Apata to Dugbe: Of Misfortune and Fortune by Bamidele Seth

I boarded a bus from Apata to Dugbe, dropping my box in its boot. While doing that, a similar box which insignificantly differed in size from mine caught my attention. I had premonitions, but I discarded them, taking the tattered seat in front like royalty.

   

Along the way, a fellow passenger alerted the driver he would alight at the next bus stop, making it known he had luggage in the boot. On alighting, the bus conductor hastily opened the boot and ignorantly gave my box to the man who innocently took it. He immediately flagged down a taxi cruising towards Ojoo/UI.  My instincts drove cold through my spines propelling me to look back to confirm from the conductor if my box was still 'rightly safe' in the boot. He replied assertively in Yoruba. With the intonation of the Ibadan man which his long bold tribal marks also depicted him to be, he said, "Busi yin wa nbe, emi ni mo sa gbee be" meaning the box was safe. Unknown to him, he had made a costly mistake. I turned to sit well, trying to trust the credibility of the conductor while anxiety kept smiling at me mockingly. On getting to my destination, I hopped off the bus, took a stride towards the back of the bus to get my box which the bus conductor already offloaded before I could reach the rear. Dropping the hat, before I could grab it to ascertain its ownership, the bus had zoomed off.

Toluwalase by Olayinka Abimbola Egbokhare

Five out of nine months

You lived out your fear

A little prayer

A lot more worry

Then the first locking of our eyes...

You checked briskly

Ten fingers and toes, one nose...

Ahh, your loud muted sigh

Then you saw the funny shaped finger.

But you loved still

Loved till your heart almost burst

Loved, ignoring the reports of the sour faced clan in white coats

You shut off the tearlets

Then Baba came

Eyes bloodshot but not from wine

My Baba, the Baba of the other two musketeers who just found a new love

And he pronounced my name

No need to wait for eight days "Toluwalase",

Let God have the final say...

Special Feature: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson, Author of 'I SAID THESE WORDS' and Founder of WRR

SHE IS NOT PERFECT

She is not perfect
But her eyes stole the colours of rainbow
They light up my skies on happy days
Parabolic beauty beyond compare

She is not perfect
But the melody of her voice
Calms the taut nerves of my heart
And sings my soul to sleep 

She is not perfect
But her lips are softer than butter
And firm is the roundness
Of the swells on her chest 

She is not perfect
So when I frown my face
As she walks by, do not smile
She'll soon be in my arms 

She is not perfect
But our hearts are one
The osmosis of love
Made it so 

WORDS ARE LIKE CLAY by Professor Francis Egbokhare

If you are a linguist like I am, chances are that you have come to appreciate the value of words. Politicians with savvy know too well that politics is about weaving words like a spider and getting all others but oneself caught in the web. Words evoke emotions; they help us to think clearly. The power or words lie in the fact that they are the most potent instrument for control. Man has not been able to invent a better means. Words never fail, they cannot fail if we know how to string them together, if we apply them with the right dose of passion and if we learn how to pamper them and tease out the juice in them.

Words can also be terrible if we fail to understand them. For instance, it is a taboo to break words because they are like eggs, you cannot put them back together. You don’t also throw them at others because they can harden on contact with the hearts or men and become missiles thrown back at you. The greatest thing about words is that they are poor servants sometimes, they can tell stories which we do not intend. They reveal the secrets of our hearts in such remote and dark places which even God may not have been to. I am more fascinated at how words tell stories about our lives and our society. For instance, a poor man gets killed, a rich man or person of substance is murdered, a politician or ruler is assassinated. 

International Feature: FERN G. Z. CARR, Member of the League of Canadian Poets and Pushcart Prize Nominee

Art and a Winter Landscape

Shadows stretch their arms

and yawn

as they lie upon a bed rumpled

by trails of footprints

disappearing into the distance

like a perspective drawing

of converging railway tracks.

Blanketed with snow-laden pines,

mountains watch the shadows sleep

under a ceiling of cirrus cloud –

their contours sketched upon a vast canvas.

Blue – everything is swathed in shades of blue:

smoke curling up from chimneys,

sky, snow-capped mountains, ice on the lake –

reflections of Picasso’s Blue Period;

the light – crisp, sharp and focused –

a tribute to nature’s artistry

as she paints a winter landscape.

Special Feature: Eriata Oribhabor, Nigeria's Foremost Poet and Poetry Promoter

For YOU

Eriata Oribhabor in poetic motion...

That very place and time came

Without a click, rolling back the

Innocence of your sincerity

Enveloping me till date.

The gate opened you onto the road

For a meeting of two; a brother

And a sister...careless about

Colour, creed and more.

That day, that moment, that meet

That click of life's beauty

Beauty...from the inside

Never weather beaten.

Turn back the hand

Of your thoughts...tell me

Its clicking sounds...a deep breath

Tell me we are not brother and sister.

These lines are for you...yes...for you

Who read them long before written

In bold letters on that cake you baked me

When I hardly knew how cakes taste.

Rebirth of Hope by Prosperline Amadi

The sky, a sizeable womb, foggy

And deformed with pregnant clouds.

The grounds sun-baked, utterly dry

With vein-like cracks running through.

The plains grossly athirst.

No birds heard chirping, singing

The playground devoid of plays

All trees stood bare, abandoned

Exposed to the caress of the wind.

Beneath the land a seed lay...

Dormant, repellent but potent.

In its confines, rebirth echoed

For freedom to eavesdrop.

Casualties of Depravities by Professor Francis Egbokhare

We are the casualties

Prisoners in a fortress of falling walls

Grandmasters of the illusion of excellence

Masked men and women in ‘Grand Theft Identity’¹

Residents of a disappearing tower

Actors on a sinking sewer

Stars of a game of ruse

Yes!

We are the robed ones

Dressed up in scarlet regalia of monumental errors

Collocated in academic processions like humanized penguins

None breaking formation

All intuiting affirmation

Echoing the dol-drum

We are sycophants

Wallowing in error

In the name of hunger

We shall plunder²

Flash Fiction: A New Page by Yetunde Oyelude

You are only allowed to study eminent science courses as a child of Professor Adebanjo, and as fate would have it, I am an ‘Adebanjo’; and I dare not trash the tradition.

It is evening and my family members are in the living room spending quality time with one another, but I chose to confine myself to my room, so I could dwell on what I wanted to do with my life. And so I started thinking; Abigael, you are the most intelligent senior student in the science class of the prestigious Great Learners High School with several accolades backing this fact, and most importantly, you have made your doting father the proudest man on earth. And here you are, about to graduate high school with the saddest heart. Why is that?

“Daddy, I want to be a writer.” Those words didn’t seem like they came from my mouth. I blinked my eyes severally like someone who was just getting out of hypnosis. I didn’t understand how I got to the living room; all I knew was that I had just said the abominable.

Flash Fiction: A Killer Bite by Tomiwa Adeosun

A strong offensive odour hit Mr. Adeleke's nostrils as he opened the front door of his house.

"Ah-ah, what kind of smell is this?" He asked himself aloud. Then he slowly traced the smell to the bathroom and as he opened the door, the strongest of the odour that had been locked away enveloped him, forcing him to shut his nostrils. With shaky hands, he lifted the lid of the water closet and discovered that it was full of faeces.

“Where could Segun have gone, to have left the toilet in such disgusting state?” Mr. Adeleke wondered as he left the bathroom to get some drinking water.

On getting to the kitchen, he was shocked to meet the pile of plates that had been there when he was leaving for work in the morning. "What! Even the plates are unwashed. I will beat this boy to coma today,” Mr. Adeleke fumed as he proceeded to the backyard to cut off some branches of the guava tree, to be processed into buttocks-smacking tools.

Poetry: Abimbola by Emebiriodo Ugochukwu

 

Abimbola

 Can you keep a secret?

How long can you keep it?

Can you not tell her

That while she slept

I took out time to stare at God's perfect masterpiece?

Her!

Can you not tell her

That she is my Muse

And her absence here

Has rendered my quill useless?

Can you not tell her

That for pride's sake

I act as if I don't know her favourite colour,

Her favourite food,

Her favourite author,

And her favourite books?

Can you not tell her

That I sometimes see how she stares from across the room

When we are seated apart

How her stares burn when she sees me flirting with other

girls?

Can you not tell her

That I know

That she quietly hopes I break up with ‘bae’

With those "expert" relationship tips she gives?

Can you not tell her

That her voice is terrible

When she sings,

And that smile on my face

Was birthed from pain in my eardrums?

Flash Fiction: My Silver Lining by Aladesuyi Seun

Trouble loomed. I just used the last ₦100 in my purse to get to my uncle’s office. I wouldn’t have acted so irrationally if he had not assured me of being employed immediately.

I stared at the secretary, who was totally oblivious to my situation, and asked, “sir, are you sure he won’t come back to office today because he told me to come exactly this time, today.”

The secretary looked at me disdainfully, making me feel as if my brain was unclad.

 “Least you can do is answer,” I muttered.

Stranded and frustrated, I tugged at the hem of my chiffon blouse, trying to figure out how to get home with zero naira in my purse. I had hoped my uncle would give me money to take cab back home.

Well, if there was anything, like a silver lining, it was not my fate; apparently, my life was full of dark clouds. I slowly made for the exit planning to walk all the miles home.

 “Miss Fiona Alade...!”

 I turned to see the secretary hurriedly making his way towards me with a brown envelope visible in his hand. I gave him a questioning look.

Smiling Again by Olayinka Egbokhare

I have learnt to smile again,

Learnt to play and to love and to receive love.

Learnt that one can work at showing love to others,

Learnt that love has eyes and dance and laughter

Love has sober, trying moments.

Love can mean sharing or giving or taking.

Love can come at unexpected times and from unlikely quarters.

Love can take flights of risk and be daring.

Love can put illness and loss aside and shine through,

Love can argue and disagree but will refuse to fight or bear grudges.

Love may be hidden because it is too premature to declare.

Love can hurt others who love us because it does not command their approval.

Love can peep or come forth in boldness.

Love will not leave you poor but richer all ways round.

Love can teach you life lessons that will make you strong.

Love will always prevail over the storms of life.

Biography

Olayinka Abimbola Egbokhare was born in Ibadan, Oyo State. Her love for writing was brought to the fore by Mrs Ubah, one of her English teachers at the Federal Government Girls College, New-Bussa, Niger State. Yinka, the author of the widely acclaimed novel - 'Dazzling Mirage', holds a Ph.D in Communication and Language Arts, University of Ibadan where she teaches writing skills, advertising message development amongst other courses.

She makes her home in Ibadan with her husband, Francis and their children.

Poetry: Be at Ease, Mother

Your tears, like rainfall, wet the grounds

of sorrow within the region of regrets,

growing weeds of sadness on farmlands

fertilized by agonies of motherhood.

Mother, cry out your heart no more;

my future, like a mop, shall wipe away

dustiness of the past. Be at ease, mother.

-          Kolade Olanrewaju Freedom

That spherical earth; a part of you –  

covert, protruding, elapsing stipulated time.

The purge came with a pain, which you bore.

Nocturnal you became; your siesta sparse.

These tears, you'll once more shed; the cause,

I'll once again be, but for joy.

-          Makinde Damilola

For years, I kept sleep away from the tent of your eyes –

your pupils dilated in vain as my desires rushed at you like a flood.

Heart as solid as the rock, refusing to crumble under the pressure

solely borne. Yet your smile, as bright as the sun, keeps my feet

fired for a long walk. My accomplishments will be inspired by the zeal

to repay you for all the sacrifices. This promise,

a sacred covenant, shall be kept to honor motherhood.

-          Aladesuyi Seun

Flash Fiction: Deceitful Truth by Makinde Damilola

While returning from buying eggs and sardine for breakfast that Saturday, I fantasized devouring my share after its preparation when I heard someone calling out to me. It was my friend Wasiu who lived next to my house. I rarely spend time with him as I was hardly allowed beyond our balcony's railings. We exchanged pleasantries and after a brief talk, I told him I had to go in as we were already in front of our gate. Just then, he made it known to me he would follow me in; I defiantly refused, but he seemed resolute. I entered and started whistling as if we had a dog which was to heed the ominous call. Unaware of the trick, Wasiu, like lightening, disappeared from behind me. I consumed the fruit of happiness which the trick served me.

Upon entering, dad asked me why I whistled. Confidently, I explained how Wasiu wanted to follow me in and how I deceived him with a mythical dog. After my explanation, dad went in, brought out four strong wires, strung them together and started flogging me. To him, I was a lazy liar who had been an apprentice of the devil for a limited time. He flogged me blue-black.

After 45minutes of thorough flogging, he commanded me to go down on my knees with my arms up. As I did, I noodled on what happened and why I got flogged to that extent. I could not rationalize the link between the punishment and the offence. Coincidentally, a radio sermon was on, and the cleric made a statement, 'Tell the truth and it shall set you free', and in my demoralized state I burst into tears, answering to myself, "No, it didn't set me free".

Biography

Makinde Oluwadamilola Peter, a first year student of communication and Language Arts, University of Ibadan, takes delight in writing, singing and reading.