Patting the blonde wig, she stares at her face in the gaudy mirror.
This would be her last night, yet she feels uneasy. Is it the anticipated move? Maybe! She thinks.
She is tired of moving. From one horse-shoe town to the next. One harshly lit stage to the other. How many wigs? How many stages? How many towns? How many names? She had lost count! Sometimes, her days start as Rita and ends as Melinda, or Mirabelle, Belinda, Katerina, Chloe and even Zoe!
Young Luc now asks questions.
“This will be the last time my love, she promises.” Finally, she has enough money to start allover in a sleepy town, with a new identity and new things away from stage lights.
The introductory act wraps up. Her cue is next.
Hercrooning voice belts out heartrending tunes of a broken heart. The crowd soaks it in.
Her eyes wander nonchalantly across faces. His sizzling gaze hits her. Her pitch warbles to a halt!
Staring in wide-eyed disbelief, like a deer caught in bright lights, its her Nemesis and his goons.
Ego Ọne? Ikem asks. Picking up and dropping several T shirts from the pile of bend-down select clothes heaped on a tarpaulin on the market floor.
Hah! I don tell you say na N200 only! Replied the man with the bell.
Second-hand aka bend-down-select cloth sales
Bros, abeg!I wan buy 2 or even 3 sef, if you fit commot something. Ikem haggles and they eventually settle for N120 each and he happily pays for the three that he chose, clutching his black nylon of new apparels with a bounce in his steps, he leaves for Mama Nwamaka’s canteen.
A plate ofhot ‘Garri and Onugbu soup’ with some ‘Show Boy’ and a bottle of ‘small stout’ is just the thing to set his World right today; he has more jingle in his pockets from a few days of work than all the previous weeks put together.
Preceding market days have been grueling but more rewarding. It seems the approach of Christmas has triggered off a flurry of more business and lots of off-loading of bags of garri and gallons of palm-oil has enriched him more than carrying baskets for housewives and their wares.
Some of these women came for their weekly shopping armed with scorpion stingers on their lips and taking out the grouch from their homes on unsuspecting recipients.
The last one had nagged and haggled that he was charging too much, that he was almost tempted to ask her to carry the things herself.
“Is it not just from here to the bus-stop, or are we going to ‘Ibagwa’?” She harassed.
Bitter leaf soup and garri
”Carry that thing well o.” ”Hah all this shaking, my oil will pour o!” She went on and on.
”You are going too fast!” “I cannot keep up with you, she argued!” Whilst stopping to greet every single market woman that crossed her path and Ikem stood with her weighted load on his head.
Such women were very trying, but he needed all the money he could make.
He wants to buy several new items and to replace his worn out rubber slippers. Occupying his mind with happier thoughts of the jeans and canvas that he will purchase soon, he tunes out the shrewish woman’s voice.
A belly full of good food and a glass of palmy later- Mama Amaka had fresh supply and he couldn’t resist the intoxicating aroma of fresh palm-wine. It is not every day that you could get an authentic bottle that is not watered down. He hurries back to hustle for more customers.
Show boy aka Kpomo/Kanda
A few more bags of rice and basket carrying for market late-comers, it is time to go home.
It appears like a throng or water-fall of humans. Everyone rushing to get done and go home.
Ikem is happy with the days events and as he jostles along with the crowd, an unexpected shove from the back has him turning around to lambaste the pusher, only for the ensuing shouting chant of ‘Ole! Thief o!Onye Oshi!’ rings out in the crowd.
The pusher happens to be a wily young pick-pocket who was trying to make away with a woman’s purse. Out of reflex Ikem hot-foots after the escaping thief along with a several young men.
The crowd impedes the pick-pockets movements and he is nabbed a few yards away and beaten to an inch of his life.
It takes the pleading voices of some concerned women to save him from being pulped to death.
Jungle Justice! Quick to be meted out when the culprit is caught; especially among the poor culprits.
Ikem ponders on this issue as he makes his way home. Wondering why a young man would choose to bargain with his life over a paltry sum of Naira. The culprits face is one of those idling chaps that he sees around the market.
To be continued.. You can read the first part by clicking the link in red ink above!
Quick Glossary for words that you may not know:
Ego Ọne – How much is this?
Hah! I don tell you say na N200 only! – Ah! but I told you it is only 200 Naira (note that it is expected to haggle over price in the market)
Bros, abeg!I wan buy 2 or even 3 sef, if you fit commot something – My brother please! I want to buy 2 or even 3, only if you can reduce the price.
Bend-down-select: A heap of mixed used clothing where customers literally bend down to scrounge through the pile and select an item they want to buy.
Mama Nwamaka – Nwamaka’s mother. Nwamaka is a native Igbo name that means, ”the child is beautiful, the child is good” There are derivatives such as Amaka.
Garri- A popular West African meal made from Cassava tubers.
Onugbu soup – A type of soup which is peculiar to the Ibo’s. It is made from bitter-leaf vegetable and a thickener of coco-yams.
Show Boy also known as Kpomo or Kanda – These are processed cow hide eaten as meat. It is regarded as a delicacy.
Small stout also known as Odeku – This is a dark beer made from roasted malt or roasted barley, hops, water and yeast.
Ibagwa – Ibagwa is a community located North of the great University of Nigeria, Nsukka.
‘Ole! Thief o!Onye Oshi!’ – The three words mean the same thing: Ole is Yoruba for thief, and Onye Oshi is Igbo for thief. It is not uncommon to mix English with broken/pidgin language and another tribes language.
Palm-Oil – a reddish – yellow butter-like oil which is derived from the fruit of the oil palm. It is used as edible cooking fat and also for making soaps, candles and cream.
Palmy – a shortened name for Palm-Wine, which is an alcoholic drink made from fermented palm sap. It is used in major traditional occasions in Igbo land such as Traditional titling occasions, Traditional weddings, burials, child naming ceremony and general entertainment.
A palm wine tapper and a palm tree
Fresh bottles of Palm wine
The posts that I would like to share because they spoke to me:
When great trees fall: This poem from Maya Angelou featured by JoHanna Massey’s blog spoke loudly to me. Almost felt as is Maya was talking about her demise ”in my mind” because she is indeed a great tree. This is my first time of reading it.
Evening Chuckle: Nutsrok does know how to bring the mirth out of me. She offers rib-cracking laughter each time 🙂
Wordless – Wednesday: I love food. Lucid Gypsy’s picture was pure temptation for me 😉
For quite a while, she stands at the breezy quay watching the boat weave its way gradually away from the shores; every watery mile creates more distance between them.
The aquamarine gray water is calm and the weather quite pleasant, but, Madeline’s thoughts are far from calm.
She is not so sure that her decision to send him away is the right one and even as the white stern of the Wayfarer moves beyond swimming reach, she feels a powerful urge to call him back.
Her boy’s waving hands are now a speck in the far distance (in her motherly mind, he is still her little lad who clutched onto her for guidance).
She wants so much for him. A brighter future she sees in his tomorrow and their small fishing town is nowhere to chase his dreams.
Her hope is that under the Maestro’s tutelage, he would rise to his true potentials like his late Papa.
With a heavy sigh and a whispered prayer, she trudges up the stony pavement back to her cottage.
It’s been quite a grueling competition! Sebastian is determined to win the championship even if is by the skin of his teeth!
He has come far and this is it! The moment of his life and his dreams!
He could almost taste the victory and the fame at the end of it all.
His face would be splashed all over the papers and television. Instant celebrity status stamped on him as he turns into the toast of the town.
Endorsements would fly in from here and there. He could imagine his preening and the ladies cooing after him; his companionship sought by all. He could see it all! The pause to pose for silent brooding pictures for the paparazzi. The constant request for interviews. The frenetic social calendar. What a success it would be!
For just a split second, his wandering mind drifts off from the game at hand. In that split second, the ball comes sailing through the air and his delayed reaction causes him to over-reach. His legs fly out under him! He sails into the air, landing with such a heavy thud at an odd angle.
Pain pierces and radiates through his entire body. He struggles to rise but this legs crumble under him as the excruciating pain keeps him down.
The medics rush to attend to him and a quick examination is carried out.
Through the haze of the pain, a sober voice filters through;
“Well my young man, it appears you have popped a rib or two!” Said the Voice.
”You will be needing a FLANGIPROP for support for several months or more.” ”Unfortunately you cannot continue with the game.” The droning voice continued as he administers on-site first aid.
He is quickly holstered on a stretcher whilst he writhes in pain and anger. This is not the way it is meant to end he argues in his mind.
The flashes of the camera keeps popping in his face as the paparazzi catch every wince of pain and misery that is etched on it.
Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha.
In response to The Daily Post – Invent a definition for the word “Flangiprop,” then use the word in a post.
The actual definition of Flange: An external or internal rib or rim which is used to add strength or to hold something in place.
The actual definition of Prop: An object placed against or under another to support it: anything that supports.
Today’s assignment in Writing 101 – Day 19 Assignment: Feature a Guest is actually a feature that I would like to inculcate in my blog posts going forward.
It would be a way of sharing those articles/words that ministered to me during the week, as well as serving the purpose of neighbourly recognition and encouragement.
They could come in the form of quotes, pictures, stories, experiences, anecdotes, recipes, etc.
The idea is to share my own short story followed by the links to the URL’s of those things that captivated my mind, that made me smile, ponder, cook, dance, rant in my mind, inspired and motivated me during the past few days.
He was fathers’ good friend… a short fiction.
He was fathers’ good friend, but he wasn’t mine! Even though he worked very hard to be my friend, his sweetness repulsed me! He would visit a lot of evenings and occupy space with his large frame, guffawing at every joke even those that I failed to understand.
Many attempts did he make to pinch my butt when no one looked. Attempts made to squeeze my budding chest under the pretext of an uncle-y hug. He fooled them all by his pretense to be a good one!
Armful of candies to cajole and sweeten Carols little mind, followed by his clumsy, harsh breathing hugs. As she grew up she knew what it was. The day she found him out for who and what he was, is not one that she cares to remember. Even though the foggy parts of her brain sometimes brings up these better forgotten memories….of a sleepover that turned into a night of pain.
She faltered and haltingly told mother; how she was hurt and she can remember the redness of mothers face. The string of curses that spewed from mothers mouth and her vengeful promise to deal with him.
He came calling again, his cloak of conviviality all annoying Carol’s 9 year old mind and she hid at a distance, away from his treacherous hugs.
Mother gave him good helpings of the casserole (Carol wondered why he never ate in his house, wasn’t he just the gluttonous one, wanting to covet his neighbours goods) and copious doses of wine.
He drank and he drank. Little dribbles and droplets dotted his pale shirt and stood stark like blood.
He left under the haze of wine and thereafter, and was never seen again.
Now and again Carols mind drifts and she wonders whatever became of him. How did mother get the boogie man to stop visiting?
Father seemed sad for sometime. His friend came visiting no more.
The END
The posts that I would like to share because they spoke to me:
Bring in the Light I found this quite inspiring and thought provoking. It is up to you to choose!
I am not sure of what I am doing, but it feels right and beautiful. I am scared that I would fail and things would not work out well, but I choose to face my fear and brave it. After all, I love Will and I feel that our love is enough.
Twirling before the ornate looking glass at the Wedding bells store – the only one that could be found for miles around in our small town, I am pleased with the image that stares back at me.
The dress is delicately gorgeous. I love the way it clings to all the right parts and accentuates my hour glass shape. It is even amplified around the upper chambers. The cleavage is cut in such a way that it creates a mirage of more bosomness, where that is non-existent.
I lack Joleen’s and Ma’s capacious specifications. It flows down , hitting the floor in a soft frilly fall of French lace. I know that this is the dress for me.
Ma’s nose is red from crying and blowing it. The fitting lady thinks that her tears are from mere joy of seeing her daughter try on wedding gowns for forthcoming nuptials. In Ma’s own way, I know that she is very happy to see me getting married to Will; Will is a fine and well-mannered lad. Not that scapegrace Jake who broke my heart and only rekindled his interest when he saw that I was getting along with Will.
For a moment, I was almost fooled and persuaded to take him back. He gave me a wicked thrill but treated me with such disrespect that I knew that the thrill would lose its appeal in the long run and problem drag me down a long winding road of regret. He was like a bad habit that was difficult to break.
Catching him making out with Lucinda was the jolt that I needed to get my head straightened out, even though he blamed it on the drink, I was done!
I know Ma’s tears partially stems from her feeling that she is losing an ally. I stand as a buffer between her and my father’s punches. Why she has stayed and taken it all, is an answer that I have never figured out? I keep hoping that one day, he won’t get so deep into his cups and kill her, more especially since no one would be around to support Ma.
My sister Joleen ran off at seventeen with a trucker who had more brawn than sense. She has passed through husband number 2 and on the prowl for number 3. She is in town for my wedding shindig, even though she has spent most of her stay getting up to no good. She couldn’t even come to the wedding store with us – bleary eyed and sleeping off her last nights carousel.
Kev O’Reilly’s wife Maybelle is on a war-path. Joleen has been blinking her baby blue eyes and extra long lashes; with some tips of fakes, at Kev. Giving him an insiders view of her ample bosom. I see his Adam’s apple bob up and down in a quick swallow and the glazed look that appears in his eyes whenever Joleen is around and flirting with him.
The O’Reilly’s have wealth to their name and Joleen is hell bent on the fact that husband number 3 would have a well lined deep pocket and some class too. She was tired of traipsing around the big ole country with a truck for a home.
Joleen is very pretty and Maybelle – Kev’s wife is not! She is…homely! Yes! That is the word.
I sigh over these thoughts as I hear alarm bells tinkle in my mind. I feel disaster coming along!
Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
In fulfillment of Writing 101 – Day 15 Assignment: Take a Cue From Your Readers. In the opinion poll that I placed, most of the vote were cast in favour of fiction, so I wrote this!
Nagging painful pangs wake her from sleep. It is still a week to the Expected Delivery Date (EDD) but she knows that it is time. A cursory glance at the half parted window curtains shows the pale orange hew of the rising Sun. The day has dawned and it seems like it will be an interesting day.
The contorting of her stomach compels her to tap Desmond on the shoulders in an attempt to wake him up. He hardly rouses. He sleeps so deeply that wild horses would enter the room and take the bed under him and he would sleep through it all, she thinks to herself.
“Desmond!” “Wake up!” She orders loudly; wishing that she has a bell to peal close to his ears.
He grunts, snuffles and rolls over to his left side.
“Desmond!” “Desmond!” “We have to get to the hospital, right now!” “Except you want me to have the baby here in bed, you need to wake up.”
That magic word baby! His eyes quickly fly open, the cobwebs of sleep recede fast as his scrambling thoughts quickly process the information.
“Baby, as in baby?” “Right now?” His eyes fly to her contorting belly in stupefaction.
“Yes baeeby, dear.” “I think we are having the baby today.” “No more false alarms this time.”
He gathers his wits and quickly jumps into a pair of jeans, throws on a shirt, a hasty mouth wash and helps Debbie to the car.
She walks funny and sluggishly. Her belly feels like it is being ravaged from inside out and her stiff lower back, as if an ill-fitting screw is being tightened into it in slow degrees. She is panting and trying to keep calm, but this is her first baby and all the lessons taught in the birthing class fly out of the window.
They manage to get to the car, without baby popping out when Desmond realizes that he doesn’t have the keys and rushes back inside to pick it up. It is a good thing that they place a stick-on hook on the cabinet in plain sight. Too many times of searching for the keys have been reduced and less gray hairs sprouted!
He spy’s the cute new baby bag that Debbie has put together with things that she wants to take to the hospital still sitting by the new cot and grabs it, rushing out to his doubled-over Mrs. who was looking quite red in the face and growing waspish by the minute.
It is a hair-raising and palm sweaty drive to the hospital, the early morning work rush and the frequent traffic stops are not helping matters along.
”Honey, try the Lamaze breathing” he suggests, tapping his fingers on the wheel as he counts the minutes for the light to turn green; it wouldn’t do to run a red light, he had nearly run a red light at the other junction.
“And just what to you think I am doing?” ”Practicing my ballet steps?” She snaps at him.
The sudden rush of warm fluid down her thighs, her exclamation, growing pants and whimpering all turn Desmond’s stomach. He feels like using the loo all of a sudden, however, spying the hospitals cross a few meters across the road, calms him down a notch.
Hopefully, the hospital will be ready for them. He had remembered to place a call to Debbie’s Obstetrician.
A quick dash to the reception and with the help of waiting attendants, they are whisked to the labour room. A quick examination and a disappointing observation. “You are 3cm’s dilated.” “You should be ready in a couple of hours” the mid-wife intoned. She sets up of an IV line and a heart rate monitor.
The hours are crawling. Debbie is almost hyperventilating. The pain has grown hydra-heads and the waves of doubling contractions are like the twist of a hot rod. She now wishes that she had opted for an Epidural instead of satisfying her desire for a natural birth.
No one had explained precisely that it would be this excruciatingly painful and so mind numbing, that she begins to see pin points of white light zooming in and out of her pain riddled brain and Desmond is driving her crazy with his placating words.
At a point, she wants to jump off the birthing bed and run away. As if her running would leave the pain behind.
“Bend you legs and breathe deeply” Debbie, “Let’s see how things are getting along” the OB/GYN directs. A quick swipe with sterilized swabs, some pokes and prods and he expresses a satisfaction that things are moving along rather well.
You are 7cm dilated. Almost there! Almost there! Just hang in. The baby should be coming within the hour or so, he pronounces.
The back rub helps and annoys her at the same time, the poor dear Desmond is trying but nothing seems satisfactory at the moment. She wants him there but not standing on her last nerve.
Her short, smart bob is now damp. The tendrils hang in lanky strings like limp noodles. The herculean effort not to scream her head off can no longer be contained as the desire to bear down and push grips her.
A flurry of organized movement, the OB/GYN utters words of caution and encouragement not to push so that the cord around the babies neck can be gently disengaged to avert the danger of choking her wind pipes. Seconds, minutes tick past in a blurry, a surgical episiotomy cut…. at last, with that big push and heave of the uterine muscles, the hardworking baby slides out of her mom heads first, in a slippery bath of amniotic fluid and blood.
The squalling perfect cherub is placed on her mothers semi-concave belly. A crying and laughing mommy, a dewy eyed proud daddy admire the sweet red-faced bundle that nature just gifted them.
They sigh in gratitude, pleasure and relief.
“She is ours,” Desmond whispers in utter amazement. “Our Mary-Louise” – the combined names of the little one’s grannies.
It’s been an exciting, hardworking nine hours since dawn.
Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
In fulfillment of Writing 101- Day 14 Assignment: Recreate a Single Day
Desire to paint was compelling. She couldn’t stop even when there was hardly any coins left to purchase supplies. Grocery change finagled to buy a paint or two.
Thoughts flowing from fingertips onto the easel with boundless verve, leaving people in awe of the elemental depths of her works.
Mama had urged her over and over to focus on a sensible trade. To pull her head out of painted clouds.
Mama’s fear, was that she would end up a penniless and hungry artist, if she had nothing else to do.
To please Mama, she had learnt a sensible trade. A governess to spoilt brats and dabbling in her painting away from prying eyes.
“If only Mama could see me now!” Georgiana fervently wished for a moment.
Her works had won the National Art entry and gained public acclaim!
….And here she is on the palace grounds, painting her ladyships gardens. Appointment notes chock full with sittings for portraits and the likes!
Who would have thought! I Georgiana, the daughter of a green-grocer, would be an artist for nobility!
Ikem couldn’t stand the penury anymore! He stared at his worn out T-shirt with the words “making a difference” printed on it’s back in disgust and dissatisfaction. He had purchased it three months ago from the bend-down-select aka flea market to add to the other two that he possessed, but frequent use and wash had slackened its neckline and faded it’s vibrant colour. It was time to visit the man with the bell; he sold good second-hand clothes from a heap of clothing on the market floor.
With that dissatisfaction dragging him down, he pulled the T-shirt over his head and shoved his feet into an equally worn out pair of rubber soled slippers. Picking up his wooden pallet, he hastened off, making quick strides to the bus-stop where he could hitch an early morning ride by hanging partially on the side of a Molue. Sometimes the conductors were difficult but on a some good days, they also showed their humane sides.
It is a main market day at Ahia Ogige today and there would be a throng of lorries bringing in goods from neighboring villages. If he rushed, he would probably make a good turn around from customers who needed their goods carried from one end to the other.
Yet, as his strides swallowed the distance from his living quarters at the shanty, to the bus-stop, his grumbling mind would not cease to taunt him. How much difference was it really making in his life, eking out a living that was barely enough to put food in his stomach, pay his own portion of rent and minor bills, not to talk of sending money home to his folks? He queried himself.
Christmas was fast approaching. It would soon be time to go to the village to celebrate, but he wasn’t sure he was up to that this year. He thought he would have achieved more by now and he didn’t want to watch in envy as some of his clansmen came home with their new motorcycles and garbs to show off. Chukwudi had really irritated him last year with all his loud talk of making it big.
His angst grew within him as the day wore on. Wearied of carrying back breaking heavy load for peanuts at the end of the day, he stretched out on his small mattress which had a pride of place on the floor and slept like a log of wood.
Ikem – An shortened version of an Igbo name for a boy; Ikemefuna – which means, may my strength not go missing.
Chukwudi – An Igbo name for a boy and it means; God lives
Ahia Ogige – A market in Nsukka. A town in the Eastern part of Nigeria
Bend-down-select: A heap of mixed used clothing where customers literally bend down to scrounge through the pile and select an item they want to buy.
Molue: Are the locally redesigned and fabricated 44-seat old buses that ply the roads of the city. The original buses are disused school buses imported from other parts of the World
a cooking pot and twisted tales 