Choir Blues (1)

You might want to read this first: SMALL PIKIN

Mrs Effiong last sang in the choir in Secondary School. When she moved with her parents and siblings to Lagos in 1989, she was quickly enrolled into Form 2 and when the school choir needed a replacement for the Carol Service, she was called on to try.

She had done well at the time. Her singing voice had proven to have the texture and pitch absent in her speaking voice. So when her husband, Udoh Effiong suggested to her that she pick a department in the church where she might serve the Lord, she replied, with a cheerful certainty- Choir.

They were sitting in the parlour after they returned from church. Nsese was on the floor, playing with her rag doll. The windows were open, the curtains pulled to the side; there was no power.

Mrs Effiong threw down her head tie revealing her hair net under which her bob was wrapped.

“I enjoyed the preaching today, she said. I bought the tape for you. They were doing buy- one- get one- free, so I bought you today’s and last week’s. Very cheap, just 100 naira, she said.

“But I gave you 200 naira apart from Nse’s offering, why didn’t you buy all four for the past month? he asked.

“How many can you listen to at a time, next week I’ll buy jo, no use tying down money”.

Udoh didn’t bother replying. He could never win. So he changed the subject and landed on the issue  of what department to join.

Since Nsese’s birth a year and a half ago and throughout the ten months of the pregnancy, Mrs Effiong had been in what Udoh and his Presbyterian leaders would call  ‘visitor in God’s house’ mode.

The Pastor had once preached a message: They that dwell and they that visit. The punch line of the sermon to which several of the congregants all chorused ‘Preach it’ was that people who dwell in homes have the responsibility to clean and take care of it but visitors were exempt as they were going to leave soon after they came.

So, it was understood that the message was an allegory castigating those who didn’t do anything to help in the church but were obviously not visitors. Mrs Effiong was one of them, so while her husband taught the Sunday School children, she became wracked with guilt and dredged out of her memory her choir singing days in Greater Heights Secondary.

“So you will attend the rehearsals on Tuesday, Mr Effiong said.

"Yes", she replied dragging Nsese to the bedroom to change her soiled diapers.

Presbyterian Church was located on the intersection between  Salvation Army street and Macaulay way on the Mainland Bypass. As Mrs Effiong alighted from the bus and crossed the street, she couldn’t help admiring the tall glass building stained with gold and bright green hues. She thought it was beautiful even though slightly outrageous but the church had loved the final creation after what seemed like years and years of sowing and sacrificing.

She met Ijeoma outside alighting from the bike that had brought her. Ijeoma was an extremely light skinned lady who sang lead especially in songs that required a knowledge of Igbo and when she saw Mrs Effiong, she cut her speech to the quick. ‘Are you mad?’ and other such questions were on her lips to ask of the bike man who had just splashed brown, muddy water on her skirt. But as a lead singer, she figured it would be bad example to a young worker.

Mrs Effiong smiled. A look of understanding passed between them. These guys can really be mad, her eyes seemed to be reassuring.

They greeted and walked in together. A man was at the piano at the far side of the hall and a group of men and women were seated along rows of chairs at the front. Mrs Effiong could see a woman slapping at her weave so hard, her head bobbed from side to side.

Although she was already known by most people  because of her husband, she still needed to stand up and say her name and what part she intended to sing. After the introductions came voice training. The choir master who introduced himself as Mr Ben said that she needed to justify her claim by singing the alto part to a popular chorus.

It was to be call and response. When Mrs Effiong sang it exactly how he had sang it; straight melody and without the barest hint of a harmony,  someone at the back sniggered. Mrs Effiong raised her eyebrows. You must not know ‘bout me!

We'll continue tomorrow. Did you enjoy how this started? Tell me in your comments.

Bless! :)

Butterflies in my stomach- Flash Fiction

Hey guys, ok, I'm on a roll now. Just like me to go on a hiatus and then come back with a bang! This one is something I was working on for the Commonwealth Short Story Competition. I didn't send it in eventually. Grappling with the usual problems of writing flash.(600 words). Does it make sense? I haven't said all I want to? This is absolute trash, Akan! (lol) Tell me what you think, will ya? I love you guys. Bless!

Butterflies in my stomach

Just as I was about to climb aboard my father’s rickety Datsun for a ride to the airport, I looked back and watched my mother and my siblings. Hands akimbo, eyes shiny with tears. Gray haired men and pant wearing toddlers were out on their frontages peering at me, hands folded over breasts; expressions a mix of admiration and envy.

My mother rushed to the car and tucked in my bra strap, picked out something from my thick Afro and fiddled with my buttons. The last time I checked, my bra strap was not sticking out, there was no nothing in my hair and my buttons were just fine. She was just nervous, and maybe needed to remind everyone watching that  she was the mother of the scholar who was off to the lands across the seas. 

I knew I wouldn’t be seeing any seas though; for the plane flew high up above them.  Maybe if I craned my neck far out.

My father pressed his horn again. A sombre looking man, made even more grave looking when he was undertaking an important task as he was now. He had driven his cab everyday for the past twenty years, but this was different. Driving his scholar to the airport for a trip abroad. Abroad! That magical word!

The scholarship came serendipitously. As a brilliant but timid student, I didn’t imagine that I would ever win anything like that. But my teacher, Ms Benson thought otherwise. “Such brains cannot waste”, she often said. She was very unlike my mother. While my mum was soft spoken and unassuming, Ms Benson was feisty. Yes, feisty, but I owed her this privilege. She couldn’t be around to see me off to the airport because she was attending a City Hall meeting to protest the exclusion of girls in a recent scholarship offer. That was my Ms Benson; always fighting for the underdog. Blazing her shiny eyes, her voice modulated three notches higher, talking about things like equality and rights, her favourite red scarf flying in the air.

I climbed into the car, clutching the little red pouch Ms Benson had given me, with the words: IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS, PLEASE DO NOT STEAL. Thieves do not take heed to begging but I guess they would know that it was Mrs Benson that wrote it.

As we eased out of the street, people waved vigorously as if I was going away forever. I waved back; my stomach queasy, I suddenly felt like I needed to visit the bathroom.

My father drove slowly like he was afraid to damage the package he was going to deliver. I looked out the window, thinking of the impending upheaval my life was taking. The anticipation was overwhelming and I couldn’t wait to see London and settle the argument my twin siblings had about whether there was a place where you could queue up to get some money if you ran out of yours.

We arrived at 5.00pm.  With my red pouch around my waist, we stared at the crowd that had collected in the hall. There was a constant din; just like it was in Merchant square. Completely bewildered, we joined a line. "Just any line", Father said, clutching my luggage, the serious look never leaving his face. 

We soon came up in front of a lady officer.  After looking through my shiny passport, the lady officer paused and looked up, pointing at the display board. 

“Flight problems, she said, we’re sorry for the inconvenience; it has to be tomorrow".

Father couldn’t have been paler. 

“It’s okay, Father, we would come back tomorrow”, I muttered.

Throughout the ride back , I thought of how I’d face all my neighbours and my siblings and... Mother! Would they think I wasn’t deserving of the scholarship and had been turned back? I noticed that Father was taking a different route, and when I coughed, he said, “We would spend the night at your uncle’s and leave from there tomorrow”. 
Praise be!