Tag Archive | Creative writing

Tomorrow…

Image result for image of african woman carrying basket

Mama counted the coins carefully and tied them in the old handkerchief which she always tucked into her thick cotton half-slip hidden under several layers of wrapper to keep them safe.

I sprinkled water on the freshly harvested pepper and pumpkin leaves, arranging them in the basket; their luscious healthy colour would attract the eyes of good buyers.

With ease, mama balanced the basket on her head, her headscarf formed a cradle and she set off to Orie Ozuda; she would walk tirelessly for miles and that basket would stay put.

‘Nwamaka my daughter, I hope today’s market day will be a good one and if I sell all my goods, tomorrow I will buy you that shoe for running that you’ve been asking for.’

Thank you, mama,‘ I replied with happiness ringing in my voice. I imagined my feet encased in the white canvas and I could hear the voices of my schoolmates cheering me on as I raced to the finish line; they always say that I run like 440.

Tomorrow never came. Mama never made it back. Her crushed body was brought back to the compound with her coins still carefully tucked under her half-slip. Nwamadi’s 440 car killed mama. I never ran again.

© Jacqueline

Quick Glossary

Run like 440 – a term used to emphasize how fast she ran.

Orie Ozuda – a market day

Nwamaka – an Igbo name for a girl. It means beautiful child.

 

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Micro Fiction…The Wicked Heart

Image result for death

I am innocent of May’s death. Yet, I am as guilty as ever.
I may not have killed her physically but, I had conspired her death many times over in my heart.

©

Jacqueline

The Charlatan…

She is called many names; the wandering woman, mystery lady, the medicine woman, the mad woman of Katoke or the nuisance.

She always appeared in the neighbourhoods for a couple of weeks before the start of each season bearing numerous pots and bags of exotic plants. Each boiling pot served broths that cured various ailments and all that was required for any to work is faith.

Whenever she visited the poorer quarters, the inhabitant’s welcomed her presence. They would come bearing little gifts in exchange for helpings from her healing condiments, but the experience was the opposite at the more prestigious parts of town where the policing guards did their best to discourage the charlatan ‘as she was called.’

On various occasions, they ran her off the premises with a stern warning of arrest if she kept visiting but at dusk, these uppity members of high society went to the poor side of town to see her secretly.

© Jacqueline

Thank you Yarnspinner for the interesting photo prompt and PJ for hosting.

Field of Souls…Scene 2

 

Terror, Poetry

He heard them.
They were coming
but he couldn’t run.

The Earth spurted blood
black birds circled in foreboding,
this farm is a prison and he’s its convict.

In a bright panorama,
he saw horrific things,
things that jarred his senses in an unspeakable way

The beaten and the burnt,
the hung and the torn,
the shackled and the maimed.

The tears, the gore,
and the stench of death filled his nostrils,
it clung to his skin and seeped into his bones.

©

Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

For Scene 1 – check this link

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Running Empty…

The sparse cupboard with the solitary pack of Batchelor soup and canned beans stared back at him as if in mockery. His posh apartment was a sorry mess. Take out boxes and dirty mugs littered the kitchen and George wondered when his life had become so empty.

He was fatigued from months of insufficient sleep and taking work home; the promotion came with more responsibilities than anticipated. He was tired of eating out of paper boxes, he missed having a decent relationship with anyone and would have given a tooth for some helping of the curry flavourful dish that floated down the corridor from his married neighbours’ apartment; his tummy grumbled at the thought.

The ping of the microwave interrupted his thoughts and the cup of overflowing soup that looked more like lava made him swear. With a sigh of resignation, he picked up the phone to call Chinatown. The hum of voices and laughter from next door sharply reminded him that a robust bank balance did not make up for loneliness.

© Jacqueline

Thank you artycaptures for the photo-prompt and my lady P.J. our amiable hostess.

Check out my latest book ‘Unbridled.’

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Some Day…

Little stabs of jealousy struck Cody as he stood at the corner and watched Josh and Sam cycle their latest acquisition around the neighbourhood park with such glee,

He envied how they always got the latest and best toys and momentarily, he felt sad and angry that poverty kept his mama from buying any of such things for him. He was tired of their scrounging for food, for hand-me-downs and their broken television.

From past experience, he knew not to ask them if he could join them because they would only laugh and make fun of him. Last time when they were flying a kite and he came closer to watch, Sam made fun of his ill-fitting clothes and oversized trainers and he had walked away red in the face and ashamed.

He really wanted to fit in and he was tired of feeling out of place, but what could a ten-year old do? Maybe if his dad hadn’t died, they wouldn’t be so poor with his mother juggling several jobs. He hoped mama was right in saying that things would get better some day.

© Jacqueline

Thank you, Dorothy, for the photo prompt and PJ for hosting.

 

Stretched Part 2 – Friday Fiction in Five Sentences

Church, Prayer, Story, Fiction

She was almost convinced that the Reverend’s sermon on giving up one’s sins was directed at her; a Church service had never left her literally feeling the heat of the brimstone.

Heaving a sigh of relief at the end of mass she rushed to the bus-stop and boarded the city bus back home, tussling in her mind whether to continue going to Church or to give it a break for a while.

As the bus wove its way through the city, the first message came in.

Beads of sweat popped out on her forehead, her heart accelerated and she developed an urgent need to use the toilet when she stared at the undeniable photo of her finagling money from the Church till.

Every hour that passed was a stab of fear; messages promptly came in from the unknown number at the turn of each hour.

Stretched Part 1

© Jacqueline