I know it seems like I have only logged in to put up another video but I think some things should be shared. This is one of them.

I remember when we were in nursery and primary school, how traditional dance was a VERY BIG DEAL. I mean cut-a-bitch big deal. My arch-nemesis was called Ekene; she was fair-skinned, a fantastic dancer and a major pain in the bum because of her low centre of gravity. All the big girls loved her. The teachers adored her and she was made obu uzo egwu till I left for secondary school.

Once, determined to outshine her I brought three necklaces to school for a dance. Someone important was coming, some commissioner or something. Those necklaces were imitation pearls, plastic and much loved. One was cyan, the other peach and the third was white. My mother bought them for us before we moved back to Nigeria and as such they were a link to our former lives in the UK.  They were supposed to set us apart. The teachers and some of the big girls made me hand over two of them to Ekene because she was obu uzo and in front where everyone would see her and I was in the middle-back due to my  height and ability. Heck, until one of the senior girls intervened, they wanted me to hand all of my plastic pearls over! Sacrilege!

I didn’t see Ekene for the longest time because I went to boarding school outside Awka but when we did meet as teenagers on holiday – I was about fourteen – I remember being  enraged by her very presence. I answered all her questions curtly and looked off impatiently to signal that I had places to be. I was struck by how much shorter than I she still was. It pleased me. Absurdly so.

Unfortunately all my drama went unnoticed. She was born again and so profoundly oblivious to the world that she wouldn’t have noticed anything but the Rapture.

The whole thing taught me a very important lesson. It was just pointless disliking Ekene because everyone is good at something.  I am good at telling stories and that suits me just fine.

Enjoy the dance. This isTheresa Ofojie.

Clearing out one of my storage drives and I found this. It’s not been edited so forgive the typos. I hope you enjoy it.

**********************************************

Sister P is speaking in tongues, roboscattering outside my window again. She is a creature of habit, is our Sister P. Every morning, five o’clock. Three claps, as if she is about to make an announcement. She starts singing in voice swollen with feeling. She sings Chineke Nke Igwe and My Lord Reigneth Let The Earth Tremble and You Are Worthy To Be Praised and Ikwesiri Ekwesi and ends with Who Is Like Unto Thee, slowing the tempo as she launches into prayer.

She used to travel the length of the street, punctuating her devotions with the kpom-kpom of her block heels. Now she just stands under my window, clapping and stomping.

Being a light sleeper, those three claps used to wake me up and irritate me so much that I would tie my wrapper and rise to confront her. But Sister P would act like I had water in my mouth.

“God bless you, sister,” she would say whenever I started on her. And she would get the beatific look on her face that you only saw in religious paintings. Perhaps it only looked that way by the yellow glow of her swinging kerosene lantern, golden light shooting out from between her hands like Jesus. Maybe it had to do with how I saw myself compared to her besuited form; bare knees, bed head and nipples piercing through the thin wrapper. She smelled of Zest soap whatever the hour. I smelled of body. Whatever it was freaked me out. I left her alone. It did not do to be seen as a troublemaker, especially when one was new to the neighbourhood. But trouble just finds people like me naturally I guess.

I expected trouble when I had the burglary proof door installed on my front and back doors. I expected trouble from my neighbour who tutted at me when I took my bath in the late afternoon. I expected more trouble after the big fight I had with Sister P’s evangelical team after they accosted me on my way back and started preaching loudly at me. But none of these compared to what was coming, when trouble came with an apology and I foolishly invited it in.

Trouble snorts loudly and buries itself deeper in my covers. I feel the heat from its fart on my too warm right leg. My left thigh is out in the cold. I try to steal some of the covers back but I am distracted by the change in Sister P’s tempo. She is entering a new prayer section.

I know Sister P’s prayers by heart now. From Praise to Worship to Binding and Casting to Grace. When she speeds up, I feel the blood in my veins surge. I tap my fingers to the sounds of Bs and Rs bubbling up and boiling over the fire of her tongue like hot yams. Her lips tumble one over the other to create sounds which have already exploded into being in her mind. Sister P does not play. She is forceful with God. Commanding even, as if she wants to stupefy the almighty, shake him into coming down and manifesting his power.

Sister P prays as if God is a thieving houseboy who has stolen something she needs returned.

“Show them! Show them that you are God. Show them that you will not be mocked!” she screams.

I can hear her pacing, clicking her fingers. Each time she clicks her fingers, another demon is despatched to hell. I click mine, almost involuntarily. Beside me Trouble flings a leg over my body, and continues its whispery snores.

Sister P’s voice calls up scenes in my mind; strewn bodies of witches charred by Holy Ghost Fire, bloated wizard corpses, the mangled eyeballs of evil which would no longer be turned upon her family, broken teeth of drinkers-of-blood littering her verbal pathway. Destruction everywhere. All Sister P’s enemies blown away by the glory of God. Carnage. Apocalypse.

“All my enemies, die, die, die. You will come one way and you will be scattered a thousand ways.” She is screeching so hard that her voice breaks. My louvres vibrate. It is as if she has put her mouth directly to them. I clench my fists and try to stop my body shaking. It will be over soon.    In five minutes, the thanksgiving Hallelujahs would begin. Then there would be morning and evening on another day.

If I was God, I would have listened to Sister P by now; she wouldn’t even need to shout. Sister P is short and beautiful. Thick hair, no make-up or jewellery. Smooth, smooth skin. From the side she is shaped like S for Sunday. Any woman would count herself lucky. Not Sister P. She starts on her list of demands. It is a long list.

I turn my pillow over, preparing to savour the cool, cool underside on my next phase of sleep. Trouble is drooling on my pillow. I run a finger along his Cupid’s bow. I feel warmth implode inside my chest. I tap the ankle draped over my hip. He bolts upright.

“Trust you to sleep through that noise,” I say. “You’d better go home. Your wife is at it again.”

“Nnh?”

He always is useless in the morning. I shove his back to get him moving and turn over, burrowing under the covers.

“And leave better money o, not that nonsense fifty-fifty naira that you took from collection.”

I cover myself up and drift back to sleep.

Continuing my quest to bring traditional Igbo sounds to my South-East London home, I present to you an úbò, ógénè and what I’d generically call òyò. I’d appreciate its real name if anyone has it.

See you at the Igbo Conference today. Please say hello if you see me.

I have decided to write the man in the video below and ask if he will give me online tutorials in playing the úbò. I have always loved its sound and thanks to my mother, I now own one. It’s the calabash-looking instrument.

But first I am going to treat the gourd and the wood with oil over a few weeks to make sure it does not crack further,  to help it last long and give it a good sound.

The ogene I will clean and oil as well. And after that, me and the Tot will spend an afternoon finding/whittling the perfect stick to play it with. Such fun!

http://soundcloud.com/nucee19/life-continental-beer-at

Hello folks!

Isn’t the sunshine on your skin divine, does not the air taste delicious? No? Maybe it’s just me then, because my story is in Luna Station Quarterly. Huzzah!

It’s called ‘Tunbi’ and is the third story on the index. You can read it here. You can also click on the logo below to have access to the entire issue 18.

I am so glad to be part of this magazine. Someone – I believe it was Chika Unigwe – put up a link on twitter leading to their site and just from reading their ‘Stuff we want’ section, I knew I had found my tribe.  They’re closed for submissions now, but you can always keep an eye out for when they open again. They like:

• Fantasy
• Science Fiction
• Space Opera
• New Fairy Tales
• Some creepiness
• Stories that explore the nooks and crannies of an original world
• Big events from the everyman perspective
• Unique settings and storytelling forms
• Well written stories with strong characters

Make sure you read the entire submissions guidelines for things they don’t  like.

Oh and I forgot to mention, this is a speculative fiction magazine for women - because we’re badass, of course.

Hello,

So I have been practising my storytelling in Igbo for a long while now – mostly it’s Tot who is the beneficiary of my stories as you all know. However I thought I should share my latest efforts with you guys ; not only do you get to read one, but listen to it as well. I’ve uploaded a sound cloud file below.  It took about 6 takes and it’s still not perfect; I had to pause to read what I had written.

(I can speak Igbo well and write it too but reading it takes a bit of effort. Reading it aloud can be tough.)

I have also included the English language version which has taken A LOT LESS TIME to write (about 10 minutes). The Igbo version took me 25 minutes for just 700+ words. I have a long way to go in  the speed of my written Igbo, obviously!

Stories below.

***

OGOLI NUO DI N’ABO, OMARA NKE KA NMA.

Anwu chara Adaku n’isi mere ka osuso wee dabaa ya n’ime anya. Oji azu aka ya fichaa ya n’ihi na obere akwa ojiri ehicha okpofu ruru inyi. Adaku tara ikikere eze wee chee uche ojoo n’ebe enyi ya nwoke bu Ikem no.

“Moto onweghi, credit nwa, onaghi enye mmadu. Anwu anoro ebea n’acho ichagbu m. Kedu ka osiri buru so so mu na ndi ibe m n’ile bu onye na ata odiri afufu a?” Ka o na ekwu otua, were aka ya n’ehicha anya, owere lote na otere ihe n’anya. O nenere azu aka ya were fu na umu ihe n’ile ojiri cho nma n’ututu ahu etesasigo ya n’azu aka.

“Oo! Kedu kwanu odiri ahuhu di ihe a?” O wee maa nnukwu osu. O kwusiri n’akuku uzo, meghe akpa ya, choo ugegbe aka ya, ka o wee hu ma iru ya ajoro njo. Ihe ohuru mere ka o maa osu, were mkpisi aka ya detu ire ya, wee jiri aso mmiri dozibe ihe okara mebiri emebi.

Ka okwu ebe ahu, otu ugbo ala n’egbuke egbuke jiri oso gafee, gbasa ya apiti. Adaku nere anya n’efe ya odere ede n’ututu ahu wee tie mkpu akwa. Odi ya ka o ya gbuo onwe ya.

“Baby…”

Adaku wenyiri anya ya  hu na ugbo ala gbara ya doti nachighataru azu.

“Baby gini? Maka gini ka ijii gbaa m mmiri doti?”

“Nne, ndo amaghi m uma. Odi m osiso. Ahuro m gi.”

Adaku wee si ya “Kedu ka iga esi hu mu? Ebe ina agba ka onwere ihe n’achu gi? Oburu na ikuturu m, okwa otua ka nke m kara isi wee ga?”

“Chukwu aju, nne oma m,” nwoke no n’ime moto were yipu ugegbe anya ojiri dochie anya. “Nne iwe gi adina oku. Omalicha nwata nwanyi di ka gi ekwesiro idi na ewe iwe otu a, inugo?”

Adaku mara osu ozo. “Zuzupuo m n’iru biko! Onye bu nne gi nwanu? Kitaa aga m eje letu na lecture m. Onye kwanu nwee ike inachigha azu kitaa?”

“Ngwa bata na moto, ka m buga gi n’ulo akwukwo gi. Ngwa bata bata, inugo? Mgbe emesiri anyi ejee na butiki gote akwa ozo. Nke obula ichoro, aga m egotere gi ya. Ka m nye gi number mu.”

Mgbe okwuru okwu otua, Adaku gee nti obere.

“Enweghi m credit nji akpo gi. Biko ejego m late.”

“Bia ka m buje gi. Bata na moto. Anwu a ekwesiro icha udi mmadu gi.”

Adaku runetara isi, nee anya n’ime moto ahu. “Kedu aha gi?”

“Aha m bu Chuma. Mana ndi enyi m n’akpo m Chu ma obu Chu-Boy.”

“Aha m bu Adaku. Anaghi m aba na moto onye m n’amaghi. Mana idi ka ezigbo mmadu.”

Chu-Boy riputara na moto, gazite n’ebe Adaku no. Adaku lere ya anya, hu na otoro ogologo nke ukwu, gbaa akpu obi. Ohuru n’ahu ya di ocha ka okpa waawa. Ngwere bido gbaghariba ya n’ime afo n’ihi na Chu-Boy di ya uto n’obi.

“Nne, imaka o. Odikwa m ka m buru gi laa be m kitaa kitaa, ka nje gosi mama m nwunye m.”

Adaku siri ya. “Koghelibe ebe ahu.” Mana isi bia buo ya n’ihe Chu-Boy kwuru.

Chu-Boy meghere Adaku uzo owere ba n’ime moto. Ahu ya n’ile bia dabaa n’ime oche moto ka o no n’afo nne ya, ma obu n’ime nri ji. Adaku bia kudaa, negheria anya n’ime ugbo ala ahu. Ihe n’ile di n’ime ya n’egbuke, di ohuru. Tupu Chu-Boy wee bata n’ime moto, Adaku atugharigo ya n’uche ya na o ga arapu enyi ya nwoke nke ozo sorozie Chu-Boy.

“Biko tinye seat belt nne, n’uzo ajoka. Aga m akpochi uzo n’obu otu nsiri anya moto, maka ndi ori imeghe uzo na go-slow.”

Adaku mere otu osiri kwu. Chu-Boy gbanyere ikuku n’ime moto ahu, owe kuo Adaku, aru ya wee juo oyi. Adaku chiri ochi, gosi eze ya n’ile n’ihi na obi n’eme ya polina polina.

“So, Adaku. Kedu ihe I na agu na mahadum?”

Mana gbe Adaku meghere onu iza ya, ochoputa na ohiara aru tupu orote ihe o na agu.

“Em…ana m agu Sociology.”

Chu-Boy nesiri ya anya ike. “Ya bu na irozobeghi ihe ina agu?” Owee gbanyesie ikuku oyi n’eku na moto ya ike. O juru Adaku ozo, “Kedu aha gi?”

“Aha…aha…aha m…bu…bu…” Ura bucharu Adaku.

Chu-Boy chiri obere ochi, gbanite egwu n’akpo na moto wee gbasie ike, gafee iru mahadum, ebe ndi enyi nwanyi Adaku n’eche ya ka obia ulo akwukwo.

ENGLISH (very literal translation).

‘WHEN A WOMAN MARRIES TWO HUSBANDS, SHE DECIDES WHICH ONE IS BETTER’

The sun shone down on Adaku with such heat that a bead of sweat dropped into her eye. She rubbed the sweat away with the back of her hand as her handkerchief was already dirty. She gnashed her teeth and thought bad thoughts about her boyfriend, Ikem.

“He doesn’t have a car. He doesn’t give me phone credit. Why am I the only one out of all my friends to keep suffering like this?” As she thought these thoughts and rubbed at her eyes, she remembered too late that she had make-up on her eyes. She looked at the back of her hand and discovered it was smudged.

“Oh! What the hell kind of suffering is this?” And she hissed.

Adaku stopped by the side of the road and pulled out her mirror from her bag to examine the damage. What she saw caused her to hiss again. She dabbed a bit of spittle on her finger to wipe away and correct the lines she had draw around her eyes.

As she stood there, a flashy car sped past, splashing mud on her. She looked at her dress, the dress she had so painstakingly ironed that morning was speckled with mud. She wanted to die.

“Hey baby,” said a voice.

Adaku looked up. The car had reversed, stopping in front of her.

“What do you mean, ‘Baby’? Why did you splash mud on me?”

“Sorry, girl. I didn’t mean to. I was in a hurry and didn’t see you.”

“How would you have seen me, speeding like something was chasing you? If you had hit me down, is this now how I would have died this morning?”

“God forbid, beautiful creature!” The man took of his sunglasses and looked her up and down. “A lovely thing like you should not be prone to such anger. “

Adaku hissed again. “Get away from me. Beautiful creature my arse! Now I’m going to be late for my lectures. Who has the time to go home and change?”

“Come in, I’ll take you to school okay? I can get your dress replaced later. We could go to a boutique…I’ll buy you whatever you want. Here’s my number.”

Adaku simmered down a bit at the thought of shopping. “Whatever, man. I don’t have the credit to call you. Excuse me, I’m very late.” And she pretended to walk away.

“Com’on, I’ll take you. The sun is too hot for a beautiful girl such as you.”

Adaku leaned on the passenger-side window. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“My name is Chuma. But my friends call me Chu or Chu-Boy. “

“My name is Adaku and I wouldn’t normally take rides with strangers. But you seem normal enough.”

Chu-Boy climbed out of the car and came around to open the door for Adaku. She saw that he was very tall and broad-chested, his skin was fair like okpa waawa. Adaku felt as if lizards were scrambling about inside her belly. Chu-Boy’s looks pleased her greatly.

“Girl, you are fine,” said Chu-Boy smiling. “I feel like taking you to my house right now and introducing you to my mother as my wife.”

“Quit talking rubbish,” said Adaku, but she was secretly pleased at what he said.

Chu-Boy opened the door for her and she sank into the car seat. It cradled her as surely as if she was in her mother’s womb. It was like sinking into fufu. Adaku sighed and looked around. Everything in the car was brand new and smelled of wealth. Before Chu-Boy had even come round to the driver’s side, Adaku had decided she was going to leave Ikem and make a play for Chu-Boy instead.

“Fasten your seatbelt. I’m gonna lock the door okay? It’s how I drive. You know, I’d hate to stop and get robbed in a traffic jam.”

Adaku did as he asked. Chu-Boy switched on the air-conditioner and it cooled Adaku’s spirits. She gave a little laugh because she was suddenly very giddy with possibility.

“So, Adaku, what it it you’re studying?” asked Chu-Boy pulling away. But when Adaku tried to reply, she found out that she had difficulty remembering her course.

“Erm…erm…I’m studying Sociology….yes”

There was silence. Chu-Boy looked her in the face, hard. “I see you still remember what it is you’re studying eh?” He popped a tablet in his mouth and turned up the air conditioner.

“What did you say your name was?” He asked her again.

“My name…my name…my name is….” Adaku fell asleep.

Chu-Boy looked at her. He laughed and sped up, past the gates of the university campus where Adaku’s friends were waiting for her.

THE END.

Someone just sent me this video of American bluegrass band, Henhouse Prowlers performing P-Square’s ‘Chop My Money’ in Abuja and I just think it’s awesome – the energy of the people in the room especially, their appreciation, just made me break out in goose pimples.

See for yourself.

I realised at the weekend how little I blog nowadays because of all the irons I have in the fire. I will rectify this. I am coming.

Wait for me.

I can feel the eyes of everyone on me the moment I take off my jacket. I made the effort. I am pleased by their reaction. I suck in my gut and bask in the admiration.

He walks towards me soon after, swaying as though he has lots of balls clustered like grapes beneath his trousers; crotch out, shoulders back, hands in his trouser pockets, sweeping his jacket behind him like a cape. Superman. Master of all the Balls.

Nneoma beside me, watches his approach and sniggers. I know what she is thinking. He’s probably a weirdo. I always get the weirdos. Something must be wrong with my pheromones. The last time it was Callistus; hirsute and almost mono of brow. Handsome in that Wolverine sort of way. That is until the picking and flicking; eye crusts, teeth jam, bogeys.

And then there was Eghosa who sucked his thumb when no one was looking, using his herniated belly button as a stress ball. He was a banker. A good banker. He squeezed that sucker all the time. Wouldn’t go in for surgery either. Said it was his ‘good luck charm’. In the end, I decided couldn’t date a guy with a belly button bigger than my boobs. It just wasn’t right.

Don’t even get me started on the guy who had a tail.

In the middle of the room, Master of all the Balls halts for a passing waiter, jumping back deftly to avoid spillage from overfilled glasses. He turns it into a little dance.

“Quite the mover,” says Nneoma, eyeing him up and down. “Not bad.”

“For a man with elephantiasis of the scrotum, you mean?” I roar. Nneoma titters a bit, absent-mindedly. The fact she is is not ROTFL gives me pause. This is our usual Saturday night entertainment. I buy stupidly expensive dresses which I return the next day. We visit upmarket watering hole. Get drunk. Laugh at bankers and wankers and pseudo-poshos and weirdos and intense Afropolitan-types. Go home sans weirdos. At least try to, anyway. It’s pathetic, yes. But that was how we bonded; two lonely girls from the same country who had nothing else in common.

Master smiles.

“Nice smile too,” she adds.

He has. There is a dimple in his chin that I just want to stick my tongue in and an almost cartoonish twinkle in his eye. I can even hear the twink! when the light hits it. I decide that I want him after all. Walking around crotch-first like he wants to impregnate the world is no problem, I tell myself. Much better than boob-navel.

I smile back, raise my hand in a finger wave. Beside me, Nneoma starts. I feel her glancing at me. She clears her throat.

“Err, babes…”

“Back off, he’s mine,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Girl, listen…”

“You just got a promotion! Don’t be greedy.”

Nneoma grins back maniacally but I can tell she is upset. “Fine. I need the loo anyway.”

She says ‘loo’ now.

Master reaches me just as Nneoma takes off, tattooing the floor in an angry clack-clack of heels. I flick my hair and cross my legs on the bar stool.

“Hi,” he says. His breath smells edible. He looks suddenly shy. It makes me want him all the more.

“Hi,” I tilt my head in what I hope is a coquettish manner. He smiles again. His teeth are white-white. I want to go to sleep in the tight curls on his head. He swallows.

“Hey, so,” he bends lower whispering in my ear. “The price tag on your dress is showing.”

I just heard the Tot belting this out. I asked what he was singing as I have never heard it before. See if you can guess what it is:

His dad has just verified that he’s played this tune. Now supposing it was something full of the B-word and the N-word or even – God forbid – the C-word? Ha!

Kids sure are sponges.

The superwomen over at Luna Station Quarterly liked another one of my stories well enough to publish it. It’s called ‘Bossy Boots’ and is out today. Woohoo! Issue 19 baby! Excelleeeeent! *Plays Bill and Ted riff*

I really enjoyed writing this story, I love how the protagonist appeared out of nowhere in the dead of night. It was as if she was waiting for my mind to be exhausted enough to drop its defences and let her in. I did and I do not regret it. She is bawse; sly, smart, slinky, sensual and sensitive. I kinda have the hots for her. I love the relationship between both main characters. 

I hope this feeling never gets old. I hope I never stop feeling ecstatic that more people will get to read my stories. I hope that I will always find someone who wants to publish my sci-fi/weird fic/spec fic/whatever-the-hell-fic-you-choose-to-call-it. I hope people will enjoy reading them.

Enjoy reading it, why don’t you? (Or in the immortal thoughts of every writer: likemelikemelikemelikemelikeme!)

You can find my story here and access the full index of weird and wonderful here. 

Remember, if you’re a woman writer and meet their criteria, Luna Station want you. They are currently closed for submissions but if you leave your contact details, you will be notified when they open again. 

Please consider supporting the magazine by buying the ebook. Some of us have kids that are starting school soon. It’s to buy biscuits. You understand. *Blows juju powder*

The market was even more crowded than normal. I elbowed my way through, irritated.

“Nne-nne,” a man called.

I stopped. “What?”

Many times later in life I would wonder why I stopped. I never stopped. Not when men tried to guess at my name, calling out ‘Ada!’ or ‘Chi-chi!’ or ‘Ngozi!’ or ‘Ifeoma!’ and held my wrists so tightly that my watch snapped or my bracelets bit into my skin. Perhaps that was it – he didn’t touch me. Maybe it was that he did not do that annoying hissing thing that Nigerian men do when they want to get your attention anywhere. Or else it was the way he stood, like he had expected me to stop. Maybe it was Juju.

I hesitated, annoyed with myself and made to continue. The man walked up to me, dabbing his face with an overly-white handkerchief which nearly blinded me in the sun. Green and red dots swam in my vision when I looked away.

“What do you want?” I snapped with more venom than was required.

He shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing, just to look at your beautiful face.” He pronounced it ‘bitiful’. I thought ‘Kill me, now’.

“I am going,” I said. Traders hung about, watching this exchange and it made me uneasy. I swatted a fly that buzzed around my ear. My chandelier earring swung. It got caught in my hair.

“Barrow, barrow!” A barrow boy bellowed, looking for a customer. He bore down on me as I stood in the middle of the path, struggling with my earring-hair ornament. The man reached out a hand and moved me to the side.

“The barrow was rusty. It might have cut your beautiful legs,” he said when I glared at him for touching my waist.

Ballow. Lusty. Bitiful. I abandoned struggling with my earring as my irritation – against myself, against him – mounted. The man couldn’t even speak English! Why had I stopped? I was making a spectacle of myself. My right earlobe hurt from being twisted upwards. He moved again and before I could slap his hand away, he had untangled my earring from my hair.

“Thank you,” I said frostily, walking away.

“Mummy, wait now.”

Immediately my stomach roiled. I detested men who used ‘Mummy’ as a term of endearment. I found it exceptionally unimaginative.

“My name is not mummy,” I snapped back. “Am I your mother?” I carried on walking, cursing my heels, my ill-fortune at having to enter the market on that day. I hated the market. Noisy and smelly and grabby and spitty. Had I not come straight from the office, I would have sent Chekwube or Okey, two of the fastest, most resourceful kids in my compound to get me what I needed. They always brought back correct change and didn’t dally. But tomorrow was Independence Day and markets would be closed all over the country. I had run out of cabin biscuits and wouldn’t survive the night.

“Nne what is your nem then?” he asked from behind me, undeterred.

My name? I thought. As if.  I was jostled and jostled others in turn. The loose sand conspired against me. My thighs burned. A woman with a basket of broken tomatoes as wide as her hips brushed past me, dripping reddish water down the elbows she put behind her head to support her load.

“Easy now, ah-ahn!” I yelled.

She eyed me with uninterested eyes, walking away. “Sorry Aunty,” she said.

“Are you going to pay for my clothes?” I shouted behind her. She didn’t answer. She flicked some more of the tomato water from her forehead. I examined my clothes. There was a watery-red stain on the front of my cream shell camisole.

“I will, if you tell me your nem,” suddenly the man was in front of me. He smiled, showing a gap between his teeth. “My name is Calestous. But my guys call me Cali.”

Calestous. Of course. Right up there with Pius, John-Mary and Titus. I stopped for a man called Calestous – ‘Cali to his guys’ – and I would have to live with that decision for the rest of my life.

I looked at him. At his smiling, dabbing, Bright Chimezie self and knew this was not a man to give up easily. It would help if I just gave him my name. That way he would leave me alone.

“Chielozona,” I said. The fight went out of me like wind.

“Chielozona,” he repeated, nodding. “Bitiful.”

Before I met Calestous, it is possible that I was bored.

The kind of boredom that drives you back into your boarding school habit of cabin biscuits and powdered milk before bed; breaking the biscuit in half and using it as a spoon to scoop the milk powder into your mouth. Everyone knows  full fat milk is as deadly as  ice cream and chocolate.  To me is was like coke. It always seemed to make me feel better in boarding school when people stole my clothes or buckets of water. In fact the whole habit had started because I didn’t have any water and I had to eat something.

I was stressed all the time. If it wasn’t the theft of your water and clothes and provisions, it was senior girls nearly doing you in with mindless errands, ‘Go and tell Senior Ebele that I said she’s stupid’, kill-the-messenger type situations which nobody could win. Tell senior Ebele and die. Don’t relay the message and die. The advantage to such situations was that it made me fast on my feet and quick with my tongue. Which is how I had lied my way into my bank job. Which probably accounted for 99.9% of my boredom.

The waistbands of my skirts and trousers were becoming a little tight but who cared? I was bored with watching and weighing everything that went into my mouth. It was relentless. Tedious. There had to be more to life than that.

The boredom I felt was bone deep. It could not be eased by the usual distractions; novels and YouTube and Two Broke Girls. The day before I met Calestous in the market, I sighed in the middle of attending to a customer. So deep was the sigh that my breath fogged up the glass. The woman eyed me, her lips tightening.

“If you don’t want to attend to me, I can go somewhere else,” she said and she marched off with her Ghana-Must-Go before I could stop her. I had to plaster a smile on my face for the rest of the day. The manager watched me like a rat would watch dry fish in the trap.

I needed a holiday. In the absence of that, a day or so of sick leave. I didn’t mind being ill if it meant I could rest. I would have put my phone alarm on snooze in the morning just so I could get a few minutes to psyche myself up, but as a twenty-seven-year-old banker, who could afford the luxury, boredom or no? Waste even one second and some hungry graduate is there in ill-fitting shoes to take your place for less pay. So I bought and ate my cabin and milk and rode the storm, waiting for it to abate. I was waiting for something to happen to me.

And then Cali did.

Cali showed up outside my gate the next day. His knocking ‘Gbam! Gbam! Gbam!’ rattled the gate and brought me to the window of my ground floor flat. My landlord who had been celebrating Independence Day clinking glasses and eating suya with some of his friends around the guava tree, let him in.

“Yes?” he stood to the side, looking him up and down. He smiled as if he had just relieved himself. “Which one are you looking for?”

“Good evening, sah. I am looking for Chielozona,” came his voice.

“Shit,” I muttered, hiding behind a curtain. How on earth had he found me?

My landlord’s smile disappeared. “We lock this gate at nine o’clock, sharp,” he said in his retired-gateman voice. “This is a respectable yard.”

Cali stepped in. I saw him frown slightly. His mouth said, “Thank you, sir, I will be out of here by then.”

I started to feel bad about my toad of a landlord harassing him so I went to the front door. Cali turned when he heard it open, talking even before his eyes had verified I was the one. “I just came to return your wallet,” he said. “It fell down the other day and you ran away as I was calling you.”

My landlord was still eyeing Calestous which made me strangely territorial. “Come in,” I said, grabbing him by the arm. I shut the door in my landlord’s face.

“Thank you. I have been looking for my wallet since yesterday. I would have had to cancel all my cards.” Not too bad when you work in a bank but a nuisance nonetheless.

“Ey yaa,” said Calestous sympathetically. He did not take his eyes off me. I opened the wallet. He moved about the flat, picking things up and setting them down again.

“There is too much money in here,” I said. I felt my nostrils flare. “Did you put extra money in my wallet?”

“Yes,” said Calestous, still wandering about.

“Why?”

“For your blouse now. I told you I would buy you another one.”

“I don’t need your money.” I counted out the surplus cash and added a few more notes for good measure. I stood where I was, holding out the money, forcing Calestous to come back to me so that I could get him out the door. He turned slowly. Smiled. Walked towards me, counting his steps. When he reached me, he took my hand in his and traced the lines on my palm with a finger.

“When are we meeting your parents?”

“Excuse me?!” I squeaked and began to cough. I snatched my hand away and thrust the wad of bills into his. I knew then Calestous was mad. I blamed myself for my earlier jealousy. I should have just let my landlord lure him into his upstairs flat full of disgruntled wives and hungry daughters who waited for marriage to give them their own rooms, to save them from their father’s mad desire to keep procreating. It would not be the first time. He’d got three of his daughters married off the same way – bloated and pregnant, looking like laden ships as they glided down the aisle in virgin-white gowns. One of the husbands had been my neighbour Ngozi’s boyfriend, the only other single girl in the compound and by that virtue my friend. She had moved out soon after.

“I said, when are we meeting your parents? I want you to be my wife.”

“I think you should just leave.” I opened the door. The noise suddenly died down. I knew my landlord and his mates were watching and listening to every word. I didn’t care. I had to get rid of Calestous. Ignoring the ridiculousness of the situation, the man said ‘Pelents’ and the more I heard him talk, the more I replaced Rs with Ls in my own head. Even ‘bitiful’ didn’t seem to annoy me as much as it previously had. The man had to go.

“I will go,” he said. “But I plomise you, you will dleam of me.” He had the audacity to look sad. “You are my wife, Chielozona, and I am your husband. I am sure you feel it. Inside ya heart.”

He left. My landlord watched him go with eating eyes.

I slammed the door for the second time that day, locked and bolted it. I was agitated. I plugged in my electric heater and warmed up a bucket of water. Before it was properly hot, the power cut off. I did not have the energy to put on my generator. I scrubbed my body hard with my sponge trying to make up for the lukewarm water. I lit a kerosene lamp and put it in the hallway, dusted mentholated talcum powder all over my neck and settled in for the night.

When I slept, I dreamt of Calestous.

Calestous wormed his way in.

I’m still not sure how it happened. I will say though, that the one thing I like about him is that he is a sharp dresser. It doesn’t make me shallow to appreciate a man that takes care of himself. In his Versace and Armani and Tom Ford suits, he fit right into my workplace when he came to pick me up from work, twice a week as had become custom. Even his casual clothes are the business. None of that drop-trouser nonsense. He was trim and fit and it made me want to look after myself too.

Whenever I saw him coming, my heart wanted to leap up and fly into his arms. His elegance made me want to sing – that is, as long as you did not make the mistake of asking him who he was wearing. ‘Versanchi’ might make you wonder what bush meat had to do with it. Nevertheless, I thought Calestous the most well-dressed trader I had ever seen. He had to be. It was his job. He owned four menswear shops ; two in Onitsha, one in Enugu and one in Awka. Well, boutiques really.

“They are shops,” Cali would say firmly. “Not boutique.”

“A boutique is a shop, darling. It’s just more sophisticated.”

“If a boutique is a shop, why not just say ‘shop’?” he would pinch my nose. “You like performing guy.” And he would kiss me lightly on the lips, holding my chin as if it could shatter in his hand.

The other thing I like about Calestous? His good heart. He just never had a bad word to say about anyone. Not even my manager who had it in for me and wanted me to leave so he would hire one of the small-small university girls that made him feel like a man on a regular basis. He had tried it on in the early days and I told him no and ever since then, he’d had it in for me. I told Cali how he kept stressing me, nagging, making me check and cross-check my figures even when they were correct and the next thing I knew, my manager strolled into work, looking like something from a magazine.

“You guy na correct guy,” he said. And that was the end to his wahala.

I stopped eating my cabin biscuits and milk combo. Not that Cali made me, or even hinted at it. Nothing like that. He had been on the phone and I had snuck into the kitchen to have a quick one. I was just shoving the heaped milk into my mouth when I noticed him by the door. I started, spilling the powder all over my chest. Cali came over and started cleaning it up, sucking in air through his mouth.

“I’ll buy you another top,” he said, winking. I smacked him. He took the broken cabin biscuit from my hand and popped it into his mouth. Just like that, my appetite for it died.

I looked forward to showing Cali off to my parents. But I was nervous too. My mother especially, had a bad habit of running off boyfriends but even she had started hinting at grandchildren so maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, I thought.

A couple of months ago, she had cracked my sister’s Facebook password and seen a few photos of Cali and I. The phone calls had become more probing, persistent. She called at all hours of the day especially early in the morning, hoping I would be groggy enough to divulge what she wanted to know or perhaps to hear Cali in the background so that she would have something to hold over me. She started threatening to come and visit so I promised her that we would come to them instead. Not for the first time, I wished I lived and worked more than one hour away. Cali thought I was overreacting.

“Look, I will behave myself. I won’t use my spoon to drink my tea. And I will call tea ‘tea’ and Milo ‘hot chocolate’. I promise,” he said.

He was joking but I could tell he wasn’t joking fully. He was worried that I was ashamed of him and I wanted to cry because the last thing I wanted was for him to feel bad. It was not his fault my mother was a snob. It was not his fault he had not had the start in life I had. I was here to teach him. And when the time was right, I would get him a private tutor and persuade him to do some exams. Maybe GCSE. No person with Cali’s aptitude for numbers and head for business could be a dumbass. He could apply for a business undergrad, do an MBA…my head swam with possibilities.

“Are you ledy mummy?” asked Calestous. I didn’t even hear it any more.

“Yes. Yes I am.”

“Mum, Dad, this is Cally.”

Cali gave me a look. “It’s Cali,” he corrected.

“That’s what I said,” I picked some lint off his blazer.

Cali enveloped my mother in hug. She looked taken aback but smiled. Dammit, I thought. I had forgotten to tell Cali that my mother did not like to be hugged by strangers. She’ll be talking about that when we leave, I thought. I knew my mother. She had already begun marking him, looking for flaws, for reasons to fail him. Nobody was ever good enough for her, not unless he had a PhD, was a medical doctor or the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Or George Clooney, but he was off the market now.

“You’re quite tall,” she said.

I was glad for that. At least she would not hold height against him.

“We bless God,” said Cali and I winced. Since when? I thought. I didn’t how that phrase made him sound.

Cali remembered my father’s title and greeted him accordingly, clasping my father’s proffered handshake in two of his.

“Let’s take a look at this mystery man, finally,” my sister Nwamalubia pushed through my parents, throwing herself into Cali’s arms. She disentangled and looked at him critically. “Hmm,” she said.

“Wait, let me pose properly,” said Calestous. He started to do a number of poses while Nwamalubia pretended to take his photo. My mother looked alarmed.

“Cali, darling…” I started.

“Nice jacket,” said Nwamalubia. “Versace?”

“Yes, Versanchi. Very good. You know fashion?”

“I know beauty,” she replied. “I work with textiles too.”

“Why don’t we move from the doorway?” I asked, a little unsettled. I thought I had seen Nwamalubia’s lips turn up when he said ‘Versanchi’. I would have to have a word with her.

“Yes, let’s,” said my mother leading the way to the smaller living room. I smarted at that. I knew she had already judged Cali and found him wanting. The grander of the two living rooms would remain closed to us. She was so obvious! Not two minutes in the house and I had the beginnings of a headache. I would have to have a word with her too.

“Nwamalubia tells me you like fried rice,” said my mother. She saw Calestous’ puzzled look. “She searched your Facebook, dear. This one,” she pointed at me,” Doesn’t tell me anything.”

“I’m okay with anything you give me,” Calestous said, warming my heart. I took his hand in mine and squeezed it once. I was going to kiss him for that later.

“Good. Cook is making you fried rice. Special. Just for you.”

“Just for you,” added Nwamalubia, in an ominous tone. I turned to look at her. Just what were they planning?

“Eh-he, I forgot. Excuse me,” said Cali, going out to the car. He came back with three gift bags and stood back to enjoy my family cooing over their gifts, face shining like the sun. I squeezed his hand again.

Two hours later and Calestous held his fork and knife like they were machetes. He bent over, shovelling food into his mouth while his knife shuddered in his other hand, yearning for a piece of the action. I cleared my throat, tried to show him with my eyes, how to hold his cutlery but he was oblivious. He smiled at me each time. After the fourth or fifth time of clearing my throat, my mother snapped.

“For heaven’s sake Chielozona, sip something. You’re driving us insane.”

My mother had a way of co-opting everyone into her own sentiments. I obeyed anyway. My shoulders hurt from sitting in the correct manner. No sooner than I had taken a mouthful of my drink than she asked, “So Calestous, what is it that you do?”

My drink went down the wrong way and I started coughing. Cali’s cutlery clanked down on his plate. He slapped me on the back.

“Easy, easy mummy,” he said. My eyes were watering but I saw my mother raise her eyebrow at that. My sister Nwamalubia tittered.

“He’s an entrepreneur,” I said as soon as I could. I wiped the tears from my face.

“Oh interesting,” said my mother. She cut a piece of chicken, placed it in her mouth and chewed for a long while, even though it had only been a sliver of flesh. “And what is your area of expertise?”

“Men’s’ apparel,” I chimed in. “You know, the good stuff. All originals, which is a relief in Nigeria. Dad you should come down to Onitsha to see him. Cali is one of the genuine distributors of designer wear here in Nigeria. He also offers a fitting service…”

“I’m sure you’re very proud of your boyfriend dear, but he can speak for himself,” my mother cut me off. She smiled what my sister and I called her ‘Queen Regent’ smile. I tried to stop my nostrils flaring.

Calestous finished what was in his mouth. I made a mental not to talk to him about bulging cheeks, the darling, and waited until he’d had a sip of his water. “I’m a trader,” he said.

“Darling, you own a chain of boutiques offering bespoke services. It’s hardly trading.”

“I own shops. I sell men’s clothing. It’s trading,” said Calestous. A crease appeared in the middle of his face.

“It’s more than just trading…”

“Trading. Definition ‘The buying and selling of goods and services’,” Nwamalubia cut in. “Is that what you do, Cali?” Her eyes twinkled.

“Exactly. That is what I do. I am a trading man,” Cali affirmed, winking at her. “It’s not this English your sister is talking.”

I laughed, swatting him on the arm. “Yes, darling, I know. It’s just usually, when people talk about trading you know…”

“I think I’m ready for dessert now,” said my father. He had barely spoken a word since I introduced Cali to them. He got up from his seat. “Perhaps Cali, you wouldn’t mind joining me in my study? We can talk without this impertinent daughter of mine jumping down your throat. Lunch was superb dear, as always.” He kissed my mother on the cheek, tugged at my ear. Nwamalubia kissed his cheek and then he was gone.

“Thank you for lunch, ma,” said Cali. He kissed my mother’s cheek just as my father had done and left without looking at any of us. Anger and tears burned behind my eyes. My mother had upset him.

Nwamalubia watched him leave. She chuckled, nudging my mother. “M-m-m. What physique, what taste. Too bad he doesn’t…”

That was all I needed to hear. “Too bad he doesn’t what eh? Speak English well enough for you? Too bad he doesn’t know how to hold his cutlery? Well too bad for you, Nwamalubia! I love Cali and he loves me. At least he doesn’t live at home with his parents.”

Nwamalubia gasped theatrically. She was a spoilt little madam, much indulged on account of her ‘artistic temperament’ which she had inherited from our weaver-grandmother. Her handiwork littered our parents’ house and yet, she’d never had a gallery carry her stuff, claiming it ‘wasn’t ready’ and preferring to redecorate our parents’ house over and over instead. She was one to talk. At least Cali was his own man.

My mother stared at me, mouth open slightly. Cali’s mouth-print gleamed wetly against her powdered cheek. I fumed. She was probably going to talk about it when we were gone, about how nobody had taught him to kiss a cheek probably. The thought of them laughing at him made me feel ill to my stomach.

“I was just going to say ‘Too bad he doesn’t carry women’s wear I would have bugged him for a freebie’” Nwamalubia swallowed. “But never mind that, tell us how you really feel.”

“Nwamalubia,” my mother warned. My sister normally went from nought to sixty in the blink of an eye.

“You know, it seems to me like you’re the one who has a problem with him, calling him entrepreneur…”

“…That’s what he is!”

“Nwamalubia,” my mother warned again.

My sister looked at our mother and words seemed to flow between them. Words to which I was not privy. After a while, Nwamalubia smiled at me, getting up to stack the lunch pates before anyone else could do them.

“Anyway, I think he’s cute,” she said. “If you don’t want him, I’ll gladly take him off your hands.”

Her jovial tone was forced. I know my sister. Whatever she was going to say had been snatched away by my mother’s warning look. Warning for what? It further confirmed what I felt. They wanted to save their gossip till I was gone. It hurt my heart to know they were going to talk about Cali and after he had been so nice to them too. We should never have come to see them, I thought.

“You think this is ‘Coming to America’?” I asked. We all laughed. But my heart was not in it.

***

“Mummy, ya vely quiet. What’s the matter?” asked Cali on our drive back. He had been whistling along to Osadebe for two minutes. Before that, it had been Dolly Parton, Bob Marley and some song in a language I did not know. Cali’s taste in music was eclectic.

“Nothing, darling,” I said.

“Are you sure? Did anybody annoy you?” He lowered his voice. “Did I annoy you?”

I patted his hand, rubbed it. “No, no. You didn’t annoy me.”

“Good, good,” he said. He continued whistling. I thought about my mother and sister some more and my blood boiled, sending my breath, steam-hot out of my nostrils. The cheek of Nwamalubia! I was not sure what I hated more, that she laughed at Cali or her conciliatory jest afterwards, as if I could not handle the truth about my own boyfriend, as if I did not know him and love him regardless.

No, because, I corrected myself. I loved Cali because of who he was.

I studied Cali’s profile. Clean-shaven with that red Ibo colouring. Blunt chin which I often pretended to chew on. He knew I was watching him but unlike me, Cali never seemed to baulk under scrutiny. The person who could make him flinch had not yet been born. Cali was a man and a half. So why then did I feel this feeling behind my eyes, heavy as if I was going to cry? Outside, the sun tucked itself further into the darkening sky and my mood sank along with it.

“What did you and my dad talk about?” I asked suddenly. Cali smiled.

“I can’t tell you. It’s man stuff.”

“Com’on,” I said. “Please? I have to know.”

“You don’t have to know evlytin’,” he said.

“Cali…”

“Mummy?”

I felt a flash of anger at that. “Chielozona,” I corrected.

“Chielozona, mummy,” said Cali.

I frowned and said nothing more. The silence made Cali take his eyes off the road. He tweaked my nose.

“Smile, Jesus loves you,” he said.

“Stop it,” I swatted his hand away, irritated. What was this language he had picked up? First it was ‘We bless God’, now this? It made him sound so…so… Another thought occurred to me. Had he always been this way and I simply had not noticed?

The slap still resounded in the car, taking up room. Cali replaced his hands on the steering. He didn’t resume whistling.

“Sorry,” I said after a while.

“It’s okay, mu…Chielozona,” he said.

That made me feel worse. I searched the side of his face for clues to what he was feeling.

“i am not angly,” said Cali and the tears almost started rolling down my face. Cali never hid how he felt. He always said.

“Sorry,” I said again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Cali rubbed my clasped hands with one of his. I looked out of the window at the world speeding by; green shrubs and red earth interspersed with my reflection. The noise and chaos of backfiring okadas, honking cars and overladen buses came as though from a distance, muted in Cali’s silent, ACed car. I grew tired.

I knew I had fallen asleep only when Cali shook me awake.

“Wake up, mummy. We’re here,” he said.

“Are we?” Onitsha stared back at me, draped in criss-crossing wires like a fisherman’s drying nets. “Oh.” I made to get out of the car. Cali held me down gently. His breath tickled my ear. I flinched.

“Stop,” I said, smiling.

Cali kissed me lightly on the lips. “Mummy, I want to come inside,” he said.

The combination of Cali’s straightforwardness and the accidental pun would normally make me smile and acquiesce but that night I was not in the mood.

“Not tonight Cali,” I said. “You know I have to get up very early. Tomorrow is Monday.”

Cali sated his appetite with kisses until I pushed him gently away. “I have to go, darling,” I said. I slipped out of the car before he could come round and open the door. I knocked at the gate. He waited until someone opened it before he drove away, still waving.

I felt guilty to be so relieved.

I am pleased to announce that I have a short story appearing in Apex Magazine next month. Excited!

Here’s why:

I have loved this magazine forever. I went through a bout of insomnia last year and Apex magazine was great company; all that weirdness, that darkness. Scrumptious sci-fi.  The stories would grip me until I was dizzy, falling eventually into an exhausted sleep. (For a long while, this was my favourite story.)

I mean, you have all these Hugo and Nebula and WSFA award-winners contributing to the magazine. And then there’s little ol’ me.  Have I said how excited I am?

I am so happy I fulfilled this promise to myself. And as they’re having me narrate my story for the podcast, I just might die from glee.

You can hear their previous podcasts by following links here. I joined their list of narrators after my piece was accepted for publication a few months ago. I narrated ‘Jupiter and Gentian’ by Erik Amundsen. I really enjoyed reading it – in fact, I have got bits of it still stuck in my head.