I slump onto the grass next to Chideziri. He keeps staring up ahead into the tree, as if he's looking for something in particular, not paying me any mind. "G." Nothing. I shove his shoulder. Still nothing. "Are you going to sit here sulking all day?" Finally, he looks at me. "I can try, can't I?" "It's passing out day, you fool. We had plans, remember?" "Frankly, I don't." He says. I raise a brow at him; he only shrugs. I adjust myself till I am lying on my back in the untrimmed grass. "Well, since you don't remember, I'll wait here until your mermory starts to come back." "You'll be waiting for a long time" "I have enough time." I fire back. "Jesus Christ." Chideziri mutters. "Don't use the name of the Lord in vain, bro." "Guy, g
Calling Ma to tell her the exam is over will only make her rush me, I think.Today is the one day I don't want to rush things. So when others pull out their phones and gather round for selfies and corny posts such as GRADUATE IN A BIT or BEEN HERE, DONE THAT, I push my phone deeper into the slash pocket of my overall."And we good to go!" my best friend appears just as she disappeared: when I wasn't looking, and all of a sudden.She stretches her arms out for a hug."Ewwww." I dodge her. My best friend, Amanda, only seems to want hugs after one of her many visits to the toilets. There's enough bacteria on the doors alone to kickstart an epidemic."You know you want this hug," Amanda grins, inching closer.The periodic toilet frolicking is normal, the usual. The grinning is new. Whatever Port-Harcourt did to her was good. She even let me read her journal for like six seconds—which is a record. She n
SHE BELONGS TO THE SKYTo my father,Oliver Obiezu Eze,You said I was a genius when I thought I was a nobody, but a passenger boarding a lonely train.To my elder brother and loyal companion,Meme,for always believing in me, when I could not hold the pen and trust the words I was about to write.And to my editor and trusted friend,Chibuzor Victor Obih,for encouraging me with kind words even when the storm was too large for me to calm.The whole sky was the colour of her skin.Rainbow Rowell,
The rain is a battering ram. I left it batter me. Besides I'm already in bits. The sky's tossing huge balls of water, the size of oranges. They hit with an icy chill that is almost soothing, like a distorted massage from an angry masseuse. I'll probably be down with a fierce cold come dawn, but that is as insignificant as polishing the shiny bronze plaque in the living room. Being in the rain is like holding a butterfly, the flutter of its wings like a small tempest–smaller and safer than the tsunami that hit me when Chimamanda came, and the swirl of crudely formed emotions that raged when she left me. Far more safe. I don't run from the rain when it accosts me in the middle of the street. It has long become an old friend, a balm that soothes the monsters in my head. An outlet. A rare chance to escape. It is also because the rain is like her. Wild, vivacious and kind. I like to think that if i just closed my eyes long enough i would see her,
CHIDEZIRI I know Daddy is angry before he comes out of the car. I knew he will be angry before he went out of the house with Tobi. Tobi had already seen his JAMB result before they left for the cyber cafe. His eyes grew wide for a second, then frantic, his thumb hurriedly swiping across his Samsung's screen. I knew then, that Tobi failed jamb. I can hear the sound of the front door as it is flung open. I can hear it slam against the wall and rebound, creaking shut, whining in disapproval. Another sound follows, swift and easily recognizable, sharp, precise and wind-cutting–a slap. It is discipled by a thud and a hollow echo. I imagine Tobi reeling from the blow, then catch himself–a palm pressed to his smarting cheek. "Chideziri!" I shrink back into the wall at the coolest corner of the room. My heart is pounding in my chest like a war drum; so violently it hurts. "Chideziri!" I grasp at the small hope that he will stopping calling and f
I have a small voice in my head.I don't remember when it came, i don't even remember when it wasn't there.I call it—him: Deziri. I think he's a braver version of me. Stronger, reckless, free-r, more daring.And right now, Deziri is telling me, very brazenly–in the house of the Lord, to smack this lady.I almost oblige him, and her.One more.One more nudge, and i will smack this paparika-faced woman into the heavens.She has small chinese-y eyes inlaid on skin the colour of icheku fruit pods. Her gown, a blue-black stripped bodice is cinched at its waist in smooth ripples of three's. The bald man beside her could be her husband.She started it when the church rose for ' high praise', it being intentionally quacking and nudging me, probably to force me to dance."Because you won't dance." a small thought says in my head.I ignore him and hold my ground.She quacks me again, th
The boy near the window is eye-balling me.Not in an alley-stalker way, or that cute playboy kind of way. It is as if i am the sun, and he's been blind his whole life. I would have been flattered if not that i am here, in CHURCH.Yes, i finally said it. IN CHURCHIt started this morning, between 5:30 AM and 6 when Dad woke me up, when he told me that we are going to church in that pacifying tone he uses when you have no choice in the matter. It's not like we didn't go to church in Lagos. We did, but not with this crazed early morning jerking people up frenzy, not in this size of church.The denim jacket and leggings i hastily pulled on are a sharp contrast to the beautiful ankara print gowns that seem to swallow the place up. There are suits of many colours grey, blue, blacks, senator kaftans and geles.The sun's rays filters through the large glass window in spears of golden light that twirl and dance on those numerous colours. M
The place is huge, like a colloseum or a battle field enclosed in a wall of brick. It is bursting with trees and plants. Two guavas stand guard at its entrance like gnarled sentinels of bark and green, pink hibiscuses and purple heart plants line the hedges at the wall of each block in a carefully tended array. There is an unending field of trimmed grass and two building stand adjacent to each other; both are stories high, almost blocking out the rays of the sun. It is a world of its own, completely divergent from the one beyond its walls.The school co-ordinator is a short plump woman,with conspicuous strands of grey in her bun and a face with more edges than a decagon. She looks like the kind of person that will switch into her language the moment a phone call comes, the type that will make exaggerated expressions and funny sounds egging the speaker on the other side of the line to go on with the story. I like her, instinctively, because she does not give Dad one of t