Guest Post

The Future’s Past

Next up on my list of ‘Liebster Award’ Nominees is the delightsome one with many an appellations and the reason’s pretty simple really….dude’s simply UNBELIEVABLE and he flows ‘sick’! Having said that, I introduce to y’all, Dr Ezechinyere Ekpo, with his pen name; succinctly and aptly surmised as ‘DrSwag’! Actually, that pen name says it all for me! He, as well as the masterpieces he cooks up on his oh sooo glorious site, ‘Kingdom Come’; oozes top class like I’ve never seen! He’s an embodiment of wits, articulation, eloquence, charisma and wisdom! A movie buff and I tell him he belongs in the medieval ages! He’s the beginning and the end of ‘flow’, thus the appellation ‘Flow Merchant’ and ‘Lyrical Genius’, poetic are his jibes! Had sleeping beauty been privy to him, and he were prince charming; he oughtn’t kiss her to jolt her back to life, nuh-uh; all he needs do is simply open up his mouth and just…..flow and she’d spring right back to life, the witch’s spell of true love’s first kiss be totally damned to the Hades, by golly! A lover of the Lord, his writes are faith-based and mighty sensational! He spins tales, so well flavored and seasoned from the Bible and does a bang-up job of ’em…. I coulda sworn that oft times when I read through and savor those tales, I can just sniff a whiff of the fragrances he makes mention of in some of these beautifully composed tales, emanating from therein whilst also assailing and assaulting my senses! ‘Cooreepie’! So then, If your delight’s in Biblical tales ‘sleekly’, ‘suavely’, ‘smoothly’, sweetly and really ‘coolly’ concocted, rendered and narrated, then you DEFINITELY wanna be in on this one! Just go here and gobble…. gobble away! Lest I forget, here’s wishing all ye fantastic folks out there a very Happy Sunday! Lets spread love and let go of hate, beef and strife already! Its simply not worth anyone’s while, wayyy too exhausting! No time!

Thanks a bunch Unique, for putting up with me….. you know what I mean; and for coming through for me! You’re a great guy and its been a jolly good ride knowing and rolling with you! You humor me to no end and I’m totally bowled over! Keep on soaring to great heights on the wings of Eagles! You too ‘gbaski’ and thou rockest……PIECES! Thanks again ‘Sweetim’, Mwah!

She was pregnant and dying….attached to her, instruments whirred and beeped in mechanical heartbreak.

Sunfield Medical Centre was the premier teaching hospital in the country and it was believed that if they could not deal with an infirmity, then the infirmed’s goose was cooked. It was situated in a valley with hot springs interspersed with lots of pine and eucalyptus trees. Modern medicine was holistic.  Beyond drugs, nature had been implicated in playing a huge part in healing. Following this belief, most hospitals were built in naturally salubrious surroundings by default.

Medicine had progressed far beyond Jurassic barriers into frontiers only imagined. Like most areas of life, it had gone almost totally digitalized. Robotic mechanisms took blood samples with motorized efficiency, hence veins no matter how thin or tortuous didn’t have to be pricked more than once. The age of palpations and percussions was over. Blood samples were analyzed by machines that gave accurate diagnosis on the spot.  Scans and other diagnostic procedures brought out results in seconds. Recombinant DNA technology, Immunology and other break through scientific discoveries had consigned diseases like Ebola, Diabetes and AIDS to the past. It was a new age.

However, it seemed man’s fate was irrevocably tied to disease. As he seemed to win the health war, maladies mutated and presented new fronts that had never been seen before. It was a raging battle, sometimes a bleak one for mankind.

Such a hopeless conflict was being fought in ward D07. The young man had been sitting on the chair for days on end in the room only managing sips of drinks. His wife and unborn son were dying before him and there was absolutely nothing he could do. The cancer was virulent and eating up her cells with vicious gusto. Everything was gone, gutted by the fiery flames of the malignancy.  Complexion sallow, the promontories of her bones stretched the thin parchment of her translucent skin. Rivers of her veins could be seen running, thin and dusky blue. The only thing left was the fire in her eyes and the light from her snow white dentition. Her eyes showed that the embers of hope still burned in the hearth of her soul. When she smiled, the dark cloud of death in the room gave way to the sabre of her dazzling beams.  However, these moments of triumph were transient. The pall of death was heavy in the room.

The medical team came for their rounds and the doctors took him aside. Another failure was going to be recorded for medical science. All had failed. Death had the crosshairs of his rifle trained on the woman’s forehead and the trigger would be pulled anytime soon.

The high velocity bullet of pain hit his heart first. Agony that burned with steady intensity flared up into a conflagration that consumed him. HE LOVED HER!!! He would never allow her to die. He started researching on his own, dividing his time between her bedside, books and consultations with the best in the country. It was an exercise in futility!

One day, he saw a very old book with worn leather coverings amongst the new books in one of the few libraries around that hadn’t gone paperless. His curious nature and love for books took over. The book was titled “Wisdom of the Ancient”, written by Al The Mighty, a famous warring King from aeons past. He browsed through the pages and was surprised to note that as he read, the fragile pages gleamed new and fresh.

He went back to his research but could not get the some of the lines from the book from his mind. They haunted and tortured him. The book had said “there is always a genesis to every conundrum; the future is in the past.” He got a revelation that fuelled his desperation….

Hourglass, a new machine for time travel had been invented but had never been tried with humans. The inventor had said the machine was still in its nascent stages and its safety could not be guaranteed yet. Trying it at this stage might lead to disastrous consequences.  A traveler might get lost in one of the galactic cosmic mazes forever.

The husband was not deterred in the quest for his wife’s cure. He would do it even if he died trying. He would go to the past, peradventure he found answers there. He could not tell her where he was going because he was sure it would hasten the assassin’s bullet. Kissing her forehead, he informed her that he would be away for a few days.  Tears pooled up from the wells of her soul and her dejection wrenched his heart. What had to be done, had to be done anyway. He walked away with resolute determination. He knew he might not be coming back but this was their last shot at salvation. As he left, tears rained, unrestrained…..

unrestrained

He took the ride, broke through the space dimension and found himself in a place where time wore swaddling clothes….in this place he became known as ‘Ikenna’, the Power of the Father.

huts

……The cock crowed the dawn into wakeful grogginess.  High on the branch of a tall mahogany, a lone bird forlorn and lonely cooed mournfully for a lost love. The village stirred to the rousing music of a new day.

Ikenna came out of his hut, yawning and stretching, a chewing stick jutting out of his mouth. He took a big palm branch and started sweeping the yard, humming a song to himself.

He finished his chores and quickly made short work of cold fufu and bitterleaf soup. The next day was the major market day “Nkwo Mbaise” of the surrounding ten villages and he had to get ready. He needed to make some money to buy some yam seedlings for the coming planting season. Taking a fishing basket, he set out for the river, bare feet hitting the ground with bustling energy, cutlass swiping through over-exuberant foliage.

At the bank where stubborn reeds fenced off the river, he heard singing that made him look instinctively to the trees wondering what kind of exotic bird made such heavenly music. On getting to the river, he saw a beautiful maiden washing ugu vegetable. She was so good looking and made such beautiful music that he stood still for eternal seconds wondering whether the sight before him was human or divine. Even though he did not believe in the mythical goddess of the river, for a moment, Ikenna was almost given to the belief that she existed.

Her skin was black and glistened like the “ube” pears that grew in his father’s farm with lips that had the redness of ripe palm kernel fruit.  Her hair was thick as the forests, black as the bark of ebony and shone like they had been thoroughly anointed by “elu aku” black kernel oil. Her teeth were the white of coconut flesh with the front exquisitely chiseled off by “Chi”, forming a gap that was more glorious than the golden doorway of their village king.

He told her all these and she laughed calling him a joker. In her laughter, dimples floated in and out of her cheeks like phantom butterflies. His heart almost seized!

“Nkwo Mbaise” was forgotten and his fishing target for the day changed. Instead of fishing, he found himself washing vegetables and cracking jokes. By the time, the weary sun was settling in for the night, he had her heart firmly in his basket. Her name was Adauwa and she was from the neighboring village. He walked home whistling like he had caught all the fish in River “Eziudo”.

Four moons down the line, he carried wine to her parents showing his intention to marry her. The rains of good fortune had fallen on his life. He went about his daily existence with the euphoria of a palm wine giddy drunk.

Then…one day, Adauwa followed her friends to the sacred forest to gather firewood and made the mistake of eating an “udala” fruit. The forests belonged to “Aru” the village deity and the fruits were said to be hers alone, forbidden to all even when they are rotting away on the ground. Adauwa had been famished that day and the red soft core of the cherries drove her to distraction. Surreptitiously, taking a couple, she had feasted on their delicious fibre coated seeds. Nothing in this world had tasted so sweet! After all who would know, she does not eat and tell.

Deep in the dark covens of “Aru’s” temple, a scream arose from the dark pots where the deity’s blood sacrifices where kept. The blood in the vessels frothed over and in the largest pot sprung up the face of the young maiden. Someone had done the unmentionable; the sacred fruits had been eaten. A devastating storm of death would be unleashed because of the abomination.

The girl was bound and brought to the temple to slave away for years before she would be killed. In the interim the curse that was released by her sacrilegious act wiped away her family. “Aru” was a vicious god that gave no quarter when crossed.

Ikenna nearly went mad with grief. Doing what no one had ever done, he went into the dark forests where the god’s temple was and asked for the release of his beloved. “The atonement would be blood, the Chief Priest had said, blood for blood, life for life…”

Ikenna surrendered, he would give his life for her.  He would die in her place so that she might live. “Be careful what you wish for son, this is not going to be an ordinary or pretty death,” the priests told him.

He made up his mind in his usual stubborn way to give up his life for her. “I would undergo the sacrifice to make her walk free, I will take her place. I will be her sacrificial sheep” he insisted.

On the appointed day, he was tied to a stake and the thirty nine priests took their knives and stabbed him in a maniacal frenzy while she watched…He became a fountain of spurting blood. Dying, he used his last breath to whisper, “Nne, I love you…always remember that….

Unable to tear her eyes away from the bloody horror before her, she screamed and screamed……

…….He was sitting beside her bedside, head bowed in dejection as she breathed feebly through her oxygen tube. It would not take a genius to know that the end was near…

The doctor burst into the room with unmitigated excitement. “We have found a cure,” he shouted. The research that had been going on with the blood cells of a lamb had proven successful. His wife will live! They transfused her with a syringe full of ovine blood and something dramatic began to happen…

He went berserk with joy, rejoicing over her while planting kisses on her forehead (his special way of showing his deep affection). Gazing into her eyes, he saw the pair of love and victory. He laughed….

 Forasmuch as ye know that ye were not redeemed with corruptible things, as silver and gold, from your vain conversation received by tradition from your fathers; But with the precious blood of Christ, as of a lamb without blemish and without spot: Who verily was foreordained before the foundation of the world, but was manifest in these last times for you, Who by him do believe in God, that raised him up from the dead, and gave him glory; that your faith and hope might be in God. Ist Peter 7-9.

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Guest Post

Ife!

Thank you so much guys for hanging on as we go on this wild rollercoaster fun ride, to revealing my nominees for the ‘Liebster Award’! Y’all have been such great sports and am simply just blown away by your magnanimity and kindness, I shan’t forget by golly! Plus, do have y’all a very glorious Easter Day Celebration! Enjoy!

That said, I present to y’all the crazy, that is; the good kinda crazy mind you,…..Kingsley Okechukwu of ‘Hard Voices’! Dude’s extremely funny and I coined for him the appellation…’The Humor Merchant’! He’s a total, absolute crack-up and his cool, unrivaled sense of humor shines through every single line of his writes, which are for the most part satirical, as he attempts to thrash out societal vices in the most hilarious of ways that will keep you shaking your head in complete disbelief and total hysterics!  If you’re a fan of literary writes bursting with sheer hilarity and sarcasm; look no further than to the ‘Humor Merchant’ for a fix and you shan’t be disappointed! He blogs here, so then, be off with you! Thank you guys, I know I can count on y’all! Mwah!

And to you Kingsley, I couldn’t possibly thank you enough! I remain humbled and totally grateful for heeding my call! You’re the man and you do rock….pieces! May you be mighty honored far above and beyond your very wildest dreams, expectations and aspirations in Jesus’ Name, Amen! I gat only mad love for ya buddy, thanks ever so much! One love! Mwah!

The old woman told Ife to make a wish, to see anything about her future. Ife’s heart began a violent throb on her ribcage and her breathing became a loud whisper. She had barely helped the hapless woman across the highway, and now it seemed she will get a fearful view of her tomorrow; not all of them of course, but a substantial part of it, any piece of tomorrow she so wished to see.

‘ Speak, my daughter’.

Ife could have wished to know if she would be wealthy or if she would graduate with her third class result. She could ask if her mother would survive the diabetic attack that had plagued and turned her to a sack of bones, or if her father’s pension would ever be paid…, or even ask to know when she would die. But, she didn’t ask any one of these questions, she just noticed her lips moving, mouthing off the words….’I want to know the man to whom I will be married’.

A mischievous smile crossed the woman’s ancient face like a crack in an orange. ‘Tomorrow’, the woman began, her voice cutting through the air with an antique authority, ‘you will know your husband, the first person to ring you up; will marry you.

Now, there are many men in Ife’s life, three of whom she considered marriageable….Mike, who’s studying in the United Kingdom, Eugene, working in the German Embassy and John, who’s gainfully employed in an oil company and whose father’s an erstwhile renowned political contractor. She would settle for John. Ife thanked the old woman and hurried off to her hostel.

In her room, lying atop the upper bunk, she brought out her phone and dialed John’s number. Three times, the phone rang to its fullest, and three times, the ringing ended with the irksome ‘No Answer’. After an hour, the restless Ife dialed him right back.

‘Hello Ife’, John alone called her by her name. Her other male admirers called her a sea of sweet names…..’First Lady’, Darl’, ‘Ma Queen’, ‘Chocolate’, ‘Berry’, and the list goes on. To him, she was Ife, just Ife.

‘John, I need you to call me early tomorrow morning’. ‘Very early’. ‘Please, please’.

‘Why’? Came the lukewarm response.

‘Just call me…first thing, I have got something important to tell you my love, pleeease’.

John let out a grunt.

‘Promise’?

‘I’ve heard you’.

‘Please, say you promise’.

‘I promise’.

‘Sure’?

‘Sure’.

She placed the phone on her bosom, heaved a sigh of relief, relieved yet; not so relieved.

That night, Ife’s sleep was haunted by a large book of hallucinations, broken into a thousand pages of feverish reality. In one, she was getting married to John, in a syntactic stadium with the President as Priest, and the stands were filled up with mascots painted in green and white shades of color. Then, the scene dissolved into a yellow beach, where a fisherman with his hook and line hung around his neck like a necklace, counseled them. Then, they were in a hotel , somewhere in Dubai, with the world of celebrities cheering them on as they took and exchanged their marital vows. Suddenly, she discovered she was wearing a black wedding gown and John was adorned in suits over jean shorts….

Ife woke up with a banging headache. It was 7am. Her room mates were fussing about the place. She hissed. Then she remembered and made for her phone, tucked underneath her pillow. Her excitement knew no bounds as she was expecting a barrage of calls…..all from John. She thumbed at her phone, only one text message advertising an archaic song as caller tune. Not a single missed call from John. Her excitement light, like a poor candle died before the wind of John’s dishonored promise. She became worried, frantic. At this time, anybody could call her……wrong and or blacklisted numbers, forgotten acquaintances or worse still, ‘chewing gum boys’. She knelt down beside her bed and prayed….

‘God please, let John be the first to call’.

She returned back on to her bunk….waiting.

Her phone didn’t ring. She sat up, her matrimonial uncertainty; squeezing the breath out of her. She would call John and ask him to call her back. There was no shame in taking your destiny in your hands. As she touched her phone, she heard it ring in her hands. ‘Thank you Jesus, at last’! She exclaimed.

Ife turned the phone.

Kingsley Okechukwu calling…….

She froze.

Then, her tongue loosed and she yelled out a wild….’NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO’!

Tweets to @Oke4chukwu

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Guest Post

Unholy!

Mimi Adebayo’s a girl’s girl, and pretty much a very huge deal…… HUMONGOUS! She’s a Master Storyteller and every inch an awesome writer! She churns out masterpieces, overflowing and greatly enriched with dialogues and conversations oh so eclectic, electrifying and mighty stimulating! Plus, the plots and characterization of her stories……tight, and am talking foolproof! Her stories are highly believable, true to life, and the suspense, twists and curveballs she creates with her masterpieces will leave you spellbound and wanting, nay; groveling for more! That’s mine Mimz, my ‘Liebster Award’ nominee …….witty, sweet, adorable, delightsome and very, VERY naughty; in a pretty snazzy and extremely cool way! She’s a saucy ‘lil minx, that one but I really do NOT mind and if you don’t either, as much as I do not; then I urge you on, to go look her up here and get an overdose of the Incredible, ‘Mimi. A.’! *winks*

Thank you so much my sweetness for coming two times through for me, you blew me away when you acquiesced to doing this and I do wish you all of the best in EVERY of your life’s endeavors! Keep keeping on gurl, the sky’s only but the beginning for ya! Love ya TONS! *hugs and cuddles*

Ada shifted uncomfortably in her seat as the Pastor spoke. She wondered why the man kept punctuating his sentences with fornication.

Forni-cation. Funny-cassion. Foni-cashun.

The word turned around in her head. This was her fourth Sunday attending the church and the man’s sermons seemed to revolve around that topic. Like it was the only sin that riddled the ‘body of Christ’.

“When you go to a brother’s house at night, don’t you know you’re inviting sin? Inviting forni-cation?” the Pastor yelled.

Ada wanted to tell him that even when you went in the afternoon, when the sun was at its peak, fornication was always invited. Sometimes it came uninvited, unbidden, unannounced.

She could testify to that. She let her eyes stray to the choir stand, it was somewhere she’d been avoiding since the Pastor started screaming ‘funny-cassion’. But now as she dared look, she moistened her lips as the memories bombarded her.

It was supposed to be an interview, an opportunity to know more about the choir, to know how well she could sing, to know how motivated she was to join the choir.

It was her friend Nene, who was in the choir who had suggested that she join. She had even introduced her to the Music Director.

“It would help you develop your voice and work for God,” Nene said with excitement.

Nene was very good at convincing people so she had stood no chance when the girl had embarked on a join-the-choir crusade.

He had invited her to his house;

“I normally interview prospective choir members,” he said with an easy smile which made his face look better.

He had told her to come by 2pm on Saturday because he had rehearsals by 5pm that evening.

As she looked at him now, sitting in the front row, eyes fixed intently on the Pastor, she wondered how someone could be so ugly and yet so beautiful.

She recalled the hardness; of his chest and in his groin and she felt her body tingle.

She had gone to his house that day with all intentions to join the choir. She’d met him fully clothed and welcoming and she remembered thinking how his eyes were too close together. How he was too lanky with a tiny waist. She remembered thinking that God had probably compensated him for his looks by giving him the voice of a nightingale.

He had offered her a drink- Coke, if you please. Just to relax, before we get into business.

One hour went by and they had still not ventured into talking ‘business ‘, the more Ada tried to steer the conversation towards the choir, the more he pretended not to notice.

“Tell me about your family. How many siblings do you have?”

She wondered what her family had to do with her singing capacity.

And then he had gotten up at a point and turned on the stereo.

“Music, good for the soul.” he said.

He forgot to add for the body too.

It had happened in a flash, like she saw in the movies; one moment they had been sitting on the rugged floor, talking about mundane things, non-sexual or romantic things, and then the next his mouth had covered hers, abruptly silencing her.

That was what thrilled her, the fact that he didn’t ask permission, that he took without asking.

The Pastor was right; stolen bread was indeed sweet.

At first she didn’t think, she couldn’t. He was kissing her senseless. His tongue playing with hers in a way she had never, never imagined.

And when she eventually began to gather her wits, he stopped.

She was breathless. His kiss had done that to her. She shut her eyes like a virgin, unsure and ashamed of herself. Ashamed that she had let him. And yet not wanting the moment to end.

And like he’d read her thoughts, he leaned in for another kiss. This time she welcomed him.

By the time his hands strolled to her green blouse and fumbled with her buttons, she knew she had no willpower to stop him.

And when he entered her, she screamed Jesus first, then his name, all in one breath.

Odogwu!

Thankfully the stereo was loudly blasting Frank Edwards ‘Thank God I Made It’.

Ada remembered thinking how ironic it was that they’d made love with that song playing in the background.

By the time they lay spent on the red rug, Ada imagined that the rug smelled of sex, of sin.

The next time she really looked at him, she saw not his ugliness, but a certain beauty. A beauty that came from giving pleasure.

And she wondered again, whether this was how the Spirit led people.

After having mind-blowing sex with the man and screaming his name in ecstasy, they would conclude that they were being led to marry him.

It had to be blasphemy; it had to be sin to get such fulfilment from sex. No wonder God had restricted it to marriage.

“So, did I pass the interview?” she turned to him, hoping he had enjoyed it as much as she had. She wasn’t an expert, not like him anyway considering that the number of lovers she’d had could be counted on just one hand.

He nuzzled her earlobe, tickling her.

By the time they went for the second round, Ada was convinced she would marry him. After all, a good marriage was sustained by a great sex life. If only she could have this for the rest of her life; she knew she would worship him. Worship at the altar of his little god- which was actually quite big.

And every night – and day maybe – he would take her to heaven.

“So what are we now?” she whispered, her feet curling into his.

“One,” he replied, kissing her again.

She chuckled to herself as she looked at him with his bushy eyebrows, looking so prim, proper and holy in his white plaid shirt.

She planned to visit him after service today, later this evening. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since their encounter a week ago.

She had to convince him that they were just right together.

Her attention was jerked back to the service as the Pastor said he had an announcement to make.

“There’s a wedding in our church. Pra-ise da Lord!”

She joined in the resounding hallelujah.

“Two of our members are tying the knot in a few months. They just informed me. Let us rejoice with Brother Odogwu, our able Music director, a man after my heart. He will be getting married to Sister Mariam. Please step forward both of you.”

As both parties approached the altar, Brother Odogwu beaming with pride and Sister Mariam, a shy petite woman clad in a sweeping skirt; there was a commotion at the back of the church.

It seemed a sister had just fainted or fallen under the anointing; no one could tell for sure.

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Guest Post

The Music From The Other Room!

Moving on with my ‘Liebster Award’ Nominees, I present to y’all, the very dynamic Su’eddie Vershima Agema! An award winning, very prolific writer cum poet, and a sage of sorts! Dude’s extremely deep as can be deduced from the masterpieces he churns out on his glorious site! He writes the most ‘ah-mazing’ flash fictions, short stories and composes such abstract, intensely divine unsafe pieces of poetic writings, that will tug at your heartstrings by their very compelling nature! He’s an absolute  romantic at heart, incurable and plenty unapologetic! He adores nature and music but his all time favorite pastime’s reading! Is it any wonder then that he’s pretty knowledgeable?! A very cool nerd I find him, without a single ounce of doubt!

Please do take a sneak peek of his glorious space and get a taste of his world here, and you’ll see just how easily this ‘Grand Crusader of the Written and Published Works of Literature’, as I like to call him is an award-worthy, pretty talented gentleman! Did I mention that he’s also funny?! Well then, I just did!

Thanks for coming two times through for me ‘Viashima’, may Aondo bless and keep you and all of yours! You DO rock and its been a great pleasure knowing and rolling with you! Thanks again, I’m deeply humbled! Cheers Sire! 

 I hear the sound come in. It is one I have heard before. I had danced several times to its many renditions. They hadn’t been mine. They were those of my friends and recently, the very last of my sisters. It reminded me of all those days, when we were little. It was like the rain dropping. I have always been fascinated by that too—tap, tap, tap. It is a sound that has kept me company many times. Music now has come to be like that for me. Music playing, twisting through and through, they define it all: the sol-fa notes on and on punctuating heartbeats through pulsating notes of varying tempos. I am a music connoisseur and I can tell all the sounds individually. I can tell even where voices become mechanised or harmonised with some instrument or machine.

I am that good.

Music has come to define every life experience for me. It is and was always one song or the other—mostly beautiful tunes, especially those from the other sides, the other rooms. They were the blistering songs of the dance rooms where recklessness hit the floor as couples danced at first meets, the ease of casual relationships energising their bones in abandon. The dances were often but many times, devoted. There grew the different types of music, mainly that of the ballroom, many times of two hearts flowing step by step in many styles—tangos and simple waltz, they were always perfect when it stayed two. Sometimes, it moved differently and seized with the intrusion of one more. Yes, I knew all the songs and I knew the dances. I have been there. I had been there.

You made most of it. I remember your genesis. Of course, I can tell the future from sound. But let us not lose rhythm. You. Yes, you. Your voice was surely the last thing to hold me or anyone. Your behaviour was something out from some savage place. You were in every sense of the word, unbred—and I didn’t think it would be through to all the meanings of the word. I had placed you in the composition where you belonged—a tuneless song. You were rough and all but it didn’t mean you didn’t have brains. You were one of those silently brilliant ones.

We had come to be acquaintances and I took it you weren’t too bad a person. Rough and gruff but okay. I noticed the moves and started to think of a concert—that of a duo. It was the 12th of February, two days to the toast of Siamese heartbeats. The lonely winds were all that were going to play for me that time. I steeled myself to watch on as others waltzed their evenings away. Many friends had come to tell me about who their partner would be. I sighed. The classics came to my aid drifting me away. It took me by surprise then when you said those words, out of nowhere:

“What will you say if I asked you out?”

There was noise everywhere but I answered immediately without thinking it over: “Yes. Okay.” In that second, I thought of how to change your chords and make you fall into tune. I looked at you in that second and discovered it would take so much work but I would try. In that very second, I thought all these and a new song started to play. It was one I had heard in the lives of many. It was finally going to be mine. Then, you blurted as immediate as my answer:

“I was joking.”

The song went flat—cut. Reflex? I simply changed the song back to the one playing before. Silence screamed as everyone turned to look at us. A few turned away after a while embarrassed on my behalf, perhaps. I ignored these people who heard you shatter the melody that had started building for me. Those who would see me in a whole new light of wrong. You couldn’t have known at that time but I had built a concert in that second for you, the concert had started from the time we became acquaintances.

It really was reflex, as you pointed out later but you don’t just cancel a concert in session, or one about to be started, one newly created—ahh! Whatever. You don’t just do that and expect to have everything come back together in one breath! No.

Later, much later, you made more moves, becoming a far better musician than I ever thought. I smiled at the efforts but never let it get to me till the big bangs of graduation came our way. You had taught me in your earlier instant action that one had to be patient to let the other know the right sets of notes to make it work. In love, there was no one hit wonder. You had to take time. All the way up to the wider world, you never stopped. You kept practicing and it seemed the tunes kept getting better. The thrill finally hit the spot and I knew I could say ‘No’ no more. You had learnt through the plays, teases and all. Even in my refusals, you had located the strings to my heart and now knew the exact chords – the way to play the tunes that were truly mine…

Yet…

I hear the sound now. I close my eyes and let my cardiac drums play the beats to my heart. I hear the music from the other room—I have heard it several times. This time, it plays in this room. I open my eyes and you are standing there, standing here, staring at me, hands proffered up, knees to the ground…

Su’eddie Vershima Agema blogs at http://sueddie.wordpress.com and can be reached at eddieagema@yahoo.com, @sueddieagema on Twitter. The author of the short story collection, Bottom of Another Tale, Su’eddie was Joint Winner, Association of Nigerian Authors, ANA; Prize 2014.

Images courtesy of flickr.com

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Guest Post

An Ode For Me As Rendered By Passion Through Poetry

This is yet another one of my nominees that’s an absolute delight! I have only known her for a while, but we share a deep and beautiful connection that if I didn’t know any better, I coulda sworn we’ve known each other from times past, in another place and time!

Her name’s Vonita and she’s a really sweetly and kindly soul!  She composes the most soul-stirring and heartwarming of masterpieces, as far as poetry goes! By my definition, she’s a woman of many artistic talents; that you simply cannot help but fall in love with her and her art! Take my word for it guys when I say Passion Through Poetry’s a very lively and hearty space, a place you definitely wanna be at; for you can be sure that you’d find pocketfuls to smile and laugh ’bout! Please do well to check her out here, and discover why am so easily taken by this beautiful mind of a great Poet and an even greater soul ! Thanks in anticipation babycakes, y’all shall be more than glad that y’all did!

Thank you so much for being such a sport my darling, your offering brought tears of joy unspeakable, streaming down my face and my happiness knows absolutely no bounds! I bless the day you found me sweets and I wish you and your entire household all of life’s very finest and then some! God bless you mine sweetness, you rock for always! Cheers!

Rabbits. Beauty Art Design of Cute Little Easter Bunny in the Me

Yemi is an absolute dream

She always makes me scream

With laughter at her many jokes

My affection she cannot coax

For she fills my blog with love

She is like a gentle dove

(who loves bunnies)

We love you Yemi, that we do

So whatever you do, please don’t go

We need you

 

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Guest Post

Book Covers!

It so checks out that I was nominated last year December, for the popular, most prestigious ‘Liebster Award’, given new bloggers by four delightful bloggers; for which I’d be eternally grateful that they do indeed find my little corner most adorable and lovable by all accounts! I’m totally bowled over, completely swept away and mighty honoured, yet greatly flattered by their kindly gestures and especially for the great vote, show and shower of confidence shown me! They really DO think me all that! Wowzer!

These delightsome bloggers are as follows, outlined in the manner for which the torch was passed on to me! Do ensure to click on their names, and see for yourselves what treasures lie on their spaces! You’d be mighty glad you did, trust me!

Amity aka Quaint and Dainty China,

Zika aka Honeycomb,

Topazo aka Doc McSteamy, McGloomy and McDreamy

Senor Joe, aka my Fairy Godbooboo

God bless, keep and honor y’all, thanks a-plenty! MWAH

I’ve since discovered that this award comes with certain ground rules! But, as we all know, rules were made to be broken as I’ve learnt overtime! So, in line with what obtains, yep; you guessed it; I’d be breaking some rules myself!

Rather than just throw around the links of my nominees, I intend giving them all a free rein to strut their stuff and bring on their “A” Game, blowing this whole joint down to the ground, by dropping off a post, anything at all that so tickles their fancy; kinda like ‘freestyling’! The idea sounds pretty capital to me and I hope they’ll all hop on the bandwagon, be good sports ’bout this and just run with it! Let’s do this guys, pretty please?!

My first nominee’s here with his spectacular masterpiece! He goes by the name Sammoyd, his pen name; but he tells me he’s simply Sam, on the street! A little background information ’bout this blogger I most admire and respect, is that he’s a very witty guy! His writes are highly intellectual and pretty sound! What’s more, some very popular preconceived notions that have been tried and tested overtime, has been ‘rubbished’ and proven oh sooo wrong by he who I especially love to refer to as ‘Spectacular Sammie’! He’s a master at his craft and art, and that’s besides his crazy sense of humour that goes on forever! Thank you for being such a sport Sammie, I shan’t forget! I owe you BIG TIME and you more than rock, too darn hard!

Lest I forget and most importantly, He blogs here! Please guys, check him out and you shan’t be disappointed! My Word!

Late one evening a couple of weeks ago, I had gone to buy fuel just a few minute’s walk from my house like I’d done for the previous three days of another insufferable blackout. I finally bought the night’s supply after a mildly annoying queue of other people that had the ingenious plan of buying fuel at the same time as I.

As I was turning back into my street on my way back home, a motorcycle approached from the main road trying to turn into the street too, but he was looking sideways, distracted. I half-froze in the middle of the intersection and waited for the middle-aged rider to look in front of him and notice me. The most harrowing part of this experience was the fact that his headlight was off (most likely damaged by the looks of it) and it was fairly dark already he could just have easily ran me over, mistaken me for an abnormally large squirrel; taken me home and barbecued me for his hungry family to feast on.

He finally concentrated on the road just in time, startled on seeing me, briefly struggled to regain control, and he soon went on his way without incident. “Nobody got barbecued? What a stupid story Sam!” I hear you say without actually saying it. I know, but the real story is not about me ending up on a spit, it’s about what I thought (or what you would have, if you were in my sweaty oversized shoes) about the whole situation; and the stupid man who couldn’t fix his bike’s headlight.

I concluded he was a very foolish man for putting his life and mine at a fatal risk by riding blindly in the dark. Years in the future, when I’m reminiscing with my grandchildren that don’t hate to hang out with their cranky ol’ grandpa, I’m always going to start this story with “One night, moons ago, I almost got hit by a stupid man…”

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"What a soulless jerk!"

Was my assessment of the man wrong? Was it a hasty conclusion from underwhelming incomplete
data? Maybe he’s actually an upstanding guy to his family and friends. Maybe his headlight was damaged because only minutes prior, he hit a bunch of mobsters that were molesting a homeless guy (for whatever reason criminals do anything).

The point is, that stupid man could have been facing challenges that made bright shiny headlights the least of his worries at that particular time. But to me, it didn’t matter because he is always going to be the stupid man that almost turned my fuel run into a barbecue party. I took a mental shortcut and made him an embodiment of the first piece of information I got about him. Heck, for all I know, the man probably thought I was some idiot hippie, not smart enough to know not to stand in front of a killing machine.

Right now, he’s probably telling this story to his drinking buddies and starting it with “So, while I was checking out this chick by the side of the road, there was this idiot standing in the middle of the road, in front of my sexy, sexy killing machine…” and ending it with “What a klutz!” But, I was only out buying fuel.

Much has been made about first impressions and how decisive they are in making judgment calls about the kinds of people we choose to get into bed with on the giant mattress provided by the universe. “You never get a second chance to make a good first impression”, so goes the saying that carries this notion on a wild piggy back ride. However, much less has been said about how limiting it can be to make snap judgments that focus too much attention on the first piece of information that jumps at you simply because it’s the easiest thing to do.
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In making character judgments based on the first impressions you have of people, your mind takes a mental shortcut in the stead of a slower, more rational way of thinking to arrive at a better, well-rounded and informed opinion of them. For every one Boy meets Girl story that ends in a filmy “and they lived happily ever after (till they started having babies)”, there are millions of them that didn’t last two seconds because Boy made an adventurous dig with his finger into his nasal orifice at an inopportune moment. And because first impressions are near impossible to overturn, countless of what would have otherwise been beautiful relationships end up on the cutting room floor in the backstage of life.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover” is a nice sentiment we’d all like to live by; but making judgment calls based on first impressions just seems like an easier, lazier way of getting through life without having to complicate it with complex deliberations like, “Maybe Boy had a nose infection and had to explore his nostrils with balm every hour”, or “Maybe Boy couldn’t use a tissue for his nasal exploration because he was robbed only minutes ago”. It’s for the same reason science says that we’re more likely to conclude that a woman without makeup on her face has more moral bones in her body than one that plasters her face every chance she gets.

Stripped bare, judgment calls based on inadequately-informed first impressions are lazy and perilously fragile. Increased exposure to someone would prove over time, for better or for worse, that first impressions are premature.

Rather than take the high road and skim through a 1000-page book in rushed seconds, sometimes it’s worth the time to take a seat and read the whole book.

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Okay, okay...maybe, just skim a few.

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