Jumping Ship...

Hello!

Today, i have good news....and bad news. Of course, you want the bad news first.

Bad news: This is it, folks. My relationship with blogger was beautiful, but short lived. Due to reasons beyond my control, I would have to jump ship. Don't cry, don't cry...all will be well...*sniff*

GOOD NEWS- I have moved to WordPress! Yay!! C'mon, you thought I was leaving for good? You wish, I never even start with una. So, to my fellow beautiful blogger folks that convinced me to take the plunge, yes, yes, I have succumbed. You can rejoice now, for wordpress it shall be.

The website, same.. - https://slimsiren.wordpress.com/

What does this mean for you? Shorter posts intervals, bigger fonts (for all ye blind folks hehe)  and easier commenting. Sounds like fun, eh?

But then again, I can make anything sound like fun. Teehee... :D *wink*

Enjoy!!

Okafor's Trouser

This post was a little impromptu, and I had to cook it up on short notice. I have been busy writing a treat for you that would not be unveiled until next week, but I figured there was no reason to keep you waiting for so long. Please, bear with me, and just whet your appetite with this little story that a classmate of mine told me...


There lived a boy in the village of Umunnachi, whose name was Okafor. His father was a farmer, and his mother, while she was alive, had been a market seller. Back in those days, in Umunnachi, having tailor sewn clothes was a bit of a luxury. One day, while Okafor’s mother was alive, she had made so much profit from selling the snails that Okafor had caught on his expedition to Ogbuefi river that, in her appreciation, she bought him one beautifully made khaki trouser.

Okafor loved and cherished his one and only trouser. Some of the boys in school had two, but Okafor understood that he was lucky to even own any at all. He wore it sparingly; making do with the shorts papa had made from the scraps in the tailors shop. Times were hard, and their hard earned money should not be spent on purchasing luxuries, papa said, and he understood. In fact, he said to himself, he would keep it in his mother’s big iron safekeeping box, and bring it out only on special occasions, and this was exactly what he did.

Not so long after, a special occasion arrived. The end of the year’s school party was coming up, and everybody was going to be there, even Nma. Her name brought a tingling sensation to his ears, and he tried to hide the grin that was threatening to surface on his face from his father. He had been eyeing her from afar for so long, and would have been satisfied with simply eyeing, if that rascal Ogbonna hadn’t tossed a stick her way yesterday. He sighed; everybody knew Ogbonna and his stupid stick tossing tricks. The girl would bend over and pick the stick up and Ogbonna would then judge if he liked her. Most times, when he did, he licked his lips. This time, when Nma bent over, his mouth hung open. Okafor had stood still in shock, as blind rage filled his eyes. This Ogbonna boy was very stupid o! Chei! Mba nu! It can't happen. Tufia kwa. He had to act fast.

Some days later, Okafor’s father stepped out of his obi early in the morning, and espied his son walking the winded path towards the house. When did he leave the house? “Okafor!” He shouted. “Where are you coming from early this morning?”Aru odikwa ya? He pondered.

“Nna anyi, I’m coming from the Ogbuefi river!”  Okafor shouted back. This time, he was close enough to his father, and he waved the wet trouser back and forth for him to see. “I went to wash my trouser there. Tomorrow is my school’s party and I want to wear it.” He blushed.

Papa Okafor smiled. He had seen the looks Okafor and that girl from his form five class have been giving each other every time they passed by in the market. “Fine, Nwa’m, nsobu adiro. However, before you go, I want you to the farm weed the area near Mazi Emeka’s own early in the morning. He complained that the weeds were choking his onugbu, and you know his leg is getting bad.”

Okafor nodded. He could quickly do that before two o clock, and get to the party in time before three. He spread his wet trouser away from the shade for the sun to dry it very well; hopefully it would be ready by tomorrow. Early next morning, he set out for the farm, happily whistling towards Mazi Emeka’s direction. Today was the d-day, and he couldn’t wait. Nothing was going to spoil it.

He got there early, and began weeding. The air was a little too cool, but it was ideal for farm work. He set to work immediately, determined to be done before noon. He had not gotten very far when he noticed a drop of water glistening on a leaf near him. Another one fell on his nose. He frowned and looked up, only to notice that the skies had begun to gather. His mind spun into overdrive immediately. Rain! He couldn’t risk returning home without finishing this work, and besides, home was so far away. He stood and deliberated for a moment, then shrugged it off. Papa would remove the trouser before it got wet, he mused. He bent down and continued digging, a little faster than before though.

Suddenly, realization hit him, and he jerked up. Papa had gone to see Mazi Emeka! Oh no! All his thoughts honed in on Nma as he struggled to gather his farming basket. The rain had started to fall in earnest, and he debated leaving everything aside, so much was his hurry to get home. He couldn’t miss that party. He couldn’t miss the party. Panic seized him and he began to run; tossing the basket and all its contents aside. He had to reach the trouser before it got too wet. He ran as fast as he could, willing the rain to fall slowly. It did not, and by the time he got home, his trouser was soaked. He sank down in front of it and wept bitterly. He had lost everything, he cried. Everything he had worked for, everything he had dreamed of. He cried even more the next day, when he espied Ogbonna eating corn and ube with Nma in her mother’s stall…

Fast forward twenty years later. Okafor is standing in front of a washing machine and dryer, in a little Laundromat in Kentucky, America. He is staring blankly at the rapid whirlings of the machine, marveling at its technology. In his hand, he held the a wedding invitation that had on it the bold inscription “Nma weds Ogbonnaya.” All because of a wet trouser. If only, he muttered to himself, if only the times had been different…

Inamorata 2- Ashes

A man stepped out of the darkness. She knew it was a man, although she had not set eyes on one since the day of her rebirth. The dying sun rays fell on his body, highlighting his naked torso and his heavy forehead. He was not beautiful, he was not like her. He stood, firm, calm, eyes glittering with a strange light. She scoffed silently, noticing that the red sky behind him seemed to be foretelling his sure demise. The smell of blood was pungent, and the vultures pulled in, unable to resist their siren’s cry. The air was quiet when he opened his mouth to speak.

“My Inamorata, I am here for you.”

Inamorata. He called her Inamorata.

“ For years, my love, I have waited. I have watched Mother earth turn her back on your radiant face. I have watched Aphrodite, Venus, and Hera shield their faces from your light. I have watched your beauty become a curse to you. I have watched man and animal lust after you, never getting enough, never leaving. I have watched them drain you. My Ella, I have watched you house them, feed them, grow them. I have watched you love them from the abundance of your heart, although none ever showed reciprocated to you its full meaning. I have watched, my Ella, and I have plotted. I have loved, and now I will have.”

As he said this, he stepped forward. That was as far as he ever got. The lions surged forward, as if on cue, determined to protect their bride.

As they attacked, she stared on, playing absentmindedly with the fine grains of sand. Beautiful, timeless grains of sand. Who, who imprisons the sand in the hourglass? Sand, born free, born beautiful, sand, born to be trod on, to be kicked around, to be caged to serve for eternity. Whoever decides how much sand gets into the hourglass? Is it counted, or is it measured? Will the sand ever be free from the glass? It was hard to believe they came from the same family, the weaker birthing the stronger; still so different from each other they seemed. How much heat can a grain of sand withstand? Was there ever a sand that escaped from the heat, full, whole and free? How was she any different? Why should she believe? She was oblivious to the frenzy around her, submerged in the warring of her weak heart. She did not see the man emerge from his body; she did not see him split. She was spared that sight for eternity, for she would have never understood it.

He stood atop the hill that had been home throughout his wait, breeze ruffling his raffia loincloth. A tear alighted on his bottom lip, and he didn’t bother to lick it away. He had escaped from the massacre. He could still see it, far atop the hill, he could still see the lions tearing the body away like a rag doll. He could see clearly now, for the scales of love had fallen from his eyes. He could not have her. She refused to choose. She was not to be his wife. The sadness of this realization weighed his feet, as he turned and walked away, into the red, red sky.

                                                   * * *

    Her eyes fluttered open, and was assaulted immediately from the bright sunlight pouring in through the opened curtains. Oh God, it was morning. Her gaze fell on the sofa by the window, and slowly, she realized it wasn't familiar. Where was she?? Feeling around frantically, her hands stumbled on a lump under the duvet. What is this? She lifted the covers surreptitiously to peek, and discovered it was a man. His handsome face reawakened her mind, and just like that, memories of their last night flooded in, causing her to blush. Those kisses...the gentle touches that slowly became less gentle and more demanding. So all that lion stuff was a dream. She heaved a sigh of relief and kissed the back of his neck lightly. Thank heavens. It had been so vivid, so scary. Anyways, a dream was a dream. Jibola would soon wake up hungry, so she had better start preparing breakfast.

    As she got up, her phone rang. She dashed to silence it immediately, lest it woke Jibz. She looked at the caller id and sighed. Of all times for David to call! Couldn't he wait till everyone was up and about, at least? It was barely seven. Scrolling through her call history, she frowned. He had called her thirty-seven times. What? She began to panic. Thirty seven missed calls?? Perhaps, he had begun to suspect something. She stole a glance at her boss lying on her bed to make sure he was still sleeping. No, it wasn't possible. It can't be. There was no way he could know; they had been very careful. They were far, far away in St. Lucia on a "business trip". No one knew them here; no one could have possibly seen them.

She tiptoe-ed to the bathroom and called him back. He picked up on the first ring.

"Ada, where are you?"

She chuckled. "David, good morning."

"Err...good morning to you too. Where are you?" He sounded really impatient. Kedu nke bu nka kita? What was all this?

"Where am I? I told you now, I'm in St. Lucia. Is everything alright?"

"I should be asking you, Ada. I kept calling you last night. Why didn't you pick up?"

"Last night?" She cleared her throat to clear the lump. "I...I was probably asleep, D"

"No, you were not asleep. You weren't. Your music status on your BBM showed that you had One Night by The Corrs on replay."

Oh shit. 

She and Jibola had set the song on replay while they made love. She had used it because, after David had given it to her, she had listened to it and told him ecstatically, that it was such a baby making song. She remembered saying she couldn't wait for them to 'boogie down to it.'

Shit.

"Ada, are you there?"

 Silence.

"Ada....can you please tell me whats going on?"

She needed to lie. Quick, Ada, think up a lie!

"Ada...is there something you're not telling me?"

A muffled sound rose in her throat. She cleared it and tried to mutter "Like what?" but it came out as a whimper.

He sighed. It was the sigh of someone very, very tired.

"Ada, I know you're cheating on me."

Shit. Shit Shit SHIT.

"How?"

"Ada..." He sighed again. 

"Ada, I had a dream."