Struggling (Wo) Man

By Ahmed Yahaya Joe



Every man has a right to live
Love is all that we have to give
Together we struggle by our will to survive
And together we fight just to stay alive

Struggling man has got to move
Struggling man no time to lose
I’m a struggling man
And I’ve got to move on

As the sun lights the day and the moon lights the night
Struggling man keeps reaching for the higher heights
So we plan for tomorrow as we live for today
Like a flower we bloom, and then later fade away

Struggling man has got to move
Struggling man no time to lose
I’m a struggling man
And I’ve got to move on…….

– Jimmy Cliff (1974)

TRUST

Trust is an egg, floating in the air,
Happy in delightful honest fair.
Safest feeling is only in the hand,
When it’s down to earth and land.

Picture from @MrsZanga

MOTHER

Happy Mothers’ Day, mothers

Mother comes along life’s miles,
Bringing time’s baggages along.
All her scars earn proud smiles,
As her priorities pile and age on

The Garden of Eden

“God did not make all men in his image. He made just one couple in his likeness and gave them the ability to procreate. It is this couple that brought forth other people and all sorts of people tend to mess up a good thing.

“I’m making a case for why good Christian folks turn out to be mean to people in need of assistance at their door steps.”

Just maybe…

“The garden of Eden and the forbidden fruit in the middle of it, in the story of Adam and Eve, is really just the bushy forest between Eve’s legs and her vagina right at the center of it.

“Satan told Eve about her vagina, which she had no clue existed before he told her about it. Then Eve revealed its bounties to Adam, who naturally allowed her to lead him against the wishes of the almighty.

“All that talk of fruit and trees is quite nonsensical and was crafted to hide the true identity of the very first crime of sexual intercourse.

“That may sound like the most absurd interpretation you have ever heard. It will like feel you with rage or amusement with the crafty twist in the interpretation of the tale of Adam and Eve’s disobedience.

“On the contrary, it is quite logical. How else would anyone explain the sudden need for the first couple to cover their nakedness?”

WEDDED WITS

You will love this COPIED Story

A woman went shopping. At the cash counter, she opened her purse to pay.

The cashier noticed a TV remote in her purse.

He could not control his curiosity and asked

“Do you always carry your TV remote with you?”

She replied “No, not always, but my husband refused to accompany me shopping today because of football match, so I took the remote.”

Moral: Accompany and support your wife in her hobbies….

The story continues…

The cashier laughed and then returned all the items that lady had purchased.

Shocked at this act, she asked the cashier what he was doing.

He said, “Your husband has blocked your credit card.”

MORAL: Always respect the hobbies of your husband.

Story continues….

Wife took out her husband’s credit card from purse and swiped it. Unfortunately he didn’t block his own card.

Moral: Don’t underestimate the power and wisdom of your WIFE..

Story continues…

After swiping, the machine indicated, ‘ENTER THE PIN SENT TO YOUR MOBILE PHONE’

Moral: When a man tends to lose, the machine is smart enough to save him!

Story continues….

She smiled to herself and reached out for the mobile which rang in her purse.

It was her husband’s phone showing the forwarded SMS.

She had taken it with the remote control so he doesn’t call her during her shopping.

She bought her items and returned home happily.

Moral: Don’t underestimate a desperate woman!

Story continues….

On getting home, his car was gone.

A note was pasted on the door

“Couldn’t find the remote. Gone out with the boys to watch the premiership match. Will be home late. Call me on my phone if you need something”.

Damn… He left with the house key too.

*Moral: Don’t try to control your husband.
You will always lose.

THE REASON MOST MEN MARRY

simpsons-6

Most grown men were previously of the opinion that they should always have the major say in their romantic relationships. They realized too late that they had succumbed to female charms unconsciously. Like most people they discovered they aren’t built outwardly as they are inwardly. They lead themselves on with the false hope that they could blunt the sharpness that heralds the things they covet the most, like most women so pitifully do. Majority of men love the attributes of the women they end up with, not the women and that is their undoing.

Women aren’t on the same level playing field with men. A woman yields for the man to thrust himself into her life. When she momentarily refuses to yield and he persists forcibly, that is defined as rape. When she is coerced into giving in unwillingly, it hurts hers and she ensures it would practically displease him too in the long run. The woman wants favours and still wants equality, leaving her man with the vague decisions of what are actually his strengths, choices, rights and his initiated ideas. His admonitions and inclinations are shredded with all the belated unexpected outpouring that follows the subsequent sense of abandonment dimly registering in his complicated thoughts, when she gets her way as always.

Yet she will still hurl varied insults at his person, distorting and trampling facts. When the fragrance of the truth is confronted, it will always smell quite feminine. There are no legal statutes governing the woman’s natural strength sapping and ego violating antecedents, that always ends with a fuming fretted man.
strenght-of-a-woman
Strenght of a Woman
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/383812

http://authl.it/B00SLXADGY
https://www.createspace.com/5252496
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/8963

MARRIAGE IS THE WOMAN’S

charge-your-man
Women can not but accept that they make a marriage work. The nature of the man is too proud, independent and selfish to make all the compromises a marriage needs to work. In the most traditional setting the onus is on the woman to do all the work for a marriage. She would think that she couldn’t do much of it without the male’s maintained cooperation, but really most men never had actually cooperated from the onset.

It is clear that the more independent the woman seeks to be and the more independence she attains over time and exercises in her personalized wishes in a marriage and in life in general, the more the marital proverbially boat rocks, hit the rocks and sinks. Then only the woman really loses out because the marriage institution best personifies her. The man would only instantly lose the joys of the woman’s attributes, all those many attachments that were always only really beneficial to him. The woman loses the marriage she was wooed into. It will hurt the man’s pride, take away the brightness in the pleasures he enjoys for the while. Then his face would beam, his eyes gleam with delight and his lips blossom into the fresh smile of yet another blissful union. Women mostly seek face value like their much belittled gender, racial and regional orientation expects of them.

Truly black women are practically more racists in their preferences. Though they are very hospitable and more selfless, they are collectively personal and quite tribal, and trivial in their general choices; preferring outward values above all others. The twisting effect of religion doesn’t change this trend as much as culture has affected it over time, it actually worsens it. Civilization merely inserted a dent in the trend but not altered in fully. A whooping resounding domineering majority of religious people aren’t adult converts but are actually circumstantially religious by some original orientation. Thus it has never been the quest of religious people to seek the rightfulness of another faith ahead of theirs. They are always schooled in the desires of their immediate needs and desire to put other faith’s principle on a logical pedestal. To remotely glorify different teachings is not even entertained.

They would ordinarily consider all others faiths quite inferior to theirs and oddly that poorly or wrongly conceives subjective ideologies but not guide any sacred insight like theirs would. In this line of thought they linger in, their need of it engulfs their bias reasoning, which is to belong firmly and remain so in their tight fitting world of faithful make-belief. Their near misses are actually searches and they are never real losers in the end, but endless winners that out number their victories. It is in these all too familiar marriages that the lingering incompatibility of each separate union comes true and freedom from that inner human loneliness couples look for is ever elusive, endlessly so. Freedom from humanly imposed regulations is the spelled out thought that holds them captive with its one tracked biasness. Then as the birds of marital prey are spotted and stopped from perching over human heads, they stay out of reach and fly over head with their very own intensions in mind and never that of another. The presence of freedom has the propensity to be quite harmful eventually too, just as does the absence of it. The case in favour of true freedom is that it allows choice, and choice makes the man. It is the main difference in humanity’s tangible essence over its adopted civility.

WILL YOU MARRY ME?
These intimate songs we sing
Blend aged dreams into a ring
That weds our gendered stew
In matrimonial oneness not new.

strenght of a woman
Strenght of a woman
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/383812

http://authl.it/B00SLXADGY
https://www.createspace.com/5252496
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/8963
the poet in the poet - Copy
The Poet in the Poem
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

http://authl.it/B00SLWGOMM
https://www.createspace.com/5195332

SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: ELIZABETH O’CONNELL-THOMPSON — As It Ought to Be

INVITATION ONLY By Elizabeth O’Connell-Thompson When they come knocking, I take them by the hand that had been a fist moments before and show them something beautiful— a black creek in the woods, a doe’s skull in the field. I lead them just far enough away that they can still see the house, but not […]

via SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: ELIZABETH O’CONNELL-THOMPSON — As It Ought to Be

Settle — Eyes + Words

Written by Jacob Ibrag She wanted more than he could give her. He asked her to meet him half way. ‘Never, I refuse to settle.’ Walking past her peripheral, he turned back one last time and tried to remember every single detail of their night. Black dress with red trim. ‘Pink lips that I’ll never kiss again.’ Photographer Unknown

via Settle — Eyes + Words

CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT

she loves me not

The settings might differ from one case to another but generally speaking women are really like birds when hurt. They fall off the so many trees of their painful romantic memories and just any well placed fellow can pick up their flightless form, hold them, toss them, strip and grill them the way he wants before devouring them to his heart’s desire.

It is feminine’s most natural need to be loved always. It is the most vulnerable nature of a woman, one she does not really succeed in doing anything about. On the part of the man, he can only hope that he can belittle the strength of the woman by making it appear less the issue in his pretence that it is. The strength of the woman is always that very visible influence she has, but the man never appreciates and respect but habitually needs. The might of the naturally endowed woman is ironically most telling in the young lady, still growing and inexperienced, than in the much older, already experienced women. As soon as a girl first experiences the subtle gains in the influential might of her unique feminine attributes and realizes that she could literally downsize, cut and render worthless, to near non-existent, any age difference between her and much older lustful men with a little effort, she instantly ages further than them and momentarily own their emotions, repeatedly.
thinker
She grows not in age but in the more worldly rewarding craft of simply being a human being, that sole complex entity that personifies both men and women in the naturally naïve, emotionally weak but capably strong nature of humanity.

STRENGTH OF A WOMAN

Where is the bird that hatched this egg?
Flying above the world, up so very high.
And the monkey the farmer wouldn’t beg?
Laughing up a branch, he threatens not near.
Will they ever marry their ideas, so very big?
As always they steal, flock, eat and do share.

Flying above the world, up so very High,
The bird still returns down to hatch its egg.
Laughing away harmless threats if not near,
The monkey’s hunger for the farm will beg.
Their ideas created their world and it is clear,
That strength of the woman gave marriage a leg.

Strength of a Woman
strenght of a woman
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/383812

http://authl.it/B00SLXADGY
https://www.createspace.com/5252496
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/8963

The Poet in the Poem
the poet in the poet - Copy
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

http://authl.it/B00SLWGOMM
https://www.createspace.com/5195332

Exotic Female Tennis

maria 1
(Excerpts from ‘Sporting Chance’ in ‘Everyone hates the English’)

Vijay had always been quite fond of lawn tennis and he played it sparingly sometimes. Only he was helplessly useless with the racquet in his favorite right hand and even worse with the netted large batting instrument in his naturally less dexterous left hand. His aged tennis instructor would encourage him with poetry.

“I guess if you stick around long enough, nothing ever is but always was.”

Vijay was just horrible with his hands and had always wondered what good is human ingenuity if people had no fingers? Vijay was good with his legs, but then maybe he just had good football instructors and terrible ones for tennis. Vijay never saw the old man win a single game and had since concluded the old man had only managed to be a top seeded player in a grand slam tourney, when the game of tennis was played with eloquent words. But Vijay reserved his fondest interest for female tennis and there were loads of reasons for this. Chief amongst these are firstly, the girls’ rallies lasted longer, making scored points longer in coming. That however is the only technical reason for his preference, though he claims there are other technical reasons, all his other reasons were quite feminine ones. These include the cute umbrella shaped skirts the ladies wore when they played tennis.
mirza 1
As the female tennis server descends from a ballerina toed posture, the lift of her skirt exposes robustly fleshy or firm slim exotic thighs with is swerve, shuffle and swing. This presents the pleasant brief view that makes even keener spectators of most male followers of female tennis. At momentarily inactive rest periods, live spectators get to rest their stiff necks from the prolonged following of the furry small ball across the center net, from player to player. Yet male spectator wolfishly enjoy watching the resting players, sitting in their low stages like actresses, as they mop their skimpy clad bodies with thick towels at some green coloured pool side, seemingly oblivious that they are still a viewing delight for the casual on-lookers.
serena 1

Then there is the buzz of watching the girls stretch out fully to return difficult low line-edged balls, to save a point. The regular flash of their finely tightened buttocks, which is a generous meaty picture beneath those umbrella shaped skirts doing more of a good job in covering their bellies and lower backs than they do anything lower. Vijay’s ultimate high are the moans, groans and shrill screaming, such that with ears plugged, shut eyed or reading an adult magazine as the ladies play, the sound effect would pass for the next door pervert loudly watching X-rated channels. With little imagination, the athleticism of the playing ladies could easily revert to a high stage performance, with handled vertical fixed stainless pole instead of racquets and with half drunk hooting men, swinging crisp money notes at the entertaining girls, encouragingly them to whack some furry balls.

EVERYONE HATES THE ENGLISH - Small
EVERYONE HATES THE ENGLISH (LC67V)

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/559891
http://authl.it/B011JMAIYA
https://www.createspace.com/5650770
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/9867

FRIENDLY FOES: Another must read

A World of Sentiments
Friendly Foes

Strangest explosion rocks the Karachi international airport just as a massive deployment of US marines arrived the busy airport. Stories of the victims and their relatives, responders and their purpose, perpetrators and their reasons, unfolds a tale of current resolutions based on old conceptions. The narrative tells of the most diverse colorful global characters surrounded with a good mix of friends and foes.
2014_09_band-of-brothers-53
There is David Holden, the English Doctor who loves humanity more than his origins. His idea of getting use to scarcity in the midst of plenty paid off in his later years as a charitable medical doctor with the United Nations, WHO and Red Cross, while working with refugees all around the world.
GB Flag - Copy
Abdul Kazaar Ali is Doctor Holden’s opportunistic aged patient who lives out his perception of Muslim norms like he desires. In Karachi, bearded old men must daily demand the honourable respect only reserved for them after death. Only the living can tell the honour bestowed on them and the dead, the judgment they spent a life-time waiting for. Abdul Kazzar wanted his reward on earth and his son; Umar Ali, held much promise after he ran off to England and started working in London to learn the lucrative wisdom of the English.

Aaamu and her mother Rael are Kenyans with Somalian origins. They live by their wits as their circumstances allow. Ladies always come first in typical English fashion and Rael Amu is obsessed with being first but there are very few things in which a young Muslim maiden gets to be first in. Rael passed on her obsession to her daughter and gave her all the tools she needs to be first.

Then there is Fatima, who is smart enough to outwit her sexuality but too human to resist normalcy. From a tender age Fatima figured out that she only got a better deal when she isn’t identified as Arab or Muslim. In America the distinction between the two is inconsequential. Fatima only had to behave ideally in the care of her uncle, Suleiman.

Suleiman’s wife is a delightful gentle half-literate girl named Khadija. She is younger than Fatima and imported from Yemen especially for marriage. Khadija came to Suleiman untarnished by western ways and speaking some English, just enough. Partially caged-in, according to Suleiman’s mildly liberal interpretations of Islamic rites, who ensured Khadija isn’t more exposed than her elbows. But Khadija discovered a lot more than Suleiman cared for.

Ruth is the young Israeli genius whose Jewish father; Avi Jonah, gave her a lot more than just his name. She was born in Tel Aviv and grew up there into a strong healthy industrious lady. Ruth had a pleasant childhood, unlike her controvertial nation’s. All through history every true super power took its turn in bullying the proud Jews.
Peace
Avi Jonah is more Hebrew than he is Jewish, that comes across in his lessons to Ruth and her siblings. It is the Hebrews forte to be proficient in history and like everybody else, their history is always opinionated.

Lee is Ruth’s Chinese boyfriend and school-mate in London, who is trying out his fantasies alongside his opinions. Lee didn’t talk much and hated talking about himself to anyone, Ruth was the only exception. Lee spent most of his leisure time, while growing up in main land China, learning what most enlightened minds in the world had to say about things. His brilliant mind was full of information about diverse cultures from every part of the world.

Professor Henry Benjamin is Lee’s octogenarian landlord, a world renown, multiple award winning, retired academician with many reputable publications to his credit. The steady presence of Lee and his equally excellent girlfriend was a big plus for the aged man with a very weak heart.

Then there is Sean Samuel, the Irish-American reporter with a huge reputation he constantly seeks to live up to, like his proud American nation. Sean wasn’t ever much of a fighter, with his uncles’ tough reputation he never had cause to prove he is a descendant of an Irish gangster from Dublin who migrated to New York city to continue being a crook.

A MUST READ

FRIENDLY FOES
Friendly Foes - Copy
A World of Sentiments
https://www.createspace.com/6131298
http://authl.it/B01CUVBCSU

MARRIED MEN FOR SINGLE GIRLS

Toilet visits can take a while when all your craps are like concrete...
Toilet visits can take a while when all your craps are like concrete…

To some young single girl, married men are ever comfortably understandable, matured and polite in their fair and unforced disposition. However the wanton desires of these young girls never warns them that the intentions of these much older men does not always look as fair as they are always pretentiously justified to be, in their deceptively natured maturity. The woman’s all-embracing monstrous natural need to be overwhelmed by a man, who aim to get the better of her, justifies her consanguineous attachment to her eternal older brother, the man.

The honourable older married man always has the most desire to be secretive in such relationships. While the younger single girl would likely show some pride in her bigger achievement, the setting would hurt him with an odd sort of feeling afresh with old emotions of being an unworthy person. His older and more honourable world would notice his failures, even if it identifies with his expression of it. When he is certainly found out and has to confront his critics, the older married man could simply hold his head high and be proud of his shameful freedom while the world he has conditioned will fall silent snugly, presumable out of interfering in his business, as the public end up secretly more embarrassed than he ought to be.

WILL YOU MARRY ME?

These intimate songs we sing
Blend aged dreams into a ring
That weds our gendered stew
In matrimonial oneness not new.

the poet in the poet - Copy
The Poet in the Poem
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

http://authl.it/B00SLWGOMM
https://www.createspace.com/5195332

WOMEN RAPE MEN FIRST

heavies

Men are indifferent to most trivial things and it is where the women prowl that they tend to do the most emotional harm, the real lingering kind. Women have a silly way of complicating the simplest emotional things and making them seem more than they ordinarily are. In their outward offers women actually do rape men emotionally, therefore by extension physically to. Women rape men mentally, they merely set the mood and simply wait, like a farmer buries a seed in the soil and waits. The damage they propose is easily blameless because its growth isn’t really a physical act. The achieved effect is clearly culpable because the victim is a hugely handicapped colt, deranged by his natural emotional deformity and his purely sexual bravado.

Men do not normally have functional automated braking systems and the will power to check their hormones are not natural and more or less mainly artificially trained. It is almost normal for such a system to collapse. Hence they are raped before they even start to conceive the idea of it and decide to retreat or retaliate. It is a weaken fabric men have in common, old or new alike. All their moral training and upbringing, their well-made and well-schooled contingency plans that teaches children to hold piss, loses its eloquence in the minds that originate it.

CHEATS

To a mass we wore those frowns again,
Webbing lines on our brows with pain.
These insects spanned and trapped we are,
Drunken hulks with secular cheats we Spar

Fever: The Coldness of Fever (Book V)
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451306

http://authl.it/B00YUOYL7K
https://www.createspace.com/5195619

the poet in the poet - Copy
The Poet in the Poem
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

http://authl.it/B00SLWGOMM
https://www.createspace.com/5195332

Legacy of enduring Sexism

Peageons

(excerpts from Strength of the Woman; Chapter 6)

Yet again modern men remain quiet, but quite resolutely still steadfast in the sustenance of that ancient model of their gradual dominance over the women folk. It is not ever fully concealed or nearly abandoned in its impertinence. It recaptures every single edge it lets off and increasingly intimates its younglings with the self esteem of its virtues, before they even fully grasp how to also intimidate with it.

Their expression of this intent is unguardedly simpler when they are young. That is when black and white is blurred into an innocent grey and the earliest gusto of the showmen’s world they are born into cannot fully differentiate immodesty from humility. They tend to hide their shortcoming so poorly then.

Young girls in the male younglings’ presence are made tolerant of the arbitrary interference to the optimistic promise of their natural feminine love as shown manipulatively and reinforced. It is initially pleasing, but it doesn’t eventually gladden as it doesn’t ever exempt a single one of them. Subsequently, all women get to feel fully uprooted and well armed with an arsenal of useless weapons.

In his immediate community, the young boy isn’t ever seen to be criticizing his women folk, instead he is said to be just ever critiquing as he ages into slowly appreciating them. Even as sister resists attempts to belittle their efforts to make her brother her bettered partner, he yet upsets her with the most solemn words of disrespect and embarrasses her best effort to give him a revered distinction. Remarkably, this is most probably a distinction he doesn’t ever show he deserves.

It is the very old: BATTLE OF THE CELLS

Who must comes first,
Males or the females?
This knowledge a thirst
That quenches with cells

If what is common birth
Forms females or males;
Supremacy is their myth,
Caged within each cells.

Still the sole permit she is allowed in corroborating with him is amazingly incompatible in the scheme of things, as it sparks of a series of fixations that he needs countered but doesn’t ever let. He forever masters her identity and its personification. Her lamentation is always in true isolation because he causes it with the continuous surge of his self worth. The strayed debris of her glories is made an eclectic collection of incongruities, meant to suit his pleasures. She is forced to shyly thank him for this same insult to her person over and over again.

She is stopped from worrying about the things he does habitually, those that fix a solemn expression on her gloomy face and eternally ambush her with listless accusations about falsehoods, mindless of her integrity. Her expression of her exhibited feelings is considered improper, even as he insinuates that this same altruism of hers, conflates into her most loved attributes. He shamelessly sees these virtues as ingenious, stimulating and inspiring.

As such she is made his ultimate item of ridicule by his very own instruments of condemnation she still adores.

That is the crux of the STRENGTH OF A WOMAN

Where is the bird that hatched this egg?
Flying above the world, up so very high.
And the monkey the farmer wouldn’t beg?
Laughing up a branch, he threatens not near.
Will they ever marry their ideas, so very big?
As always they steal, flock, eat and do share.

Flying above the world, up so very high,
The bird still returns down to hatch its egg.
Laughing away harmless threats if not near,
The monkey’s hunger for the farm will beg.
Their ideas created their world and it is clear,
That strength of the woman gave marriage a leg.

strenght of a woman
Strenght of a Woman
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/383812

http://authl.it/B00SLXADGY
https://www.createspace.com/5252496
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/8963

the poet in the poet - Copy
The Poet in the Poem
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

http://authl.it/B00SLWGOMM
https://www.createspace.com/5195332

WOMEN AND THEIR MEN

10665933_804523602943607_8970360027335449884_n (1)Women have the dirtiest minds if you ask me. I know because as a young lad I have been in lots of position to eavesdrop on men discussing their women and women discussing their men. While the men are normally conservative in their conversations, giving away little details, women tend to be very vivid, describing even their men sexual prowess like they would an piece of elegant clothing.

If you doubt this then consider this. You can tell a lot about people by how exhibitionist they are in their behaviors. While men find it difficult to look at one another’s private part, even when they ease themselves, women do not think much of stripping down naked in full view of one another to take a bath. (Straight men).

But when it comes down to it, it is really always about who is really more superior;

d470e7c4fa248309f34c94154f8b4f6f
BATTLE OF THE CELLS

Who must comes first,
Males or the females?
This knowledge a thirst
That quenches with cells.

If what is common birth
Forms females or males;
Supremacy is their myth,
Caged within each cells.

the poet in the poet
The poet in the poem
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

http://authl.it/B00SLWGOMM
https://www.createspace.com/5195332

AND THE MOTHER DIED

mama & baby
Life tends to congregates us in one loving hub of family and friends, wooing us to have and share love for one another, as it educates us with the knowledge of our inevitable end and final separation. But it never empowers us with the secret of bearing its insipid emptiness and harsh betrayal. It is cruel and just not truly fair.

The following poem is an experience also documented in the novel: ‘The old woman’s maid’
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/383830
https://www.createspace.com/5277712
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/8763
old woman's maid

tears (1)
“And the mother died”

A strong gust of air blew
And twin curtains withdrew.
Float horizontally in mid-air,
Like Angles’ wings would pair.

The mother walked in her peace,
Embodied in that first brief glimpse
From within a curtained covering;
Into our world an Angle steps in.

Unique as, loving every person;
Everyone passes her tests’ reason.
Saw goodness, polished badness;
Her large heart sought happiness.

This world her one own family,
Which will see her out, sadly.
Her motherhood a duty not a task,
In her circumstances that lack.

A right for which she had fought,
Is her motherhood in every breath.
She lost physical battles down here,
But won the war with years to spear.

Then she had cancer and died,
Joining all those from us deaths hide.
The victor hasn’t yet flourished
When his vanquished all perished.

Death can only but surely lose,
Yet the fear of him we choose.
He doesn’t get the peace we see.
Then what really, really has he?

He can’t keep us as ornaments,
Passing for the briefest moments.
His power ends where it starts,
Coming and going, never ever lasts.

He reveals two very key lessons
In this very life for all persons;
Where lies a life there are lies
And all roads to a same place plies.

It is really true then and no fuss;
God sends his Angles amongst Us
Takes them when he misses them,
Out of a world that cherishes them.

THE POET IN THE POEM
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

https://www.createspace.com/5195332
the poet in the poet

EVERYONE HATES THE ENGLISH
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/559891
https://www.createspace.com/5650770
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/9867
EVERYONE HATES THE ENGLISH - Small

AGE

960107_238258173003001_1776800306_n
Living is thwarted,
Obscured by its folly.
The mind is hunted,
Impossible even if jolly.

When a bird sings,
It’s because it must.
What any age brings
Speaks for you most.

Age plays the most games with women than it does with men. This is mainly the case because the woman was apparently drawn up into the human picture and plan, to perpetually be the subordinate of the man, with the definite fate of being indefinitely shortchanged, taken for an eternal ride and destined to be cheated by the clearly better edged up man.

The woman would obviously always not be preferred to her brother. She doesn’t get a better deal than her male siblings, as a child. She is bullied by her own mother and all female relatives into becoming like them. She is made only an amiable play thing by most relatives and more so by the sympathetic but guarded and invariably laid back attitude of her male relatives.

She is spanned and toyed with by her male partner like figure, because of her presumed limited capabilities, mummified by the shackles of his marriage and her subsequent motherhood. She is used and reused for her immeasurable, recyclable and incredibly cheap worth. Then eventually buried in and with the intangible praise she lived a lifetime hearing, without experiencing or feeling.

Age would always deceive every single accomplished or failed woman alike. She would live on to recount her worries, those she had since forgotten or gotten quite used to, until they don’t bug her any longer when she is used to them. This is the curse of the woman irrespective of her people or their creed.

the poet in the poet
THE POET IN THE POEM
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451309

https://www.createspace.com/5195332

EVERYONE HATES THE ENGLISH - Small
EVERYONE HATES THE ENGLISH
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/559891
https://www.createspace.com/5650770
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/9867

EVERYONE HATES THE ENGLISH

#EveryoneHatesTheEnglish #EHTE
EVERYONE HATES THE ENGLISH
Think about this? It is quite human to be greatly annoyed by certain aspects of life, by an individual or group of people. People habitually associate exhibited characteristics with specific persons, people or their orientation.

For centuries the English have dissatisfied the most people across the globe. But as diverse as the reasons why Everyone Hates The English are, the world still respects and simply enjoy the English the most. The tales in this book say as much.

The stories in #EveryoneHatesTheEnglish will capture your imagination and steer your emotions like few other tales of books ever did before now.

#EveryoneHatesTheEnglish
Yas Niger
Copyright 2015 Yas Niger
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/559891

Everyone hates something and most people actually think; #EveryoneHatesTheEnglish #EHTE

It is conventional for one group to be dissatisfied with another they regard as different. Usually the displeasure is as a result of other people not conforming to expectations, not necessarily because they are different.
IMG0136A
Being irritated or irked by certain persons is predominantly a personal feeling, which then builds over time and grows into the psyche of larger groups that share the same traditions, social and economic orientation and status.

Hating something or someone means being highly peeved and greatly upset by them, such that it causes discontentment and makes one continuously unsatisfied by these things or persons. It is a marginal feeling that builds into an extreme angered state, a perpetual disgruntled condition.

Everyone experiences this disappointed state of unfulfilled expectations for varied emotional, social, economic, political, cultural and religious reasons. As diverse as our reasons for hating others may appear to be, they all share two things in common. The majority of reasons people get offended and angered are personal to others and trivial to them. These are reasons enough to understand and respect others, or simply just to laugh at our reasons for hating others. But not summarily hate others because they are different or because we are just as different too.

Everyone hates something that displeases them. Let us start with understanding and respecting, or simply enjoying the English, while laughing along with the reasons why #EveryoneHatesTheEnglish or think they do.

Everyone Hates The English
By Yas Niger
Copyright 2015 Yas Niger
https://www.createspace.com/5650770

Bean
In SHADES OF BIRDS the English had just lost the American civil war and still managed to win over their best allies ever. In ALTERNATE D-DAY the English lost the second world war and got ready to take over the world, yet again. MRS QUEEN, MISS KING are a few simple letters that appears to speak for the popular English monarchy and its enduring legacy of detached respectability.

Then comes OPTIONAL SLAVERY and the wave of illegal migration from seemingly everywhere to almost anywhere in Europe, but good old England. And in England we meet THE MAN IN THE MOON, yet another economic migrant that is proud of the heritage he escaped from but didn’t really live behind. In the same city THE ASSASSINATION OF OBASANJO took place, the guests of the hospitable English gave them a tastes of life in one of their so many old colonies.

The IMPROPER CONDUCT that culminates in Karachi tells the collective tale of diverse individual offshoots of English legacy across the whole world, over so long a time. With THE THREE VIRGINS the English help merged three major people into yet another United Kingdom without a care for their preferance or indeed their reluctance. Finally a young Indian footballer got a good SPORTING CHANCE to be more English, just when he succeeds in being less English.

snake charmer
Everyone Hates The English
By Yas Niger
Copyright 2015 Yas Niger
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/9867

So tweet it, post it and get everyone to read this unique book that will surely get everyone thinking about why #EveryoneHatesTheEnglish or think they do.
EVERYONE HATES THE ENGLISH - Small
GET A COPY NOW!!!
#EHTE https://www.createspace.com/5650770
#EHTE https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/559891
#EHTE http://okadabooks.com/book/about/9867

The Call Girl’s company

1503482_793660483993995_1500311464_n
(excerpts from The Whore; Chapter 11)

It was dangerously late and cold outside. There were signs of an impending thunder storm too. The Call girl was obviously terrified by the prospect of facing those horrendous conditions outside. She hadn’t been lucky and didn’t catch the fancy of any of the male guests the previous night. She was so desperate to earn something that she waited till it was too late for her to leave and it would cost several times more to transport herself home that late and she could afford it. So she hid in a deserted corridor, hoping to stay out of sight until it was dawn and she could leave quietly, pretending to be leaving a guest’s room. The receptionist had discovered her tucked away behind a massive curtain and some decorative floor pots and insisted she left.

The stranded Call girl offered the receptionist a bribe in cash and kind, but the cagy young man wouldn’t play ball. Kengua found that last bit amusing as the Call girl reached out to the receptionist with loving probing hands, pleading with him to assist her. The young lad was adamant, obviously he was more concerned about keeping his job than he was about getting sexual favours. Kengua had to offer the receptionist some cash to let the Call girl stay. The young man agreed and the girl was relieved to be able to stay on within the secured premises of the hotel, until it was bright and safe in the morning. It hasn’t been safe around the entire country of late and the Call girl was more than willing to explain this farther to her rescuer. Kengua had no choice but to listen politely as she went on to tell him things he already knew about.
“There has been spades of night killings of local people, since ire Muslim youths went on a vengeful campaign in retaliation of the multiple bombing incidences, alleged to have been carried out by the local Animists youth in the area,” she reported in very good Hausa.
“The recent spate of violence had started when Animist youth were purported to have used a powerful locally assembled incendiary bomb on a Friday afternoon, at the largest Mosque in the town during mid-Friday prayers. The explosion had killed over five hundred men at once. It was the first bombing in the immediate area but not in the entire country.

“The other bombings of its kind had killed much less victims, but cumulatively the casualty rate was getting so high because the Muslim community doggedly refused to suspended their big Friday prayers, insisting it wasn’t an option. The fanatical local Muslim clerics kept preaching that those who died as a result of the Mosque bombings were headed straight to paradise to parley with the almighty God, his dead prophets and immortal angels for all eternity. So the more the Muslims refused to stop congregating on Fridays for mass prayers, the more the casualties.”
Kengua listened to her without saying a single word in reply.
“I’m not taking any chances,” she concludes.
Kengua deduced she is obviously a Hausa Muslim girl from the region of the country around the capital city where Kengua stays. She was only making a living the best way she could, in the part of her country more hospitable to what she had to do to get by. She was only marginally dressed in a flirtatious fairly large brassier she was passing off for a mini blouse top and in the highest possible white mini skirt. Her bright red panties kept showing in crimson flashes against her dark skin. No matter how hard she tried to keep her underwear hidden and from being seen by others around her, she was always doomed to fail because her skirt was too high up. She kept clasping her thick thighs tightly, crossing and uncrossing her short plump legs to no avail.

There were traces that she had attempted to bleach her dark skin into something lighter in the past but she must have given it up when she couldn’t afford the pricey creams any longer. She now had amber coloured streaks of stretch marks around her very visible thighs that Kengua found nauseating. It was obvious that she didn’t flaunt her thighs in the afternoon, only at night.
She had the most colourfully thick application of cosmetic make up on her face and it made her look more like a Japanese opera actress than a serious prostitute. It was little wonder she got no offers, Kengua thought as he kept his eyes away from looking directly at her. Dressing up and looking like that is simply just a necessity for her trade, in her opinion. She and her sort had been so badly indoctrinated over time and she was particularly too illiterate, to know better.
It is more than a shade easier for a girl to be corrupted sexually, than it is for a boy. A girl is naturally more endowed with the implements to lean back on and conveniently make a living off in the dark, more than her male counterpart. Besides, her clients are naturally conditioned to pour in, in droves. Most times, the girls are culturally pressured to play along when economically tasked. It is a merry go round legacy they inherit and grow up to bequeath to their successors.

Sitting next to the talkative girl most of the night, into the earliest morning hours, Kengua realized how stereotyped his treatment of Laraba affections towards him was. He reflected on the silliness of his assumptions and concluded he had no right to decide for Laraba before he told her his sexual predicament. He wasn’t even in a bad state and she would most probably be delighted by the experience. Meanwhile, there was no stopping the Call girl from talking on.
“I didn’t even know how to say the alphabets until I started this work. The very first teachers I got were actually members of a French NGO. They came to the brothel I worked to educate us on the dangers of HIV/AIDS. They kept making us repeat the letters ABC, which they went on to explain was an acronym for Abstinence, Being faithful to one partner and Condoms. We had lots of fun memorizing it but then they got a rude shock when they discovered we didn’t even know what the original ABC stood for or is used for. So they taught us the basics.”

Kengua learnt the Call girl’s name is Hajo, when she kept repeating her own name in her haphazard story telling. She sometime refers to herself in the third person as she chattered away, completely mindless and uncaring that her sole listener wasn’t contributing or enabling her with nods or even looking her way. She was simply satisfied he was awake and appeared to listen. Out of sight but still in the lobby, the loud snoring receptionist slept soundly on the floor behind the reception raised wooden counter. That also reminded her of yet another story she had to tell.
“The girl snored louder than this young receptionist throughout the night we were locked up in the cramped jail. We had to be locked up with some male criminals in the same tiny cell. It is the only one the police station had and the cops didn’t trust us enough to leave us sitting on our own behind or beside their open duty post, while they slept away their night duty hours.

“I was barely two weeks into this trade then, when we were unfortunate to get caught by the police men on patrol. The police had raided our regular hangout at a local bar to possibly round up criminals and it turned out that the proprietor of the place had fallen behind in his regular security payments to the local police chief. The raid was actually a timely reminder.
“Our fellow work girls who had enough money on them, had summarily paid their bail money up front before they even got arrested and those who had boyfriends amongst the raiding coppers, got off on good behaviour since they had good reliable character witnesses.”
Hajo giggled alone to her witty summation.

“There were twelve harden criminal men in that tiny cell room with just the two of us, off duty Call girls. The criminals waited until it was all quiet outside before they woke us up to the duties they had in mind for us, all night long. They whispered threats and demonstrated how they will snap our frail necks with their massive hands if we dare call out. I was terrified but the other girl dropped her panties and took a missionary pose like she was out to spread the gospel.”
Kengua started to find this story a lot more interesting.

““Hajo,” the other girl called out to me from beneath the first rogue that stepped forward and mounted her. Her name is Mina and she is a veteran from many years of active whoring.
““Just try to sleep.” Mina encouraged me but I was too scared to even look at her any more. It meant six hefty guys a piece and there was no telling they would stop at just one turn each. I just swallowed and braved up the onslaught. It was slow going and I stopped counting at ten. The men just kept taking turns at sampling both of us. They went about it silently and the coppers just a few feets away from us didn’t hint they knew what was going on while we had no choice but to resume work right within the belly of the law, under its protection.” Hajo giggled.

“I was soon very bruised, hurting and bleeding. That must have irritated them because the few that were still up to it, concentrated on Mina onwards and she laid back almost perfectly still. I was worried for her at first, scared she was unconscious. Not until I heard her snoring.
“She actually slept all through the ordeal and when the morning duty sergeant let us go by dawn, Mina simply stood up, yawned like she had a good night sleep and walked out as steady as a reigning queen. She certainly must have handled about thrice my portion without noticing it. I was really hurting afterwards. I walked funny in my anguish and wasn’t the least embarrassed to spread my legs apart with every stride I took, like a big slender crab. The criminals in the cell and the policemen had a big laugh watching me go when we were released in the morning.”
Kengua laughed politely too.

“Though I was bruised and couldn’t walk properly or indeed work for weeks afterwards, I got the last laugh. It became known that most of the guys we were locked up with were part of a notorious armed robbery gang that had killed a number of citizens and policemen in the area, running into a year before they were nabbed. And their case was swift and highly publicized.
“Mina made me go with her to the robbers’ well attended court case . Mina said it would be a therapeutic experience for me to see the men that brutalized my source of livelihood get what they deserve. Mina had become my closest friend after our common police sanctioned gang rape. She had been so nice to me afterwards and practically nursed me back to good health.”
Kengua’s thought briefly veered elsewhere. He was wondering if the priest’s wife had returned to her room. It was just a couple of hours before dawn and Hajo had been talking non-stop for more than two hours. Kengua’s mind returned to Hajo’s narration soon enough.
“The gang’s trial was held in a huge hall at the edge of town, not the regular courtroom. Three federal judges were assigned the case as the government made an exhibition of the trial because it was an election year and the politicians were in a very showy mood. The judges took turns in calling out the years of jail terms they were sentencing each of the criminals. They made it sound like the number of years they were calling out were just hours or even days, not years. Not 365 days or 52 weeks but a staggering 25, 30, 45 and 50 years were called out for each count, and there were as many as 12 counts for each of the twelve defendants.
“Each of the three obese judges seated behind a massive table on the raised stage had alternatively returned to called out the sentencing, until each judge had a fourth turn at it. Then finally the usual concurrent adage to the final sentence of the verdict instantly made amateur mathematicians of everyone in the court room, as a majority of the spectators in the hall tried to work out the number of years each of the criminals would spend in prison.

“Predictably, Mina had erroneously arrived at an incredible 150 years each and voiced her joy out loud but she was greatly disappointed when a elderly man seated nearby explained to us that concurrently meant none of the robbers would be in prison for more than fifty years. I was watching the youngest member of the gang closely. He was almost in tears. I wasn’t sorry for him. He had mounted me too and I especially recollect he was heavily endowed and tore me up. He sat back and counted out his own share of the decades of incarceration in one hand, with his other hand. He went over each of the five fingers repeatedly by briefly holding each finger of the first hand between the forefinger and the thumb of the second hand, touching each finger lightly.
“He starts from the smallest finger and ended at the thumb each time, repeating this six times over. He must have ended up with the same utterly wrong heart wrenching figure of over a hundred years doled out to him because he visibly broke down and wept. I felt sorry for him and it made me reflect that I was no different from him in many ways. We were creations of our last resort and just as he is physically endowed to be brutish, I was also hollowed to be whorish.”
Hajo had conclusively made a very salient point that resonates around what Kengua knew to be true. He felt sorry for her and as if he were paying her for keeping him company, he gave her a generous helping from the thick wad of the very low valued local paper currency he had in his wallet.

She wasn’t pretentious in her surprise when she received the money and offered to quickly give Kengua part of his money’s worth of service right there on the large leather sofa he was seated in. He declined and the disappointment he saw on her face was also quite genuine. She actually pleaded with him to reconsider, assuring him that she was safe and he wouldn’t be disappointed. He was adamant in his refusal. She was ecstatic as they said goodnight, though it almost dawn. She hugged him as he stood up to leave, before he was even remotely aware she might. He was stunned but didn’t cringe or feel repulsed. She needed the sympathetic hug.
The_Whore_Cover_for_Kindle
The Whore
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451311
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/8481

All Hail the Boy Child

Capture10_16_53 - Copy
(excerpts from Strenght of the Woman; Chapter 4)

The ashamed bitterness that hung in a hidden cloud over Labara’s immediate family for many years had finally dispersed with the birth of a baby boy. It was a long wait that is erroneously recounted as lasting just slightly under half a decade; the number of years between Labara’s immediate younger sister and their parents’ last child. That is a total of four long years, with four miscarriages for their mother.

Sometimes the four earlier tensed up years between Laraba and her immediate younger sister are included or further back still, the swift two years between Laraba and her immediate older sister is added. But in reality the long wait started from that impatiently hurried single lonely year separating Labara’s immediate older sister and the family’s first born. It was from this onset that the despairing clouds started to gather, when their parents’ desire for a son didn’t happen at the very next time of asking, since it didn’t select so do so the first time out.

As inconceivably stupid as it sounds in this more advanced century of Biology, it is still widely entertained that their mother was at fault. As such she had been made to live the silent shame of being termed responsible for that elusive male child’s refusal to grace them with his entrance. It agonizingly took so long that she made sure she doctored the final home stretch to suit her own circumstances.

Laraba claims she wasn’t eavesdropping but it wasn’t ever a tenable fact. However her version clearly reveals that she heard her mother twice talking to their ever fashionable and eternally unmarried aunt, about having the right sex on the very next child she would bring into the world. True enough, after each time she heard them talk about it, there was always an immediate miscarriage afterwards.

Aside from the two instances of note, it was rather odd that of all the four times Labara’s mother had miscarriages, before a boy finally came along to the relief of everyone, her mother’s ageless, unmarried, fashionable younger sister was always around just before it happens. It was too much a coincidence for even a kid. Though a lot of slack wouldn’t ordinarily be allowed Labara’s father in the sphere of general intelligence, but even he couldn’t be that naïve in these days when a fetus’ sex is clearly not its secret alone until it emerges with it.

Laraba is that sort of girl with more intelligence than conscience and her father is the complete reverse. He is that meticulous sort, whose timidity is deemed as stupid because he always uses proper, kind words. To him, it probably was inconsequential that his wife and her sister chose to misrepresent miscarriages to him, and quite rightly naming the circumstances while insinuating they named the procedure. It seemed his mind locked him out of common sense, but he is in fact only happy to let them deceive him, even as he wasn’t compelled to let them know this. He would have been quite prepared to let them go through with it anyway.

The family had latched onto the idea of having its own mini man before it actually did. The fervor of this heighten expectation was not the type to redeem if not realized. The family had been disappointed for so long and it not only rebelled mentally but with sickening good cheer, it admits this quite openly too. Labara’s mother rebelled secretly and did away with as many girls as she kept, making way for the boy she got desperately readied for, by the world she lives in.

As if by the perversion of natural justice, aptly termed as poetic, the alert and readied older sisters of the baby boy soon slumped into the reality of having their lives being lord over by a helpless new father they must cater for jealously. The family openly shifted all its focus to the new born king and this triggered off the demise of a once held indelible dream, which still dazzled them, up till the point when the sisters realized they had become second classed in their very own family. As expected it made them more receptive of the honest truth of their existence as mere women. The reality of the situation dawned on them farther as the boy aged. Hitherto every single one of the family’s four girls was a daily recipient of such wondrous, untarnished affection from both their parents. Then the illumination of the true character of things was ushered in, in the darkness of the ageless sexist periods of old, the red flag went up at the same time as the checkered flag.

The anticipated arrival of a baby brother came with the true realities they actually were born into. It dawn on them that his belated entry into their sweet world was actually a blessing because it made them recognize clearly their minority status. Inasmuch as the four girls’ parents tried hard to show some equality, it was always clear that their world now revolts around the baby boy.

The sisters just had to hold on, heave and spin their lives around for the boy child. This metaphor is appropriate in this context, because the girls’ demeaned world literally became the boy’s merry-go-round, without a shadow of doubt. The sisters’ basic needs took the back stage of servitude, while they indeed continued to be handled with laced laxity. But that wasn’t really their main worry, as they showered their own honest love for their sole male sibling while concealing the overwhelming debris of their envy for his gloried presence, that brought their own heady days to a labourious close. The boy presented other worries of crucial note.

Labara’s parents found themselves prioritizing every detail in a scale that heightened the value of their sole male child ahead of his four older sisters. They prioritized easily enough because they created these priorities. It was somewhat a belated redemptive measure they couldn’t resist in the tense atmosphere the late arrival of the boy had put them in, one that was pervaded by rumours and the like.

Oddly though, as they blundered along ignoring the innocent suffering of their daughters, their close and careful approach reduced their once quite glorious family into a nervy apparition. They wasted much time on trifles in the self-inspired troubled setting they didn’t have any real control over, as their longings yet grew into the same diseased craze eating deep into them. The family was slowly ravaged and it became a reflection of its once single oneness, bounded in mind and body. It took to functioning as if it was being eaten by a very harmful addiction, copied but not contacted from the world all around it. The parents rudely lost track of what the majority within it really is and the part this majority actually play in the life of the more recent revered existence of the minority amongst them. The parents thus created a young prodigal chap, as their only son turned out to be, making him the subtle arch-enemy of his four sisters.

The parents especially lost track of the uniqueness Laraba represents and her absolute manner of refusing to be subdued by anyone. This is a hugely expensive oversight since it is always Labara’s desire to scrutinize every available detail and employ even the most painstaking method to achieve her quest to establish her absolute authority. She is dogged in this regards, even it if it belittles all others.

There is no grudging the natural fact that the boy initially fitted into the scheme of things like any other new baby would, needing a lot of care. But because he is also a boy, all the possibilities showed through to their fullest potentials with time, as he was weaned, started to walk and talk. His older sisters’ soon reluctantly succumbed to the reality of his present and future assured dominance, though they still wondered why it had to be so. They came to terms with it with time, as all the experienced narratives they heard assured them it will remain so all their lives.

Even as a wee baby, their brother had the status of the dominant stag and the future assured them only the prominence of bereaved female mourners in his funeral cortege, as he will then as surely oppress them in death as he does alive. His ability to crawl into mischief wasn’t much of a worry but his fast increasing ability to speak meant he was able to state his worries and demand privileges, and these were always going to be those he learnt from his parents. His needs were always going to be those that class everybody in his immediate family; other than his father, as his subordinate. His earliest comprehendible utterances had that subtle speech impediment of children, but as he spoke more clearly and properly, the nature of his spoilt personality showed through.

Labara’s baby brother started to openly show his arrogance, it became more evident in how he spoke. He badly copied his father’s masculine manner of speech, only his words were more of scampered phrases and not clear cut sentences, but still they could be understood well enough. To those outside the family, the hastily gabbled words sounded like drowsy murmurings most times. But his parents easily condoned his deliberate rumbling and his older sisters had to adjust to it. The girls couldn’t do anything like hustle him into making an effort to be more comprehendible and God forbid they hit him. The onus was always on them to make the effort to understand him, as he sounded like he was struggling to read out badly written nonsense, which made sense but never makes pleasant hearing.

The sisters repeatedly got a glimpse of the future ahead of them with the little bits of mean things their younger brother arbitrarily does. They debated about ways to curtail his present excesses but there was always that looming reality that hung unseeingly just over the horizon, a burst of reality that assured of the piercing insight of truth in the form of a rising tiny star son that acts like the rising sun.

Everything promised the girls a lifetime of being permanently subordinates to their only brother. The three other girls took it in their strides but Laraba wasn’t done with fighting for her prominence yet. The four sisters would spend their hard gotten time away from their daily chores, to have prolonged chats about the very consequential matter of handling their brother’s excesses. And as he grew older before their eyes, they discussed his future dominance over them. They couldn’t revolt out of respect for their parents, but that only enabled him still.

The sister couldn’t come to a clear cut agreement on how best to handle him discreetly. They tried to avoid doing the numerous unbecoming things they needed to do, choosing not to soil their hands and conscience as they trash out the grey areas they never seem to conclude on. The sisters knew they need to be firm in their resolve but some of the girls actually believed their sole male sibling is messianic, like their parents ardently do. Laraba certainly didn’t, she was instead enraged that her sisters weren’t on the same wave length as she is.

Each time Laraba tries to emphasize her grievance with this blatant regime of inequality they live out, the sisters end up with heated quarrels about a dispute they all actually do believe is stacked against them. Soon she got tired of trying to win over her sisters and assessed the precarious situation on her own. She has had her fill and aim to end their kid brother’s relished humanized God-ship status.

He pretentiously appears and acts a lot frailer than he looks or feels. He became increasingly snobbish, making his many demands known to every one of them in the rudest way possible for a child, a mere six year old. Even the parents were not spared the starkness of his disrespectful excesses. But obviously because the parents were quite tolerant of him in the presumptuous pretext that they only just love him and not worship him, they condoned him needlessly.

The two older sisters grew a lot less preoccupied with their parents’ obsessive affection towards their youngest sibling. But they still limited their expressed disparity, as they were secretly quite vocal about their displeasure. All the sisters equivalently loathe their brother’s ways but their main concerns were still unclear in a fuzzy way, like sight in a dark night. They all cast aspersions they couldn’t defend as they mainly chose to let the uneasy peace reign than tamper with it.

The annoying boy wouldn’t budge from his lofty perch when urged to do so. His refusals were always spiced with the most degrading insults. He repeatedly gets his way since parental rebuke is literally absent or is presented as some form of subtle pampering, scavenged from within the conscience of his parents, empty of the venom it needs but full of contrite promises that indirectly hurt his sisters.
strenght of a woman
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/383812

https://www.createspace.com/5252496
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/8963

FOR THE GOOSE, FOR THE GANDER

pb-sunset-couple-best-fix

Truly men are all these;
Gamine and very equal.
Same flock, like geese;
Gracile, fat, low or tall.

Man envies other fauna’s
So ordered chauvinism;
Governing sexes’ manners,
Which he lost to pessimism.

His most domesticated flora
Flowers in care and abuses,
Beyond its feminine aura;
Winning just as he looses.

The good old Goose
Lost her lone Gander.
Proudless of her loss,
Matured beyond order.

Living with only them,
By the hedges they grew.
For that edge over them,
He still says, ‘Grâce â Dieu!’

good for the goose - Copy
Good for the goose
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/384066

https://www.createspace.com/5243623
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/8490

The Bantimu Monologues

49dead9ed352e9bba9deac6f541e2c65
(excerpts from The Whore; Chapter 11)

The indigenes of the region are vastly non-Muslims and Animists. The festival they came for is an annual celebration, when local pagans made merry and feast all day long in honour of their symbols of worship. Kengua and the driver had to make twice the normal effort to find a local who speaks the uncomplicated Hausa they were familiar with. They were lucky and got a lot more than they had hoped for when they stumble into an English speaking fellow, seated alone in an old plastic chair. This fellow was only too happy to answer all their questions.

He is amiable fellow with a loud voice and the befitting cheery nickname of Bantimu. He offered to show them round and be their guide the next day too. Bantimu had gladly offered Kengua and the driver seats beside him. He gave them cold drinks and introduced his beautiful wife when she came over with the drinks. Bantimu and his wife were a delight to watch together. She mocked him for being a baby because he wouldn’t let her burst open a swollen boil on his knee. Kengua especially loved hearing Bantimu translate his wife’s words as she teased her husband incessantly with humorous gaily jibes. His translations got quite the rapturous laughing admiration of his impromptu guests and farther encouraged his wife to pester him some more.

Finally Bantimu succumbed and exposed his leg by raising the lower edge of the long Arabian robe he had on. He revealed a visibly inflated knee, to let his wife attend to the shiny turgid boil dead in the middle of his right knee. Bantimu’s wife sat on the floor in front of him, with a pin and some cotton wool. She pierced the boil and Kengua sort of enjoyed the sight of Bantimu’s brave facial expression as he dealt with the first wave of pain from the pin prick. He was however not as successful with the increased pain of the letting out of the pus from the boil.
“Good boy,” Bantimu’s wife coaxed him in her good mimic of her husband, imitating Bantimu rather than speaking English. She giggled as she stood up, after letting out most of the milky bloody pus trapped inside her husband’s swollen knee. She didn’t apply anything to the deflated boil before leaving the now gashed wound open to heal on its own, naturally.

The quite lyrical beauty of Bantimu’s conversation skills began to show as they sat in the fast aging day, sipping cold drinks and enjoying the view of the busy neighbourhood.
“Everyone’s life is like a swollen boil, isn’t it?” Bantimu started off on his first of many thrilling monologues of the day. “Many years ago, as a child, my friends and I had the misfortune of relying on a braggart older teenage fool to teach us how to swim in our local river. We had no idea he couldn’t swim either but because he was a lot older and taller than we were, we assumed he could. He would walk firmly but gingerly, with his feet touching the muddy slimy bottom of the not so shallow waters. I can’t remember his real name but everyone in our village called him Dada, because he had a natural growth of tightly dreadlocked hair. Well, we all thought it was only natural that a fellow like him should swim like a fish.

“Dada was a very tall fellow for his age and was able to barely keep his chin above the water surface with just marginal difficulty, as he almost effortlessly momentarily leaped and bounced off the rather close water depth for him. The lad simply tiptoed with the long reach of his strong athletic tall legs beneath him and moved with relative ease. He beat his arms through the water surface as he pretended to swim when he was actually just walking on the bottom of the slow flowing river. We couldn’t tell what he was doing because the greenish shade of the water made the rivers depth hazy and we couldn’t see beneath his chest. We merely saw a brave swimmer.

“Many months later, Dada lost his footing and slipped one day. The slight current of the river carried him further into the slightly deeper part of the water. When he got back on his feet, he had a shock. His head stayed submerged even when he leap. We could see his frantic waving hands as he gulped down large mouthfuls of water with each time he tried to call for help.
“Oddly, we had all become more capable learners than he was a reliable teacher and two of his best pupils swam over to his rescue. We pretended to accept his story about his feet being tangled up in some underwater reed and only laughed behind Dada’s back about the incident, more out fear than respect. He was a lot bigger than we were and could beat us silly.”
Kengua wished he had come along with his mini tape recorder, as Bantimu concluded his short story telling with a philosophical flourish.

“Two of us saved Dada’s life that day. If he hadn’t held us up in turns, inside the water almost daily, while we beat our feet and arms in swimming motions as he stood firmly up on the river’s muddy bottom, giving us his bogus lessons on how to swim, he would have drown that afternoon. He invariably saved his own life because he had taught us how to swim.”
Kengua naturally wanted to know if Dada ever learned to swim as they grew older. Bantimu shook his head negatively in reply. It is a common way of answering in the mid-west of Africa.
“He actually never did. Dada was too proud to admit he didn’t know how swim. It became increasingly difficult for him to reveal this as each one of his old students became very strong swimmer. He actually stopped going to the river all together.

“Dada’s life story likens my boil, doesn’t it?” Bantimu concluded. The philosophical end to the story’s message wasn’t much, but it was sort of worth the short wait, the smiling Kengua reflected. They stayed with Bantimu until early in the evening, when they returned to their hotel.
The_Whore_Cover_for_Kindle
The Whore
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451311
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/8481

GOLD AND SILVER

hands

This poem is not about money & wealth, but about people & their sexes….

Heat maketh we both;
Rich soil’s own waste.
Woke us to its breath
To breed it and eat.

The furnance is bold
To have and to Gold,
Mere crucible to hold
Silver crusts it fold.

Stallion run over care,
Strife lil’ earthen mare.
What stages we share
Sow values not fair.

the poet in the poet

Rights of the Accomplice

toast-large
(excerpts from Strenght of a Woman; Chapter 5)

In starting such covert ventures, having an accomplice is helpful. But at times the accomplices can jeopardize the whole thing if not selected rightly or protected from their own naivety. It is imperative that the selected partner doesn’t revert from being beneficial to being detrimental to the entire scheme of things. As such, a full disclosure of the plans to a willing partner would be best only when deemed absolutely necessary, even if they prove to be the staunchest allies ever.

If timed well enough, this delayed exposure just could expunge all the apparent worries that loom over the issue, before they even start to surface. Doubtlessly so, finding out what Labara’s plan is about is ever imminent, in any case. The tacky thorny bit is apparently when Laraba chooses to entirely expose her plans to her chosen accomplices. Early disclosures would naturally breed some reluctance in some of them and this needless hesitation will eventually sire remote contempt.

This would mean a pointlessly diversion of scarce resources to convince them and her being sidetracked. This could jeopardize the entire operation before it even starts. It would then be advisable to merely keep the accomplices sort of appraised, living them somewhat blameless but sweetened by the deception of the empty shallow knowledge of the plan, but not the details of it. In such cases, the devil is not always in the details but in revealing all the details. It is really a small deal, much like getting them to assist in digging up the small grave but not letting them know if it is for the difficult dog of a neighbour or a six year old male sibling.

The accomplices should be allowed the disillusioned luxury of plausible deniability at the earliest stages. This ties up and strait-jackets the setting, such that their choices remain with the whim of the real owner and harbinger of the full secret. For the safety of the secret and its future revelation, the prevailing reason for keeping them in the dark never fully diminishes until at the very end, when the swinging hammer hit the nail on the head, with the already aptly prepped up accomplices set to hold the nail and assist before being brushed aside again.

In such an atmosphere that cheapens the necessity of prompt urgency and contradicts the veracity in the essential reason for the measures sought after, disputes would hold things back and finally bring disrepute to the whole enterprise. Hence only the sudden bold intrusion of the final deed, without considering the ever present alternative views of all the others, would be appropriate. Varied views are too conflicting to be instantly practicable. They guide trustworthy ventures into set pitfalls of incompletion. The winds of sudden change are so turbulent that they make dazed people fall bottom first on their own familiar rain slicked home streets.

The ever changing facet of truths has always taken on a vague shade that proves to be too relative to the circumstances leading to its revelation. Thus it is the one demerit of all kinds of human counsel that it tends to confuse more than it really truly assists with it generous overstressed tilt of opinions. The repressible clarity of advice is largely inscrutable in its nature. Investing so much time into it is most time an act tainted with the grossly comical attempt to respond to other peoples’ personalized overtures. Their suggestions would more than often not give the initial direction needed. They would make more pronouncements on trivialities as they hamper on issues that were originally being disregarded at the onset. The advisers’ own personal desires would make them exercise the choice of either being proponents of the views proposed or not.

In the crackling bonfire of subjective emotions and coy disguises of logic, the objectivity that truly comes from the reason that originates the entire issue’s derogatory sounding aspersions, are more acceptable to its aspirations. The remodeled views suddenly appears more traditional than previously proposed or already in use. Just grasping the truth will thus become the main interest under the circumstances and not the urgent need of implementing an unpopular action.
The very disagreeable venture of sampling advice before implementing very passionate ventures is, to use an abrasive phrase, coldheartedly irresponsible. It most times literally makes its ill-advised partakers resort to a sort of hasty crafted solution. In this context, evil is best served early not late, when it is expected.
strenght of a woman
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/383812

https://www.createspace.com/5252496
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/8963

The Woman triumphs still

when_a_town_awakens_by_bingbing51
excerpts from The Whore; Chapter 11)

It is more than a shade easier for a girl to be corrupted sexually, than it is for a boy. A girl is naturally more endowed with the implements to lean back on and conveniently make a living off in the dark, more than her male counterpart. Besides, her clients are naturally conditioned to pour in, in droves. Most times, the girls are culturally pressured to play along when economically tasked. It is a merry go round legacy they inherit and grow up to bequeath to their successors. When they are hounded out by circumstances, covered and wrapped up in uncertainty’s mist, they avert the gaze of morality and succumb, expectantly. The spurious infallible laws of most customs appear to be in one long corroboration mode with nature to shortchange the woman.

While the woman cannot fathom the unending impertinence to the legality of her fight, she recognizes them easily. To some degree, this dependency of hers is harnessed for her, such that she perceives them as right. She feels as virtuous as compelled. On the other hand, the man’s indignant antecedents are never realigning their reliability. Even when the woman excels and is allowed to glut, she endlessly feels more of a consultant than a senior employee in this living enterprise. It isn’t an issue of semantics or shades, it is purely double standards by nature. It is as simplistic as that. It never ceases, even when possibilities are marginally upped or proclaimed. Even when the possibilities that abound for her are marginally upped or proclaimed and redeemed, they continually humiliate her painstaking efforts still. But the woman is nevertheless passionate in her continuous efforts, never abandoning her tedious trials.

Yet at the peak of her fiercely gotten triumphs, her rich tapestry would still feel like her man’s discarded rags. It feels destined that men will manage to mount the wild cow of the woman’s fears and boldly grab her swaying horns into submission. The irony of it all is, at the right time for her to make a decision to split open his dominance, she never actually does. Instead, obsessed by her peculiarity, she omits to be steadfast, prune her potentials, squint naturally, not wink pretentiously. His sun shines on her eclipsed moon and leaves no traces again. As far as life is concerned, the sole weapon nature endowed her with is submerged within her and confined to her thoughts only. The very core of her difficulty is a theorem nature had solved long ago, which time and man hadn’t yet changed, though they never stop trying.

The man cannot ever emotionally harm himself with pictures of the woman he conjures up in his mind. It is only this folly he might choose to try to cringe from, he is either hooked up or not. His broken heart is misinterpreted to atone nothing and to wrestle away from his dominance, the undercut tactics the woman can resort to and rely on; tends to neglect the fact that it can’t quench the thirst it slakes. The woman remains the smelling monstrous carcass in the man’s dreams. He only needs to wake up every morning and go on with his life. She is only an eye witness to his dreams and cannot step into his living world, unless he decides to enroll her. The turbulence that is her apprehension for some control gathers momentum to be slighted.

The key central delight the woman enjoys the most for all time is her procreation grant, and only because the natural trepidation of time uses her with it. Even then the consternation involved in bringing forth a physical marvel someone else had sired inside her, is apathetic. It is like a badly crippled spider delighting on the spoils provided by another spider’s cobwebs. She endlessly baffles at how easily her active role is truncated. The passive contribution of the man hinders the glory of her pain. Unclouded by the impersonation of her man, in the flurried act of birth, the fierce heat of subtle neglect by tradition always insults her ultimately.

The man ever lives on, strutting along in accepted honour for just being a cameo of sorts. While the woman can merely dramatize her emotions, still only skeptical whether she is honoured or not, abhorred or exalted. She never really knows and can tell quite little.

The diatribe lingers, intruding incessantly on her real position as the harbinger of life and love. She has to rely on this bias acceptance which she is infinitely chastised and castigated for. It is perplexing how the eccentricity of the situation belittles her, when it should celebrate her. But there is an eternal good in all this, granted that this portrayal seduced her. It understandably ought to make her deficient of undying love. It would make anyone else inescapably furious. Being so indulged in this solitary abstraction is quite punitively irritable. Dot on the spot, it scotches logic with tentative and doubtless ease. Still well acquainted with not just insinuated, outrageous accusation of it being a mere tool and not the worker, she remains doggedly devoted.

She exhibits an earnest and distilled shine of love and extraordinary dedication. Trembling with genuine affection she actually reinforces her floundering faith in her man, lavish him with some more of her branded selfless love. The spontaneity of which is not tarnished with any misplaced aggression on her part. The calculated belittling of her is conspicuous. But the conviction of all this natural, as well as artificially crafted cruelty notwithstanding, it triggers of what become a bloom of mild beautiful eruption. Regardless of whether the woman is treasured and receives a big bequest, she is fascinated by her masculine distractor. Her dedication may stumble and still it deepens into an overall vital part of the man’s wellbeing. She delved into living this way fully, only hesitating to sparingly investigate a partner.

Whether she unearths a chunk of coal or a gold nugget, is inconsequential to her. She gives the man his ratcheting room, to make up his mind if he would mug or protect her and her interests. Rather than dawdle about, wondering which kind of person he will be, she decides which kind of person she is.

The_Whore_Cover_for_Kindle
The Whore
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451311
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/8481

http://www.amazon.com/dp/ B00TESIKS8

The African woman’s worries

black girl
(excerpts from The Whore; Chapter 9)

The priest’s wife knocked on Kengua’s spare room door with his late lunch. Her baby wasn’t on her back this time and she was a lot more relaxed. She returned his salutation with a very slight hint of a smile, balancing the flat tray holding a covered plate of food and cutleries. She left behind the tray on a reading table. Kengua had expected the Revered to look in on him with the food himself because Kengua had heard the very heated exchanges between husband and wife earlier. He feared that might have made his situation more difficult with the wife.

It would appear they fought over everything, they looked like that sort of couple. The priest appears like the type that queries even the side of the table she places his plates of food on. That incidently was the cue this time around. As an ardent lover of the tradition heavy African dishes of succulent molded solids and thickly well spiced vegetable soups, the priest treated his meals at home with such ceremonial panache. As it is traditional, he uses his bare right hand only when he ate and with the full compliments of two deep plates; one for the solid and the other for the rich soup. It is strictly forbidden for anyone to use their left hand to eat, which it is the same hand that wipes excrement. The process of eating requires him to cut an average mouthful size of the solid, dip it in the soup plate to caress some of the richly cooked assortment of ingredients onto the lump before carrying it into his open mouth in a smooth continuous flow. Hence the process usually would be more comfortable if it commences from his right side, move easily to his left and then ends up at his mouth. In this sense he prefers the plate of solids are placed on his right and the soup plate to his left. This means he wouldn’t have to go across his body when he lifts the soup garnished solid to his mouth and risk soiling his clothes in the process.

Somehow the priest’s wife tends to repeatedly mix up his left to hers, when she is facing him and this complication again causes her to confuse the side she places each plate. The priest mumbled complaint had reached Kengua clearly across the thin walls. His wife had ignored his initials angry words at first. The baby had started to cry so she had walked away to soothe the child. The baby was hardly quiet when Kengua heard the priest choke on his food. He must have gobble down the hot food while talking and then noticed she forgot to set aside some drinking water for him. Without any water to calm down the burning pain and agony of the wrongly channeled food, the Revered coughed profusely. The priest’s situation came across clearly to Kengua but his wife didn’t respond, even to the priest’s angrily calls.

The Revered father accused his wife of deliberately doing this, of plotting to kill him. She answered him with equal venom and like two rival cockerel they were soon at it.

“Do you think I am one of your silly alter boys who loaf all around you at mass?”
“What is difficult in just getting me a glass of water while I eat? Don’t you know you could kill me?” They went on like this, asking each other question after question and not answering any but asking more questions instead. They didn’t use any real abusive word, but they were always at the brink of doing so with each statement like question they spat at each other.

The priest said she was lazy and inconsiderate. She said he was snobbish and ungrateful. Given the chance, Kengua thought he would have exchanged the descriptions. So it came to him as a mild surprise that she was more pleasant when she served him his lunch. Maybe being able to vent at her intended original target had eased up the pressure on him somewhat. Instead, it was the priest who looked tensed when he peeped in to remind Kengua of their departure time.

The priest gave Kengua a Christian clergyman’s shirt and the white collar band he was to wear in disguise, as they headed out for their eight hours night long drive to the Niger border. An hour later Kengua had finished eaten, cleaned up and dressed up in his borrowed clergyman’s short-sleeve top-shirt, with the white plastic collar fitted into the flapless collar.

Kengua stepped into the sitting room to meet yet another round of argument between the couple. The priest was dressed like Kengua and the woman was heavily dressed in very thick textured textile material, which she wore in the conventional blouse and wrapper style unique to West African women. Her head-gear was of a completely different leathery fabric and she had it flamboyantly tied on her small head like a loose-fitting turban. There were assortment of shinny bangles on each of her arms and a very thick string of corral beads circled twice around her neck.

“You look like a Christmas tree,” the priest threw at her.
“Thank you.” She replied, indifferently.
“What?” He asked, not sure she had actually agreed.
“I said thank you, sir.”
“It wasn’t a complement.” The Revered giggled and looked at Kengua, hopefully checking to see if he shared the joke too. Kengua made sure he angled his face away from the lady, so she didn’t see the polite smile of agreement he offered the priest. But she sensed he had smiled and had seen the flesh around his jaw twitch as he did. She didn’t say anything but her eyes misted up with sudden rage. She made sure Kengua saw her face and heard her loud hiss of contempt. Kengua cringed from the sound and immediately thought of Laraba.

The priest wouldn’t let it rest at that, he never ever does.
“Why are these our Nigerian women always so overdressed?” He asked no one in particular.
“This is a married woman with a baby, about to go on an eight hours long drive to one of the hottest places on earth and she chooses to dress up like a circus clown on opening night.” He looked at Kengua as he spoke, then decide to addressed his wife directly next.
“With all these many bangles, trinkets and rings you are labouriously adorned with, all these different facial colourings and inches long artificial eyelashes, plastic finger and toe nails set in long curved fang like settings, all brightly painted and matching your bright clothes and wide head-tie, make you look like a masquerade. You look worse than a clown.
“Actually, you look like one of those European weird hippy sorts of old, with their thickly styled starched and braided hair, deliberately disarrayed and in four contrasting loud shades, their belted high heeled boots, leather mini-skirts and matching scanty jackets all well strapped up in some kind of personal harnesses with tens of buckles, all in shining well polished silver. Believe me you look no different right now. You are so coloured up right now in bright and dull like a cross between a badly made up Christmas tree and Santa’s reindeer pulled sledge cart.”

Kengua wasn’t quite successful in fully suppressing his laugher at that last bit about Santa Claus as he watched her pick up the baby and walk out. She walked accompanied with the varied jingling sounds of her bangles and neck beads. Kengua enjoyed the joke and secretly thought of what a hilarious clincher it would have been if the priest had started to sing out loud the words ‘Jiggle bell, jiggle bell, jiggle all the way.’

The priest’s wife’s dressing reminded Kengua of their cleaning lady back at the Lara ken Inc. offices. She is fat old lady with a reddish skin that made her look like a coloured albino, but she was just a normal black woman with a skin colouring impairment. She was overdressed most times and loved it, whatever the occasion. She didn’t care for all the jokes made of her.

With her reddish glow, she looked like an overdressed open injury, a wide bruise over an over laying multiple fold of fattened flesh. Some days the obese lady would be wrapped up in clothes that she would appear to be a wound, still bleeding like an unstitched bleeding slash set in much bandaging that has yet failed to clot and hold back the seeping flow of flesh and blood.
The_Whore_Cover_for_Kindle
The Whore
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/451311
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/8481

LOVE BIRDS

9dafb25efd03c5a1d213dcad1493145b.200x200.crop

Two birds perch on a tree;
One a he, the other a she.
Like any such human couple,
They couple into love’s trouble.

They take off into the sky,
Together dancing as they fly.
Like the early romance,
So full of sweet substance.

Returning to a common nest
Gives stability, if not rest.
Like marriage does at a stage,
With emotions and with age.

When they’re off in the sky,
In opposite singles they fly.
Like your everyday spouses;
Submerged in life’s sauces,

Then one bird perches alone,
Anyone of the birds on its own.
Like any spouse takes its turn
To wait the other’s solo run.

When the other bird is back,
With a petal tuck in its beak;
Like its partner it will find
Its affection swallows its kind.

Available at:

https://www.createspace.com/5195332

the poet in the poet

STRENGHT OF A WOMAN

Balarabe
Where is the bird that hatched this egg?
Flying above the world, up so very high.
And the monkey the farmer wouldn’t beg?
Laughing up a branch, he threatens not near.
Will they ever marry their ideas, so very big?
As always they steal, flock, eat and do share.

Flying above the world, up so very high,
The bird still returns down to hatch its egg.
Laughing away harmless threats if not near,
The monkey’s hunger for the farm will beg.
Their ideas created their world and it is clear,
That strength of the woman gave marriage a leg.

Strength of a woman

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/383812

https://www.createspace.com/5252496
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/8963

Do children offer immortality?

The rebirth forever
The rebirth forever

(excerpts from The Old woman’s maid)

If comparing the seasons with the butterfly’s famous serendipitous life stages is clever, then certainly to liken it to the life of my landlady is more appropriate. From a young age, she was the type to identify her blessings as they came and not scale them with measurements, or glut at how better off she is or isn’t or such. If she had bothered like most others around did sickeningly so often, it would have stunned her to see the scale floored on the plate of blessings gone. She had loads of reasons to complain about how life treated her, but she never did. In the neediness of her struggles she wasn’t lucky to be perched high up in the safety of height, to prey on time with that sort of impossible patience not real enough to be innocent.

She simply detached herself from all the cruel remarks and lived on. Over the years, she didn’t copy those who only humbled themselves because they were powerless. With the increase in her age, she had proven that what matters most is the destination of the being, surely and certainly burning itself out with time.

The stakes are always too high to falter and bother over inconsequential trivialities of daily living. She stuttered on the way here, but never strayed. If she couldn’t fairly satisfy people, then she most certainly cannot satisfy God, who is poised everywhere as time and patience; all in one sameness and form.
She embraced humanity like a mother does when saving her only child from drowning. Struggling along, she identified the invincible arms of inner peace from the deceptive entangling ropy sea weeds of wrongly labeled evil. She kept away from the many harbingers of this negativity and thrived into a good person.

My landlady has six children; three boys and three girls, all from her first marriage. She gave everything to her first husband but their marriage became the predicament it wasn’t meant to be. It demanded and got her best always and at the end, it was all worth it. She entrusted what little faith she had on the limitless hope she covered herself in. Her life was fair, it is hard to apportion any blame.

Her late husband was a good man, if there ever was one. It had nothing to do with him but with what he had done. He ran away into the lifeless embrace of another entity, when it was obvious that he was financially ruined and going to be socially discredited. My landlady found herself widowed still relatively young, with six children after just ten years of marriage. She struggled on after the finality of her spouse’s rude escape, her coldest season ever. It was harsh and as concrete hard as winter at the Poles. Her senses repelled this tough monster. She pegged her faith in hope and the future, in her children and the roving power of change and it paid off ultimately. With time she actually won, outlived yesterday’s difficulties and found herself poised for a successful today. Change made sure of that, but like all sweet fruit surely go stale, her bed of roses had its share of thorns.

Her children grew into an attitude that wasn’t of her own making. In a subtle manner they claimed they weren’t indebted to her or to their father’s memory. If she knew their minds as beings she had some help conceiving, if only she knew where they were then and could reach them? She wonder if a pact would have been reached with them. As it turned out, she couldn’t tell if they wanted to live, to want and wish and need. She only knew what she and her husband wanted when they conceived to have children. Like every conscious parent, they knew what they wanted and planned for it in a broad sense, if not in every detail. They had their wish and it was satisfying their personal need to have children. They got this with the birth of child after child, six times over. With every new child they appear to achieve extended immotarlity. They unconsciously kept making one relationship after another take shape like taking small baby steps on a continuous staircase of a lifelong ascension, that will most certainly end with one final fatal drop.

As parents they had thus unconsciously stepped on their individual off-springs to get to the next level of their aspirations. They fed onto an old idea and refused to nourish a healthier new one instead. They fear that when too many new ideas are being mooted out to replace the older ones in use, they are being changed merely for being old and not for being obsolete and utterly harmful and unhelpful.

As my landlady’s six children aged, each child revealed their own unique personality. Each child’s wants, all their separate wishes as well as their needs, were all made clear with time, in its slowly piling essence. These same things that the couple didn’t know about each of their six off-springs, before the children became their true selves, were clearly revealed. No one could tell their hopeful aspiration before they took form in them and were stated in their words and deeds. They are lost now as then and ever, as is the vagueness of their knowledge.

My landlady’s late husband had been incensed by the traditional logic behind being successful in the amassed might of being remembered long after he was gone. He queried people’s endless pride in the living assets children had become, she didn’t. When they argue, she averts her eyes respectfully in the traditional fashion. He considered that as rude by his enlightened European standards.

He was out of sorts in most other ways, his mental gaze followed the local crowd but he walked alone in his logic, like a harmless funny madman in a crowded market at dusk. The market people will look on amused, but still stay at a safe distance away, remaining only for the entertainment and not hurrying home.

Her children went to good schools at her expense, slaving humiliation and her selfless sacrifices. Now that they are all established, with spouses and reasonably comfortable, they all turned away from her over powering love with a diplomatic apathy that always seems to uniquely speak for younger people when it involves their much older kin. She continues to live alone with none of her children offering to her take in and savour the ever present love she yearns to drown them all in.

old woman's maid

‘The old woman’s maid’ available at the following links:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/383830

https://www.createspace.com/5277712
http://okadabooks.com/book/about/8763

Imagination

(excerpts from Strenght of the Woman; Chapter 2)
1466269_631864856870737_435557889_n

Painted People form a Frog

Imagination is the gift of an improved common mental talent, quite unlike the perceived useless dream which is uncontrollably pointless. If a choice is allowed to differentiate between the two, when analyzed individually, the distinct trait quite common to both dreams and imaginations, glares back with only one similarity; they are both activities of the mind. However that is as far as their resemblance reaches, since the ever spectacular dream is the sprinkled effortless unconscious resultant of the pressures put on the mind that are never vouchsafed.

Imagination on the other hand is the controlled reflexive expression of the active mind, resulting from the conscious response of the lucid mind to pressures applied to it. Dreams are a series of haphazard mental images played inside sleeping minds. They appear involuntarily inside the mind when it is unconscious, in a vague mixture of real and unreal personalities, items, places and incidences. The keyword of note here is Involuntary; thus it is an unconscious activity.

Imagination is summed up as the ability to visualize series of sequential mental images and ideas that have most likely never been experienced previously by the mind that composes them, in any earlier physical form. Their fullest potential have a reputation not deserved as actually earned. Imagination is the conscious creative expression of the mind. It is a revelation of its mystical resourcefulness, with which it fashions out a simple non-physical uncomplicated semblance of reality.

It samples life with continuous practice as it embarks on entertaining itself, creating varied lineaments of its desired character or simply unraveling issues confronting it. Some of the most intelligent minds around had become geniuses because they had polished and harnessed the art of imagination. Good imagination repeatedly added vital bits of information and given an unexpected heads up to deserving people. Imagination has become an art and is used to very good effect.

Strenght of a woman: Available at the following links

http://okadabooks.com/book/about/8963
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/383812

https://www.createspace.com/5252496

#BringBackOurGirls

Save our girls
(excerpts from Boko Haram: Western Values are Forbidden; Chapter 7)

This is a tribute to the over two hundred girls abducted by Boko Haram from the north eastern Nigeria a year ago. You might find the following excerpt rather unsettling, but be advised that though the deductions are based on actual facts, what you are about to read is a work of fiction. #BringBackOurGirls #ChibokGirls

“But what message do you have for the Nigerian people and the rest of the world who were hopeful that they were rid of Boko Haram?”

“This is the calm before the storm. The long dormant seed of Boko Haram has germinated and grown into a massive oak tree that can not be uprooted with mere hands of the Nigerian Armed forces. The Western world must recognize this fact.”

“Boko Haram abducted more than two hundred Nigerian school girls that have not been heard of as a whole again. Do you know what has become of them?”

“That is a very funny incident for me personally.” “Funny?” The black reporter asked in amazement. The Sheik was sweating profusely as the reporter gasped.

“Yes funny, because it wasn’t made an issue that these girls had actually been gathered together by elements in the Nigerian Western Educational system; with the approval and sponsorship of their parents and guardians. They hid them away from the Nigerian authorities so they can secretly carry out their acts of gross examination practices. This is a very common practice in Nigeria. While the Nigerian authorities claim they weren’t aware of this, Boko Haram didn’t and took the initiative to put and end to it. They took away the girls and gave them more meaningful lives to live.” The reporter had no idea his mouth had stayed open.

“Incredible! So the innocent school girls were saved by their abduction?”

“Yes and like I told you earlier, the concept of ‘Innocent Victims’ it too vague. In this case will you call these girls, their parents or their school management or educational authorities innocent victims? They were all complacent and actually exposed in the act of defrauding their very own sick Western educational system.”

“But are the girls all alive and living somewhere else presently?”

“No, many of them are not. Some got the most glorious martyr death of suicide bombers. Some escaped, some were killed by the bombing of the Nigerian Armed forces over the Boko Haram positions. Some are with their good Muslim husbands around the world, enjoying their lives as good faithful obedient Muslim wives.”

“They were sold as slave wives?” the reporter asked and the Sheik laughed.

“If you like. In your view all dowries are payments for female slaves then?” The reporter didn’t recognize the ingenuity in the first and only joke they shared.

“I also found this so called abduction of the school girls funny for another reason,” the Sheik continued. “For centuries disgruntle militant fighters have abducted massive numbers of young innocent school boys as their main source of recruits and over hundreds of years forcibly turned them into ruthless fighters who terrorized local communities with relative ease. But there has never been such a worldwide out roar or a whole scale international effort to rescue them.

“Maybe if the militants had instead been taking young school girls in such huge numbers, there would have been genuine efforts to end it all. The abduction of young boys by militants actually pose more danger than the abduction of young girls because the boys instantly get directly involved with the fighting, becoming future militants themselves. Western values has lots of misplaced priorities, some of them out-rightly illogical. I remember reading about how decades ago the Jewish inventors of suicide bombing had bombed and killed lots of Germans. This was about a decade after the holocaust. But the Germans just wouldn’t retaliate.

“”Because we are Germans and they are Jews.” That is the reason a German federal minister gave when asked why they weren’t retaliating. That is stupid! The elimination of millions of Jews in the holocaust is the single most laudable act of the Western world and it should have been continued with equal zeal and craft.”

“Don’t you feel there are consequences for all actions, especially killing men?”

“It is because we will eventually face the consequences of all our actions that every one of our action must be as Allah wills it, for we exist for His pleasure. Gladly this concept is acceptable to all Abrahamic religions, only Muslims act on it.” The reporter succumbed to the urge to say something in defense of liberality.

“Still you must admit that the common truth about your kind of people is they are predominantly Muslims. What is it about your brand of Islam that makes you think it is justified to use deadly force and kill people, to make a point? One will think there is a distinct teaching in all Islam that encourages this sort of it?”

AA-Boko Haram - Cover
Boko Haram; Western Values Are Fobidden….
Available from the links below

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/496472

http://okadabooks.com/book/about/8480

https://www.createspace.com/5145386

THE SPOUSE OF SENTIMENTS

10665933_804523602943607_8970360027335449884_n (1)
FOR FEMALE EYES ONLY

Ever wonder what men grow up learning from other men about their bodies? No beating around the bush, have you ever wondered if boys/men are taught how to managed their sentiments, when it came to women?
Don’t lie, you had and still are wondering.

Any way, let me put you out of you misery.
You think you have figured out men?
Well, you never fully can.

Why?
It is very simply, really.
Because men haven’t figured out themselves yet and are constantly fighting their sentiments.

You think that is a whole lot of rubbish, don’t you?
Then read my case below……

“Daddy smiled and coughed light,
Understanding my explained plight.
Men are lonely and they know,
Yet they conspire not to let show.

“These women are assisted all through
By their very own sex, unlike you.
Firstly by mothers or sisters, then peers.
All thrust, show or coax their shares.

“Ladies understand the bodies’ world well
As they grow so guided, you can tell.
The boy discovers on his very own.
And thus, what he finds is his fun.”

Every young boy searches on and what tiny bits he finds, picks up or scavenge along the way, he tries to enjoy and make the best of as much as he can, like a lone wild wolf out in his personal world.

So beware ladies.
Next fellow you meet, could have tamed his wild sentiments for real or not. He is at best, just keeping his urges in check.
No man is ever fully domesticated.

Good luck, eternal Spouse of Sentiments.

You owe me big time, ladies.
Gratitude accepted!

WHERE’S MY WOMAN?

Happily Wedded
Think the old fashion African man, very present today on his continent and beyond it. He is steadfast with his dreams of being the master of culture, woman, beast and land, still wrestling with his aimless hopes of always being in-charge; more so when it concerns his defiant woman’s hopes.

Her emotion are singled out, his wishes isolated, little hope for both as her hairs style speaks her preference and everyday she’s a lighter brown.

Emptiness in smiles reveal their hearts create vacancies. 

Her eyes speak her hidden fears, yet she weeps not. Her pride and knowledge rises as their old ride is almost at existence’s verge. He wants what is not given, so much that it hurts a lot. Their affection is true but their marriage is not. There is rage, they feel caged in by the ruse of their time. 

She is too modern for him. She is there beside him but he is not really standing with her, claiming as he does, to be her dedicated man.

His attitude mails nothing she sees, that shows he shares her dream to be free of his control and his peer, not his subordinate.

And he? He wonders where is she, the woman he owns by right?

With the dreams of many
Mine wrestled so bravely.
Amidst hopes so sunny,
They tussle aimlessly.

She stood aside alone
With hands akimbo.
Beckoning even a stone,
A sight commanding a bow.

Humming emotional tunes;
Singled out, isolated wishes.
All engulfed in fumes,
Little hope for securing stitches.

Her hairs say her preference;
Tailing behind as Medusa’s crown.
Her aim in her appearance
As everyday she’s a lighter brown.

The immorality in fantasies,
The emptiness in smiles
As hearts create vacancies;
Hopes dumped in closed files.

It’s bottled up inside her;
The pain of another way.
She is sincere and only prefer,
That’s all she ever will say.

In those eyes that speak
Darkness glows from hidden fears.
The wait’s companion at its peak,
Yet she wouldn’t let the tears.

From mountains of selfish pride
Falls many years of knowledge
And it’s all been only a ride
That’s almost at existence’s verge.

Wanting what’s not given
So much that it hurts a lot.
Shy but ever once beaten,
It’s in these fears we’re caught.

So short ago the smiles spoke,
Or so I thought in my indifference.
Hearts appeared immune to a poke,
Like empty bags in conference.

The affection wasn’t a mirage,
Probably the marriage was.
But the rage in this cage;
Experience defeatingly shall pass.

She isn’t standing with me,
Claiming as I do, to be the man.
Her attitude mails nothing I see,
Then where is she, the woman?

Women are made to bear, Sweet Katharina!

It has always been the Woman’s prerogative to be tolerated, I guess.

Otrazhenie

( from The Taming of the Shrew 

by William Shakespear, 1593 )

( Photo from www.russianplanet.ru )

BAPTISTA
Gentlemen, importune me no farther,
For how I firmly am resolved you know;
That is, not bestow my youngest daughter
Before I have a husband for the elder:
If either of you both love Katharina,
Because I know you well and love you well,
Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure.

GREMIO
[Aside] To cart her rather: she’s too rough for me.
There, There, Hortensio, will you any wife? …

HORTENSIO
Marry, sir, to get a husband for her sister.

GREMIO
A husband! a devil.

HORTENSIO
I say, a husband.

GREMIO
I say, a devil. Thinkest thou, Hortensio, though
her father be very rich, any man is so very a fool
to be married to hell? …

HORTENSIO
Petruchio, since we are stepp’d thus far in,
I will continue…

View original post 1,298 more words

WHAT DO YOU TELL A SON? ~ (PART 3)

The mountain top

III: Not one good deed is free

The vultures do not live on our mountain. Their nests are below in the tall trees on the mountain’s northern side. The old stories told of how the vultures had their nests on the mountain long ago, before they descended. They had to leave when they were hunted by the new human inhabitants of the mountain. We never saw their new nests because they were much lower than it would have been safe to lean over and crane out of the steep edges of the mountain to look down and see them. But we always knew they were there because we were told they were there. We co-existed and cooperated with the vultures in two major ways that circumvented our death or theirs. They clean up the flesh of our dead and we hunted them for meat and feathers.

The mountain top is fairly large with three main parts to its diverse terrain. There is the rough rocky area with huge boulders wonderfully placed on each other in the surrounding hills. Our village is sited on this area. Secondly is the trees and vegetation covered area. On this part of the mountain top is an impressive purely naturally occurring orchard with Banana, Pawpaw, Palm, Mango, Orange, Pear, Guava trees; all randomly but closely flourishing in the dark, thick, moist, rich soil on this part of the mountain. The father of our village found them all already here, high up on the mountain’s fertile loamy soil.

The soil must be as old as the mountain itself and we are very certain the mountain grew out of the ground beneath it, carrying the rich dark soil up with it. The trees must have sprout out of seeds brought up by birds of all sizes to crack and eat or simply eat but didn’t. Or yet still carried in the many birds’ dung, littered all around. The constant rains and fog watered the soil. Particularly during the rainy seasons, this area gets quite swampy because water flows downwards from the smooth rocky hills to settle there and it never drains away. Finally on the mountain top is the mainly smooth broad, flat rocky southern side.

This part rises upwards gently from the centre of the mountain, raising almost steadily outward towards the mountain’s edge and then curves sharply downwards to form the steepest and smoothest side of the mountain, all round to its whole eastern side. It is on this broad flat inclined rocky side that we fed an ageless population of vultures with the flesh of our dead, stripped off the corpses’ bones ourselves.

The bones are thrown over the steep edge of the smooth eastern side of the mountain, all the way down to the sparse shrubby vegetation of the brownish green plains beneath, with the sole aim of terrifying the people of the village below. My father is also a soft hearted man and not the type for aggression or violent behaviour. As a grown man, it also his duty to take his turn in performing the bone stripping ritual at very numerous burial vigils. He always found it difficult to sleep for days afterwards and late on some of such sleepless nights of his, I will hear him talk to my mother about the stomach retching rituals.

He spoke of how they have to use their bare hands to tear off most of the flesh from the corpses’ bones. He described how they dug their finger nails deep into the bloody moist slippery fiber texture of the dismembered dead bodies and slowly collected the body fat. This was set aside for use in stuffing tightly woven small baskets, which are used as the main water containers by the villagers. He had vividly described the gory act. I am glad I never actually saw it performed.

It was always done somewhere within the rocky hills, by the rotating bunch of assigned elderly men, while the rest of the villagers kept an all night noisy festive vigil in the village’s centre clearing. Later when the men had finished, just around visible dawn, everyone is assembled to witness the tossing over of the bones down the steep side and the spreading out of the flesh on the broad flat inclined rock for the vultures. The gathering disperses as soon as the vultures start to perch on nearby rocks. I learnt from eavesdropping on his night talks that the father of our village had designed this type of funerals.

It is so obvious that he had designed this sort of funeral with the main aim of instilling more fear into the hearts of the people residing in the village on the plains below the mountains. This type of barbaric and quite dehumanizing burial style was however naturally convenient for the entire village community that resided isolated so high up on the predominantly rocky enclave. It had its own special merits, which also suited the overall objectives of the founding father as well.

It ensures that our men are hardened and fearless, for only the strong hearted and brave person would painstakingly embark on tearing away all the flesh off the bones of the corpse of a person well known to them. The almost routine display of the heaped flesh of the dead people also attracted the mass of flocked vultures, which we hunted for their meat and feathers afterwards, when they linger around after their meals. Then finally, this sort of nauseating funeral further heightens the fear of the dreaded mountain by the people below it.

Naturally this kept them away until such a time when the grand quest of The Return is activated and actualized by the sudden secret descend of the mountain people for a final war, destined to settle all the cruelty meted out to our ancestor. We were fond of imagining and jeering at what the village people beneath the mountain thought of the bones we threw down after a funeral. We visualized them being terrified with the sheer mystery of the fresh human bones they discover repeatedly beneath the mountain every now and then.

These were bones the residents beneath the mountain would obviously know had been thrown down from their superstitiously named Sacred Mountain of the Gods. They could tell this by the telling bloody markings of the bouncing and sliding bones as they descend down the smooth steep rocky surface of the high mountain. Because they revere and worshipped the mountain, they also feared what they didn’t know about the mountain and the supposed spirits that dwell on the rocky mountain’s misty cloud covered high summit.

This partly superstitious and mostly uncertainty induced dread, ensured they distanced themselves from the mountain side and never attempt to climb it. Not a single attempt is recorded of anyone trying to climb from the inhabitants of the village beside the enormous mountain. Meanwhile, high up on the mountain the peace our village enjoyed was truly based on the fact that we are all actually related. Everyone in the village is from the same single founding father and his two stolen wives. We all considerably look alike; with hard dark hairy skins and thick black springy hair that we always shave off clean with sharpened vulture bones. Our bare scalps are well oiled with bird fat or palm oils. We all go about completely naked, always.

We remain in our compact home shelters most of the time because it is mainly cold up on the mountain, in between the brief display of the harsh low blazing sun. We huddle up together in tight groups of separate families, with the grown ups taking turns on the outside of the family huddled up clusters. These huge embraces kept us warm on cold nights. It was an effective way to keep warm. Occasionally we all stay outside our shelters, around a large fire to tell stories, sing songs and dance. Only the Eldest has the ability to make fire, it is never taught to anyone else. For this reason fires are not lit within home shelters. This had ensured trees weren’t habitually cut down to satisfy this purpose, indiscriminately. Only naturally broken down dead branches that fall off the trees, are collected for these large fires.

The usual cold gets unbearable most times and many families slept underneath extensively woven stringed-out fresh grass mats, patched up and decorated with feathers and leaves. Few privileged families, normally the family of the serving Eldest, own very old sewn monkey hides to cover up with. These were gotten long ago when the earliest residents of our village was still alive and monkeys still lived on the mountain top too. The monkeys were hunted to extinction on the mountain. It is also known that some of the monkeys bravely leaped into the tall trees beside the mountain side, to escape certain death.

I started wanting to leave the mountain right before your birth. I wanted to leave the village and its people. I wanted to find a peaceful place to live, away from the hostile people of my village, to be more comfortable amongst people that will appreciate me for what I am and my child too. I knew that the rejection I was experiencing will be extended to you soon enough and it would have stayed with us for the rest of our lives. I also was certain that The Return will be called in my life time or most certainly in yours. I was then in my early labour pains. My pains were said to be more than usual because you were an unclaimed boy, my mother had confirmed that assumption as well.

This all made me more scared of The Return. I feared I will lose you in the war. The thought occupied me and scared me greatly. I was even more terrified when the Eldest started calling out all the men and older boys for extra war practice every other night. For the very first time younger boys were allowed to take part in performing the bone stripping ritual of the Burial vigils. The Return was surely upon us and it appeared to be quite soon. The many signs were all around us, even though it wasn’t mentioned out-rightly or discussed. It was almost as if thinking and talking about it will carry our words and conversations down the mountain and alert of our planned descend.

One unusually warm night, not long after I had you, I had to come out of my family’s home shelter to empty my rumbling bowel behind a large boulder, just outside our modest abode. It was a dark night; I could not even see my own hands as I spread them out in front of my stooped and squatted frame to stabilise myself as I went about the strain of forcing those relaxing deep breaths that empty the bowel. I had fully bent my knees, taking the ideal position for emptying my bowel. When I finished excreting and was cleaning up my rear by rubbing any residue off against an edge of the boulder, I saw a bright fire lit up at the edge of the north of the mountain, just near the trees.

I silently crept to the spot, hiding myself in the shadows regardless of the darkness of the warm night. On getting there I saw a group of men slowly lowering very long ropes down the northern side of the mountain. I counted twenty ropes lowered and each of the ropes lowered had its still visible end tied to a big strong tree’s trunk. I stayed hidden, choosing to remain there until the group of men had left before I moved, for I feared they might see me. From the dark shadow cast behind a mango tree by the lit fire, the Eldest stood up as they prepared to leave the spot. He had sat there supervising the entire work. He spoke clearly to the few men with him as they gathered round the fire after they had finished lowering all the ropes.

He told them that the entire village’s war force would descend on the plains and attack the people beneath as soon as the night air gets cooler and every sleepless head down below is surely in a deep sleep at last. He assured them that the next morning would be a victorious one after the entire grown up male population of their village had successfully conquered all the people of the plains below. Then I realised with such dread that The Return was the very next morning! It was the moment we had existed for and had waited all our lives for.

The Eldest spoke with such vigorous venom that I almost did not recognise him as the gentle man that gave the best judgments, the most reasonable advises, told the funniest jokes and sweetest stories. He was actually this mean blood tasty, war crazy old man after all. Because I had tarried behind a while longer, I saw that they had left the ropes unguarded. When I returned to our damp home space, I was deep in thought and so apprehensive of the imminent doom of my family and loved ones, as I was convinced it would ghastly turn out to be. I looked at my sleeping family and felt no doubts for what I thought was the right thing to do. I picked you up from my sleeping space, as you slept peacefully and crept out silently. Holding you close to my body, in the fast cooling night air, I still kept in the shadows, as I quickly stole away from home completely unnoticed.

As I quietly hurried towards the tied ropes, I kept strictly behind the barely visible huge moon-coloured boulders that are scattered around the village, with the hope that I would remain invincible and not a dead give away mobile silhouette against visibly brighter background to any observant onlooker. When I got to the trees, I set about untying the ropes with my shaking fumbling hands. I untied eighteen of the ropes and dropped them over the mountain’s edge, all the way down; with no regard for all the hard work that was put into making them. I left the two closest ropes untouched and kept part of the last rope I had untied and used a small part of it to strap you, still sleeping, firmly on my back, before tossing the rest over the edge too.

Then I used the two ropes still tied to the trees, to slowly descend the mountain. I was scared and slow as I went over the edge in the dark; holding the ropes firmly, and climbed down with you strapped to my back. It took so long getting down but I did it with blistered palms. I got very tired as I got lower. Bruised, tired and scared, but I did it with you fast asleep strapped to my back. My actions had a selfish intension but I knew it was the right thing to do. I had since paid for it with the loss of my people’s trust. I paid for it with the fear I still experience. And I paid for it with regrets and much pain to follow.

I had since learnt that evil would be punished, no matter how long it takes and nothing is truly free. Since nothing goes for nothing; it must always be purchased and bought some how. Someone pays a price. Someone always pays something for it; tangible or not, whether knowingly or otherwise. Not even freedom is completely free. There are many kinds of currency for payment. Freedom is the absence of force and force is ever present, then freedom is non-existent. My son;

‘Not one good deed is free
Or unpunished evil to see,
Nor something for nothing;
Someone pays something.’

(1 PART TO GO)

Pictures used with the kind permission of Tracie Louise

http//:www.tracielouisephotography.wordpress.com

Email:tracie@tracielouisephotography.com

WHAT DO YOU TELL A SON? ~ (PART 2)

CLEAR SKIES

II: Expect anything in life

The stories were told of how the father of our village once came down the mountain top after so many seasons away, hidden from his own people on his long drawn out self exile. He was now a fully grown up man and actually wanted to return to his people because he was lonely. He had thought about it and came down well prepared. He took with him lots of gifts. He had with him lots of dried fruits, feathers from hunted birds and dried bird and monkey meat.

He also had large sharp monkey bones for tools and dried up monkey blood; he had grounded into powder for body paint. He had with him tree gum and monkey hide, monkey body fat for body oils and plaited ropes from freshly cut tall grasses bark. He had tied everything into one huge bundle and lowered it down the mountain side with a very long thick rope he had plaited. He tied the end of the rope to a huge tree on the mountain and used the rope to climb down the mountain.

Once down, he hid his gifts, waited till it was dark and walked in the cover of the darkness into the village of his indigenous people on the vast plains beneath the mountain. These are people of his childhood, from the village he had run away from so long ago. The stories were sketchy and it is not too clear what happened on his return back to his childhood village; though it was obvious that he was not recognized.

After being away for so many seasons and only returning when he was already a fully grown man; clearly not the same small shy boy that ran away from the village long ago. He was not recognized. His bad speech was worse and his words could not be understood. It was said that his body smelt offensively and his hair was very unkempt. His badly cut lower lip appeared wider. He must have been a very repulsive and scary sight with his face covered in uneven facial hair.

They must have been suspicious of him and his intentions. That must have been why they chased him away with stones and sticks. It is said that he was stoned, beaten and pursued out of the village. He ran for his life for the second time in his life time; for the second time from the same village, villagers and his own people. He vowed there and then, never to run again. He promised himself that for the remaining seasons of his life time, he would never run again and he never did. He was determined to be the aggressive chaser next time instead.

He spent that night beneath the mountain, beside his bundle of gifts, where he had hid it. Morning came with his final decision taken. He decided to be vengeful. He swore and vowed to have the whole people in the village pay for the way they had treated him. He swore loudly to himself that he will make sure they all die and forfeit their comfortable village for what they had done to him. It was then he made a grand plan to start his own village up on the sacred mountain.

He decided to originate and grow his own descendants, a specialized breed of the most fearless people up on the mountain, hidden away high up and covered up by his old village’s myth of the sacred mountain. In their revered fear and worship they would never climb up the mountain. He would beat drums and the village people below the mountain would say the Gods were singing. He laughed with the thought and he was so happy with the idea. He stayed in the shadows all through the next day and did not climb back up the mountain yet.

He knew that to start a village of his own, he must have a woman. So he waited until it was dark again on the second day and then he stole back into the silent village. As almost the whole villagers converged together in a small clearing, beside a huge fire, telling funny stories, he sneaked into a hut and quietly stole away with two young girls as they slept. He had discreetly tied and gagged them up before they woke up and carried them away quickly, without being seen. He left the still sleeping girls beside his bundle of gift, by the mountain side.

He had already tied up the end of the rope he had descended with to his bundle of gifts, all ready for lifting from the mountain top. Leaving the tied and gagged sleeping girls beside the mountain, he hurriedly returned back in the darkness, to sweep off and wipe clear his tracks, by walking backwards while haphazardly sweeping his foot-prints with a broken short tree branch. A coincidental very brief heavy rainfall that soon followed his quick attempt to disguise his nefarious activity, further conspired to cover up his tracks pretty well.

Then he strapped both the young girls to his back before climbing up the mountain with the rope he had descended with. It was a real mean feat, but he was a very strong young man. Though he had to rest several times on the way back up, he managed to make it all the way back up by using the strong plaited rope with such dexterity. He had managed the ascent with such animalistic skills that made his outwards appearance seem more like a monkey in human disguise.

By dawn he was already on top of the mountain and had pulled back up his bundle of gifts after him. He then set about removing the fresh leaves he had gagged the girls with but delayed untying his captives, as he forcibly fed them fresh fruits amidst their frightened cries. They had woken up as he ascended and had struggled to free themselves all the way up, but since he had tied them up and gagged their mouths well enough, he was able to make it up the mountain with much less difficulty than would have been the case if he hadn’t restrained them.

As he fed them, they still continued to struggle. But after they choked a number of times, they simply ate and drank quietly eventually. He had kept them tied up, without gagging them this time. When he was all done, he felt so drained and afterwards he slept all day long. The two girls had remained tied up for quite a while until he was satisfied they wouldn’t try something silly or stupid. He had to be sure for their own safety too. Soon the girls fully comprehended their situation and like it is usual with children, came to terms with it.

As our village on top of the mountain grew and became a populated community, it very naturally lived for this sole old revenge of our founding father. Old as the village’s existence, this revenge governed the whole existence of our village on the mountain top. We practically lived it and for it. It had conceived us, nourished us and it is us. When I was a little girl, a boy I was purely coincidently seated beside one cold Story night, asked the Eldest what the name of our village is. Without any warning, the old man picked up a large pebble and threw it with such force at the boy. It missed him and hit my fore-head. I bled from the cut of the impact of the sharp stone. I still have the cut it had made on my fore-head. It had healed to leave this straight short vertical mark on my fore-head, which has since been admired by so many as a beauty mark, and I had since pretended it is.

It has always been considered a great taboo to even make reference to a name for our village because it was considered only a temporary abode, until we conquered our real village at the foot of the mountain. Hence naming it, would insinuate otherwise. All the boys of our village are routinely trained in physical combat. The village has maintained armory, consisting of the most diverse arsenal of the crudest contraptions of dangerous weapons. The founding father of our village fashioned out a comprehensive plan that had as a key part of it, the military training of the entire male population.

Systematically, generations of boys were taught the act of war, trained as fighting men. They steadily grew into a fairly big army of strong fearless men that would be needed for that final war. Only the current serving Eldest has the generational privilege of knowing the predetermined exact number of warriors required and fixed by the grand plan of the founding father of our village. Only he will determine when it is the right time for the final war; that one impending war we all called ‘The return’. It is the war that will seek our long sought revenge. We all awaited it for it with hidden mixed feelings, even though we were all conditioned to pretend we didn’t.

The father of our village spoke badly. His ability to talk clearly had never been good. His speech was impaired by the cut on his lower lip from birth. The two wives he kidnapped had clearer speech initially, but since they were still quite young when they were forcibly taken from their family and hadn’t completely developed their speech then, they spoke loosely too and their vocabulary was quite limited as well.

The family they all started had no option but to learn a kind of speech that was a hybrid of their father’s impaired speaking and their mothers’ adolescent vocabulary. Hence their off-springs also spoke in this disjointedly impaired, undeveloped and limited manner. This eventually made the language of the entire village sound funny and with fewer words than is normal for any tribe. We had a hugely depleted vocabulary and we used sounds to mainly register feelings.

Sixteen children in all were borne by these first two kidnapped girls. Nothing is known of which of them had what number of children or amongst their children, how many wives a brother took from his own sisters in the second generation of the family that pioneered our close knit village on the mountain. It wasn’t stated if the founding father did or didn’t add to his two wives from the ranks of his daughters. It was known that no one came down or up the mountain ever again and that there were just six brothers and ten sisters in the second generation. It was the father of our village that out-lawed marrying more than a single wife, around the time of the second generation.

So we know six of those first ten sisters would have married their six brothers, leaving four unmarried sisters. But it is also known that all the ten sisters had no less than six children each. So we speculate the rest of the story. Brothers had since made wives of their sisters and it is still one woman to one man. The communal coupling rite isn’t new and it was said to have been necessitated by certain skirmishes. The unmarried free girls are still only permitted to conceive at the special combined village ceremonies and give birth to their claimed children.

My only brother is much older than me and already had a wife, so he could not shield me from the shame of the humiliating rejection I lived with. He is not the sort for such strong protective masculine actions. He is a timid emotional sort and was not the type to seek redress through any form of violence. He is the last person to rely on if such act of bravado was required. He was however the most sympathetic of my situation, though he didn’t vocalize it.

The moon lit the village well on its full days. Its gray light reflects on the rocky surroundings and casts a glow that is friendly to the eyes. It embraces the cold nights and calls out the villagers to play. To warm up the people, a dance is often called on such cold moon lit nights and a Story telling night is declared if it is a warm moon lit night.

On these Dancing nights the old and elderly clapped and sang along, as the young danced. The pregnant girls are made to join in the dancing because the older women always said a good exercise eases a child’s passage and a mother’s pains. One of the first things I realized on the next set of moon lit dancing nights, was that no one urged me to dance as usual and I was left to sit alone on my own. Then I heard the words of the new song the new free girls were singing and I knew I was not special anymore. My time of honour had passed and I had turned into a joke, a ridiculed clown for silly songs.

In the new song, they sang of a beautiful bird that once sang and danced well, but it is now all alone and will die alone. The bird is alone because all its mates had been caught and eaten up by the Gods. Only the bird was left alone because of its pride. It wasn’t chosen and it must now die of loneliness, nursing its single egg that will never hatch. The song did not worry or bother me, but seeing my father clap to the tune and the rest of my family joyfully dance and sing along to the words of the song too, was very painful. I felt like the father of our village must have felt. I comprehended his feelings and I was hurt so deeply like he must have been, those so many seasons ago.

My father had told me that the father of our village’s last living child had died only two nights before my great grandfather was born. This second generation son of our founding father was buried differently. His burial vigil was said to be the longest ever held. It had lasted two full nights. It is said that his bones were not displayed and shown to the village until the dawn of the second night. His were the only bones dropped down the steepest end of the mountain at dawn, when the whole world was well lit up and not at night like it is usually done.

We were told the gathering watched as vultures feasted on his flesh, placed on the highest peak of the highest hill on the mountain. Usually people go about their chores as the vultures descend, but his was a symbolic vigil, unique in every sense. I sort of reflected on this as my peers began to let out their babies, one after the other. My own full burden was now large; my skin fully stretched out thin at the place it was housed. The other new mothers received guests bearing gifts from all over the village as I waited for my turn to let out my child. One hot night it was my turn and it was almost easier than I thought and feared it would be. I had eased my child out with little prompting, restrained quiet screams and lots of exaggerated panting.

Then my situation dawned on me when I held you in my arms, not inside me. For days no one came to see us to wish us well, besides my family. No guests came or little gifts sent; even from friends. I knew I was wrong to expect anything in life and right to expect anything. People will only strife for their own good and can be unfair if it doesn’t concern them. Most of those we think are good, are often not worth trusting. I knew I will never trust people again. My people are my family. If I cannot trust them, then who do I trust? My son;

‘Expect anything in life,
In its all human strife.
That very fair sort
Are often so very not.’

(2 PARTS TO GO)

WHAT DO YOU TELL A SON? ~ (PART 1)

IN THE HIDDEN HILLS
I: Looks aren’t everything

In the hidden hills of my birth place, the sunrise is never actually visible. For most of the day we do not actually see the sun. We see its shining rays very early in the day, as it lights up the steep sides of the rocky mountain our village is settled on. Then much later at late noon, the sun almost suddenly appears overhead and instantly it is quite hot and very bright. The hills closely clustered on the eastern and western sides of the mountain also make it impossible to see the distant horizons from these sides of the high mountain top.

The vast expanse of the mountain top is edged out like a rough hollow bowl. On a hot day, the rocky surface of the hills’ smoldering heat burns and dries up our hunted bird meat. Only children dare out to play in the hot sunlight, at that time of day. Our days are short and the twilights long. It is almost like every one of our shaded dawns and dusks are perpetually prolonged. Just like in the morning sun rise, at dusk, the sun just falls and hides behind the hills on the western side.

The northern side of the mountain, high up and barely hidden by the clouds, is covered by all sorts of large fruit trees and dense vegetation, while the southern side is completely hard smooth rock. The southern side rises gently upwards and then sharply downwards to form the steepest side of the whole mountain sides. And because of this, long before night falls, the village is already in dark pleasant shadows.

We all literally grew up with eyes that were not very tolerant of the harsh sun light, because we stayed in the shadows most of our lives. A long time in the breezy shade of our shelters, out of the blazing sun light at mid day, was hardly the way to get used to sun light when it does appear. As such the number of generations that grew up in the village on the mountain had this blurry conditioned eyes defect.

Then early in my teens, I had the misfortune of being singled out as a result of an unfortunate happening and for more weeks than I could count, my father will not even talk to me. He simply looks away when I appear. Mother only smiles politely but said little. I felt my family’s pain. I knew it too well because I was the source of it and it consumed the whole of me. Many stories I had heard over time, had not prepared me for the kind of pain I was to experience. My sisters before me and my lone brother’s bride’s puberty ushered experiences, which they had spoken of always, had not educated me enough.

I heard it is always an anxious time to wait for the groom to make his claim of the girl’s germinated seed. For only him, it is said, will know and recognize his seed. He planted it from the rear, in-between her twin ridged mould as she sprawled on her four limbs, waiting for the pain of his dominant penetration that nature had cursed her to suffer.

Our grandmother told us long ago that the father of the village saw the gullible bearded goats mount their female from behind and they taught him this way only. It was in his early days as a Herd boy on the flat plains beneath the mountain; when he was still with his own people. She said he was mocked for his bad speech, caused by a badly cut lower lip he was born with. He was then a very lonely early teenage orphan, daily watching over his powerful uncle’s large flock.

He chose to run away when four goats drowned while he slept on his watch. Much earlier he had been starved and caned for a whole week when only one small kid had broken a limb once. Surely if he had stayed he would have been starved to death this time. So he ran up the mountain on self exile. For two days he struggled to climb up the only route he had painstakingly discovered up the huge mountain our village is now incredibly well settled on. This was the very same mountain his own people revered and worshiped for much longer than the oldest living generation on the plains could remember.

Our tradition demands that the last rain must have dried up for weeks before the oldest man in the village calls out all the free, newly readied girls to him. They stayed with him all day to listen to his teachings, until the sun goes down over the rocky western hills, for another long dusk. Then he sends them away to find a spot in the northern vegetation, to kneel and wait for the pain of penetration.

With the real onset of night fall, the oldest man permits the variously aged free boys and men to pursue the girls to their chosen kneeling spots. The race is short and it ends with each male’s return back to the oldest man afterwards, to confirm a successful penetration. For a couple of weeks afterwards, many free girls walked wrongly, with some strange discomfort that showed they were in pain for days.

Mothers make these girls sit on their bare upper legs’ rear cheeks with their knees apart and pointed up, as they position themselves closely spaced and all seated on the hot rocks at sun up. The older married men enjoy these very revealing sights but kept straight faces and never point in the seated girls’ direction, as they also appear to sun themselves in this daily solidarity pastime. Then five weeks pass by and some of these successfully ‘Penetrated’ free girls do not need to hide for a few days in their home shelters, like they had done for a few days before; each and every four weeks.

They don’t make sand seats or sit still all day long or change bloodied sand seats, because they did not bleed naturally for weeks. Soon the bare flesh above the bushy triangles around their hips’ frontal centre and beneath their firm liberally exposed breasts begins to swell. Then the very anxious wait for the groom to make a claim starts. A wait so tasking and unfair. It becomes a pastime of the girl’s whole family. All young or older free male visitors to the family’s home shelter are hopefully welcomed until their mission is stated. I found my own wait quite unfair because I knew my discreet groom was watching and keeping away deliberately, for his own malicious reason.

I started to wish I hadn’t been penetrated like many other free girls, who pretended for weeks that they had been. It wasn’t until the customary few months had passed and I was the only free girl, who was visibly successful with child, that hadn’t been claimed by her supposed responsible spouse, that my father stopped talking to me. He looked away when I came into view and my reluctantly compliant mother only smiled at me politely, like all the other women did too.

This was a totally new situation, quite unusual and it was completely unheard of in the well detailed verbal history of the listed generations of the mountain top village, as passed down. No other pregnant bride in the meticulously passed down history of our village had ever remained unclaimed, that is before me. Soon all the revered old men in the naked community were said to be holding constant secret talks about the unique situation. It was clear that my case presented them with a situation they were quite unfamiliar and uncomfortable with.

The whole nude village is peopled by one spiral large family, all descendants from that one self exiled Herd boy that climbed up the sacred mountain so long ago. He had lived alone in the natural weathered carvings and cracks in the rough rocky hills and basked in the luxuriously fertile vegetation on the mountain, for many seasons on his very own. He lived off the plentiful produce of the rich fruit trees and drank the collected very frequent rain water or the daily dew drops, just like the whole village still does now because there are no water falls, brooks, streams or rivers up on the mountain.

I became the main talking point of the village and boldly they point at me as I walked by, doing my daily chores of collecting dew drops or gathering fruits. These simple tasks didn’t give me the pleasure they used to because of the many staring eyes and pointing fingers. It hurts even more because I hardly knew what was to become of me and my yet to be seen child, still visibly buried within me. But I’m pretty; I knew this in my own deliberately arrogant immodest way.

As a young maiden I had a very dark clear skin, with little body hair. My ears were cut well, with three spaces on each earlobe for my flowers. My mother had asked the village ear-cutter to make two extra cuts on each of my ears, not just the conventional usual one on each ear. She wanted something different and she paid him well for the extra cuts. She also sought to ease his apprehension since his concerns were well founded, because it had never been done before. He had to succumb because the handsome price of two large pieces of dried vulture meat for just four extra cuts was too tempting to refuse.

I grew up being able to fit in more plant blossoms into the holes in my earlobes than every other woman in the village. Sometimes I wonder if these extra ear spaces are not the reason for my misfortune. Just maybe my mother’s hasty deed is the source of my worries. But it only served me well in my envied fame as the prettiest girl in the village. I was especially spectacular on celebrative occasions.

On dance days, story nights or burial vigils; I was always the most colourful maiden around, with lots of flowers and feathers stuffed into my broad earlobes. My clean shaven head was always well oiled with palm oil and shinning in the sun or moon light. I always stood out and everyone looked at me with admiration. I actually thought every girl was my friend and everyone in the whole village liked me.

I talked very little and enjoyed all the free boys’ attention, which I mostly learnt to ignore. I worked hard for my family and tried to be very respectful to all my elders at all times. I knew lots of erring free girls were told to be more like me and that felt good. I danced very well, like my mother had taught me. In the quiet dampness and half darkness of our home covering, my mother had taught me how to twist and turn my body, how to bend down low with my head and shoulders close to my knees and my bare rear leg-cheeks raised up to the crowd; exposing the slit in its middle divide. She taught me to shake, swing and dangle my bare breasts in time with my arms.

She taught me how to stand up-right and kick my legs up and down, not just straight and horizontal from the ground and front-like; this only showed little of my highest leg partings. It should be side ways as I bend my waist in the opposite direction, so that the crowd can see the centre of my legs well enough. She taught me to jump with my hands on my head, it always gives my breasts a very full look, frees them and hardens them so that they are more erect and vibrate well in their frontal fatty response to my irregular jumps sharp energetic vertical rapid hops. The crowd cheers each time I dance and the free boys and men watched with mouths agape, as they cross and uncross their legs repeatedly in an obvious display of masculine discomfort.

None of my teeth is bad or missing and is revealed as evenly yellow when I smile, and I smile quite a lot. My sweaty smooth skin was the best in the whole village and every one knew this. I thought I was loved and every free girl appeared to want me to be her main friend.

I made plans with different girls on how I would lead in ceremonial dances and sing special songs at these graceful occasions. My speech was clearer than most of the other villagers and I sang like the morning pretty little birds. My family was highly respected and we lived in one of the largest home shelters in the village. My looks spoke for me and my family also spoke for me with its revered status.

With that rash quest to be acknowledged I inherited from my mother, my looks also spoke for me last of all and I felt appreciated. I had a good body and I entertained sights as well as imaginations with it. I sang with a sweet clear voice and I danced flirty steps that made mourning men forget to frown at burial vigils. Yet there I remained, unwanted and left to pine with a fatherless pregnancy. My son;

‘Looks aren’t everything,
But certainly something.
For they do speak first
And last too in their haste.’

(3 PARTS TO GO)

THERE IS A THIN LINE BETWEEN PARENTING & ROLE MODELING. IT IS MIRRORED IN THE WAY CHILDREN TURN OUT OVER ALL!

RHONDA MORE THAN SCRATCHED THE SURFACE IN THIS PIECE……..
…….YAS

THE OLD WOMAN’S MAID ~ (The series: Part IV)

THIS IS THE LAST PART OF FOUR POSTS ON A VERY COMPELLING NARRATIVE!

IV

Emerald green reigns the being,
Capable being all living green.
To scavengers’ bin cometh sin,
To prey lean the unwary being.
(SIN; Yas)

The maid unfolded her wrapper once more and wiped her shiny perspiring face with the edge of the wrapper, and then she let it fall off over her right hip, letting it hang there.

“She didn’t know I knew about the money. I wanted the money. Oh how I wanted that money. No one deserved the money as much as I did. No one! The Pastor came around mostly during the day. He stayed around to talk, preach, pray and he brought her loads of books too. Often he will give her the Holy Communion feast. She joked that even the Holy Communion wine was a sort of medicine because it tasted like cough syrup. I almost never saw the Pastor but for my pay days, when I had to go over to the church to collect it.”

The maid sipped some more of the water. She looked down in the faint light and paused before replacing the cup on the ground. She now had two moist cup imprints ringed on the floor beside her stool. She ignored the fresh one, retraced the older almost dried one with the cup and carefully sets it down again.

“I knew I had to be careful. Yes, she was old and very ill. She was a dead body with some life still loitering about in it. Her body became stiffer as the months dragged. The smell grew worse. I was sure something was spoilt and rotten inside her. ‘She will die any day now,’ I told myself. But what if she got worse and is taken to the hospital and she dies there. I would have no reason to be in her house after that.”

She sat back and looked away briefly.

“I knew the Doctor still visits her and could have taken her back to his clinic anytime he considered it necessary. I wanted no one to see me when I carried the money away. Since no one knew about the money, I wanted it to remain so. I planned to go to work…her place, with a very big bag. She must be dead before I move a single note from where she hid the money. I had worked it all out and planned it carefully.”

She picked up the cup beside her and drank up all the water left in the cup. She didn’t return the cup to the ground immediately. She just held on to it, like her slow story.

“There was the Yoruba lady and the two elderly men from the Mosque to consider. I had to plan it well. I could have poisoned her but I had no idea how fast the poison will work. I didn’t want her to die while I was away. If I tried to get the money while she was alive, she could very likely see me because she rarely slept while I was there.”

With two swift simultaneous movements of both her chubby arms, she handed over the cup to the person seated closest to her and at the same time folded her wrapper back into its unusually common right-hip place, with her right hand.

“I had to plan it well. I couldn’t stab her of course; maybe strangle her, if I dared. But I will be doing everyone a favour by putting her out of her pains and misery. Her family will be put out of its shame, the church will get the house it can’t wait to get its hands on, while I was to get all that plentiful free and loose money she had stashed away. I deserved that money, no one but me. I worked it out carefully for days. It had to look very real. One early Monday morning I left her house knowing she would be dead in a day or so, and I was so right.”

She leaned forward, this time resting both her elbows and flattened fore-arms on her thighs. She seemed to roll up like she had stomach pains. She merely concentrated in talking.

“When I got to the old woman’s house early that evening, I had my largest bag with me. Her room smelt like someone had brought back the dead rat. She had eased herself on the mat, right there on the floor, where her female tenants must have placed her at her request. She had eased both her bladder and bowel all over her body, completely ignoring the bed pan beside her, in her innocence and helpless disability.

“I was glad they had moved her from the bed, where I had left her before leaving in the morning. Ordinarily I would have complained because I was certain there was a conspiracy amongst the tenants against me. I always struggled alone to put her back into bed, that was why I wasn’t keen on having her put on the mat. They all knew this but persisted. This once though, I was glad they moved her as I cleaned her up and her mess.”

She paused with a hardened expression and a brief silence noticeably passed like a reflex shiver among the small group. Then she half-yawned as she straightened up in her low seat.

“Her senility had reached an advanced stage. She was so stiff she couldn’t move her fingers to hold properly. I wasn’t sorry for what I was about to do. I refused to think of good and God. I just cleaned the floor and the whole room like always did. I gave her her meal and more out of habit than anything else; I mashed and mixed her drugs into the food. She ate all of it. ‘Your last supper,’ I said without even feeling bad about it.”

She exaggeratedly blinked, repeatedly in quick succession. It was all of a sudden as if she couldn’t wait to say it all.

“Late that evening the Yoruba lady came into the room as usual, she did her business and left. Then the old woman started to talk. She told me about her village, her mother, her brothers and all her friends…. I listened patiently without interrupting her. I was so tired. We had scrubbed the entire general hospital’s wards, where I worked mornings. The Doctors had resumed work that same day, after many months on an industrial strike action. There is no telling how many people died as a direct result of that long medical unions’ strike. We had to clean the whole hospital and I was so very tired. I soon dozed off. When I woke up, I could hear someone sweeping in the compound outside. It was morning! Oh God, I had over slept.”

She paused momentarily, not really to quickly look round at her very attentive listeners; which she still did, but to rest her mouth.

“I looked at the old woman on her high old fashioned green metal caged bed, where I had put her back with much difficulty the night before, as usual. Her eyes were shut and she had a smile on her lips. She must have been dreaming. It was too late for me to do anything then, I mused. ‘Tomorrow,’ I thought. I opened the windows and saw that it will be light soon and I must be at work on time. With the Doctors back now, we had to be at our best behaviour. You don’t play with government jobs these days because they don’t come by easily anymore”

She giggled alone at the honest fact she had just made.

“I didn’t even bother to change the clothes I had on. I left her sound asleep, grabbed my big bag and hurriedly left for work. I greeted a tenant as I walked out; it was an Igbo woman sweeping outside and I left the compound. About twenty yards or so from the house, I didn’t even cringe emotionally as I meaningfully said to the old woman in my mind, ‘Tomorrow!’”

For a short moment the sparkle left her eyes and she looked sad. Realizing this she looked away, but not quick enough to hide the fact that her disappointment was all too evident.

“I turned to look at the old woman’s house just before I turned round into the next street. I saw the two elderly men from the Mosque entering the old woman’s compound. I stopped when I realized that they hadn’t seen me. In my haste I forgot to wait for them before leaving and they will wonder where I was. I made to return, and then thought against it. I figured there was no need since they would meet the Igbo woman sweeping on their way in. ‘She will tell them I just left,’ I comforted myself and hurried away to make good time for work.”

As the skies darkened and the buzz of the mosquitoes over head began to faintly usher in their impending foray into the tropical evening outdoor gathering, the mood in the setting was wholly entrapped in that one female voice moulding it.

“The next evening I arrived with my largest bag again. There was no one about in the compound when I entered. All the tenants were in their rooms watching an international soccer match involving our over-hyped up senior national soccer team. The front door to the old woman’s rooms was locked up. My heart skipped a beat. Her door was never locked.”

She shifted in her low seat.

“I knocked on the next tenant’s door with some urgency. The Igbo woman, I left sweeping that morning when I left for work, appeared at the door. She was surprised to see me. ‘Ah! You have come?’ she exclaimed. ‘The old woman died just after you left this morning,’ she said excitedly. My heart missed another beat, this time I felt a slight pain as it metaphorically dropped.”

She shrugged the way only African women do and the latest click that is heard from her conspires to purely accidentally synchronize with the sudden joining in of the early crickets, as they brought in their louder shrill sounds into the tropical evening’s outdoor gathering’s sing-songs for all insects.

“The Igbo woman told me how the two elderly men from the Mosque came to see the old woman just after I left. I didn’t tell her I saw them. She went on to tell me how one of them stayed behind with the old woman while the other one briefly stepped outside the compound, apparently on some errant.”

More crickets legged in and complimented the music of the consciously visible lively breeze of mosquitoes floating over the heads of the gathered people. This left the people no choice but to swing their arms heaven-wards as would conductors of this impromptu tropical orchestra and choir, playing away to the discomfort of the beautiful evening’s outdoor gathering.

“The Igbo woman went on to tell me how she could hear the two of them talking. That is, the elderly man that stayed behind and the old woman. Though she didn’t hear much of the old woman’s weak voice, but she heard the man’s voice clearly. He did most of the talking. She usually would have.”

She chuckled as a short burst of hisses and claps rang round the gathering. This caused a brief lull in the insects’ noise as the tropical orchestra music is forcibly stanza-ed.

“‘Shortly,’ she went on. ‘The other man returned with fruits in a bag, much too big for that purpose. He went straight into the old woman’s rooms. He was away only briefly and I was bathing my son by the tap when he returned. He even gave my child a banana.’ She was adamant that she didn’t see them leave.”

The maid suddenly belched loudly.

“She told me how she had entered the old woman’s rooms to greet her and see if she wanted something. ‘When she didn’t answer my calls from the sitting room, I thought she was asleep so I entered her bedroom and the moment I saw her, I knew she was dead. Her eyes were closed and she had a fixed smile on her face. It looked like she was dreaming.’ She said there was a peeled banana in the old woman’s right palm as it lay lifeless beside her. My heart skipped a third beat, the pain I felt lingered as I went home a sad person that evening. This was my first night at home in months but I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t sleep.”

She looked around at the discerning looks returned at her. She grinned and a glossy white slit showed and split her mouth as her dark lips parted, revealing strong white teeth.

“The very next afternoon, after work I went to see the Pastor at his joint place of work and residence. He excitedly told me how they sent someone to him from the old woman’s house with the news of her death. He didn’t know the loudness in his voice gave away his excitement because he tried to keep a solemn expression on his face. She was buried that same day, like a true Muslim would have been; which she ironically isn’t any more.”

She smiled intelligently; or tried to, like most people try to do when they are pleased with a smart remark they just made. A silly thing we manage to keep repeating always.

“She was summarily buried with a very short grave-side service conducted by the Pastor. He told me this with such pride, as if I should be proud when he should be ashamed he was. He went ahead to thank me for a job well done and gave me two months’ full pay in advance, even though it was only a week into the new month and I had only worked a few days of it.”

She smiled again, in her refreshingly beautiful way.

“I went by the old woman’s house just last weekend. The Mosque has been completed! There is a big thick rug on the smooth ceramic tiled floor. It now has huge glass windows fitted in and four massive wooden doors, a spotlessly white ceiling, lots of ceiling fans and a very loud amplified speakers’ system. I could see all that from the street, since all the doors and windows were wide open. A tenant I met by chance told me the Church had already sold the old woman’s house! It is not yet two months after her death and that house she had been so proud of has been sold out to complete strangers.

She scoffs with contempt.

“I saw the Yoruba lady too. She said the new landlord doesn’t collect any money from her, but simply lets her do her trade undisturbed. Everyone is happy now…. I think. The Church people are happy, the Mosque people are happy, the Yoruba lady and the old woman’s folks are equally happy, the old woman is deadly happy and I am too. Yes! I am! I really am!”

No one argued, but she didn’t look happy and frowns. She laughed her short laugh with her forehead lined up with thought. It said so much for her feelings at that moment.

“You see, I had prayed and thank God for the turn in events. The guilt would have killed me. I am happy because I kept my innocence. But…! Does the old woman get her heaven?”

The late old woman’s maid sat back and shut her eyes. It is obvious that she had finished the story, but no one moved or spoke. The tropical choir continues to moan a low humming tune outside the seated people’s conscious notice, as the night quietly pulls out its dark sleeping blanket overhead.

“That is presumably the ultimately proper destination?”

In the semi-silence ignored by every personal thought in the small gathering seated round her, the old woman’s maid still spoke. Her emotion laden voice sounded as if only to itself, but still quite audible in the hushed attentiveness.

“Do any of us get this heaven?”

Who makes the most noise
And is as dirty in his poise?
Who soils his needs as toys
And spoils all his ego hoist?
(SWINE; Yas)

History itself nourished,
It might’ve thus been humbled.
In her need she’s again banished
And her steered nurses, all bundled.

Seasons are overlapped famished,
All the shaft and wheat are rumpled.
Her senile stroll is beautifully enriched
And for nothing else, her maids are long rustled.

THE END

THE OLD WOMAN’S MAID ~ (The series: Part III)

THIS IS THE THIRD PART OF FOUR POSTS ON A VERY COMPELLING NARRATIVE!

III

Let us play a game of trading places,
Pausing triggers of mud slinging tongues.
Viewing with glasses that mirror chances,
We will find all toes fit the shoes it belongs.
(SO?; Yas)

“When the old woman’s husband died suddenly, she knew exactly what to expect. Similar drama had been played around her many times before and she was knowledgeable if not experienced, prepared if not ready. She broke into his cupboard, opened the cardboard box she knew he kept his money in, took all the money he had left there and hid it somewhere else. Events soon overtook the family’s grief, as it most quickly does for the wealthy families and attention veered towards his assets.

“There was enough assets to go round his extended family twice over and no one bothered about a ‘few change’ they didn’t even know existed. There were no quarrels at all. ‘It was hardly surprising because there was enough to go round,’ she told me. No one complained. She got nothing of course; she was just a ‘wife’ and mother to ‘some’ of his nineteen children. Her husband’s brothers took over, promising to handle all his affairs until his sons were old enough to take care of things themselves. But that was the end of it. They simply kept it all.”

The old woman’s main swung an arm and accidentally knocked over the empty water cup beside her. It rolled in an uneven semi-circle, as far as its one curved arm will allow it and stopped. She picked it up lazily and placed it carefully beside her stool, right where it was before. Deliberately fitting it precisely in the same small moist ring it had earlier made on the concrete ground, where she had placed it down initially.

“She didn’t go back to her parents in the village because it was clear that she was now ‘too’ literate for that kind of life. She also didn’t like the idea of another husband. She said nothing about the offers that were made for her hand, yet it could be imagined that for the sheer pride or luck of having a late wealthy man’s wife, offers were certainly not short in coming. Also for the purpose of getting her permanently out of the inheritance picture, persuasions were surely plentiful too from her in-laws. Not to mention her own desire to fit in somehow into the traditional and religious scheme of things.

“She was then still quite young by our modern standards; considering the age in which she got married, her two-children-every-three-years average and her less than a total of seventeen years of married life. She would have been a good ‘buy’ in the scrap market of the ‘once-married.’ But she wasn’t going to have that again. She wanted her life back the way it was before. Since that is not possible again, then she would only settle for something else, according to her own terms. She started a little trade and rented a room. Her late husband had left many houses scattered all over the place, yet there she was renting a small room on a side road. Her children stayed with their uncles.”

Soon the sun can barely be seen over the top of the broken bottles lined western wall. The mild sun rays glowed through the all green pieces of broken glass, casting a halo light-green display of lined lighting on the opposite eastern wall, far behind the maid. The sight achieved more of a viewing attraction at this time of day than it achieves the anti-burglary objective the crudely enforced walls were conceived and defaced for.

“A number of years passed by and as soon as she could pass off all the money she took from her late husband’s stash as money she had made from her business, she bought her own house.”

She exhaled as she conquered a yawn and rapped two sharp knocks on the centre of her head to warn the onset of an itch.

“Her late husband’s brothers started to peddle silly tales about her. They were saying that she was now a whore. Her children were ordered to stop seeing her and they came to see her only in secret. Soon they stopped altogether. She only heard when they got married. As years added up into decades, she saw her daughters, daughter in-laws and grand-daughters when they were pregnant, then their babies. She never knew when they gave birth. It hurt her so much but there was nothing she could do about it. They tried to come to see her secretly but she wasn’t allowed to go to them, ever. Their uncles did not allow that and they had ‘poisoned’ the minds of her sons too.”

The strain of talking is usually managed with the love for ones own voice and not the point being made or the reason for it. With the old woman’s maid, it had to be something else. Maybe it is the silent encouragement? It could be the attentive eyes following her every twitch, or all those knowledgeable nods she kept getting. Maybe it is the apparent riddles snared inside another person’s misfortune in the almost reluctantly unfolding story she is telling in her own jerky wavy self-entertaining way?

“The years didn’t change anything in her situation. Still she prospered in her trade, she grew older and she started to have great grandchildren. She grew so old. Some of her great granddaughters got married! That in itself was an unusual thing. The years were not being fair though. With so many years beneath her skin, her body organs started to wear-out. She became very ill. It started quite normally though, like the onset of most fatal ailments; common headache, knees and back hurt, belly ache, that sort of thing. She was turning bad inside out”

She cleared her throat and appeared to swallow with difficulty. Her eyes fazed up momentarily then cleared up as she blinked.

“For someone her age, not being ill is very abnormal. She was alone and that in itself was an illness. Over the years she had massively changed the little building she had bought on a huge piece of land. The price was ridiculously low. Finally, she had sold off two-thirds of the land and built an impressive house on the remaining land. Later she had the old renovated building initially on the land completely demolished and further expanded the new house. A huge modern building now graced her land, instead of the original one. It is a simple styled solid structure, common in all its four sides, a very well made house.”

She choked, coughed and cleared her throat. She appeared relieved, with no trace of the brief discomfort she had earlier experienced. It almost epitomized her personal decision to tell this story, which like the cough, she had initially tried to suppress, had been choking her up. Telling this story was theoretically relieving her conscience, which is why she must.

“Her illness took a turn for the worse and some of her tenants took her to a nearby government owned hospital, but all the Doctors were on strike. So they rallied round and took her to a private clinic instead. None of her family members came to visit her during those two months she was in the clinic. But honestly, they didn’t even know. All the time she was admitted in the clinic her most frequent visitor was the Pastor, who came to visit and pray with all the patients in the clinic’s wards. They had met on her third day in the clinic, chatted for a while and the Pastor was impressed with her mind.”

The maid politely asked for more water and the cup beside her was taken away as someone left for more water for her.

“The Pastor took a special interest in the old woman, and unpredictably, in addition to his regular routine of Saturday morning visits; he came mainly to see her every Tuesday afternoon too. They talked some more and he brought along books for her to read. He prayed for her at the end of every visit; even though she kept telling him that she is a Muslim. She got slowly better and her bill slowly grew into a huge sum. Sometime after she got to know about her bill, she chose to tell the Pastor her whole story. Smart move, if you ask me. He then seized the opportunity to preach to her. An even smarter move, if you ask me. But hey, I am only telling a story here.”

She laughs in her gaily way, a shade longer this time and then she stole an impatient look in the wake of her yet to appear water, her discomfort worsened with her evident impatience.

“She told me that it was on that rain soaked Tuesday afternoon, after the Pastor had preached to her, that she made up her mind to give what was left of her life to this new faith; that is new to her. And she did, though not on the same day. But she did on the Pastor’s very next visit. The owner of the clinic, who is a member of the Pastor’s church, told her not to bother about her bill. A nurse in the clinic revealed to her later that the Pastor’s church had paid up her bill in full.”

The water arrived; she gulped down half of it and placed the cup beside her again, gracefully and without looking down.

“The old woman was so touched. These are people totally new to her, yet they are doing things for her that her own folk are not doing for her. She concluded that these people must belong to a faith that is actively true. She gave her life to their Christian faith and willed her house to the church.”

Wiping her perspiring palms on her wrapper, just over her thighs, the maid smiled into the space between her and the western wall. Her smile said something to all those who saw it follow her eyes over the wall, transfixed as it followed the fading lightening of the dusk skies, giving up its retiring Judge, who had started his daily trip abroad for just another night.

“Her family heard all this and then they started to visit her in large numbers. They came in doves like vultures to a fallen lifeless corpse. It is strange how word traveled to her family. Even her late husband’s brothers; whom she hadn’t seen since his funeral, came to see her on more than one occasion when the story got out that she was now a Christian. I came into the picture much later, but I have a strong feeling in my guts that those old men from the Mosque outside her house were the early pair of vultures that escorted her juicy story and reported every vowel and syllable of it to her people.”

She stressed her perceived ingenuity by widening her eyes.

“Her grandchildren and their spouses and their own children; some of whom she had not even heard of or seen before, all came to see her. They couldn’t change her mind. They had cut her off completely. She had been like a heavily bandaged bad arm they had neglected, and then they had amputated her with their desertion. She was alone and the Pastor, the Doctor and their fellow church members all became her family now. She was picked up in flashy expensive cars for church services and brought back home with small gifts weekly. She even got a social life again. Her family’s desertion did not hurt so much after her conversion because what relationship she had with them before was not worth weeping for. Soon afterwards the Pastor baptized her in a simple ceremony.”

She leaned forward slightly.

“The church took care of her. Soon, even some short evening prayer sessions were held in her compound. The church got her a young maid to stay with her and paid the maid handsomely too. The church also gave the old woman a monthly allowance. They actually gave her money! Can you imagine that? She is by far, so much richer than eighty-nine percent of the church’s members, who gave money regularly to their church for nothing back in return. Still the church paid only her bills.”

She cleared her throat thunderously and made a face.

“She became ill again. She was so ill this time that the Doctor said there was not much he could do for her. She was just too old and getting older. She was returned home from a second sojourn in the private clinic. The young maid left while she was in the clinic, so I came into the picture when a member of the Pastor’s congregation told me about the job. No one who was approached wanted the job. I already had a morning job at the government general hospital. But when it was agreed that I can manage both jobs and I will cost them much less because I will not be working full time, I started.

“It was established that the old woman is always cared for by her married female tenants during the day and as such, I was to stay with her from the late evenings till dawn. Since in the mornings and afternoon she was cared for; when the women weren’t too caught up in their other daily chores, I naturally assumed that I would just have little to do for her while I was there. Little did I know that I couldn’t have been more wrong in my assessment of the work laid down ahead for me. To think that the old dying lizard had so much money hidden away all this while, was such a rude revelation. No one knew but me, I am certain of this! But that is not why I thought of killing her.”

THE OLD WOMAN’S MAID ~ (The series: Part II)

THIS IS THE SECOND PART OF FOUR POSTS ON A VERY COMPELLING NARRATIVE!

II

Master though you be,
Lord over life as it’s set.
Moments looms for we;
Conquered mortals, you we net.
(ECLIPSE; Yas)

“I got married the same year as her last child, going by what she told me. Mind you, I wasn’t a teenager when I got married. But from both our calculations of the years involved, we worked out that her last daughter is just twelve years older than my first son; that is her last child. She didn’t say how many children her last daughter has though. I tried to work it out this way on my own. I thought that with the kind of early start she must have had, she should be well beyond my five by now. And mind you, she is still going on strong, full strength! One thing is very clear though, the old woman is quite fond of her last child.”

She smiled at her listeners in her most pleasant manner, some of them smiled back at her genuinely. Some looked on hard faced, while others looked away politely. She didn’t show she noticed their countenances or mind in the least, as she turned away and blinked at the slowly setting sun, sneaking down behind the ‘horizoned’ western wall. The weaken sun rays it casts looked brighter from within the shadowed shaded surroundings of the fenced buildings. The small tree’s shade she was seated beneath had crept on eastwards, just behind her, unnoticed. She sat in the glow of the late twilight sunlight like the witness she is, shielding in the lonely guilt of the shade while facing the all knowing celestial Judge, seated on its all seeing pedestal, the unsmiling, unblinking and uncompromising everlasting high presence; a true master of the universe, setting in our east.

“Would you believe that despite her poor state of health, the old woman knew how much money she had, to the very last coin? And don’t you go thinking that it was some small amount. It was plenty, so much money. Not kept in some bank somewhere. No! Banks were not for her. She never had any dealings with banks. The money she hid was plenty. I knew where she kept it. She knew every coin and note by heart. She clearly thought I had no idea where she hid her money. She went through a lot of trouble to secretly ‘fondle’ some of it, when she thought I wasn’t looking, and then quietly hid it all again. But I knew. I had never seen so much money in my entire life. She also knew who owed her what and when exactly she should be paid.”

Another fine smile graced her face nicely.

“The old woman told me her sixth child came to see her once, not too long ago. She said that daughter of hers told her if her husband knew she came, he would divorce her and send her packing. When you are the current fourth wife of a man that has sent away three other wives before you, you know he doesn’t need much prompting or excuse to send you packing too. But can you believe that? Your child, who you carried and bore in and out of you for many selfless eventful years, cannot come to see you because of a stranger she married?”

The maid hissed surprisingly loudly and shook her head from side to side as she protrudes her plump lips in apparent awe.

“Her husband was a good looking man. His pictures were all over the place. She even had one of his framed large pictures placed on a cushioned armchair. I had silently crept in on her talking to that large picture a number of times. She spoke to it as if it heard her and was capable of talking back to her.”

She coughed once, with her full mouth open and uncovered.

“It is so strange what pictures can tell you or confirm. Her husband loved life; that much was clear. He was always dressed in very fashionable attire in every picture and the pictures were always taken in the most breath-taking scenery. Her husband’s pictures spoke volumes. The pictures she took had lots of family members and friends in them; and some few foes too, you would imagine. There were pictures of all her children too; she affectionately pointed them out to me.

“Most of her pictures were quite old-fashioned and funny-like; going by our current modernly coloured tastes. Posers all had their hands crossed at their wrists and she proudly introduced them all. ‘They are all alive and somewhere, some place,’ she said of some people in a picture one day. ‘They will not come to me.’ She said it painfully even though she smiled. I knew it hurt her so much. I saw her sacrifice, recognized her pain and honestly, I really do respect her for them.”

She smiled and swallowed visibly. What was left of the kola nut went down her throat with that gross action. A quick lick of her wide mouth, accompanying the hiding and revealing of her lips, only served to make her listeners more anxious.

“There was no way; definitely, no way I could possibly carry her to the toilet by myself. It was just not possible because of her large size. It was all I could do to carry her off and on her big and average waist-high metal cage-like framed bed. She was a big woman. I was alone with her every night and it is a task quite beyond my considerable physical capabilities”

She asked for some water and someone left for some.

“She was a pretty woman in her early married years. The pictures said so abundantly. Hers was a very big and happy family. She said so proudly. Her husband had worked at the railways. He was the fellow in-charge of what goods the trains carried; what was weighed, billed and paid. And you know, in those days everything traveled by rail. He made a lot of money from either over-weighing or under-weighing goods, as well as from over-billing and under-billing the customers. It is one of those jobs were the system is at the complete mercy of the worker’s sense of proper values and the customers deliberate ignorance, usually expressed in both relief and astonishment.

“Her husband made lots of money from his dubious dealings, lots of money for himself and his bosses who ensured he stayed at the same lucrative job for much longer than it was ethically right, because it was convenient. He had many houses built and bought for him. He and his family lacked nothing. He wanted everyone to be provided for, long after his death. She told me all these. She said it slowly and took her time in saying it, but it all came out clearly and surely.

“In front of the old woman’s house is a mosque. It wasn’t much of a building. It had no loud amplified speakers or rugs or ceiling fans (or ceiling) or window and door frames. The building was simply cement bricks erected walls with the usually edged out spaces left to fit in the doors and windows. The building had reused zinc roof sheets neatly fitted over it. And for a floor, it had only loose building sand on the ground inside. It was far from finished, though it was in full use.”

She licked her lips and swallowed, betraying that she missed the sensation of the kola nut. The water arrived and she paused to noisily drink quickly. She cleared her throat after emptying the cup. It looked like she had just started the story.

“Every morning, after the first Muslim prayer, two elderly men came to greet the old woman (if she was awake) and then left for their respective places of work. They were not important to me, but they were to my work. I got to know later on, that one of the elderly men was the muezzin who called for prayers, and the other led the worshipers in prayers at the mosque. Also in front of the old woman’s house is a young Yoruba lady who fried beans cakes and yams in the evenings.

“This lady pays the old woman a certain amount of money as a daily rent for using the front of her building for her small business. Since the lady leaves for home late every day, she brings the money quite late at night. She had to pay up after each day’s sales because the old woman will have it no other way. The old woman is always awake to collect the daily payments, no matter how late. It is a daily event we both looked forward to for our own different reasons each.”

The maid is quiet for only a while.

“The Yoruba lady was also not important to me either, but she was to my work. She and the two elderly men from the mosque saw me everyday, so I had witnesses to account for my being present at work always. I am sure the Pastor asks them. He had warned me not to stay away from work. He said when he finds out I stayed away, he would not pay me for being absent. So I made certain the Yoruba lady saw me every night when I arrived and the two elderly men saw me before I leave the next morning, everyday. It was a daily routine I was to personally follow through, religiously. I felt a time will come when I will need somebody else besides the old woman to prove I was present for work. With her vindictive nature, there is no telling what she is capable of saying or doing for extra attention.”

A baby starts to wail in the next house. The maid looks in the general direction of the next house; slightly left of the fast setting sun. She shook her head with contempt and quickly picked out the few other mothers amongst her listeners with her eyes. They incredibly join her in meaningfully piercing through the view obstructing wall with their eyes, in what appears like a cultish attempt at soothing the poor wailing baby’s troubles and/or its erring mother’s desperation too, or whatever way they choose to understand it at that moment.

They all showed clear contempt, in complete irony to the vagueness of the situation. It is always a ‘mothers only’ thing it seems. No one else comprehends it fully because it is a ‘mothers’ only’ concord. Only they comprehend it; that is every other mother at that point but that single mother of the crying child who is presently marooned in the lonely embrace of motherhood’s daily dilemma; the mother’s instant comfort or her child’s? It’s a ‘mothers only’ thing, only they venture.

“She was born a Muslim, she is so quick to remind all and sundry. At least she never lost an opportunity to remind me, repeatedly. You wonder, why the pride still! I understood this better when she once pointed out, with the words; ‘I have been there and I know what it is like to be an Unbeliever.’ I saw her point. Her father, mother, uncles, aunts, cousins, brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, in-laws, husband, children, village and clan were, are and will always be Muslims.

“Everybody she had anything to do with was a Muslim. She only had something to do with non-Muslims when it became unavoidable. Like a Doctor here, a nurse there or a taxi driver here and fellow bus passengers she must tolerate on a bus ride. These were the only contacts she had with non-Muslims and they were as far between as they were unavoidable.”

The baby’s sobs became silent as the maid stretched out her fleshy legs to its straight full length in front of her and crossed them at the ankles. With her wrapper now pulled up, just above her revealed knees and the hollow indentation at the back of her fleshy knees filled out, it is much more clear how close to the ground she is seated and how low the traditional round wooden stool she is sitting on is. It didn’t look like a comfortable way to sit from the bodily posture, but it is.

“When her first son started formal school; to learn European-styled education, he returned home very excited daily and she easily make him repeat all he had learnt in school. It was her husband’s idea and it worked like clockwork. She followed it through with unwavering discipline and focused dedication. Before long she could write her name and say all the alphabets. By the time her last son was old enough for school, she taught him his alphabets, and to read and write elementarily.

“None of her daughters went to school, but no one heard the last of their intelligent mother who could read and write. And it turned out to be a very good thing she could too, because it became her only real source of joy and entertainment in her old age. With her still very strong eyes, clear as good boiled water, she reads and reads. Fortunately for her, she never lacked things to read; the Pastor made very sure of that.”

The impatience of her listeners was beginning to appear on their faces. Their body language was not as truthful because while their limbs aimlessly wandered in a reflection of their real lack of rapt attention, their heads routinely nodded the falsehood in their deceptive minds. The maid was indifferent to all this as she told her story still. Momentarily she paused to scratch her left forearm; it was a very simple act she made look flawlessly graceful and pleasant, like her cheery smiles.

THE OLD WOMAN’S MAID ~ (The series: Part I)

THIS IS THE FIRST PART OF FOUR POSTS ON A VERY COMPELLING NARRATIVE!

SHE INSPIRED THIS COMPARISON!

To the memory of a lady from Bauchi,
Who I most certainly here will never meet.
In the peace and sanctuary of only He,
May we dwell as conquerors of this feat.

THIS IS NOT HER STORY!

To the memory of this oldest woman,
Who I most certainly here will never have.
In the pieces and mortuary of her son man
May the duel they conjure pray behave.

THIS CAN ONLY BE HER STORY

I

Is to live a curse or gift?
If you wonder, you need a lift;
Up to the skies of living memory,
Back and forth man’s own glory.
(MANNA; Yas)

She must have come on a visit. Though not the ‘all-talking’ type, she did all the talking. This story can only be told by her.

“She made her way; her own, very own way through life. No one helped. She wasn’t alone, but no one helped. She had to start quite late in life too, but she did it all on her own.”

The maid coughed softly. She reached to her right hip and unfolded her wrapper. She untied a knot at the wrapper’s edge with both hands and got out a piece of kola nut which she offered round. No one wanted some. She threw the whole piece of kola into her mouth and started to chew it noisily.

“Everyday I look at her and I say to myself, ‘God, is this what we struggle all our lives to be, alive; only alive?’ I look at her and she looks back at me. Again I ask myself, ‘Where is the fun in living?’ You are born to want to live, to live and live. Is that it? The answer was in the depth of her mind’s inner recesses somewhere, out of sight, but I wasn’t looking for it.”

Somewhere in the street outside, in the breezeless thick humid dusk air, a hawker calls out loudly the names of her wares, as she quite noisily solicits patronage from those she disturbs. The maid is silent. Only the soft sound of her chewing reaches her listeners for a short while. The kola in her mouth is slowly being broken down into small pieces.

“She might have been eighty, ninety, hundred or more. I did not know which was closest nor had I any way of telling. She was so old she seemed to need help to cough or even whisper. But the Lord has mercy for the things that came out of her mouth! The things that old woman will say, you never would have thought it possible of a ‘Believer’. The curses! God! She could call anything or anyone with names off a list as long as my arms, both! And she still manages not to repeat a single name again for ages, like only the aged could. Ha!”

She shrugged like only African women do, pulled back her lips and a deliberate click is heard somewhere in the borders of her mouth and throat. With a sinister grin and an unforced hard stare she very carefully shook her head. She paused in her chewing and it looked like she winked with both her eyes. Then she slowly closed them for a short while, firmly. And quite suddenly, she swiftly opened them again, focused.

“I think it is because she grew up with the Hausas. You know how free with curses and mockery they can be. She must have gotten this vast abusive vocabulary from them. That is the only reason possible. That notwithstanding, she became a Believer! Well, anyhow you do not expect a life time long habitual way of talking to change abruptly, do you?”

The maid was silent, as if waiting for the solicited answer she had insinuated she didn’t want. The listeners looked on, obviously waiting for her to fill the silence with some more words or action, but she made none for that brief while. The so many ways people fill up those uncomfortable periods of brief silence reveals, more than it is often acknowledged, the hypocrisy in their act of honest conversation; which is most often just the two sided polite hearing of the others’ boastful revelations of privileged experiences already known and felt.

“The Pastor promised to look her up all the time. ‘The Pastor promised to see me a lot!’ The old woman would complain always. The way she said it always, it was obvious that the holy man didn’t show up as often as ‘a lot’ interprets itself to her. The man was visiting her almost thrice weekly! I know how large his ‘flock’ is. And at the rate of thrice weekly visits to every family; even for a few minutes a visit, no sleeping or office work and ignoring travel time; it is impossible! The old woman was getting special treatment and she knew it. She not only knew it but demanded it with her continuous bickering. Like the desert traveler gulping more than the helpful bowl of water, I knew the Pastor’s patience will soon start to hurt.”

She grabbed the edge of her wrapper, where the kola nut had been, and suddenly folded it back into place on her right hip. She made an unpleasant face and that click is heard again, faintly above the fading voices of a passing group of people just outside the wall. Their conversing voices just audible enough to hum out words not loud enough to render the said words comprehendible, as the sound came over the wall.

“The smell was sickening. She smelt like…I don’t know. Her body just smelt badly. The rooms always smelt like someone just threw out a rat that had been dead in the room for weeks. You could never get use to the smell. You may think coming and going, in and out of the smell will help, well maybe staying in it all the time like she did might help. I doubt if it did. The smell hovered over the densely furnished rooms like an invincible ceiling and depending on the humidity, it changes its intense offensiveness incredibly so regularly.”

She untied her slacken head tie and firmly retied it again.

“I really didn’t like the job that much, but the pay wasn’t too bad. I did very well with the extra money I got. Little as it was, it helped. Everybody would do well with extra money these days, things are so hard. Kai! Things are so hard.”

She widened her eyes and looked hard at her listeners, craning and stretching her long neck almost painfully. For only a brief while, it looked like a habitual facial expression.

“My youngest; Markus, just got into secondary school and I have to give him money for transportation everyday. I am planning to buy him a bicycle. It will make things easier.”

She was quiet again, her forehead lined with thought, like she was wondering where the money for the bicycle would come from. She moist her lips with her tongue and noisily cleared her throat, all the while she continued to chew. The kola nut in her mouth had slowly tuned into a saliva soaked mash, leaving dark brown stains on her lighter coloured full plumb lips, which she almost ceaselessly protrudes habitually.

“She said she has four sons and six daughters, all living married and doing very well. Her husband had been dead for a very long time now. She was his only wife but he had many mistresses. There were nineteen children in their house then; ten of them were hers with him and the remaining nine were his, with the other women. They all lived together in the big house her husband had built, but she showed no difference. She looked after all the children like they were all hers. I figured, they were all his anyway and she hadn’t a choice. That is why he had them all in his home anyway. Her hands were twisted all along and there was only pain in her gain.”

She shrugged and moved in her seat, protruding those lips.

“She hated taking her drugs. She promised to give me money if I don’t make her take them. I protested only briefly; and falsely, and then I told her I agreed. Then I collected the miserly money she offered me and I still secretly mashed and mixed her so many colourful drugs into whatever food I fed her. I would not lie that I didn’t want the money, meager as it was. Everybody would do well with extra money these days, things are hard. Kai! Things are so hard. But honestly, it was only fair to her I reasoned. If I didn’t take the money and promised not to make her take the drugs, she wouldn’t believe me or trust me. I will accept that my only sin is not telling the Pastor about this. But he would have made me return the money, which would have made things harder for me. I mean, I gave her the drugs, not him. Then he would have probably insisted I give the money to his church as an offering, since it was ill-gotten money. I would have refused still. So I kept it quiet.”

She choked and coughed but continued to chew softly.

“She lost all sense of most things; touch, taste and smell, definitely. But she still had complete cognizance of her money, her hate and her God. She could curse and pray in one short sentence. It is a first for me. I don’t know about you, but it is new to me. She is the only person I know that can do that and she did it in a way that almost normalizes it, making it appear proper and not the blasphemy it really is.”

She laughed. It was a good laugh; short, just the necessary length. Her listeners join her, politely. The unheralded burst of all kinds of sounds, which mostly should pass for wailing, encouraged her. She went on before the noise settled down.

“The old woman’s house is very big. I grew up in a village, but even now in the pigs ‘infested’ part of town I live in with my family, there are no bigger compounds. Her house has as many as fifty doubled rooms, with tenants in all of them. She occupied four rooms with connecting doors, a toilet and a kitchen. I slept in the room that served as a sitting room. That is not to say that I slept much while I was there with her.”

The maid cleaned the dark moist stains on the corners of her mouth with her right hand’s thumb and fore-finger, in one swift elegant move. Then the annoying protruding lips again.

“She always wants something. Sometimes I wonder if she doesn’t spend her days sleeping so that she could be awake all night to torment my nights. But I suppose, it was what I was paid for and she was just putting me to work, typical.”

She looks away with an insinuated disgust her expression hid.

“I have wondered for very long what I will find myself doing more of when I’m really old. They say with the insane, it is always those things one thought of the most when still sane. But what of the really old, they are still sane and mentally alert to know what they would prefer to do. Being mainly unable to physically do most of what they would rather do, what options are open to them? It’s like being in prison. I think it is worse. It is worse than insanity too, because the old have complete knowledge of everything and everyone. It is worse than being in prison too, because in jail your body still has its physical abilities. It is like being physically disabled. It is.”

She smiled. It was a good smile too. She didn’t look middle-aged when she smiled. Her smile lies about her age.

Where’s My Woman?

WHERE’S MY WOMAN? ~

Somewhere at the crossroads of my earliest days I did finally recognize her for what she truly is. Present as she ever was before me. There to hear, smell, see, touch, have and eat. She is always there for me and all my flaws and failures, so glaring as they always are. She held me in her hospitable embrace, like I am the most amazing event in her entire long existence.

I woke up in the cradle of her shoulder, not yet sober from the intoxication of my ever innocent naivety of habitual ignorance. The little rift she positioned me in, suited me like another skin. The early dew still misty and the fog damp in the moist odour of green life. Its rich texture so soothing to my touch and the prickly feel of her short skin hair is real and alive; the enduring pasture of my childhood and harbinger of my ever lingering livelihood. The palm trees in her oasis sustain my existence.

She never gave me more when I wanted. I just took and God damn her. She hits me and I cried, yet I had what I wanted in my own way and time, as she most generously still allows. There was only my way and no other. She ironically made very sure of that, with an active laxity. Her reactionary ease belittles her concise dominion but lightens and lively up my lustful slavery, presumably heralding my ever bolder errors.

I guessed and heard that like the promise to give life a loan and a meaning for it, I had announced my existence like a tolling bell made to recede back into the abyss and reconcile with the evil I speculate with. But I was never certain how I came to be hers and never easily persuaded why I am not of another. Perfect it may be to my ego and schemes it seems. Maybe I was just a reject she took in, accepted and accommodated; it is in her character, this I haven’t an iota of doubt about.

Clutching her broad navel as I look up from her low invincible bio-embrace, I beheld the ravishing rugged beauty of her peaked nipples of ice-capped pillars, as they are crested high up like a pair of very old twin mountains. They dripped their white clear, sweet life raring milk and it flows eternally downwards into my watered rivers, to quench all my life trended thirsts; every single one of them. Those I already had and many I just may have selfishly acquired in my coy nature.

As her nature sifted my kind on her vast expanse, that I may abound more, even in the nothingness of natural silence that has hidden all other more deserving sounds elsewhere, ignoring their righteous demands for attention. In between the twin mountains’ valley is my favoured nestling place; the cleavage of my adolescence, where I perch day long as she went about her chores, catering for me. I moan as she twists a tit into my mouth.

I chew at the upside-down ice cream cone, at the creamy cold nourishment from the mountain, for the fun of it. When I get tired of it or even before I do, I gaze up into her face. Her face is a contraption of concentration at work, ever brewing a storm. Then it is a pale, clear and accommodating expanse as she listens. Her adorable actively pleasant face keeps my attention with playful winks and clicks. It is a floating woolly cloud, in various smoke-like miens. It is always saying its mood with every day and night, season and reason.

She is always there when I look up. Ever present when I look and where I remember she will ever be. Beyond her chin, horizoned with its rough edge like many a masculine chin’s clef, is her face and sky. It is that simple identity of hers I have come to take for granted. It is always either side of my mobile head and her horizons; as in opposites not parallels and I grasp that I am all alone. Right in the middle of her, time and this huge sky;

Soul of this globe,
Never will it elope.
Its thought its own,
Roaming in its fun.

Pale or dark as ever,
Woolly chilly shiver.
Diamonded precious
So actively conscious.

Wrapped loose cloth,
Securing the whole lot.
Plenty does here rest
As willed by our best.

She wakes up one night alone, by herself. I was gone and all grown up but still pestering her life. I wasn’t her ally, but an alien she nurtured and fed to her detriment. The oneness we had was gone as we shared her body and my shit. Devouring her best, dumping its fair residue to waste like toxic creations spoilt by her best attributes. But now I just keep my body and her, she gets my shit. I took her best and left with nothing to show for it but my misery, as I rot away with sure and certain age;

Living is thwarted,
Obscured by its folly.
The mind is hunted,
Impossible even if jolly.

When a bird sings,
It is because it must.
What age brings
Speaks for us most.

Like many, not all but most, we had that parental only pact; to need to breed to feed, rubbed into our psyche not our physique. It is drilled in with words that say so much more because they are twisted to do such. We made up words for our own use and we have ended up using them to render ourselves their slaves.

Words are like the moods the moon stimulates and the feelings that they will always show as soon as they are said. Whether as off-springs of a carefree oath or not, words are stuff filled with only doubt even when they appear to know what they are about. They will smartly set aside the feelings that originate them with such class, and pursue their own. We will always forget words, for they are said wet with much anticipated hope. The fact that they follow through an idea and still back up to dry it up again, speaks for their reliability.

How words dry up a dream is relative to their personalized medium, for time on its own would dry up the anticipated hope and take away the brightness out of the promised day of goodness, and again night would linger on, forgotten. It is true that words are lost in mazes of truths. This is because words are actually made from and like the maze structured brain that creates and uses them; that cratered, ridged, influential moon.

The substance of my existence is embedded somewhere in her. I see its influence in her every act, for it is not in mine. Her essence is such that I never fully comprehend it and I cringe from my sheer nothingness. The waning oscillating ripples in the clear pond of reality, leaves the soiling pebbles humanity keeps throwing into it, still beneath the rich water of its consciousness, clearly depicting how man’s loud pitiful aggression doesn’t survive his certainly limited presence.

I see the dew steal in at dawn, in tears. The morning twilights like it did billions of days before I was told it crept in every other mourning morning, ever since still. Today appears to be weeping for yesterday’s sorrow, burying yesterday in tears from the clouds that woke up today crying. A cool morning breeze softly speaks the calm and tranquil wonder in death and birth of new days, saying things like we all already knew. It brings peace to the dawn’s thoughts as early mischief and its numerous advocates, schemes into our daily Eden.

When wickedness tries yet again to reimburse cruelty with pity and the need to retreat to perceived safety is not its usual first option, we struggle over trivial issues we never accomplish. Soft warm sun rays declare hope is about again after only a single short night-while. The sun and its light that came first are only but a mere piece in a repertoire of realms so broad, and we a piece of it. She is only another ounce of an interconnected structure, of which I am another. If I fail, ignore or neglect her, the centre cannot hold me, for all things will fall apart. All is held together now because everything is one big Aeon of dew.

Crept in mourning morning
Crying away thy sorrow.
Skies’ spittle woke sobbing,
Burying the last morrow.

Whispers roam on a wind
Saying words all heard,
Soothe the first twilight’s mind
As early snakes grow a beard.

Tender heavenly rays announce
Judge’s back from a night abroad.
This first creation another ounce
In a repertoire of realms so broad.

All these scattered crossroads point me to one incontestable fact, like they have always done over every single triviality in my stereotyped, uninterestingly safe life that I incessantly rebel against with the rapt success of a restless peripatetic brute. It is a fact I can’t hide or alter to suit my self punishing ego and its detrimental quests. I held the truth in my hands for long. The truth is; my story is the woman’s and it can only be one story, for we are married together for an Aeon of Dew.

But in the affiliations my might had suffered me with, I see that in the hustle and bustle that I can not denounce like I relish to, I am a slave of my own perversion. I am a slave that lives like a master. Slavery is my addiction as any addiction is its slavery. I flatter myself with achievements of general concerns, recalling the minutest details of insignificant hurting sensations, remembering lukewarm salty tears and the joyous throaty giggle of laughter, when things that are larger than life arrest me still. So there is this little issue about the wife she married me to;

With the dreams of many
Mine wrestled so bravely.
Amidst hopes so sunny,
They tussle aimlessly.

She stood aside alone
With hands akimbo.
Beckoning even a stone,
A sight commanding a bow.

Humming emotional tunes;
Singled out, isolated wishes.
All engulfed in fumes,
Little hope for securing stitches.

Her hairs say her preference;
Tailing behind as Medusa’s crown.
Her aim in her appearance
As everyday she’s a lighter brown.

The immorality in fantasies,
The emptiness in smiles
As hearts create vacancies;
Hopes dumped in closed files.

It’s bottled up inside her;
The pain of another way.
She is sincere and only prefer,
That’s all she ever will say.

In those eyes that speak
Darkness glows from hidden fears.
The wait’s companion at its peak,
Yet she wouldn’t let the tears.

From mountains of selfish pride
Falls many years of knowledge
And it’s all been only a ride
That’s almost at existence’s verge.

Wanting what’s not given
So much that it hurts a lot.
Shy but ever once beaten,
It’s in these fears we’re caught.

So short ago the smiles spoke,
Or so I thought in my indifference.
Hearts appeared immune to a poke,
Like empty bags in conference.

The affection wasn’t a mirage,
Probably the marriage was.
But the rage in this cage;
Experience defeatingly shall pass.

She isn’t standing with me,
Claiming as I do, to be the man.
Her attitude mails nothing I see,
Then where is she, the woman?