Mad World- Short Story

Nothing in Caca’s seventy years of existence could have prepared her for this experience. Not even when she had given birth to her son fifty years ago in a midwife’s hut called MY CHILD far away from civilisation. The son she hadn’t spoken to in six months.

Her captors spoke in voices that betrayed youth; hesitancy flitting through their eyes every now and again. “The world had indeed gone mad, she thought, children who should still be suckling at their mother’s breast?”

The leader handed the phone to her, and in gruff tones he said, “tell him ten million naira by tomorrow or you’ll never be seen again”.

She could hear wailings in the background. Her daughter-in-law’s voice stood out; filled with the terror of the unknown. It dawned on Caca that indeed absence made the heart grow fonder. She missed them; she had been so foolish. The phone slipped out of her hands. A slap blinded her momentarily.

This is what it had come to; the relentless lure for vengeance that came from idleness and a battered self esteem; a misplaced use of energy though, seeing as she was one of their own; a daughter of the land of oil. Her son was just a mere actor and she, a wheezing, cackling bag of bones. It was absurd but then this was real. Fear held her in its unyielding grip.

Sleep that night was tortuous. The cold cement floor and the fat noisy mosquitoes conspired to give a new meaning to fitful sleep, and even once she opened her eyes and saw the butt of a gun pressed to her feet.
She wanted to ease herself. The leader roused himself, obviously disgusted at the disturbance.
“May your mother’s bladder burst!” she swore under her breath.
Can I have some privacy? she asked as he hovered over her just near some tall elephant grass, the steel of the AK47 glinting in the early moonlight.

He snorted.
“Never mind”, she said.
                            ******

Today was the day. She knew her son would try to get the money. Mother-son bond was a hard one to break. But she resented that.
She scanned the deserted area and knew screaming was not an option. One shot from that gun……!

On getting up, a land mark came in view. Her smile spoke a million words.
When the sun rose properly, he handed her the phone, “Tex Junction, 2.00pm”
She only nodded.
She said softly and clearly into the mouthpiece, “We expect you at 2.00pm, Tex junction, ayen mi.
He frowned and snatched the phone back.
“I didn’t ask you to say that one; he knows he’s your child!”.

The distant sound of a car was heard in the distance as it sliced through the air.
“No car passes here”, he said to his assistant, his brow furrowing.
But the sound soon faded away; hope knocking the wind out of Caca as it took its leave.
Fidgety, he redialled the number and said into the phone, “we are waiting or we kill her!”
“We are here, a voice said, put up your hands and drop your weapons!”.
Her son stared back at her from the door; a shadow of himself.
“Ayen-mi”, she said and collapsed in his arms.

Her captors were rounded up by the policemen; with heads hung loose, eyes filled with cold defiance.

                                                 ****

Across the fields, a ramshackle hut stood forlorn and on it hung the fading wood board with the words: AYEN-MI
Mother and son looked at each other.
“Thank you for understanding and remembering”, Caca said to her son.

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!

Familiarly Pushy- Short Story

Hey guys, about three months ago, there was a competition organised by a writing site and the judge involved was Chimamanda Adichie. She asked that competitors write a story that could be read in three minutes or less in which a joke was cracked and someone cried. I thought long and hard about what to write in less than 600 words that would make sense and still retain my characteristic feisty flavor and I thought of this. I haven't heard anything, so I'm almost certain I didn't win. I've decided to share with you, so that I might get your insights. Please tell me if this story made any sense to you and if it stirred some emotion in you(what great fiction does) or NOT( sobs!) . Whatever you do, enjoy. I love you guys. Bless!

Familiarly Pushy

Amuche sat sniffing; dabbing her eyes with bits of the serviette paper she was supposed to be using to wipe her mouth. But the tears won’t just stop streaming down; ruining her MAC.

“Cheer up, babe, think about it for a minute, imagine if he broke up before Valentine’s day”, I said.

She tried to smile, a watery smile; her pretty face a muddied mess.

The  restaurant was crowded. It seemed a lot of people were still in the mood for love. Couples held hands across the table; staring into eyes filled with longing. I just hoped they would have better luck than Amuche. For me, I had long given up. My heart was beyond the reach of such idiots as Emeka; Amuche’s wayward beau. She finally stopped crying and we resumed eating.

“Hey, care if I join you?” a tall man in a blue sports jacket asked. His voice was like liquid timber; hitting my eardrums like a bass drum beat underwater.

It seemed it had the same effect on Amuche. She wore an instant perk.

“No! Amuche, you’ve just been through one, must you always let them get to you?", I thought.

“You’ve barely touched your food, or do your rocks crack in your teeth as mine”, he said, pointing to my plate of rice, his eyes dancing with mirth.

Pushy familiarity was just the thing I detested; you thought that meant that they were confident and smart, only for them to show you that they were as familiarly pushy with just everything else that wore a skirt.

Amuche’s eyes were instantly dry and twinkling, the dried path the tears took contained in banks of caked powder.

“My name is Emeka, and after a pause, he went on, it’s a pleasure meeting you ladies.”

A dismal look flared on Amuche’s face. It seemed she was going to cry, but she quickly brightened again; after all he wasn’t the same Emeka (I was almost certain she was thinking).

I smiled. This was getting disgusting. I got up to leave the table. As I made to leave, his hand touched mine, and I swear I felt something. Current, sparks, electrons would all sound corny. But there was definitely a ‘something’. Hard, callused hands. Broad and assured. Familiarly pushy. He slipped something into my hand. I closed my hand over it.

“I’ll see you in the car, Amuche” I mumbled.

In my beat up Corolla, I stared down at the gold embossed card in my hand which said: 

Emeka Dibie, Head Builder, Specter Inc. and on the back was scribbled the words;

“I was watching you while ordering and worried that I won’t get a chance to speak to you alone. I’d like to push past those invisible walls and build new ones  around me and you”.

Familiarly pushy. Familiarly clairvoyant. But it got me smiling. Maybe I’ll take a chance.

Guest Post: Flash Fiction (Clara's no joke by Jeff Unaegbu)

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

She continues to talk, even when it is my turn to have my hair dressed and when I try to explain to her how I want my hair styled.

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

Laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Muffled laughter. I prick my ears in alarm.

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

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

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

Thank God it is no joke, I think.

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

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

I pick my things hurriedly and walk out as fast as I can. I wish I can just be deleted like a computer file. My hair is wet and the hairnet seems not to be doing its job of covering the mess properly. Of course, I do not want to see Eddy. So I go straight to my pad, throw myself on my bed and cry myself to sleep.
 
 
Jeff Unaegbu is a poet, short story writer, actor, fine artist and a documentary film maker. You can find out more about Jeff HERE and read his BLOG here.

JEFF UNAEGBU (This guy can write!)