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Archive for the ‘SHORT STORY’ Category

samia1My story #Samia is published in the latest edition of Thrice Fiction magazine. The magazine is filled with stories, art, and a few surprises from a variety of talented contributors  and is published three times a year. Best part, its FREE.

#Samia is the story about Samia Yusuf Omar a Somali athlete who died in the Mediterranean trying to cross to Europe to find safety and coaching in Europe.

For more on Samia Yusuf Omar, click here

Read my story online or download a copy to enjoy  from the link below. See Pages 23- 36.

http://www.thricefiction.com/

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So friends, I have a new story “Will you hug me again?” just published on Brittle Paper, the African literary e-zine of repute dedicated to reinventing African fiction and literary culture.

There’s been quite some interesting feedback from readers. Generally It would appear the story resonates…well,I cant be so sure. Why don’t you find out for yourself and share through the comment section, what you think.

Click here to read. Enjoy!

 

 

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anthologySo i contributed a story, “Campfire Night” to a collection of 13 stories titled; Gossamer: Valentine Stories, 2016 . The stories are about love, lust, friendship, relationships and sexuality told in that uniquely African way.

The entire collection is available for free download. Its a special gift to you and that special person this Valentine.

Click to Download

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My short story JAMB was recently published in the November edition of NigeriansTalk Literary Magazine.

JAMB is the acronym for the Joint Admissions and Matriculations Board the examination body responsible for organising entrance exams into tertiary institutions in Nigeria. The very exam the board organises is quite commonly referred to by the name of the board itself, JAMB. This story which most Nigerian readers will relate to and which is sure to evoke some nostalgia is about a girls experience preparing for the exam. See excerpts;

You are peering at the fading lines of the old Economics notebook. You know it is not the lines of the note written in your hand writing that is fading. It is your eyes that seem to be failing, losing the battle to sleep, fading. You’ve been doing this for some time, back and forth, pacing between dream and reality, forcefully jerking back to consciousness each time like a car nursing a weak carburetor. This realization worries you the way the knowledge of an impending trouble does, like when in your younger years you waited in fear for the return of your father home knowing you will get caned for not performing well in school. Jamb was only a month away and even though in your mind you preferred to count in weeks, preferring the false comfort of saying four weeks to the more threatening one month, you cannot deny the increased throbbing in the left of your chest each time you thought about it.

Read full story HERE

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My Short story “Dodan Barracks” was recently published in the Literary  section of popular Nigerian site NigeriansTalk. See excerpts

The first time I knew that a government could suddenly change, I was eight years old. Father climbed on a wooden stool one morning and took down the framed picture of the President that hung next to that of him and Mum on their wedding day. The glass covering the picture was dusty and there were cobwebs…Read More 

And yes, leave a comment or drop me a note here to let me know what you think. Thank you!

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The Junta

soldiersThe convoy that came to arrest me was of six cars, two siren blaring police saloon cars, two jeeps and two open trucks carrying a countless number of armed soldiers. It was about 2.00pm. I was at the office, hurrying to finish up the draft of an article for my blog site. Nonso’s birthday party was for 4.00pm and I had not yet bought his present. They stormed into the room, heavy boot soles against the concrete floor, guns, tear gas, walkie-talkie and all, like in the movies.

“By the order of the Commander in Chief, you are under arrest” The short one with two tribal marks running vertically on either sides of his nose, the commanding officer by my assessment pronounced. They hand cuffed me and led me out into the February sun.

The Junta had been in power for exactly one year. That morning, a year ago when they ceased power, my bed side radio had been tuned to Radio Nigeria, its permanent location and I was in the kitchen fixing an early breakfast when Ifeoma called out from the room sounding both excited and agitated

“Darling, there’s been a coup!”

“A coup?” I asked rushing into the room two mugs of hot water in hand.

“Yes a coup. Listen”

It was 7.00am normal time for the AM news. To have martial music playing at that time meant just one thing: a coup. She was right. The music continued for a while before a voice with an unmistakable northern accent came on air.

“Good morning Nigerians. I Major Ibrahim Bature of the Nigerian Army, on behalf of my colleagues wish to inform you that we have taken over the leadership and control of the Federal Military Government of Nigeria …”

Another Major! I thought as I dropped the mugs gently on the side stool and replaced Ifeoma who had risen and was making for the bathroom, on the bed. My eyes followed her until she disappeared through the bathroom doors. It was now two days past the expected delivery date and the anxiety was high. My attention then went back to the radio.

Later that day, the baby came; a boy and I named him Nonso. It was his first birthday and I was being arrested by the Government that had seized power on the day he was born.

Being an internet blogger was my crime. The Junta had initially given the impression that they supported the freedom of the press and when after six months there was still no clear transition timetable as they had promised, I joined the growing band of citizen journalists, demanding on be half of the people, a return to civil rule, a duty The Junta clearly didn’t think I had a right to.

“So this is where you stay and write rubbish about gofment?” The commanding officer remarked as he led me out to one of the jeeps, amazed I could imagine at how shabby the office looked.

I made an incomprehensible sound with my throat and continued walking. He stopped just at the door to one of the jeeps, looked me over, and shook his head in unsolicited pity before opening the door for me.

“This is what you get for making trouble with gofment” he jeered exposing his brown set of teethes.

“No” I disagreed. “This is what happens when criminals find themselves in power”.

He stared back blankly either not having heard well or not having understood. I didn’t wait to confirm, I got into the car and the sirens came on.

Pix credit; BBC.

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I am getting bald

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

I am getting bald! Chei!!!. The reality first struck me as I shaved my rough jaw at the barber’s two days ago. The barber’s aproko mirror had made the revelation. Oh, how I hate mirrors. I don’t own one. My visitors after grumbling their displeasure about it always made do with the shiny surface of a CD plate or my laptop cam coder. Fine people don’t need mirrors, I always argue. We already knew how good we looked.

On this day, the poke-nosing mirror in the barbers shop decided to carry out an assignment no one asked it to. Oh, how I hate that mirror! It did some good job though. It first showed me my soft dark lips made more inviting by the strip of mustache just above it. The barber had just shaped the mustache out and hey I was feeling like Prince Hakeem…Coming to America, remember?

Then, there was my not too pointed and not too flat nose, which sat there like the creation of a master sculptor. Nobody has my kind of nose in this world. Oh! My special nose. I have doubled checked on my parents and I am convinced neither of them gave me that. With my nose, Obama might just have garnered the primary requirements for being described as ‘Handsome.’ You just didn’t read that. Oh, my special nose!!

Did I ever mention to you that I had sexy eyes? Well, now you know. The barber’s mirror confirmed it. I am not just bragging. Eyes that tell a million tales. Oh, how many dames have I scored with those eyes. The spectacle in the eyes is their ability to modify in diameter depending on the occasion. Those eyes started having medicated eye lenses over them since primary four. Now, I hide them from public view with big dark glasses. The celebrity kind. Wouldn’t want to cause a stir in public you know, with chics starring and walking into gutters. Believe me, it has happened before. But even with them glasses on, I still cause the stir. Ever seen Sean Combs, I mean the American record producer and rap artist, also known as Puffy, Puff Daddy, and P. Diddy? He looks kind of like me when I am on those glasses.

And this; my eyebrows. Wonder brows. Amazing sight. The eight wonder of the modern world. Never carved by any razor blade, yet so perfectly curved. Bushy patch of jet black hair, that runs in semi circular fashion over both eyes and rendezvous at my nose ridge. Are you shocked? Yeah, indeed my eyebrows meet. Even the barber was impressed or was it appalled? What ever, just know that you will not find too many of my kind even on Google earth. Special me.

Then the yeye barber’s mirror spoilt every thing. The next thing it revealed was a long stretch of hairless skin. This can’t all be my forehead I wondered. Jeez!!! What is happening?. The place looked like a deserted patch of land ravaged by desertification. What I was seeing was the Kalahari not my head. Not the remaining part of my fine boy face. This mirror must be playing a trick.

Where did all the hair go to? Oh God, I am dead. As I looked at it, I could swear the hair had retreated by at least close to an inch especially at the edges. So I was going to end up looking like Daddy after all? Ewu Chi m oo! Gregor Mendel’s law in action…for my head? Na wah oh! This was what my classmates in vet school would have called a case of “frontal alopecia.” And just imagine, I was planning to keep an afro like Wole Soyinka when I am forty and see it turn grey as I approach seventy. Pipe dream!!

But wait a second. Bald is good. Yeah. Bald is cool. Bald is beautiful. Bald is sexy. Most successful men I know are bald. I think it confers some kind of manliness. Cool, manly me. Isn’t that something to cheer about? Check this out: cool, manly, fine boy Sylva. Complete picture. Perfect picture. Are the ladies listening?

What am I saying? Life is not a perfect walk. Nothing is perfect. Perfect is nothing. Things happen along the line. Things we wish were just dreams. Things we wish we could change. Things we can’t change. But in most cases we fail to see the beauty in those things. We pitch ourselves against ourselves. We struggle to make it perfect. We end up hating ourselves. We fail.

I imagine me at forty. Not with the Soyinka brand afro. On my extremely cool low cut. A fitting designer suit hanging down perfectly. I would look into a mirror and remember this first day the barber’s mirror showed me a glimpse of the future me. I would smile. Fine bald daddy Sylva. No regrets. Thank Goodness I am bald. And oh, did I mention I am going shopping for a room mirror? I need to keep track of this hair retreat process.

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

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