Halloween Two

Story One

She was the one. He knew it. His mama once said the moment would come when he would know it. Four years gone and he knew he would ask, after dinner atop the quaint castle. He knew she would be thrilled, and would cry shyly, and afterwards their lives would begin; in romantic bliss.  But that hazy night, as a hurricane rocked the county, as windows got engulfed in the winds, as hopes and dreams flew across the city, as giant roofs came crashing down, he slipped, but held unto the edge of the porch pillar, his legs dangling in the wind.

‘Marry me,’ he screamed.

She stared down at him, a vague shadowy look, and stared past him.

His fingers shook, his voice trembled, but again he screamed, ‘Marry me.’

She came closer, her face breaking into a shrewd smile.

His legs wobbled, his heart raced and he slipped further; minutes before they were cooing in each other’s ears.

Shaking him off the brick, she turned away and fled into the night, her hair and clothes swaying, as he screamed all the way to his death.

Story Two

‘I wanna go with you across the country,’ she said, nuzzling up, breathing in his warmth.

‘Then let’s go across the country,’ he said, bending over, breathing in her warmth.

So they went you know across the country, in a plane he bought the summer before. Day after night they stayed together, planning to make it their best ever.

But the plane burst into flames as it soared, and while their ashes and screams scattered by and by, a shroud of smoke billowed above the scene, as if watching over the ruin and their spirits.

Happy Halloween.

My Grandmother’s Funeral (Fiction)

My grandmother’s elder sister, Uloaku, was convinced that my grandmother Adaure, did not die a natural death. One night, after Grandmother’s death, we all sat on the veranda of her beautiful country home and talked about her. She was a kind woman. She had a noble heart. She was the perfect cook. She was Ada di ora nma. Everybody remembered something about her and shared the story. Uloaku was the last to talk and when she did, she said that Adaure was killed. Mother told her not to take the death too hard, that Grandmother was diabetic, but she insisted, saying it was not time for Adaure to die, that she was killed and she would ensure the person behind it suffered for it. When she stood and walked away, her Dunlop slippers made shuffling sounds against the interlocks. Everybody remained silent and the stillness of the moonless night returned.
I didn’t remember many things about Grandmother. I knew she was a beautiful woman; fair and gaptoothed, but we lived in Abuja and Grandmother wouldn’t come to the city and our country home was forbidden because Mother didn’t want us to be caught up in all the superstition. My granduncle Ikemefuna said nice things about Grandmother and told us that she has joined the ancestors and would be part of our spiritual guide, so we should be grateful that she lived a good life.
In the days that followed, preparations were made. Grandmother’s other children who lived outside the country, came home for the funeral. Mother invited sixteen priests and two bishops. Our parish priest, Fr. Onyema prayed for our family and sprinkled holy water around the compound. After he left, Uloaku sprinkled something that looked like red sand around the compound, saying it would keep away evil spirits. She didn’t talk much, though she sang in the nights, while breaking melon seeds. She often started with a shrill voice that grew louder.



The funeral started with the wakekeeping. Mother did everything to shield us from superstition. She told us not to cry, not to dance, not to go close to village people, not to eat the meat, not to leave the house. But I was writing stories about Uloaku in my head. I found her interesting and later that night, I went to talk with her. She smiled sadly and held my arm. After she asked me about school, we talked about Grandmother. I reminded her that Grandmother was seventy five and what the doctor said. She disagreed, insisting her sister died prematurely. She said, in a voice laden with bitterness and strength  “Someone is not happy that your grandmother’s seven children are all doing well, five of them abroad. Someone is not happy.” She said she knew the evil one and that Adaure would fight back. When I asked how, she told me there were many things I would never understand. Then she went back to breaking melon seeds, her searching eyes observing, lips pursed, taking in every detail of the wake keeping.
I pondered on Uloaku’s words during the homily of the burial service the next day. Many mourners were dressed in white T shirts that bore Grandmother’s picture. After the gold embellished cream casket was lowered, we took turns pouring sand on it. Uloaku was the last to do so. After she poured her sand, she placed a short broom and a kitchen knife inside the grave and dared anybody to come close. Then she spoke; to grandmother or to the casket, to chase whomsoever did this to her. She told her to fight with the knife and sweep with the broom. Mother held me and whispered that her mother died naturally, was already in heaven and not to be carried away by Uloaku’s words. She was worried that the Knights and Ladies, Legionaries and Catholic Women Group she invited had to see that.
The night after the funeral, when most of us were sleeping, a piercing scream broke into the night. When it continued, followed by short strange sounds, we came out of our rooms towards the veranda. My granduncle Ikemefuna was running out of the house, his wrapper loose around his waist. Clouds were gathering, and the arid smoke from firewood stands filled my eyes.
Uloaku was sitting outside. When she saw Uncle Ikem run past, she went to grandmother’s grave and shouted, “Nnoo nwanne mmadu. Welcome. Chase him Adaure, chase him. Adaure igbo nine, do to them what they did to you.” My mother immediately dragged me inside, muttering something. Afterwards, I could hear Uloaku’s happy singing. It was a different singing. I was sure she was sitting alone, breaking melon seeds, her wrinkles standing out and forming a web-like pattern. I longed to ask her questions but I had the misfortune of staying awake all night, wondering what happened to Uncle Ikemefuna and where he was. 

Image - Google
Happy Halloweeeeeeeen
(From stories I wrote in my teen age)

Once Upon CrazyNothing (Fiction)

We found love the day we took a bus from Asaba to Eket to watch people dressed in grass skirts with straw hats dancing in the sunshine, because we were bored, had spare money and it was saturday, one saturday in November of two thousand and eleven. We joined in the dancing, picked strange shells from the sand, drank big cold coca cola under large colored umbrellas and took pictures with his camera. At night, we slept in the dark, under a parked lorry because we had no money to lodge and in the excitement, we had forgotten to go home.

We were young and reckless and ready to sail the air. My dream was to go to the moon and his was to take me there. We took long walks and rode his scooter in the dark. I would sit behind him, holding firmly and screaming as he sped, dusty breeze slapping our ears. We stayed out in the cold at night, playing in the pool, then I had fever and was in the hospital but he didn't come even once. Then I found out he had fever too and was in the next hospital.

We shopped often and shoplifted side by side. I liked to steal fancy pens and he would take a broche and we would hide it in our clothes, wink at each other and laugh at the store keepers. We went to silverbird on saturdays and on the way back he would let me drive and I would play music loud in the car.

He painted his room blue and I painted it pink all over and we struggled with the paint until we had blue and pink spattered all over the room. He liked to drink and I drank with him too. We liked remymartins with ice in tall wine glasses and cashewnuts. And when we got stoned, we would throw up on each other, sleep till morning, then clean it all up.

 He lost my contacts so we fought and broke up and one night it was raining and I ran out all the way to his house and he wasn't there because he was out in the rain, running all the way to my house too. We made up and he brought thin papers of pot and we smoked, danced, smoked and the next day went to a tattoo plaza. He got one on his arm, a scorpion head. I got two, cupid's arrow on my neck and a sweetheart on my butt. Then I got an Arsenal jersey and he got a Chelsea. We went to church and I was pinging while he had his earphones on. A certain tall usher with a round face and disapproving look sent us out. On the way home, we argued and crashed into another car and stayed in the hospital for a day, then came out with stitches.

 I can't remember the many times we broke up and made up, because of him, because of me. But we laughed a lot too and had good days of gists, walks, carnivals and music. My parents said he was bad influence. His mother said I was foolish. We cared that they didn't like us so we cried and prayed and made love and the next day we just didn't care anymore.
Back in our country home, we went into the bush beside my grandmother's house. We talked for an hour, ate bitter udara, rolled on dry leaves and took pictures. A heavy rain started and soon we were cold and drenched and I thought of rainmaking. And under one mighty mango tree with many leaves and thick branches, curved as if it was watching over us, somewhere far behind Mama Uku's house, in Arochuku, we held each other a long long time. He had warmth in his eyes, there was fear in mine. He smelt of old wine, I smelt of perfume.

It was a hopeless thing. People knew. We knew. But that was exactly where we found love.