Hello readers! Welcome to another GUEST POST WEEKEND here on A Loco Viva Voce. Today’s Guest Post is a short fiction story written by Emeka Ubesie.
Emeka is a young Nigerian writer and a member of Nigerian Institute of Management (NIM), Institute of Public Diplomacy and Management (IPDM), Chartered Institute of Purchasing & Supply Management of Nigeria (CIPSMN) and The Royal Life Saving Society of Nigeria. He is currently working on his first short African fiction novel.
Are you a writer? Or do you know a writer? Email your write-ups to firstname.lastname@example.org for a chance to have your work published FREE OF CHARGE!
Read Emeka’s short fiction after the cut and enjoy!
One Saturday afternoon at exactly 1:00pm, I lay on my bed, reminiscing on how I had spent seven years, reading a course of five years in one of these miserable Universities in Nigeria and the panorama of all my activities in the institution within these years were flashing one after the other in my memory just like the big round-headed torchlight of my village palm wine tapper, Mazi Okigwe. The nook and cranny of my Odenigwe lodge arena was covered with an absolute tranquility, as most international and indigenous students had transmuted to their various countries and homes after the first semester examination.
Standing in front of me was my long tiny neck fan, which sat on its round leg on the floor for hours, moping at me like a figurine without blowing a single air towards my direction because, we hadn’t had power for about five days now. The weather was hot; I mean very hot, that my black skin almost baked like an Agege bread. Incessantly, I rolled like an Avu ani snake, from one edge of my bed to the other searching for solace and panting profusely, but the heat’s intensity doubled as the hands of my wall clock moved, ticktock, ‘I have cooked.’ I bawled, staggered, as I climbed down from my long bed. At the same time, i reached out my hands to split the pieces of curtain that covered my window, so as to allow the free flow of air in and out of my self-contained apartment. Suddenly, my eyes caught a figure that stood outside through a miniature space on my window, and I needed no prophet to reveal to me who owned that figure eight shaped body standing out there. I shrieked almost immediately, ‘the African goddess.’ She turned, smiled back at me while relaxing on the minuscule handrail that was affixed on a long balcony in front of our bungalow lodge and gradually, she moved in reverse, cracked open the handle of my wooden door, walked majestically into my room and sat in front of me with her legs widely open. She was wearing a tight skinny blue jean that reminded me of Baba Fela’s pants in his Lagos shrine, way back in the early ninety’s.
Straight away, as a sharp guy, I initiated a discussion that had to do with Africa and her enormous literary works and culture, which the gods bequeathed on her as a continent. I presumed in my own little mind and thought that she was going to enjoy my rollercoaster; riding and colliding with me at every juncture in this our literary adventure. After all, her name had Africa attached to it. But I fell a bit disappointed and embarrassed as she sighed snappily, pulled a face and looked at me like; ‘Huh? What did you just say?’ Quietly, I swallowed a pool of saliva that had already secreted in my mouth, as the guy man in me was busy writing a crazy script, on the amount of “Akpako” she was going to receive from me this hot afternoon. Hastily, I took a deep breath, inhaled and exhaled spontaneously, as I tried to refine my Igbotic intonation a bit and gradually, I repeated myself.
‘No! I totally disagree with you,’ she yelled at me. Overwhelmingly, I pulled myself up, sat on the bed and moped at her like an effigy.
As we sat on my bed analyzing some recent Nollywood movies, she was of the opinion that Africans have no story to tell the world through their literary works, movies, music and culture. We digressed a bit in our discussion while I glimpsed at her beautiful face with a shock as if I was hit by a missile that journeyed from one of these Boko Haram camps located somewhere in the Northern part of Nigeria – ‘confuse ga duma,’ slipped from my maw uncontrollably, as my eyeballs focused on her face.
‘What?’ I queried her uneasily, as my heart battered like one of those Oloko with crazy engines that I spotted along Yaba Market in Lagos State. The last time i spotted the Oloko was two weeks ago when i visited Lagos. I was inside a commercial Danfo bus on my way to Surulere and it was gradually rolling on its feeble wrecked rails. I couldn’t fathom this grave blasphemy that hopped out from the orifice of an African young lady of about 25 years old in this 21st century and I wept bitterly on her behalf because, I realised that Africa just lost another daughter to folly.
‘Chai!’ I screamed and wished she had existed during the days of my ancestors when the gods were still very much thirsty for the blood of individuals that committed such a big taboo with their tiny round mouth. Yes, she had a tiny mouth, the type that every active young man wouldn’t stop kissing for hours. Of a truth, she was cursed by the gods with such an evil beauty hence the nickname ‘the African goddess’. Her hip was perfectly weighed, baked and carved by the gods and it was fixed in a perfect position on her waistline. Meanwhile, her breasts stood conspicuous and pointed inside a transparent Versace top in front of her chest like the early morning erection of a potent African man. The truth was, at that point, I had already lost my appetite to have a taste of her honey pot because I had been tutored by my instinct on how to escape triumphantly from such enticement and my black Agbogidi in between my legs conformed and lay low like a sleeping child.
The argument was heated up for hours and she remained so adamant to accept my explicitly convincing facts which I poured out with my last energy. After trying unsuccessfully to make her understand the marks that Africans had made on the world map of Art and Literature, I said to myself calmly ‘Don’t bother’. ‘Why are you wasting your precious time arguing with a lady who hadn’t gone to her village since she was born, a lady who didn’t know how to speak her native dialect or who had never cooked any of her native soup. A lady who had never heard names like; Chinua Achebe, Aaron Mike Oquaye, Tony Ubesie, Akosua Busia, Albert Kwesi Ocran, Cyprian Ekwensi and so on.
Then, I quickly reminisced over some sweet African tales and stories that I was told by my father when I was four years old and I smiled and enquired from her surprisingly saying ‘Have you ever heard or read any of these novels; The seasons of Beento Blackbird, Omenuko, Politics of the sword, Juo Obinna, Things fall apart, African night of entertainment, A myth is broken, Mmiri oku eji egbu mbe, Ojadele and his escapade to the world of the dead?’ and she howled ‘Hell No! Why should I?’ Abruptly, I quit arguing with this assumed African goddess who was lost and also ignorant of tracing her roots. I realised that she lacked the prerequisite to discuss the sacred African literary works, movies, music and culture with a young African man like moi. In response to her ignorance, I simply lay back on my bed, adjusted the pillow beneath my head, faced the wall and slept off.
Visit the blog tomorrow to read a very interesting poem by Emeka Ubesie titled “HIP HOP IS NOT FOR CHILDREN”.
Please like the A Loco Viva Voce Facebook Page by clicking the “Like” button on the sidebar and join the Blackberry Channel on C00161B66.
For instant email updates on recent posts, click the “Follow” icon on the side bar or follow on Twitter @alocovivavoce1 or Instagram @alocovivavoce or join the A Loco Viva Voce group on Facebook.
PS: Words are an expression of opinion; WRITING is SPEAKING!