
is in knots from hunger. The last time food came its way was two days ago, when Mama
Aja, the neighbour had asked me to take Bingo its dinner of fried fish. The dog never got its
supper.
Alaba, the Cokers’ housemaid, once told me there are worse things than mosquitoes and
snakes on the streets of Lagos that can kill a girl at night. This is the reason I meekly follow
AJ to his two-room apartment. I hobble, because just that morning before my stepmother
threw me out of my father’s apartment, she had whipped my legs with the biggest rod I had
ever seen. And because squatting for hours has curved my back and bowed my skinny
legs; now I look like my grandmother before she passed away.
“What did she say you did this time?” AJ’s words bring back memories of that frightful day,
as he helps me to a wooden chair that is so ramshackle, it rattles from side to side under
my dainty weight.
I eye the brown sofa in the room that runs from one end of the wall to the other, leaving
little room for the red armchair and plywood cabinet. As if he could read my mind, AJ leads
me to the sofa and covers me with a worn duvet from behind it. I am careful not to lay my
cheek on the wispy cushion that serves as a pillow; not sure if the blood that trickled from
my lips when old stepmother’s whip caught it has finally dried up.
“She says I am a witch, that I keep killing the children in her womb,” I tell AJ. I feel a niggling
of guilt at my stepmother’s allegations. It is because I do not know if I am a witch. I had
not in fact known my stepmother was pregnant; I do not know much about pregnancies,
because I am only twelve.
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We only die once
“She did all this to you?” AJ asks, gaping at the bruised skin on my legs where the duvet
does not reach. I want to tell him about the leathery welts on my bottom where my father’s
floggings often land when my stepmother feeds him lies about me. I want to tell him about
the rage in my father’s eyes when he hears those lies.
Sometimes I wonder if the lies are true—the way she tells them, I feel sorry for my
stepmother because the girl in her stories makes her home sound like a hell of an edifice.
“Let me get some water from the tap so you can wash your face,” AJ says and leaves the
room. I want more than water—I need food, water and warmth. I imagine what I will do
to milky tea and freshly baked bread when I lay my hands on them and the yearning only
serves to stir my hunger.
I wonder why none of the neighbours came to my rescue while I squatted all day beside
the gates, until darkness descended upon the streets. My father had simply walked past
me when he returned from his job as a taxi driver. He’d gone straight into the apartment
that had refused to become my home. I came to live there after my grandmother’s death
four years ago. At first, the new arrangement worked. Until the day I broke my stepmother’s
oldest glassware.
I glance at the wall clock; it is two o’clock in the morning. AJ returns with a small bucket of
water. He hands me a towel before disappearing again. The water is warm and I savour it as
I slowly dip the towel and dab my face. I do not wince because I am acquainted with pain.
There is a mirror directly across the room. It shows my reflection, the crevices in my collar
bones and the hollows in my cheeks. I notice my shaven head is smaller than it used to be
when I was eight and lived with Grandmother. My lower lip is now twice its size and caked
with dried blood.
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I put the towel back in the bucket and wrap myself with the duvet once more, because a
chill grips me from the inside that spreads to my limbs. Although Alaba says it is unwise to
trust any man, I know AJ’s wife, Aunty Labake, very well. Although she’s presently away at
her mother’s house in Ikorodu, I still stay. It is a risk, but Dede the street hawker once said
people only die once. Whatever happens, I can only die once.
AJ comes in with a tray. On the tray sits a steaming cup of Bournvita, a slice of buttered
bread and a sachet of pure water. I want to sleep, but AJ persuades me to eat a little. He
pulls out a white envelope from the left pocket of his jeans and takes out two white tablets.
“Here, take this. It is Panadol Extra.” He takes away the bucket.
I lie down afterwards, praying the painkillers soothe my aches and alleviate the pain in my
mind and limbs..
“Apeke, don’t you have anyone else that can take you in?” AJ asks as he sits on the
armchair, stretching out his long, lean legs. I tell him my mother gave my grandmother sole
custody of me when I was two. She expressed her wish to remarry. Taking a child with her
to Ibadan where she worked as a a tailor’s apprentice would have deterred potential suitors
.
“I went to her house last Christmas. She won’t let me move in because her husband does
not want me to live with them.”
“Why can’t your father talk to his wife? It is his house!” AJ’s voice rises.
“I don’t blame Father. He lets me live in his house. Alaba says I am lucky. Her father sold
her to Mrs Coker for two thousand naira a month. The money pays for her brother’s school
fees.”
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Tales from the Other Side

Jumoke Omisore
We only die once
“Some people do not deserve children.”
“Not all children are lucky,” I respond dejectedly
“If you were my child or sister, I would never maltreat you.”
I drift away from his words into a dreamland that mimics a fairytale, where my mother is the
Queen of the Olubadan of Ibadan and I, his princess. I roam the palace carefree bedecked
in ringed beads that reach my waist from my neck. I dreamed of flowing white rivers that
taste sweeter as honey and a land with ripe fruits that pluck and serve themselves to me.
In my sleep, I feel a crushing weight on my neck, squeezing the air out of me. I want to
shout for AJ to help me, but something has stolen my voice. Just like the way it deserted
me when my stepmother’s brother cornered me in the bathroom that cursed morning last
month and I wordlessly tried to claw my way out.
I wake up to find Aunty Labake tapping me. It is morning. She says I was having a
nightmare.
Aunty Labake is the only other person that listens to me. She has rescued me from my
stepmother many a time. Had she been around yesterday, she would have come to my aid.
She does so every time my voice rises over the compound walls in pleas for succour.
When she gives me a loose-fitting dress to wear, I thank her. She tells me to be quiet,
because AJ is still sleeping. Early that morning while I slept, he’d gone round to my father’s
house.
My mouth begins to salivate as I watch Aunty Labake cook aroso rice and fish stew. AJ
comes into the kitchen and tiredly informs me that my home is now with them. Aunty
Labake informs me later–as I tiptoe in an effort to eavesdrop on my stepmother over the
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We only die once
Jumoke Omisore
fence, that my father does not want me to reside with them anymore. A prophet told my
stepmother she will never bear a child if I remain under their roof.
I wonder why my new guardians have welcomed me into their home. I wonder if it is as
Aunty Labake says, that I have no one else and no place else to go. Or if it is as I once
overheard my stepmother gossiping to her friend over the phone? The prophet had
counselled Aunty Labake to take in and fend for a destitute child the age of the length of
years she has been barren if she must have any children of her own. I replay the couples’
youthful faces in my mind and doubt they had truly been married all of twelve years.
My father never comes to get me. AJ and his wife went over to fetch my few belongings.
I sat in the front seat in AJ’s car. I wait with little air in my lungs and wet eyes, hoping my
father will come out and wave me goodbye. But he never comes.
Gradually I acquiesced to my new reality. If AJ would be my father now, and Aunty Labake
my mother, so be it. What does it matter that we are not flesh and blood.
My stepmother had also said that according to the prophet, if the destitute were kindhearted,
he/she would live a long and fruitful life and will always be loved of his/her new
family. But that if the destitute were a mean spirited child, he/she would die as soon as
Aunty Labake delivers a child.
I will love children for AJ and Aunty Labake. They are compassionate people. Although
I have my reservations about their wanting to bring children into a barely comfortable
existence. So for them, I wish children. And all good things. It’s only fair. Does this make me
kind-hearted?
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Jumoke Omisore
We only die once
I wish people like my stepmother would be befallen by evil. Only a mean spirited child would
think this way. I am conflicted as to which of the two I am. I wonder if another fate, another
life may find me where none of these determines my destiny. However here, I guess I wait to
find out if I live or die. If it be the latter, would it not be just the once? I vow to face it unafraid.
Olajumoke Omisore lives in Lancashire. She grew up in London
and Abeokuta. As a child she enjoyed reading Achebe, Fagunwa,
Emecheta, Alkali and others. She still counts reading her key hobby.
Her writing has appeared in The Kalahari Review, Africanwriter, Naija
Stories and TNC. Her flash story, Ochuga’s Girl was longlisted for the
Minority Contest.
111

Whispering
Waters
Soogun Omoniyi

Whispering Waters
Soogun Omoniyi
“Da.. dadd..u..daddu! ayam api to seeee you, mi daddu...”
That was all he said before a slap halted him; the usual hit he got whenever he escaped
from the prison they called him room.
Chris blinked twice, he wasn’t going to cry this time; he wasn’t even going to rub the cheek.
“Big boys don’t cry... you’re now a big boy,” his mother had whispered into his ears last
week, on the night of his birthday, when father, his jailer, had refused to show up.
“Bu.. Buh daddu... Ayaff nor see.. saw you since daddu...”
A stronger whack replied the gibberish, sending him to the floor. His mother flinched and
grabbed her husband by the arm before he decided on another slap.
“Daniel!” She screamed.
He snatched himself from her tiny palms and faced her, his anger threatening to pop her out
of existence,
“How many times will I tell you... once he’s back from school, this hiiimbecile should not
come out of his room!”
The “imbecile” came out of his dark lips with such great skill that could have only been
honed from years of constant pronunciation. Stretched and inflected.
“...answer me, how many times? ...what if I arrived with an important visitor!” His hand kept
slashing the air.
“He’s our son! Our only child! You cannot keep him locked forever Daniel!” Janet fired back,
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Soogun Omoniyi
Whispering Waters
hands on her protruded belly.
The veins of his neck strained and patterned out as he yelled in silence,
“Then let him die already! I’m tired!”
Chris, although plagued with Down’s syndrome, could read the signs. Daddy did not want
him. How else would you explain the constant meanness, or how daddy had refused to
take him to church on Sundays, how he watched only ‘mumma’ scamper to get him to the
hospital whenever the chest pain came.
She gaped as Daniel swished past the transfixed boy, past the couches- where he flung
his bag, past the dining chairs- where his tie landed, past wine rack, into a place her brain
got too dazed to register. The words kept echoing in her head. Let him die already. Lurching
back to reality, she saw her boy still seated on the floor, unable to speak. She took slow
steps towards him and crouched to cup his rigid cheeks in her palms. His flat nose, the
slanted and too distanced eyes, the short, stumpy neck; she found him beautiful yet.
Marvelous creation.
“Mu..mumma, he don’t like mi...”
Chris said, pointing a stunted finger towards the rack. Impending tears jutted out from her
lower eyelids. She blinked and they dropped on her gown.
“My heart, daddy loves you. He’s just stressed this evening. Okay?”
He tried speaking again but failed. Tears took the place of his little stutters. Whispering
waters; she heard their voices as they glistened out of his unblinking eyes. She heard them
say he was scared, that he wanted to be well and normal, that he wanted to play and
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Soogun Omoniyi
sing and live like other kids, that he wanted an everlasting hug. Without wasting time, she
wrapped her arms around him, leaving him only to muffle on her shoulder. It was the best
feeling.
According to her obstetrician, another joy would arrive through her womb in some weeks.
Chris would no longer be alone, her husband would be happy and she happier. She
muttered a word of prayer.
“I can’t wait to carry this baby, a real child!” Daniel had bluntly disclosed the last time Janet
returned from the doctor. She had answered with a hopeful smile.
* * * Weeks later * * *
“...dust to dust, earth to earth. O God, whose beloved Son did take little children into his
arms. Give us grace, we beseech thee, to entrust this child, Chris to Thy never-failing care
and love...”
A lanky priest recited at the feet of a tiny grave. About seven black robed forty-year-olds
hummed very sorrowful hymns behind him. Sorrow hung in the air. Janet watched Father
Jude raise his big black Bible to sign a cross over the hole. The same Bible he displayed
during Chris’ christening thirteen years ago, the same Bible he prayed to God with during
their years of trying to conceive another child.
She stared as the wooden coffin got lowered into the earth. Memories of the last two
nights streamed to her again. Her son had wobbled into her and her husband in their room,
clutching his chest,
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Soogun Omoniyi
Whispering Waters
“mu..m..mumma.. mi kest hus pain mi ogain... mi kest... mumma...mumma.”
She had not responded swiftly enough this time unlike ten months ago and in the two
previous years. She was heavy now. Chris lost the fight for his life at the hospital. He had
been born with a congenital heart defect.
Now, she would derive joy from the fact that he had been set free from his jail, he would get
to Heaven and tell God everything. Still curved around her waist was her husband’s hand.
He kept consoling and checking her belly from time to time, reassuring himself that another
baby was there and on its way.
Suddenly, everyone turned in response to a shrill cry. Such at a funeral was not unusual,
but there was something about this particular one; it didn’t stop, and was accompanied by
a continuous grabbing of the lower back. Janet was in labour.
* * * Hours later * * *
Daniel got up from amidst five other people and moved in no particular direction. He soon
returned and dropped beside a shivering lady. The way his legs trembled made it look as
though they were both in a contest. The more she shivered, the better he vibrated.
“Take it easy sir,” someone said from another waiting bench. He ignored.
He sprang up again and began pacing the hospital waiting room. He couldn’t wait to carry
his ‘real child’.
A green coat appeared from his right. He tore towards it,
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Whispering Waters
Soogun Omoniyi
“Doctor! How’s she, how’s my baby?”
The doctor kept silent for two heartbeats. Daniel froze too, wishing he could burrow inside
his brain to extract some answers.
“Congratulations, Mr Daniel.” He said finally “You’re the father of a baby boy.”
In a flash, he was hanging on the doctor, hugging him in speechless excitement.
“But there’s another thing...”
The doctor said as he struggled to free himself.
“What is it doctor?”
“Sir, the baby has Down’s syndrome.”
Like a gold watch on a begger, Soogun Omoniyi likes to
stand out. Currently studying to become a medical doctor,
he has a passion to heal- physically, mentally and spiritually.
He sees God as his biggest inspiration. He is a deep thinker, a go-getter,
a great listener, a pace setter with that high spirit for greater archivements.
Get him in the same room with Dan Brown or Terry Goodkind and he’ll
give you his right heart.
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Tales from the Other Side

The pen moves across the paper; from left to write
It dances; like I was using my left to write
Life’s a journey; God knows what’s left to write
You can’t imagine the things I left to write
But what’s left’s alright…
Right?
When is a writer’s work done?
It’s almost like magic; this thing we do.
Open a blank page – a huge blot of white. At the tap of a keyboard – or the stroke of a pen
– and that white, pure surface is forever marred. Keep going – and within a time; depending
on whose strokes it is, at best, a masterpiece is created.
At worst, another one for the recycle bin/dustbin.
But in both cases, something has been created. Things will never go back to the way they
were.
Sidney Sheldon said; a blank piece of paper is God’s way of reminding us how hard it is to be
Him. I agree – not only because it appeals to that side of me who acknowledges the existence
of a higher power – but also because it just makes sense.
It makes sense.
Three years ago I had a huge emotional shock – the likes of which I have never experienced
my entire existence. After days of frenetic activity; stuff I did just to fill in the hours and keep my
always-wandering mind occupied, I found myself in front of my system, a word page open.
Oya write, I thought.
I sat there for a bit over three hours and couldn’t write a single word. I have never been that
terrified in my whole life – and for the first and only time ever, I wondered if there was any truth

to the ‘writer’s block’ myth.
After a while, I shook it off and my first book; For Days and A Night was born of that experience.
But I never forgot. No.
I learnt not to take this gift of mine for granted; I learnt to make every single word count – else
cut it out of the narrative. I learnt to appreciate the fact that I can make or mar things with the
strength of my words – someone did say the pen is mightier than the sword.
So – when is a writer’s work done?
Is it when the last stroke has been delivered, when the editor has done the last re-conning?
Is it when the manuscript is bound and printed, when the books are chilling on the shelf? Is it
when a book launch is successful – and the book has gone through several reprints?
No.
For a writer be well and truly done; a reader is necessary. Writing cannot be a solo act – maybe
it starts alone; but for the process to be complete there has to be a reader. Else the ‘writer’
is just scribbling in a journal – and that’s nothing extraordinary.
There has to be a reader for a writer to exist. It’s very much like the Argentine Tango or the
Salsa – you either have a partner or you’re just shadow boxing. The writer takes the lead; but
then, asks the reader to trust him. The reader gives the writer her hand (I like to think a man
leads the dance), and she bravely follows him step for step; every climb, hill, valley – every
dip, twist and turn – she has to be with him all the way. Sometimes the writer loses his way
and in effect, loses the reader.
That; is a failed experiment.
But every now and then, the writer lands a reader patient enough to wait till the music stops
before leaving the room. Simply because although the dance may be familiar; the steps are
always new.

Usually.
So the lights dim; the dance is done – old partners are replaced with new ones; old passionate
loves become nothing but memory – memories of a sunset traded for a star-spangled
night sky. They smile; both reader and writer. They smile – and move on to other things, other
people – lovers, friends, partners – change happens.
But sometimes, former partners stay. Old lovers linger…memories refuse to be replaced.
Love hangs around; staying for one last look over the shoulder, saying I had so wonderful a
time…can we do this once more?
And then; only then can a writer say my work here is done.
If after surfing through the fifteen stories in this collection; after absorbing the twenty-something
thousand or so words, after smiling and crying and being frightened and angry – all
through the experience, if after enduring the seemingly-endless droning in this outro; if after all
that, there is a lingering memory of what each story felt like – in your mouth, your gut – there
is a desire to seek out the pen-smiths whose work you have on your screen now, if you’re
willing to consume whatever else you’re served from them…
Then; only then can they say…
Our work is done.
Tales from this other side.
Seun Odukoya
28th of August 2015
2:54am

This anthology is a product of a thought -an idea- carelessly tossed on Facebook. I never
knew it was one that will come true so soon. Thank you Seun Odukoya for that very
comment that sparked this to life. May greatness never leave you.
It would have been very easy for this to remain an idea, one of many floating on facebook
like discarded debris on still waters. But it didn’t. Thanks to a squad of relentless writers who
saw the potential of the idea and chose to bless it with their awesomeness. To the amazing
writers who contributed their tales to this anthology, thank you; for believing in me and my
idea, and for those exciting times we’ve had on the TFTOS group. May our ‘wrustles’ take
us to heights far beyond our dreams. You guys rock, walahi.
Many thanks to the editorial team for taking time out of their schedules to work on this,
often to abnormal deadlines. Your efforts, guys, have reposed a good dose of belief in this
collection. I owe you all. Thank you very much.
The Oluaye of the Other Side, Ikhide Ikheloa, deserves special thanks for his words of
advice, encouragements and for taking time to read the manuscript. Thank you sir for being
amazing on every front.
My friend Richard Ali deserves a mention for taking me through some of the intricacies
involved in publishing and for being gracious enough to write us a blurb. Someday, if East
Africa doesn’t make you one of her own, we’d sit at the table of men and revel in the New
Dawn sure to come for Nigerian -and African- publishing.

If there’s anyone whose vision and drive thrills me as a writer, it is Toni Kan. Boss, thanks for
being that inspiration I can relate with. May the ideas be. I throway salute oga mi.
In my foray in advertising, I’ve worked with different kinds of people. Of the lot, Seun
Robinson stands apart. Literally. A self-taught artist and digital genius, Seun never stops
learning. He was sitting right beside me when the idea for this book was conceived and
he immediately offered to work on it. And this is the result. Thank you my brother for your
commitment and discipline in seeing this through. I could not have done this without you,
sincerely.
And to Modupe Gbemi. May all of God always be yours forever. My vocabulary isn’t big
enough to find the right words to appreciate you, I’ll just say ‘Thank you’.
Finally to the ladies who have made a man out of this boy, Tolu and Tito; I love you guys. I’m
proud to have both of you as my Big Idea.
This book happened in 10 weeks. Sometimes, the will is more important than the idea.
Glory to the Owner of all ideas and the One who gives the grace to execute same.
Bankole Banjo
30th September, 2015
Abeokuta,
Nigeria