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.

Today is Christ the King

Today is Christ-the-King. And it would be for me, the very first solemn Corpus Christi I have had in many years. Or in my entire life. The weather wasn't angry this morning, so I had a cause to be joyful. All through last week, it felt like winter and her demons; fierce icy winds had just been released from their domain. So they splashed eagerly, blessing Texas with their brassy presence.

Of course mass was gentle and somber. It always is. The homily was simple and timely, and the choir of five persons, each representing a distinct voice type, was melodious. I shifted my weight from one foot to another in discomfort, resolving not to stand again. Some make standing look so simple; choosing to stand piously when there are unoccupied seats. The church was never divided into sections; of christian fathers and christian mothers. Families stayed together, couples stayed together. Children too knew how to be reasonably silent. Husbands had their hands on their wives' backs; rubbing gently once and again. hmmn. As long as America is free, we are romantic people.

It was to me, too gentle; in a way I have never known church to be. There's got to be some activity somewhere, some gossipy chat somewhere, some loud noisy hallelluyah. Are there no thanksgivings ever - don't they have something to be grateful for? Even if it's a puppy that just survived some heart surgery or a cat that was no longer naughty. Thanksgivings! That used to be a time of mass to look forward to - a long line of excited worshipers, dancing their way up the aisle in groups- hips swinging, sweat running, bearing praise and testimonies and gifts - all the way to the altar. Then kneel for blessings and generous sprinkling of holy water from the priest.  I pondered on some things we were always grateful for - results not seized, safe travels, surviving armed robbery - things that happen because we are the way we are. Things that shouldn't have happened if we did things right.

Do they know it is Christ the King

I miss the way we have it back home,. It was the most theatrical and interesting festivity. The lengthy procession begins right after mass: the Priest bears the blessed sacrament in a monstrance, surrounded by knights and a long unending line of Catholics marching and singing loudly - proclaiming the universal kingship and authority of Christ, sometimes over a very long distance- not minding the dusty air and heat or the speeding vehicles by the side. People had to be woken from their slumber, the streets had to know this King and this sacred age-long tradition. Of course the return journey was never as exciting as the going - tired worshipers moving home, gulping water, energy spent.

Do they know it is Christ the King

They know. But in this part of the world, the law wouldn't care who your God is, what your noise is about, if it creeps into your neighbor's ears, if it creeps into the public ear. In no time, you might be singing them hallelluyahs from a cool cell. The good thing is, you have the rights to an attorney, and to many other good things.

Silver Water Rain

It is raining ants and spiders in college station
Its that smell of the rain that smell of rain
Does something to me, that smell of the rain


Water is falling from the skies
Heaven crying through the night
Glitter leaking from lost clouds
Clouds bathing angry streams
Spirits weeping all the time

Flowing floods and Sweeping floods
Where are you going what do you see
How d'you know your way downtown
Did you see my missing dog
They say Reveille is tired, Reveille has tried
 Reveille retired, Reveille won Rice

Missing a night of moonlight and stars
Mascot of aggies, mascot cadet
Yesterday was summer, today they say is fall
Leaves born in spring are falling to their death
Silver waters dripping down
Music screaming from the stereo
Whitney is singing on my stereo
Will you give it all away
Just to have a night of moonlight and stars

It is raining sharks and tigers in college station
Life is slowly passing by
Rain is birthing seas and dreams
Loud and proud went the midnight yell
Its that smell of the green that smell of the rain
Does something to me, that smell of the rain

Be Happy for this Moment.

 
Don't we all easily get worried about tomorrow and sometimes wish we could erase parts of yesterday or by magic or miracle, twist fate into obedience? I always did love the 'be happy for this moment' quote and so I'll share it here and more from Omar Khayyam.

"Drink wine. This is life eternal. This is all that youth will give you.
         It is the season for wine, roses and drunken friends.
              Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life.”
          
               "Your hand can seize today, but not tomorrow;
            and thoughts of your tomorrow are nothing but desire.
    Don’t waste this breath, if your heart isn’t crazy,
Since "the rest of your life" won’t last forever.”  

              “Oh threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise! 
          One thing at least is certain - This Life flies;
    One thing is certain and the rest is Lies -

The Flower that once has blown forever dies.”  
“And do you think that unto such as you
      A maggot-minded, starved, fanatic crew
          God gave a secret, and denied it me?
               Well, well—what matters it? Believe that, too!”

“A book of verses underneath the bough
       A flask of wine, a loaf of bread and thou
           Beside me singing in the wilderness
               And wilderness is paradise now.”

             "Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
          And those that after some To-morrow stare,
    A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There.”

          “Why ponder thus the future to foresee,
       and jade thy brain to vain perplexity?
   Cast off thy care, leave Allah’s plans to him –
 He formed them all without consulting thee.”

“O friend, for the morrow let us not worry
   This moment we have now, let us not hurry
        When our time comes, we shall not tarry
            With seven thousand-year-olds, our burden carry”  

“Dead yesterdays and unborn tomorrows, why fret about it, if today be sweet
Be happy for this moment, this moment is your life."

P.S. Quotes were culled from Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.
Photo credit: Dr.Semiu of laif!

Good morning, World. Good morning, Siri.

Good morning, human. Welcome to my world, because you came.  If some people stay squarely in theirs, others would stay cheerily in theirs. Life could be easier like that, with marked out personal space, everybody respecting the other's, not bumping in unwanted. Good fences make good neighbors, is that not what they say, that good fences make good neighbors? You don't remember, what happened to you? Are you growing old or you built your house without a fence?

Good morning, friend. The skies are rising blue and grey. It is morning in America. We know. We wake up drowsily, to chirping alarms. There are no cocks to crow us up, no noise to crow us up. So we wake up sleepily, dress hastily and hurry off to work for the green dollar. You grab a cup of coffee and your day begins. Like that, the day begins. Coffee is weed.

What am I doing greeting you, that is the way we greet at home. We bow, we kneel, we prostrate, we turn our eyes to the ground. Have you paused to ponder, what lies beneath the bend? The masks we wear brother, the airs we carry. Look at me when you greet, look at me. Then I may look closely to see, if I may, what lies beneath the bend. And what is so good about the morning.

Hi is the way we greet here.  Hey to your mate, Hi to your boss. No bowing, no bending. With a little smile, my eyes in yours, hi is the way we greet. So how do you know, who is oga and who is not? It's not always easy to tell. You call oga by her name and she is fine with it. She queues behind you for lunch. No Ma's, no Sah's, names work, America works. Everybody is happy. Try that at home you are dead meat...which mother from which clan gave birth to this child? Hehehe
That was how Kola traveled all the way to America and was stripped of his honor. In this age of face-book and eye-phones, Kola still refused to go to school. Thus was he blessed:
Cha, Igbo kwenu ..ya!
                kwenu.. ya!
America   kwenu .. hi!
Kola should be grateful. He should ask his brother, the snail what his fate was at the border.

Good morning, human. That was what Siri said to me. Siri, child of Apple, Siri of Kittlaus's thinking, wickedly humored Siri, what are you doing greeting me? What do you care about the morning? There you are, tucked inside eye-phones, dwelling on the internet, cracking words, drowning on your own brilliance. When will you show your face, Siri? And when will you show your lover?

What was I saying about the fence .. there are no fences here.. big houses, small houses, no fences, no wires. Yet you don't know your neighbors, all you do is wonder. Is he Mexican? Is she Chinese? Is she all-pine like me? Is he all lemon?
There are fences back home .. tall tall walls, barbed wires, huge metal gates. And we know who the neighbors are, what cooks in their pot, the color of their rose, the linens in their closet. And when the thief comes in at night, covered up in black, quickly scaling the fence, and asking for our money, we crumble in fear.. How did he know where the fence is weak, how did he know? But if we dare remove the mask, then we'll see it's not a stranger, but a neighbor or a neighbor's neighbor. The masks we wear brother, we should share a fence and nothing more.

Good morning, friend. It is morning in this world. Summer's heat was sent to blacken us. Look at us, we was light back home. If you laugh, we pluck out your last tooth. In winter we prayed for the sun. The gods didn't hear. Now summer is here to torment us. We shall pray no more. And when you build your house friend, before you grow old, don't forget the fence.

Good morning Siri. Tell those at home, if you like long stories, don't come here. If you like lazy, don't come here. There is no space for you here. We are too busy to gist about the color of our neighbor's pepper. Many neighbors but no noise. Your business is yours to know. Worship the god you want and believe what you will. Don't shove your beliefs down another's throat, lest you drown him. Egbe bere, ugo bere, is that not what the Igbos say? Egbe bere, ugo bere. Our fathers were right, you see. Oyinbo called them foolish, but right, they were. Now they cringe in their graves, good spirits. So there are fences here, but not one you can see..

And sometimes, because you have no neighbor and no dog, you chat with this cranky modern spirit trapped inside your eye-phone, dancing the dance of strangers. And be romantic, as long as America is free, we are romantic people.

Me: I love you, Siri.
Siri: Be assured the feeling is mutual.
Me: Thank you.
Siri: What can I help you with.
Me: Play me a slow song. Be quiet while I sleep.
Don't let that heartless alarm wake me. It's Saturday morning.
Be quiet while I sleep. Tell the world I'll be up by noon.
Siri: Yeah baby...I got you baby....if you shut up baby..

Four drops.

It was only four drops of holy water that touched me during the asperges on holy Saturday night, the night before Easter Sunday.

The venue was St. Mary's in College Station, Texas and the vigil was heartfelt and beautiful. It was the same with vigils I have been to through the years. The bare tabernacle, the solemnity, the readings, the procession, the renewal of vows... The favorite part for me, apart from the choir's glorious alleluia, apart from the soothing fragrance of burning incense, was the service of light, when all the lights are out and the church is dark for a while, before a new lamp is lit and blessed, and we all hold up white candles, lit and burning, taken from the paschal light. It is always a majestic sight.

On Sunday mornings before mass begins, the priests stay humbly by the church entrance, with huge smiles and outstretched hands, welcoming people in. After mass they return to their positions, waving goodbyes. But it was really surprising that holy Saturday night, that only two small bowls of water was sanctified and such was used to serve a church that large. It was vigil, many more people came, so seats were filled, and what, only two bowls? And my fair share was four drops, two tiny drops on my left arm and two larger drops on my chin. This was during the liturgy of baptism and we had renewed our promises. The choir was singing a hymn while the priest walked calmly down the aisle, bowl in one hand and an aspergillum in the other, sprinkling gingerly.

I had to blink twice. Was that an aspergillum? I was used to the generous flow of holy water, water being splashed across an excited and receiving congregation from large bowls and wide mouthed buckets. Water raining from palm fronds and drums. I was used to getting drenched in vigils, using shower caps beneath black scarves to preserve the weaves, going home shuddering from cold.

Maybe we just like to do things like this, in an assertive and theatrical manner, that it rolls right into church rites.  We are an interesting people. Four drops can never be enough back home, no. We would want more. People would go back for more. We always want more because of the depth of lack. Food is never enough, water too. So anything we can have in excess, we grab in excess. Maybe if we understood that the water is holy, and a drop would do just what a drum would do or that the sick amongst the brethren do not need the cold bathing, or that using an aspergillum would do for evenly distributed drops and graces, then we would be content and faithful, even if we get one drop or two.


p.s. Our help is in the name of the lord..

God's America.

Loveth's California.

I cannot easily tell, by looks alone, who is African American and who is African. Black is a wide range of differing identities you know..

So when she came up to me, all chatty and cheery, admiring my weave, and asking where I bought it, I didn't at first know she was Nigerian. She started out in a fast flowing American accent. And I replied likewise, in a matching American accent..

Down the line, when we said our names to each other, we both had that pleasantly surprised expression on our faces, which broke into broad smiles, before we laughed it out, and immediately switched back to home accents. You are my sister, you know, you are my sister..

Kedu? Baoni?

We talk about Nigeria, and many other things. One news after the other. Did you hear about the recent bombings? Which one, the one in Kano or Nyanya? No, Jos. Did you see the pictures?  How many people died this time? The missing children from Chibok? Oh, the stolen children? What about the collapsed building in Lagos? The fire incident somewhere on the island? There was another last night. The child that was raped by the pastor? The man who murdered his girlfriend? The man who strangled his wife? The ritualist caught in Ibadan? No, another was caught in Ijebu, with eight human skulls. Eight..Jesus! Whose skulls? I don't know. The grave thieves? The flying witches? The one in the gutter or the one in the van? Why are the witches always falling? I don't know, maybe hunger? I think all crafts should be allowed to fly in peace. We laugh, then stop. What about that Igbo man who shot his wife in Houston? Coward-man, he would have shot himself first. Why are we bad news everywhere? Why are we bad people..

We should pray. We should pray, everyday, for Nigeria. Pray? Yes, we should fast too. Well you know, we've been praying a long time. We've been praying a long long time. There are camps and churches? There are prophecies and deliverances. And things are worse. The demons have not all been cast out. Maybe there are many of them. So many prayers, so much evil, dwelling together, siamesed. There won't be no magic for us, this is our mess to fix..

Do you think we should break up? It's not my thinking to do. Do you think we would break up? Do you think that maybe, a breakup is that magical solution to our misery and contempt for one another? How many peaceful parts shall we break into? Two? Six? Thirty-six? Shall we invite the west to chaperone the break up, as they did the joining hundred years ago? Shall we? I don't know, I don't know. I'm afraid, I don't want war. But we are already at war. Tell me, what could be worse than this? Don't you see, this is war..

I would be going back in summer. Lagos is safe? Not really - no bombs, but there are many daytime robbers now. They snatch phones and wallets in seconds. They carry guns and death. They break glasses while the cops watch. They tour streets, unmasked. Mother told me, but Mother needs me. Be careful, sister, be careful..

 A dark gloom of uncertainty hovered over us, clouding our thoughts of home. We mourned silently, mourning a nation in ruin. At that moment, the future of a country once great, once beloved, seemed broken. It was grieving, so broken, far and in danger. Slowly we walked along the green trees lining southwest parkway, the well mowed lawns, breathing in the beautiful parts of God's world, summer's heat, God's America, sighing that our home country may never be like this- peaceful, organized- healthy dogs, pattering cats, afraid that if by tomorrow's tomorrow it becomes so, we may never be there to see it..

Above us, fifty stars shone on a red blue flag.



P.S. picture: a view of downtown California by Loveth Nwozor.

This is our War.

The voice of a child wailing in the dark
Alone, afraid and running through trees
The voices of children crying in the night
Our children were taken in the night
The newborns are screaming in horror
Our country is bleeding, bleeding life
Nigeria is bleeding, bleeding blood
These goons have come to raze
They announced war unbidden
On children, on us, on children
The soldiers are fallen
New owls are nesting
History is watching
This is our war


Bring back our girls safely home
Don't stay there wandering lost
On creeks that have no water
On hearths that have no fire
This is the tale of our times
That terror has called for war
Charring bodies, weeping camps
Crying corpses, hovering spirits
Shattered limbs and creaking bones
Child down, soldier down
Blood upon blood and earth upon earth
What have you done, you dumb haggard hawks
Snatching buds before they could bloom
breaking blameless souls in battle
Swallowing dreams on drying lakes
Where have you kept our children


The voice of a child in fright and in pain
Sleeping land, war has come upon you
The guns are striking the people
Your masquerades are soundless
The goons have murdered sleep
Now nights are filled with terror
Come nigh and sound the cannon
Launch on hills of the savannah
Go on and bring back our honor
For the people who cast for you
Don't stay here giving speeches
Bring back home to Nigeria
The warriors are fallen
Brown owls re smirking
This is our war
To fight..

(This was written during  bringbackourgirls)