TOGETHER OR NOT

Nearly four years ago, I posted the tenth episode of a series I was running on this blog and I haven't updated this blog since then. Hopefully, I'd be updating this blog regularly as I regain my fiction mojo.

Retroviral Chronicles part 7- Martha's rage.

I'm rather excited about this series, it's taking a very different form than I'd planned but I'm so loving this new path and all the unexpected bonuses. You can catch up on the older stories in this series if you click on the HIV/AIDS label on the right. Let's start today's episode shall we?

Anytime she saw the girl and her mother waiting to see Patricia and collect drugs from the pharmacy, she’d want to punch something or kill something just to assuage the feelings of rage and helplessness that coursed through her at the sight of them. She struggled to school her facial features to reflect cordiality even though her heart burned now and had been burning since Jesse called last night.

Retroviral Chronicles part 4- Virtue's reward

This shouldn’t be your reward, the payment for being a good wife. All the holy books are full of praises for the woman who is faithful to her husband, they call her blessed, honoured and virtuous.

 They do not say she should be waiting to collect antiretroviral medication in a hospital, imprisoned by a virus that has no cure and that will transform into a disease that will strip you of every dignity before it kills you. They are all silent on this matter, perhaps they did not foresee an idiot quite like the one you married.

Retroviral Chronicles part 1a- The Big Sister

 She looked down at her gown as she got off the bus, the engine oil stain from the mechanic’s overall had spread a little wider. She worried about getting the stain off, wearing a white uniform frayed the ends of her patience. The thing attracted more stains than a young girl at a boys boarding house would magnet eyes and she spent a good chunk of her salary on bleach and detergent.

A friendly coup

They watched the flurry of activities from their perch at the window, their feet rested on the seat of the club chair propped under the window and their noses were pressed on the window louvres- different louvres because the girl was taller. A woman rolled dough and cut it in strips for chin-chin, another was washing cuts of beef and frozen chicken, their mother was chopping vegetables for fried rice while their aunt had just finished washing a gleaming white mass of rice.

Unfurling

 “They don’t have iodized salt and I don’t understand this sea salt and rock salt that they have” she said looking up at the man beside her who was carrying their basket.

Of friends and fishes

“Dodoyo” she said, she was referring to the driver who’d caused the obstruction. He’d rather delay traffic than wait for two cars to pass through the bottle neck created by the partially open gate.

“I’d thought dodoyo was a typical Yoruba curse word” he replied with a look of surprise, she couldn’t speak Yoruba.

Love's true lie

Being in the farafina creative writing workshop has been a very beautiful experience. I've learned plenty and hopefully I've gotten better at this writing thing. We're supposed to do things we wouldn't normally do, "stretching our writing muscles" in Ms Chimamanda Adichie's words.

 I haven't really written sex scenes before, not because of religious reasons or because my mother reads my blog (well that's a little chunk of the reason), but because I think sex scenes should be well done. I wouldn't write a sex scene unless I think it serves the story and it would be realistic. No flying monkey stuff for me.

The story I'm putting up today doesn't have a sex scene but is very sexy, please let me know in your comments if you felt it was well done and if it felt realistic.

Jazzed

  I love jazz, I think it's the music of the gods, the only genre of music that can express any emotion fully. Soul is the only other genre that comes close but there's no way Soul can make you feel the heights and depths, plains and tangled paths that jazz guides you through. The people sitting, dancing or just lounging in the quadrangle seemed to agree with me, the look of bliss on their faces as they listened to the live band play Earl Klugh's "Tropical legs".

  I was still clearing tables when the band segued into "Calypso getaway", Bassey the bartender whistled and Jaiye the other waiter nodded at me. I ignored their blatant attempts to see my famous reaction to the song, I've been known to bawl like a baby on hearing the song. Unfortunately for them, I was in a hurry to get home to my man, my shift had ended and the pesky tables were only delaying me.

   The bus ride home was uneventful but the driver kept singing 'Careless Whispers' at the top of his lungs, thankfully he was singing the original version by George Michael. I wouldn't have been responsible for my actions if he'd been singing the jazz version by David Koz. It brought up unpleasant memories and I hated those memories. It had one redeeming feature, without it I wouldn't have met the love of my life, the same young man I was rushing home to see.

I open the door stealthily, trying to make as little noise as possible. Tochukwu is a light sleeper and I hated to have him wake up when I'd come home, he wouldn't go back to bed for the next two or so hours. He'd ask endless questions about my day, tell me everything that happened in his class and at Kachi's- the neighbour who took care of him during the day. I didn't get my wish, he wasn't even asleep.

He runs to hug me, his legs thumping on the cement floor and his words tumbling together in garbled order as he trys to tell me twenty things at once. I finally get him settled on the only sofa we have while I put away the food I brought from the hotel into our fridge- another thing I got from the hotel. The main perk of my job is the fact that I'm allowed to take food home, that way I get to save a bigger chunk of my salary for Tochukwu's education. 

"Mummy play 'together again' on your phone" he says as he flashes the smile that reminded me of the charm with which his father dissolved my defences before he disappeared like dew on a hot morning. Tochukwu loves David Koz's classic song, although I'm pretty sure he developed that love as a defence mechanism due to my excessive binging on the song when he was a toddler.

"Mummy, we have to dance to this song at your wedding" he says as we dance. I smiled at the thought of my wedding, a beautiful pipe dream that could only be imagined by my beautiful five year old son. He has no idea how slim the pickings were for a single mother of a male child whose income put her just above the poverty line.

I lift my son and our eyes are on the same level as his dangling feet betray his glee at being carried. I rub his forehead with mine, we'd done it since he was a baby. He believes it allows him listen to my thoughts.

"I know what you're thinking, Mommy" he says as he claps his little hands. "You're the happiest mommy in the world" he pipes.

  My man is right, he's always right.

Enugu's heartsong

I recently attended a traditional wedding at Enugu, my roommate of six years in the university was getting married. I was there for three days and I decided to base a story there. I really hope you like this one.

Nothing

The walls are bare,
Sterile, clinical
The rooms are empty
My voice echoes

Dede'm

Remember how excited we were at your unfurling,
Giddy with joy at your awakening.
How our hearts leapt at the sounds of your first steps,
And our smiles at your first words.

Runaway

 He decided he'd had enough of his parents inflexibility and lack of understanding, he had to leave home. They even loved his little sister much more than they loved him, they let her have his toys but he couldn't even touch hers without her crying like someone was kicking her on the stomach. When she cried, they'd rush out, carry her and tell her she was their princess and the most beautiful baby in the world. They didn't even tell him he was handsome.

Retroviral chronicles- The virgin

Happy New Year y'all

I'm starting a new series I planned on doing last year, it was inspired by my clerkship days at Ghain HIV/AIDS clinic at the Central hospital Benin and a recent visit to military hospital Ikoyi where my friend was undergoing her internship and she was posted to the Retroviral pharmacy that month.

Me- Chapter 3

    She was sitting in the cyber cafe and tapping her foot as she waited for the page to open. She was about to start biting her nonexistent nails when the page opened. Tears filmed her eyes as the effect of what she had just seen sunk in, she had passed her WASSCE