Finding the Way

It was Sadiya’s birthday. Segun had decided to celebrate it in an unusual way, and here we were: a glass of wine in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. In front of us were blank canvases, waiting to come to life. I was lost in thought as I looked at the canvas in front of me. We were alike. Blank. Life had the controls, tossing me as it wanted. At age 25, my feeble frame belied the harsh experiences I had been through.

With a photography career that kept breaking down like my old tripod, I tried to keep afloat by juggling freelance gigs. I was going through a tunnel, but there was no light at its end. As a half-orphan, as I often called myself when in light spirits, it was my responsibility to make sure Mama did not suffer. Papa was long gone. I had no one to turn to, and I was ready to call it quits.

Knowingly, Sadiya threw me a sideways glance. I smiled at her, shutting my thoughts from my expression. Then, Vincent Kumapayi entered. That was one artist I would give anything to meet. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Segun had really outdone himself. It was the first time in many months that I felt really alive.

As I listened to him speak, I felt each word drive through my soul. It was difficult to relate Vincent Kumpayi to the painter he described. However, I was sure of one thing: if Vincent could rise from the dregs to stardom, nothing could stop me. It was not yet time to stop. I had potential flowing through me; I was not done. On that very day, with my paintbrush in one hand, I met my own giant, on whose shoulders I would ride. As I painted, I charted my own course. Even if life brought lemons, I would make lemonade with them. In good time, I would shine.

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TABOO

For the umpteenth time, the elements made their presence known, unleashing their anger on mankind. The thunder ferociously clapped, warning man of the enormity of its strength. The lightning, not wanting to be outdone, unrelentingly flashed its brightness. It sent shivers down the spines of the adults. The young ones scuttled under the folds of their mothers’ skirts. The pregnant women uncomfortably shifted as their tiny babies jerked within them. Something eerie and sinister smelt in the air. The feeling was unmistakable. As expected, the lights were out, adding to the blackness which was only occasionally broken by the lightning. Suddenly, the cry of a man’s voice in agony cut through the night. The old women shook their heads and grasped their breasts. They pitied the motherhood. The men spat on the brown earth, murmuring in their throats. The cry of pain went on for a while and abruptly came to an end. Almost as a signal, the raging storm stopped, and calmness was restored

FEARLESS- Boys don't cry

AFRIKA-THE LOST VIRTUE

George knew he wouldn’t miss the party organized by the Kegites club that night for anything. Not even his editorial work would keep him in the hostel. His crew still had some write-ups to finish. They were on the recent Black Axe case dismissal by the Court, but he could always come back to them afterward. He preferred to work late when most people slept. The noise around that period was lower, and he could concentrate. His cronies would be in their beds too at that time. Even if the editorial was pressing, it was vital for him to make an appearance at the party. It came with his duties. It was not easy being the Secretary General of the Students’ Union especially that of a great institution like Obafemi Awolowo University, but it was a responsibility he loved. As such, he carried out his functions dutifully. Most of the students don’t even remember his name. Everyone called him Afrika, a nickname that had gained popularity very quickly due to his activism and staunch anti-cultism

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It’s no news to me, perhaps because I’m medically-inclined and seek to know more about interesting issues like this. Nevertheless, I was moved to compassion the first time I saw a child with this condition. Yeah! I felt for both the mother and the child. I was curious about their daily struggles, considering the kind of society that we have. I’m not proud of my actions, but I won’t say I was exactly open and welcoming, despite my compassion.

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A FLIGHT AT NIGHT

Folashade sat at the back of the hut, washing the earthen pots her mistress instructed her to clean before her arrival. Soon, she was joined by Omolara, her newest friend among the slaves. The two girls greeted each other before Omolara settled down to work. She rinsed the pots as Folashade washed them. “You promised to tell me a story today, do you remember?” Omolara said, nudging her friend in the ribs. “You never forget, do you?” “What else do we have to look forward to in this forsaken place? Please, make my day by telling me an interesting one today. We won’t be able to do that once madam comes now. Omolara, come here, Folashade, have you done today’s work,” Omolara said in a voice surprisingly like her mistress’ own. The two friends collapsed against each other in laughter. “Ok, I will tell you one. Once upon a time when the people of Modakeke and Ife had one of their numerous civil wars…” *******************************************************************************

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