BITTER SWEET BY DAKO ALICE TEMITOPE

HI PEOPLE, BEEN A QUIET PAST FEW DAYS ON HERE. THIS STORY BY THE ONE WE CALL @emini_ANOTI ON TWITTER IS A SURE DAY STARTER. PLEASE READ AND ENJOY, AND DON’T FORGET TO USE THE COMMENT BOX BELOW. THANKS

 

Time stood still. Apart from the thrum of her heartbeat; a roaring sound that threatened to make her deaf, she heard her clothes rip. She bated her breath and waited for the worst. The torn clothes dropped to the floor, and her underwear soon joined the heap. She looked at his face, all she saw there was hunger – raw, burning hunger.

Shutting her eyes, she drowned herself in thoughts of pleasant things, like the box of expensive chocolates that had brought her here. The chocolates were so ridiculously expensive and promised to be very appetizing that she had cast aside her inhibitions and agreed to come see him. It was after all the least she could do, seeing as he had spent a whooping three thousand naira on a box of chocolates. She sighed as she remembered the feel of the candy melting in her mouth the same time his hand went to hold her behind. She had covertly put the hand away and continued munching on the chocolate while she walked into what she now realized was the demon’s lair.

Chocolates . . . sweet chocolates that would now cost her the virtue she had been boasting of to anyone who cared to listen. Tears burnt beneath the closed lids and she bit down on her lips until she tasted blood. Maybe pleasant things were not so pleasant to think about after all. She shook her head to ward off all thoughts. She did not need to think about how stupid she had been to ignore the signs that were so evident even before he bought the expensive snack. The ‘accidental’ brush of his hands against her breasts whenever he passed by her, those times he would hug her so tight that she could swear she’d felt a bulge in his groin area. They were signs all right, but she ignored them because her friends had told her to get used to it.

“Men like touching and all those stuff, you know,” a friend had said with a very wise, knowing nod. “That doesn’t mean he is a pervert na. My boyfriend does it all the time.”
“But, it is getting too much…”
“But kini? You want to throw away a rich, fine bobo like that? He has a car, he has a good job, he’s giving you money and buying you everything you want before you ask sef. You are lucky o. Instead of you to be happy, you are here complaining.”

She never talked about the signs with her friends again. She learned to get used to it. To her, he would get bored soon and stop touching her randomly.

A deep pain jarred her from her painful memories and caused her to open her eyes. He had lain her back on the settee, mounted her and was now working his body furiously atop hers. He was starting to sweat too, beads of his perspiration dropping down on her. There was nothing on his face to show he was enjoying what he was doing. His face was contorted into a grimacing expression, like he had swallowed something bitter. The sweat was streaming down his body, giving it a wet shine, like he was struggling to push a truck filled with rocks. He just kept on moving back and forth and grunting like he was in pain.
And he didn’t last long.

In moments, he was done, and then he collapsed on her. She pushed him off and got up from the settee. The pain she felt earlier had turned into disgust. Hard and crystalline. Questions whirled about in her head. Was that what sex was all about – the grunts, the sweating like a pig? She looked down on the settee and saw that the chocolates were scattered on it as a result of his hurried attempt to get her clothes off her. They were mashed down, and no longer looked appealing as bits of them mingled with the spatters of her blood on the couch.

DECEPTION 2

HERE IS EPISODE 2 OF DECEPTION WRITTEN BY ISAACOLA A.A (@newnaija).

READ DECEPTION (1) ON  https://oscarpoems.wordpress.com/2014/02/11/deception/

THE WRITER BLOGS AT http://www.isaacolanewnaija.com. PLEASE READ AND ENJOY, AND DON’T FORGET TO USE THE COMMENT BOX…

When the Emir sent an emissary to Mallam Ibrahim that his daughter was the preferred of all the females in the town to be the wife of the crown prince, his son; Shehu, it was like a dream. Mallam Ibrahim was beside himself with joy.

Ibrahim was a respected man in the community with a well groomed daughter whose beauty transcended that of a typical Arab princess. Call Safiya his reason for living and you will not be far from the truth. He made sure she lacked nothing and grounded her well in his Islamic religion. She had the best of both Islamic and western education too.

He lost his darling wife Khadijat, during Safiya’s birth. If he had been as wealthy as he presently was, Khadijat would still be alive. A few complications arose after the safe delivery of the child but he was unable to raise the required money. He watched in pain as life slowly ebbed out of the only woman he loved.

He had remarried two other wives after the death of Khadijat but none of them could fill the void left by his late wife. The two wives tried so hard but neither could take the place vacated by Khadijat. When they knew their efforts would always be futile, they stopped trying and resorted to fate. They both had children of both genders but whenever Ibrahim saw Safiyat, the other children paled into insignificance. She was like a reincarnation of his Khadijat, the woman who made him know what it means to be devoted to another.

As a way of keeping Khadijat’s memory alive, Ibrahim made sure Safiyat did not lack anything. He actually made sure whatever she might need was available before she requested for it. The bond between father and daughter was so strong that anyone who needed his favour only needed to convince Safiyat who in turn would put in a word for such person.

Being a lover of education, and a teacher himself, Mallam Ibrahim made sure all his children had access to Arabic and western education. He employed a private tutor for them all but still went ahead to employ a special one for Safiyat, the apple of his eyes. He often bragged to friends that his daughter would be a woman of influence and substance.

Things however changed when the marriage thing came into place. With Safiyat soon to be on her way to the palace, her access to people, especially her Maalim was restricted. Her Arabic and Quranic studies had to take a back seat while a female tutor was sent from the palace to groom her in royalty. Ibrahim asked the Maalim to stop his classes but he noticed Safiyat’s displeasure and sadness.

“I’m proud of this girl, she values education. If this is the only thing I will do for her before she relocates to the palace, I have to get it done”, Mallam Ibrahim thought, as he always sought to make sure his daughter’s life was a happy one. He went as far as striking a deal with her husband-to-be so as to have her continue her education under the tutelage of her male teacher. Part of the terms was that the husband could change the teacher if he was not satisfied with his wife being taught by another man.

He was not disappointed with the moodiness he noticed in Safiyat. He understood that after him, her Maalim was the next person she could relate with very easily. He saw her hesitation to the change but he wrote it off as marriage induced anxiety and continued grooming her for royalty.

Safiya had a gentle looking mien that was obvious and good carriage that was a distinguishing feature. Mothers used her as an example when scolding their kids, urging them to be like “Mallam Ibrahim’s daughter”.

She would never raise her head to look into the eyes of elders. Whenever she had the rare chance to be with her peers, she sat gently without talking much. She would easily compete with the dove in terms of gentility.

After the introduction to sexuality shortly after her fifteenth birthday however, a new side of Safiyat evolved. There was the desire for more each time and she literally grew insatiable. She still maintained her calmness but she was something else whenever it was time for her tutorials with her Maalim. He made sure she learnt ‘all’ there was to learn. Whenever the desire arose, she had a way of making sure it was satisfied to the fullest.

Back to the present, as she stood in the inner recess of her husband’s chamber in the  Emir’s palace, waiting for the crown prince , she was scheming a way out of her dilemma when the sound of his  movement towards the door started getting closer. His coming should be music but with her state of mind, it was nothing but an assault to her ears. Judgment Day was upon her and there was no Maalim to face the music with her. They were two when the act was committed, now she has to face the result of her misdeed alone in no other place but the shadowy sanctum of the Emirate.

“Safiya”, Shehu called her name as he entered the chamber and walked up to her. On his face was a smile, the kind which was enough to make a virgin melt like chocolates in contact with blazing heat of the sun.

“I hope my disgrace won’t start tonight”, she thought as she smiled weakly; a cheap attempt as her lips wobbled, unable to stay put.

OFFICE LIFE (6)

THIS WEEK’S EPISODE OF OFFICE LIFE IS A LITTLE LATE. APOLOGIES FOR THAT. SOMETHING FOR THE VAL’S WILL DROP LATER TODAY. ENJOY THIS FROM @Bunmi_Bimbola first…

My internship with the television station was nearing the end but I was sure I had learnt a lot to last me a life time in my career. I had successfully crashed ‘women’ and ‘wine’, two W’s that was associated with the media frenzy. If the need arose for me to celebrate my graduation, I was sure my boss would not be short of words to describe my excellence. Knocking down at least seven bottles of the big honourable became a daily routine for me. Like some folks would say “its combination with milk will refresh the brain”. My relationship with the big honourable was so strong that life become incomplete and unfulfilling whenever we skipped our regular “romance”. I had heard my boss say times without number that the honourable “is a sure way to replenish lost energy and compensate the brain for a day’s job”. There were many nights I left the bar with my boss and got home in high spirits. Waking up with a hangover was the pointer to always start my day. Many times, I had to dip my fore finger into my throat to vomit so as to reduce the alcohol level and the effect in my system. A few weeks to the end of my internship, I had a friendly chat with a staff of the television. He asked how I was able to cope with the boss, noting that everyone who ‘rolled’ with my boss always got his fingers burnt. “See egbon, nobody rolls with our oga and has a better story to tell o. How you take dey do am sef?”, the man asked. As we strolled to the palmie joint during the break-time, the man jokingly noted that my boss should have taken a job with a brewery as the “Chief Taster” due to his love for alcohol and the ability to mix different brands without much fuss. I laughed hysterically and added that “oga is a record breaker when it comes to any kind of alcohol. He don add beer to the work he taught me here sef”. The second “W” was women. As much as I had my swell time with them, the unwritten standard rule with my boss was “never move near my target”. It was a ‘touch not my anointed’ situation despite the fact that some of the ladies would not have passed up the chance to be with me once or twice. To him it would be like a Local Government boss challenging the President to a contest. Trust my street smartness, I was still able to beat him in that area though with great caution and mutual unspoken word with any of the ladies involved. If you say “sharp practice practitioner” you must be referring to either my boss or me. He was a don in office politics and I had quickly learnt the ropes from him. Our misunderstandings were always minor, and were settled at the beer joint over bottles of honourable while I mostly settled the bills from the ‘coins’ I got from our different assignments. I would not complain because divine wisdom had worked profitably for me in form of my native dress technique. My last major assignment with the television station was a juicy one. I was on one of my many “office grounding” punishments for not following the office game rules. All staff in the editorial department had gone for their different assignments. The usual activity with office grounding is sleeping. I was taking a dose of that when the General Manager’s office assistant walked in and said “the GM wants to see you”. My heart did a double flip in my chest because no one was summoned into the GM’s office without a serious issue to settle.  We all called that office ” the Slaughter Slab”. The only thing I saw on the face of the Office Assistant was a look of pity. My mind was into turmoil. “I must be in trouble”, I thought to myself. As I approached the GM’s office, I made a sign of the cross, took a long breath and knocked the door. Without waiting for answer, I opened the door and greeted. He sized me up and gave a nod as if he was satisfied with something. Looking up, he said “go back to your office”. The Office Assistant came back to give me a note. I tried studying the expression on his face as I opened the note but it gave nothing away.  As I took my eyes off him and on to the note, I read “Go and join the reporters and the driver downstairs. You are heading to cover the First Lady’s assignment”. I picked my mobile phone and wallet and ran down the stairs at the speed of light. For the first time in all my stay in the media house, I did an assignment without giving returns to anyone. My fat envelope weighed heavy in my pocket. I was again summoned by the General Manager the next day. He told me that I had been recommended by my oga and some senior reporters to stay on as a News/Editorial Assistant in the Radio service after my internship. That means I could continue to work after my internship while I returned to school. I did a combined grin, smile and laugh, went flat on my chest to say my thank you and took my leave. As I got out of the office, my oga called. “Ogbeni come and wash the promotion for me o. 12 big honourables on you”.

DECEPTION

HELLO FOLKS. THANKS FOR STAYING WITH US WHILE WE RAN OREKELEWA BY @lumi_slim. WITH THE CONCLUSION OF OREKELEWA, HERE’S DECEPTION. THIS IS WRITTEN BY ISAACOLA A.A (@newnaija) AND WOULD RUN FOR SOME WEEKS. THE WRITER BLOGS AT http://www.isaacolanewnaija.com. PLEASE READ AND ENJOY, AND DON’T FORGET TO USE THE COMMENT BOX…

Safiya was fidgety, looking forlorn with the zit on her left side temple dancing to an unknown drummer. She sighed heavily as she looked up to the grandfather giant wall clock and a lone tear drop unconsciously escaped from her eyes and trickled down her well made-up face. What happened to her and how will she explain her situation to her father? Something had to be done before it became too late. It was actually becoming too late as the sun had started taking it stroll toward setting and darkness was gradually encroaching on, and enveloping her world.

 

Casting her mind back, she remembered how it all started in the recess of her father’s compound hidden from the main building. Her Maalim¹ was the only person of the opposite gender that was permitted into the hermit-like abode of the females in the vast compound. The young but virile Maalim whose name she did not even know deceived her into allowing him to touch her sensitive part with holy fervor and fear as his instrument of getting her submission. She was actually supposed to cry out or ask her father to change her Quranic teacher but the touch left her with a bitter sweet experience, the kind one wants a repeat of; the kind that chains the commonsensical  and awakens irrationally unhealthy desires.

 

Safiya stayed put and allowed the godless religious teacher invade her privacy. That decision to not totally discourage or report the Maalim is one she has now come to rue as she is left with the craving for what should not be mentioned among her age mates, even in this so called jet age. She was hell bent on milking the best from him even when her rational mind kept telling her to flee. How to explain her present state to her husband on her wedding night, a few hours away, was now a burden. “How do I tell him that I am no better than a slut, at just sixteen years old? How?”, she queried no one in particular.

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

Shehu, though the dream guy of all the young eligible spinsters in his community, is suffering from a serious medical condition he is unable to disclose to any mortal. The consequence of disclosing the ailment has far reaching results, beyond what his mind can bear.

 

The only son of the reigning Emir² of Kandol, a town in the north east part of the country, Shehu had the best in terms of education. His was where the children of the nouveau riche and the influential were schooled.  They were well exposed and introduced to different things, both the good and the not so good.

 

Introduced to the way of the world by his teacher at a tender age shortly after his tenth birthday, Shehu had involved himself in different things that have shaped him and has several bearings on what his life has turned into.

 

Here he is, on a day that is supposed to be the happiest of his life so far, a day that is looking to be anything but the happiest. Culture demanded that he marries a virgin. After the ceremony in the day, he is expected to bring out a blood stained white handkerchief on the first night of the marriage. This was to signify his manhood and his wife’s purity.

 

How will he explain that his manhood is as dead as Pharaoh’s mummified corpse? In one of his escapades during his wild days, he contracted a sexually transmitted disease which has rendered him practically impotent.  He looked up and a tear drop escaped his well-rounded aquiline face as he weighed his options.

¹ Maalim – Hausa/Arabic

²Emir – Traditional ruler in Northern Nigeria

OFFICE LIFE (5)

OFFICE LIFE IS WRIITEN BY ABIMBOLA ADEBAYO (@Bunmi_Bimbola). PLEASE READ, ENJOY AND DON’T FORGET TO USE THE COMMENT BOX. BLESS

“You seem to be learning very fast for an intern. That shows that you are reliable and can be trusted with more sensitive assignments”.

That was my boss eulogizing me during the Editorial Meeting after I had carried out a duty assigned to him.

‘Sources’ informed me he had gone frolicking on a weekend time-out with one of the babes he told me to stay away from. He instructed me to carry out a few assignments, warning me sternly that there was no margin for error and that I would be in deep trouble if I failed. Unknown to me, it was his official assignment.

I had no objections really as it was a way of facilitating my re-launch into the mainstream that I was steadily getting into. The babe I was eyeing had already shown that she had outgrown me and was too ‘big for my gigs’. In the real sense of the word, I was actually passing my ‘semi left over’ to the boss. Not that he cares anyway, as long as the babe will be another ‘fish’ he had caught in the office.

Needless to say shame is not in some people’s dictionary. As for me, I had already made up my mind to play my “games” out of the office environs where the coast is larger and choices are available in different shapes, sizes and colours, with a level playing ground for all.

My major problem of ‘delivering’ after every assignment still remained. It was a very worrying situation that required me to do the ‘needful’ so as to break free from ‘slave labour’.

To make matter worse, each time I was out on official duty with my boss, the philandering man had the habit of always stopping at the office or shop of one or two of his many lovers. You will wonder how that is my business. Issue is his stopping to see those women always reduced whatever little I would get from the brown envelopes. On days that I am unlucky, there’s nothing left for me after Oga has formed Chairman.

On those days, I get compensated with pepper soup and a bottle (or two) of the ‘big honourable’. I however try to play the good boy always by not taking more than a bottle of beer and a plate of pepper soup.

Needless to say that he had been using the envelopes given to us to service his social life while he left me with whatever I enjoyed from the beer and pepper soup. Incidentally, he gave cash to these women right in front of me while all I got after beer and pepper soup most times was a pat on my back.

It was obviously a “monkey dey work baboon dey chop” situation all because I was an industrial trainee.

After much thinking I came up with a “master plan”. The logic was to wear natives for every weekend assignment knowing my boss would be unavailable most times. That way it was possible to divide money given to us at the assignments.

This was even easier because my boss’ trusted ally, the cameraman with whom I went on weekend assignments also suffered the same plight as me. Picking us as his crew members was not because he loved us, it was because he felt we were “obedient servants” as the others always gave him tough time.

Whatever we were given at any assignment was always ‘dealt with’ immediately. I always made sure I opened the envelope, counted the money and divide into three parts. I kept one-third in one pocket and kept the other two-third for delivery to the boss. We would then proceed to share the one-third while the rest would be given to the boss who uses his discretion on how to spend the money (mostly on beer and pepper soup).

The cameraman testified. He told me he has never gained much from working with our boss but with my new sharing formula, the “devil” has been put to shame.

He used to deride weekend assignments but the master ‘sharer’ in me made him look forward excitedly to weekends. He made himself available, on standby, always.