a cooking pot and twisted tales
Thoughts and Tales…A Lifestyle Blog with a Zing.
She decided to come clean and tell the truth.
What she didn’t anticipate was the depth of peoples’ reaction.
Many wanted her to pay with her blood; for the blood of the innocent young man she had falsely accused.
She wished she had kept the secret to herself, but the burden had eaten her alive for decades.
Opening the bottle, she gulped the vile syrup, that should put an end to things.
© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
The Daily Post – Clean
Silently, he listened to her hum happily, watching as she busied herself in front of the mirror, getting ready to go to work.
He knew she hadn’t heard of Elaine’s death and wondered what her reaction would be?
He had no words to express how sorry he felt that it had come to this, it had only started out as fun and he knew that the next couple of days may possibly change their lives forever.
He doubted that their marriage of twelve years would survive it. He would probably end up in prison if any evidence leads back to him.
The entire suspense made him sick to the pit of his stomach, he wasn’t sure again that he hadn’t left incriminating tell-tale marks.
© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
A heavy and wretched cloak of sorrow hung over her, her incoherent mumbles and vacant eyes’ belie the once happy soul that lay within; many believe that she has lost her mind.
For her deeply lined face shows a map of the harsh hand life dealt her and her dejected haunting look, too uncomfortable to look at.
What they forgot was the loss of three healthy sons and her husband to a bomb in the market square.
What they didn’t know was how deeply she loved them and the excruciating pain of missing them.
What they failed to understand was that life’s pleasure was lost to her and each day, she trudged through the rubble praying for another explosion to take away her pain.
© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
Mrs. Kamanu could barely hide her disappointment and displeasure.
Jude’s return to the village after many years of sojourn in Holland with an ‘oyinbo‘ wife was least expected and a foreign wife was not the daughter-in-law that she had prayed for, for her son.
Her eyes were set on Okeofia’s first daughter Nkemdilim whom she had been calling ‘my wife’ for quite a while now.
A hard working, pretty and a well-mannered girl whose ample child-bearing hips would give her the grandchildren that she wanted.
Seated on her three-legged kitchen stool, with lips pursed like someone who had sucked on an unripe star fruit, she wondered how she would communicate with a daughter-in-law whose nasal language was beyond her comprehension.
© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
Quick glossary:
Oyinbo – White
Okeofia – An Igbo name which means Big Forest.
Nkemdilim – An Igbo name which means ‘May my own stay with me.’
Fatma’s admiration for her pristine, shiny surroundings has waned to a jaded tired feeling; two years and a half looked like an eternity.
Her excitement months ago has evaporated into a resigned feeling of just getting on with life so that she would earn and send money home to her folks in Ethiopia.
No one told her that her 3-year contract as a domestic help would turn into modern day servitude with hidden parameters.
Parameters that had not specified that every waking and breathing moment belonged to these people.
Parameters that had not specified the inclusion of the boss groping her at will.
© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
P.S. We’ll be having our monthly blog party tomorrow, 1st – 2nd of October. I’ll keep you posted.
He always ran so fast that everyone marvelled at the fleetness of his feet.
They all thought he was a champion and admired him.
No one had an inkling that he was trying to outrun the demons that taunted him.
He ran, and ran until he could no longer hear their snarling voices.
Once his steps faltered, they came nipping at his heels; he just had to keep running…
© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
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!
Its the little things I simply fell in love with this post! *Hugs* Kelly
The Orchard – Horror story Thrilled and gave me the chills too 😉
The problem was me.. This is a beautiful story Mary Lou 🙂
What value system are you instilling in your children? Am I doing a good job? One always needs to ask these questions.
Anand’s Parodies & Caricatures He brings out the chuckle in me 🙂
Lynz real cooking Easy breakfast fix that the children love and saved me some time too 🙂
Putting Flesh on the bones Thank you Wallace for tips on how to put that story together.
Am I responsible for the actions of my adult children? This got me thinking.
If you are Be the best that you can be! Short and inspiring
Thanks good people. It’s almost weekend
Yay! Dancing Time 🙂
Image Credit: Businessinsider.com
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.
© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
Mini Glossary
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
In fulfillment of Writing 101 – Day 12 Assignment: Play with Word Count
I tried to keep my story within 500 words and I think I did it!
This post is for the Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) Challenge, run by Priceless Joy. This week’s photo prompt was provided by her. Thank you ma’am! The challenge is that you write a story of 75-175 words inspired by the photo prompt below. I hope you like it
Tommy sprawls on his stomach on the thick paisley rug by the fireplace. His crooked elbows supporting his head, as he gazes at Nana with rapt attention.
In her favorite rocking chair, her shawl around her shoulders and Jack-sparrow at her feet, her little round glasses keeps sliding down her nose, when she chuckles.
He loves Nana dearly and her tales are full of magic. Time spent with her are precious.
He enjoys such special nights; the room is warm and toasty, despite the downpour. Cups of warm cocoa with marshmallows and buttery toast are just the thing. Nana’s pecan pie; the best in the entire county. The scents of spices all form a sense of coziness in their hearth.
Stretching his limber frame, his dreamy senses are roused by whispering voices and the waft of vanilla essence. Thomas pads over to his kitchen, brews a cup of coffee and sits by the misty window watching the rain drops.
He startles as a shadow of an orange floral shawl and a limping dog float by. Rushing to open the window, scents of nutmeg, cinnamon, vanilla and other spices float in.
Time to finish writing Nana’s tales, he tells himself.
Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
In response to the cue art Faces from Creativity Carnival :
It rankles! Yes it does. Maria sits mute at the dinner table, her roiling thoughts consumed with jealousy and anger. Mama, cracks a joke that maybe a widower with a dozen children would fall hopelessly in love with her homeliness but it is a struggle to plaster a smile on her face. She knows the icy look in her eyes must be as cold as the Arctic but no one notices.
She can’t seem to help her unbidden thoughts and distorted feelings for Ella. Ella, her identical twin but there are no two people who are more different. Maria’s distorted feelings of animosity, envy and sadness have accrued over the years.
Even her name is prettier for pity’s sake – Maria thinks. They saddle me with a staid, homely, sensible name “Maria” and “Ella” gets to be called a fairytaley, princessy, frilly name.
Ella the glitzy, charming one. The one that drew the boys like mindless bees to her honeysuckle petals. The one who got all the accolades, yet didn’t exert herself much to earn them.
Mama keeps saying that Ella will go places; our ballerina tutus are the same, yet mine always managed to look crumpled and my flats had a hole in the toe. I made that hole! In rebellion too, she recalls in remembered pleasure. She hated the ballet lessons and all that pirouetting made her dizzy. “No spotlights for you, my young lady” auntie Anna would say. That sounded like doom to the young lady’s ears.
She loves to draw and paint, but no one seems to notice. They noticed easily how unruly her hair is, how her skirts are always overrun with watercolor and how her finger nails are eaten to jagged bits, from nervous energy.
Ella is always immaculate. No hair is ever out of place. Her bubbly energy takes up the entire air meant for both of them and sometimes Maria feels like the evil step-sister waiting for the Sword of Damocles to fall and swish Ella’s head off her shoulders.
Maria prays. Every moment, she tries. Trying to staunch the flow of ill-feeling by saturating them in heartfelt prayers, but those moments of peaceful thoughts did not last.
Today she feels so petty and angry as she watches Ella weave her sticky charm, yet again on a beau. Our budding romance is dead on arrival, Jeremy has just bitten the dust, she thinks.
Debating all the painful, slow ways to eliminate her sibling rival and shaking with an itchy, ugly desire to slap Ella’s face, Maria slowly rises from the dinner table and leaves for her room. No one notices.
© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
a cooking pot and twisted tales 