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A SMOKY TALE

I am dozing on my bed this hot afternoon,halfway to the land of sleep, when I hear one of the cleaners yell. She has a loud speaking voice normally but her yells,my goodness,are of the earsplitting sort.

I turn to the other side of my bed and wonder who or what wants to cause this hearing loss for all of us.

She yells again and I decipher the word she is yelling.

She is yelling:”Baba!”

Now, I’m wondering who this Baba is and why his name is being yelled.

She yells again in Yoruba that he shouldn’t kill us.

At this stage,I’m wondering fuzzily, if I remembered to lock the door after my roomie left.

There is a bout of silence and I heave a sigh of relief. I turn again and continue my nap.

Then she continues,screaming at the unseen Baba,asking him if he wants to ruin people’s clothes.

That gets my attention and I open my eyes,fully alert.

Today is Saturday and the clothing lines in the backyard are full of clothes in varying colours and sizes spread out or hung up.

I happen to be one of the people whose clothing is spread out on that line by the dint of hard work,being that I woke up early,8am precisely( Yes. 8am on a Saturday is early for me), to wash and spread them.

She yells again and I sit up fuzzily.

As I rub my bleary eyes ,I smell the smoke.Warning bells go off in my head.

The man who has a plot at the back of our building farms it and occasionally he indulges in bush burning to our detriment.

I mean,isn’t bush burning in residential areas illegal? If it isn’t,it should be.Without any apology to his neighbours too!

I peep out my window and see the spirals of smoke and ashes descending upon the backyard and our hard washed clothes.All traces of sleep vanish from my eyes instantly.

I hear doors opening and people shouting in outrage at the sight of the unwelcome smoke spiraling over the fence.

The cleaner is still yelling and cursing as she packs away the clothes she spread out this morning. She has a murderous glare on her face as she stuffs the clothes into a large basin.

She keeps on cursing as the smoke spirals down. 

I feel the tickle of laughter in my throat and am tempted to laugh. I really am.That is, until I realize I have clothes outside too.

Snapping back to attention,I put on my slippers to go and rescue my clothes,before they start smelling like those of  an “asun” seller.( Not that they smell particularly unpleasant or anything)

Like grasscutters being smoked out of their lair ,we rush out with one quest in mind: rescue your clothes.
Written by Miracle Eme

 
1 Comment

Posted by on July 31, 2017 in Literature/Writing

 

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CHRONICLES OF THE ILLEGALLY LEGAL S2E7

This week and indeed, this entire year has been filled with little…joys which have reinforced my views that maybe, just maybe, life should not be taken so seriously. And even if you wanna take life in general seriously, do not take life in Nigeria seriously otherwise you’ll just run mad. Not the play-play type of madness either, but the starkravingnolucidmomentstearingyourclothesandbarking type of madness.

See the thing is, Nigeria really isn’t ready to let you be great. It’s not as if the country doesn’t want you to be great o (deep down, I’m sure it means well) but it cannot just let you go on and just…flourish. Ahn Ahn! Just like that? Are you playing? Your mates that are suffering first and running mad or killing themselves, do they have two heads?

I’m trying not to rant. I believe ranting about the state of affairs in our beloved nation is something that is done only by people who’ll get into power and do much worse. Case in point: APC. Thus, I do not rant. Never! Except I’ll be paid though. Amean, if you’re ready to pay me big money to rant about the Nigerian situation, I assure you that the article I’ll write will rival any PhD thesis ever written. Therefore, I cannot promise that if I do eventually get into power I’ll be a much better leader, just because I did not rant. Maybe bad leadership and corruption is simply in our blood, the same way it’s in our blood to begin events 3hours after the stated time, or to finish clearing all the food in the plate before eating the meat. No! What I can promise, however, is that y’all will never forget my name.  Never ever. Whether for bad or good.

For the thousandth time in less than a week UBA just debited my account for some obscure charge. And some people will wonder why they’re not prospering in this life. You’re charging me for card maintenance, the same card I’m holding in my hand? The few times I get a credit alert, these pipu will not inform me until days later, but let money just mistakenly leave my account and they’ll be texting me like we’re in a sexual relationship sigh. I’m tired. But I cannot die.

The Faculty of Law, in it’s divinity and infinite wisdom, has decided to enforce the class attendance they’ve been compiling since the semester commenced. This means that if it is not documented that you attended a certain percentage of classes, you will be unable to sit for exams and like film trick your extra year will just come and be sharing squatting space with you. Ah! Even as everyone likes to talk about how having an extra year is not the end of the world and other bs, the simple truth is that, with the type of parents I have, an extra year just might mean the end of my own world, and I’m sure majority of you share this particular sentiment. I might not be much of praying person, but one little…prayer I mutter every once in a while is that the god I serve should not let me spend an extra second in the University of Lagos, talk less of a full year. You see after four long years, I’m simply tired of the nation’s pride. So I’m ready to leave, and to accomplish this I’m doing every thing necessary including attending classes where I might not necessarily learn anything. Before, as a very wise man once said, I’ll goan make mistake nw and won ti gba penalty lo throw-in. I’m tired. But I cannot die.

As I leave the…comfort of my room and ac and step out into the world, the jungle that is Ransome-Kuti rushes to embrace me. A couple of feet away, the people of the area are engaged in a very riveting and combative smoking competition. The persons in first and second place are locked in fierce battle for who will be crowned the new Father of Dragons. It’s a pity that I shall miss the rest of the festivities, as I am running late. It’s a bigger pity that Unilag management is not a witness to these celebrations. The talents of a child might not lie in books and other academic activities, but give that same child a blunt and watch him (or her, cos there are many her’s too thankfully) light up with passion and glorious ecstasy. These people are manifesting their own brand of education yet, there’s no one present to offer scholarships and other incentives for intellectual prowess. It’s sad really.

After entering a cab that was probably around during the time of the great Egyptian Pharaohs, I finally arrive at my destination: the Law  Library. Do not be deceived or dismayed though. I, along with at least half the people here on this cold, wet morning, am not here to read. I’m here simply cos for some reason, my bastard network  Glo is incredibly fast in this place. Like, you have the entire world to choose from to give me super fast browsing, and you decide to do it in a place that’s underground. Under the bloody ground. I cannot even begin to fathom the madness of it all so I’ll just move on, before I break my promise and start to rant. Others, like me, are here for diverse and even unexpected purposes. Some are here to drop pant between the shelves and as far as I’m concerned, if you are not here to read and you’re not taking off your underwear either, then why are you here please? You could have just stayed in your room and deceived yourself there mtcheeew.

As I walk to my designated seat, I am reminded again of one good thing this Faculty has to offer: fine girls. Babes. Girls of all ages, types, specifications, beliefs and fetishes. My good god! Certain humans hot enough to leave you actually confused. I have a feeling these people are part of the reason the number of individuals having extra year has increased, not just in the Faculty but in the entire school. People just do not wanna graduate and leave these girls alone, and can you blame them? Who no like better thing? I sit down, and the person beside me welcomes me with a mammy water type smile. I do not know this chick from Adam, but I’m sure even Adam wouldn’t leave this Eve without attempting to seize and….I’ve run out of rhyming words, but I’m sure you get the point.

Thirty minutes into my Library adventure, mammy water smile and I have scheduled a date where we can talk and explore each other’s…minds thoroughly. I do not think I’ve ever wanted to explore a person’s mind the way I crave to explore hers. But moving on. My phone vibrates long and continuously and I turn to check it, expecting that the loml is blowing up my phone with texts and inappropriate pictures. What I see instead is the same 5 bcs spread across 17 WhatsApp group chats and 10 Personal chats. I fume. I vex. I am irritated. I am tired. But I cannot die. Even if these people seem ready to die and carry certain others with them, me, I cannot die. Not on top LSS elections. Apparently, the date is fast approaching and people are getting desperate. But, if it’s BC  that pipu use to win elections ehn, all these ones are already winners in the Lord. Someone is ready to run mad because of a position that, after all the lies you tell us, you probably still won’t do any better than your predecessor, neither shall your name be remembered ten minutes after you’re done sigh. I want to rant. But seeing as no one has transferred dollars into my account, I shall postpone my rant until you people are ready to pay.

I’m suddenly craving corn, be it boiled or roasted. And I’m not the type of person to deny my body anything it needs. Especially food. And the…other thing too. But mostly food. That’s probably the first thing anyone should know about me. If you want my heart, just provide me with constant good food. In fact, after money and just before knowledge and women, good food is a necessary ingredient in my psychological make up. I bid a hearty farewell to mammy water smile and leave the Library to goan begin my corn hunt. 

I almost make it. Almost. I go outside and I am accosted by the real life election campaign team. It seems they have decided to physically manifest the bcs they’ve been disturbing us with. I try to firmly but politely brush them aside. But lined up behind them is another and then another an yet another campaign team. And then it dawns on me that my plans shall not come into fruition. My corn shall have to wait.

How does Buhari do it? How does the boyfriend do it when the girl tells him she’s pregnant? How does my Course Adviser do it when it’s time to sign my docket? How do they all just…disappear? Sigh

I wish I could disappear rn but I can’t. So I must endure this, once again

I am tired. But I cannot die.


Great Opara 



 

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WHY SO SERIOUS?

“You see, madness, as you know, is like gravity. All it takes is is a little push!”- The Joker.

If you think this article is a joke rearing its green ahead around your screen, I suggest you close this web page with immediate effect. If you think it isn’t, then I wonder why you are not in an asylum right now. Nevertheless, I implore you….scratch that. I plead your indulgence to sit back and revel in the consequences of me giving my madness a little push.

Why so serious? Tell me, why are you so serious? Why are you still worrying about your GP? Why are you complaining about your monthly data balance that you renew four times within the same period? If you haven’t noticed, WhatsApp is no longer megabyte friendly thanks to the status feature. And your social media followers, why so serious? It’s not like you’ll add it to your CV when you’re done with this legal journey. It’s not as if you’ll even practice…okay, let me stop there. 

Nigerian Twitter savages, why so serious? Somebody cannot Tweet in peace again, for fear of being jammed by an unforeseen trailer. It’s not fair mehn. One should actually be able to sue these guys. Savagery can provoke suicide, literally. Sister reading this, why so serious? Why are you constantly stalking your boyfriend’s WhatsApp, Instagram, destiny and even Facebook that we left for our parents and razz people? He’s definitely cheating on you. Even if he wasn’t, you’d still go and be shouting Men are scum, all men are the same upandan. Have you tried all of them? Have you tried me? (I’ll most likely break your heart. Emulate Drake by not coming closer)

Lai Mohammed, why so serious? Economy, why so serious? You are so bad that we can’t even complain about you anymore. The plastic bottles of soft drinks that shouldn’t even go for more than fifty naira are now being sold for half the price. I almost fainted when I found out tbvh, and boom, that’s what Ozone expected me to enjoy not long ago. I should be cursing both them and the economy, but that would be so serious, as serious as the Nigerians who have been praying for a certain leader to come back/recover/step down/die for over a year. Why so serious

Lekki people, why so…I should probably cut the jokes here. But nah, why..so…serious. What doesn’t kill you makes you stranger. Yes, stranger; the viral photo of a man smiling while waist-deep in flood. Y’all will see it and come back to say I’m mad. Smh. Still on Twitter savages, there’s a rare photo of a certain duck and a certain frog spotted cruising on the waters. You should check it out yourself, and be careful too. Someone can like to jam you for the simple reason of being online. And my Lekki people, don’t mind the Mainland people that have been mocking you. It’s inferiority complex.

Evans Vanishes’ should probably be the best Nigerian newspaper headline ever. I mean, why so serious? Speaking of vanishing, the annoying day-long rains seem to have vanished…or subsided, at the very least. They were so serious mehn. Funny enough, the day it began was the same day a certain lecturer made his way to an unsuspecting class, after a self-imposed hiatus. Why so serious?

Arts students, why so serious? All that beef on top a cancelled show? You should have been on their group chats on the night of The Event. I literally treaded their faculty with caution the week after. Man cannot be bludgeoned for sin he did not commit. Am I so serious right now? Maybe I am, maybe not. Even the Pat Tiri girls that purportedly did some underground work, they need medals in their lives for being so serious- if they were, that is.

Still on Law students (though this is general now), why so serious? See how y’all rushed out after the Kasunmu lecture for chow. One could think a band of monkeys was unleashed in Main Aud. No, Ade Ajayi auditorium. Or maybe just Main Auditorium. It will always remain so. Not that we were ever kidding ourselves, anyway. And SamAzing, all that seriousness on top whistleblowing? I hope you get paid though. If you know how to do something, never do it for free 😀 

In other news, Game of Thrones is finally back. So will the list of Eligible bachelors and spinsters in this prestigious faculty .
Written By Clinton Durueke



Published By Great Opara

 
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Posted by on July 28, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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THE BIG BEANS THEORY

Isn’t it funny how you probably can’t stand beans but you would jump on the first Moin Moin wrap you see?

Any fellow beanlievers, say ayy! 

Well, provided it’s the right one.

There are few other things I believe in. 

Besides God, love, family, myself and John Legend, of course. But I sure know and believe that Moin Moin is only ever two things; good or bad. No in betweens.

It’s either you love it or you don’t!

It’s either it’s lit or a mess.

A hit or a miss.

No in betweens.

I’ve had too many misses. 

So, I tend to avoid it all together.

Now, I’m not a connoisseur on beans and it’s produce, products and by-products. Notwithstanding the fact that I enjoy and can make a mean Gbegiri stew, I think. But I can’t even stand Ewa Ayogin

Hi. I live in Lagos. I can’t stand Ewa Agoyin. No, I’m not abnormal. No, I wasn’t dropped on the head as a baby. No, not even with extra ‘oyel‘.

Yes, I said it. Ewa Agoyin is just not my specs. And yes, I said specs.

Give me Akara instead! 

Fresh, hot, steaming oil bean cakes, fried crisp to it’s utmost destruction. 

But it’s a good type of destruction, if you know what I mean. 

Growing up, there were two types of Akara. The ‘normal’ soft ones, with no crunch whatsoever and tiny. So tiny, it finished and you wonder how that happened. Then, the other one.

Little ol’ me, I couldn’t stand it. Those palm-oil bean cakes with the little peppers, red and green and absolutely not my favourite. Mum never made them, even though I bet she knew how. We bought them from our trusted customer, every Tuesday and we took them with homemade Ogi. I loved the crunch but couldn’t stand the heat. You couldn’t even beat that heat, not even if you pulled out all the mini peppers.

It was torture and perfection at the same time. 

I haven’t touched that type of Akara in years. Now, it’s that torture and perfection I desperately seek.

Beans and Maize. What a maze! Lol. It’s a horrible rhyme, I know. My infamous Adalu story happened in Ss2, also known as Grade 11, Year 5, whatever. I had never made it in my life but it was my exam and I wanted to impress the ‘convalescent’ who in real life was just two scary teachers anyway! My mashed potatoes and poached egg was an absolute flop so this was my one chance.

Oh and impress, I did. With my hard corn and beans that took forever to cook. Complaints flying left and right. Tears threatening and a lot of pressure. 

The teachers would watch your every move and taste your every move.

The end result was however, worth it but bye, Adalu. Till we meet again.

Beans.

Beans, love it or hate it. 

I should have probably titled this piece that but what I couldn’t decide was which was more cliché. 

Beans.

So unpredictable, could be absolutely pain-ish today, comfort food tomorrow.

Too many variations and so much diversity. 

Reminds me of a place I know, Nig… Can I get help with that?

But the great thing is, like our dear country, Nigeria, there’s really something for everyone. 

Written By Titilope Adedokun

Published By Great Opara

 
 

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HOMECOMING

Neto sat comfortably in the back seat of the SUV as it breezed to church; it was a bleak Sunday morning. Turning his head to the left, he couldn’t help but notice how the landscape, the feel of the vehicle and the cloudy weather of the day threw him back to a fateful Sunday morning in August, five years prior. Then, an Indomie-branded bus transported him and forty-plus weary, homesick souls back to church after a week-long teens camp. He couldn’t exactly call it a camp, but a mass gathering in a not-so-secluded posh school which felt like home in every way, only that it wasn’t. The night before his return was camp fire night. It was supposed to be an epic conclusion- not just to the undeniably eventful camp, but possibly to his seventeen years of living and studying in Nigeria. Like Batman v Superman, it fell below his expectations.

Yes, the food and snacks were good. The open-air performances next to the camp fire had a primal feel to them. He had a decent time with his friends. But when he gazed up at the silver-dotted indigo sky that night, after his ‘good’ bye, he knew it just wasn’t it.

The ride back to church that bleak Sunday morning was almost wordless. His phone was long dead, so he couldn’t listen to music or play games or chat with his friends after being AWOL for seven long days. And he wasn’t much of a reader. He could barely talk to the pretty girl seated next to him. There was no point starting anything transient, as transient as what he and Ebiere had. At least, what he thought he and Ebiere had. The very impetus behind his embarking on a final camping experience became the very one behind his desire to depart. Stripped of his companions, with an undesirable weather, Neto’s thoughts revolved around the uncertain life ahead and the painful one behind. He was indeed kissed by a rose. The only problem was that its thorns sunk in deep, so deep that its petals fell helplessly to their demise, leaving Neto to reel from the searing pain.
The same pain he bottled up within and corked so tightly for so many months.

Neto remembered how everyone was told to drop penned-down prayer requests into a set of boxes, before that night. He remembered his parents were on the brink of a divorce, prior to the commencement of camp. He didn’t even care if they still loved each other or not. All he wanted was for them to not separate. He penned down the request. Neto also desperately wanted New York University to consider his application and admit him. He wasn’t considering his Nigerian option in CU. He knew what he wanted and he had faith in the possibility of success. He penned it down. Having stood to submit it, Neto remembered Ebiere. Inasmuch as he wanted to be with her, to spend the rest of his life with her, his ambition was also important. He wasn’t even sure if she still felt the same love, like or whatever it was she felt. If indeed she ever felt anything.

Nevertheless, he got back down and wrote that he did not want to be separated from Ebiere. It contradicted his second request, but he didn’t care. It was very kamikaze, since only one of his final two requests could logically be fulfilled, or even none. But he wrapped it, went to the platform and dropped it in one of the boxes.
The day after that, he watched as the numerous boxes rose up to the heavens and Heaven in flames after being prayed over. He turned to his left. He saw her standing alone, in the dark. At that moment, Neto had his own camp fire burning within him. He approached her. He made to ensure a most satisfactory goodbye, with a most memorable parting gift. But the rest as they say is history.
Neto got down from the SUV as his eyes ran through the church building. God had granted his second camp request. And his first, too. He hadn’t returned to the country ever since he left. He hadn’t been to the church since that bleak Sunday morning. Basking in the spirit of homecoming, a wave of nostalgic feelings swept through him. The grey clouds still hadn’t ceased, similar to the way they didn’t cease when he got down from the bus five years prior. He had returned then, as well. He said his goodbyes to everyone he could see, to every soul he could salvage. Five years on, on another bleak Sunday morning, none of those faces could be seen. Apparently, everyone had their respective five years to change, to evolve and for some, to conclude.

As the clouds began to drop snippets for the upcoming blockbuster, Neto made it to the spot he and Ebiere last saw before they parted ways. As expected, she was already standing there, her back turned to him. She was facing the same iconic landscape he faced five years prior. The blockbuster loomed even greater; neither he nor Ebiere moved an inch. He remembered how, at that same spot five years ago, she placed her hand on his shoulder and changed everything. The look in her eyes that day could have meant anything. What she said could have meant anything. What they actually meant, Neto still didn’t know. He would never know.

The blockbuster began in earnest. Inevitably, slowly, she finally turned back to face him. The same gap between them as they stood five years ago repeated itself as lightning streaked well above their heads. Lightning could strike the same spot twice, after all. He saw the same look in her eyes. He saw the same hand making it towards his shoulder, but he caught it gently. As he grasped it, lost in her eyes, an avalanche of memories came crashing down; memories of a not-so-distant life that felt like an eternity prior, memories that could never be re-experienced. But he let go.
Slowly, he turned back and made his way to the interior without looking back at her as the blockbuster neared its climax. Nothing had changed. Nothing would.
Written by Clinton Durueke
Published by Great Opara

 
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Posted by on June 9, 2017 in Literature/Writing

 

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A LETTER TO THE DIFFERENT

Hi,
You’re amazing. 
I hope you know that.

Our world is so weird, you know. It’s funny how we are continuously rebuked for being set apart. Somehow, we are the weird ones. Somehow, we don’t fit in. 

Well, I don’t know about you but I’ve never wanted to fit in. Standing out is more daring! Think about it. To be the one whose values still stand in the face of mediocrity. The one who keeps promises, the one to whom the little things matter the most. Some people call it weird, I call it insightfulness and intellectual separateness, in a good way.

It’s amazing how people get so much flack for not being a certain way, or doing certain things. Think about it, you’ve probably hated on a girl because of her weird fashion choice or a boy because he stuck out like a sore thumb. You’ve made fun of people because they don’t do things the regular way. We all have but the question remains, why should we even be regular? 

I find it intellectually daunting that people care so much about what others are doing, in their lives. One time, I overheard people talking about someone, complaining about what she did, in her own life and I wondered, why does someone’s actions that do not affect you in any way, why does it bother you so much? Why is his thinking odd because he does things a certain different way to come about one result? 

My darling different, yes you are different. Yes, you are weird, odd or some other adjective they’ve come up with again. They never run out of these things! Yes, maybe you’re too ‘deep’ and stand out like neon in a field of neutrals! Or you’re just carefree, happy as a breeze! 
It doesn’t matter, as long as you’re doing you. Be different because you want to, because that’s what you are. You’re amazing just the way you are. Maybe they don’t understand it, at least not yet. But don’t let it change you. 
Keep being different.
Spread your wings and fly!
Even if your wings are made of gold, not feathers.

Yours,
Titilope.

Written By Titilope Adedokun

 
 

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SERENITY

Tola can hear the megaphones of the church down the street blaring.
She hisses and draws her blankets up. She pops in her earphones and presses play on her Ed Sheeran playlist.
At least she can still sleep in peace.
Subconsciously she reaches out to the other side of the bed, Niyi’s side.
It is cold and empty. The way she felt the rainy evening he left. The day he found out about the abortion.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Niyi is spitting furious as he clutches the receipt from the nondescript clinic where she had the D&C.
His cold words and disdain sting even as she struggles to explain herself.
How could you do this to us,Tola!“, he thunders
She is mute.
Soft spoken to a fault,Niyi has never raised his voice at her in all their years together.
Still furious,he continues: “it was our child! Our child! How could you kill it with no qualms? No fear! You had an abortion without telling me! How could you?
His voice drops to a broken whisper
How could you?

Tola can’t find any answer.
All her reasons at the time seem to have evaporated. She can’t say anything justifiable, not with the naked hurt on his face.
Niyi looks at her as if seeing her for the first time.
Then with a look of distaste,he turns and stalks into their bedroom where he begins to toss his things into one of his duffel bags.
Tola finally finds her voice.
Niyi,please. Don’t leave. I can explain.
He laughs ,a mirthless sound.
Explain what?”
His voice is as cool as ice.He is still tossing his things into the bag,his back turned to her.
When we first met,we both agreed that our careers came first. We didn’t plan for this. This was a mistake.I couldn’t put this on you!

How thoughtful“, he says coldly.He whirls around to face her,his face furious.
You should have told me,damn it!“, he rages.” It was a part of me too! I was entitled to know,Tola! You call it a mistake?How could you be so selfish?
I’m sorry “,she whispers in a cracked voice” .
Please don’t leave“.
He stares at her but his eyes are those of a stranger,cold and impassive.
I can’t talk to you now, Tola. I don’t want to. I have to go“.
With that ,he zips his duffel closed and leaves without a backward glance.

The apartment door slams shut.
Alone,Tola sinks to the floor and gives in to her tears. She has never been able to cry daintily and her sobs are loud and throaty,racking her petite frame.
She has never felt this alone.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

It’s been a month now and Niyi hasn’t still picked her calls and her trips to his office have been futile.
She has called his brother,Deji to inquire about his whereabouts but Deji’s hasty denial confirms that he knows. Niyi must have told him about it.
Tola has left endless remorseful messages on his answering machine and sent him emails and texts.
His only response is to mail back his own keys to their shared apartment.
Tola, finally coming to terms with this,the end of what they had, is an emotional mess.
And it starts to reflect,even at work.
Finally,she takes two weeks off to regain herself,whatever that means. It is what her boss suggested in that no nonsense manner of hers after she burst into tears in the middle of a meeting.
Now,on this Sunday morning,the last day of her forced leave, this church people are putting paid to her plans of sleeping in till twelve.
As she burrows in deeper,the megaphones seem to get louder as if reprimanding her.
She can’t recall when last she went to church.
Niyi wasn’t the churchgoing type and neither is she.
This church which is two blocks from her apartment is one of the new generation churches. Its enthusiastic members are always showering her with pamphlets,inviting her to this progamme or that.
Niyi used to tease her about actually honouring one of their invites.
Tola suddenly hit by an unshakeable resolve rolls out of bed and hits the shower. Then she hunts up an appropriate dress and heads out.
She walks the short distance to the church and is ushered in by a smiling usher.
She takes a tentative step in and hears the melodious peals of the singing choir.
Tola is struck instantly by an indescribable feeling,one that she hasn’t felt in a long time.
It is one that calms the turbulent emotions swirling inside her.
She feels a weightless sensation,as if she is floating in the air.
Her remorse seems to fade away.
She is at peace.

Written By Miracle Eme

Published by Great Opara

 
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Posted by on March 18, 2017 in Literature/Writing

 

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