Morning Flow Motivation
Hello again my loving reader, here’s another one for you, just to keep you going during the week. I love you too much. “It isn’t about the numbers, it’s the influence.”
Girl (2) By Tonia
I heard their voices loudly, they weren’t just speaking officially, Mom and the Asst. Headmaster, they were arguing about something I couldn’t decipher and I heard mommy saying “Mark my words, she’s a smart child you’d wish you admitted, just remember!” Apparently, I had just returned from summer vacation at my cousins’, having missed the first admission exam into primary school (primary 1). I wrote a second one but the school had limited slots for admission into primary 1. I passed my exam excellently as I recall but the Asst. Headteacher felt the need to admit another boy rather than a petite, skinny looking “girl”. His excuse was that I was too small, very timid and not so perfect in maths, he feared I wouldn’t scale through but I merited it unarguably. “First doesn’t always mean best baby but do your BEST”, Mom’s words rang in my head as I…
Girl (1) By Tonia
I was only 7 and we were on the sports-ground for P.E I was eager and all ready to run that race I quickly tightened the laces of my trainers I began to jog on the spot Fidgeting like I saw athletes do on TV Mr. Dan finally announced that it was time for the relay races, My excitement was indescribable. He announced for top spots for the first set of runners and I advanced further raising my right arm up, He looked down at me, saying “Little Angel, what’s wrong?” and I told him I wanted to run! Mr. Dan laughed and said the top spots were for the strong boys and in that very heartbreaking moment was when I first realized that I was/am “A GIRL” By Tonia Tochi Part two comes next… About Tonia Tonia is a 19-year-old writer (poet ,storyteller) and final year student who sees…
KOFOWOROLA
I fell in love once. I was barely 16. He was tall and shy. Quite introverted. He didn’t believe I loved him. He said I was “omo baba olowo” and an “efiko”, what did I see in him, a common school drop-out. I told him my love wasn’t about where he was coming from or what his story is but what we could build together. He was skeptical. Couldn’t imagine a future with me. Said I was high up there, how would we match? What would my parents say? So, I decided. If he was worried about his status and what my parents would say, why don’t we do something about it. I bought books, so we could learn together. He was aloof. Didn’t believe that he could meet up. Then the cheating began. He began seeing other girls he termed “not up to my class”, just so he could…
Short Story: Terror in The Woods
Olaedo was not from a rich home. In fact, his father was a poor palm wine tapper who met his untimely death just a few months after Olaedo was born. Not withstanding, one could say Olaedo grew up with a silver spoon. He had a wealthy godmother, who took it upon herself to see Olaedo through school. After his biological mother died when he was three years old, Olaedo’s godmother immediately brought him to Paris where he grew up. He grew up a happy child amongst her children. There were numerous times when he forgot that his godmother wasn’t his real mother. Well, his problems began when he turned seventeen. Strange day-mares, if they can be called so, became his daily bread. As he sat in his philosophy and logic class one sunny afternoon, he fell into a queer trance in which he saw himself walking in a woodland. It…
Short Story: Poisoned
I just couldn’t stand all their noise and palaver. I never wanted to be the kind of girl to get married, have kids, have trouble with my husband, divorce and leave broken kids behind. No! Been there, felt that. So I’d often toyed with the idea of not getting married at all. I knew I could get married and not have children, but I wanted my own kids and I didn’t want them to go through the hell I went through with my parents. I couldn’t bear the noise any longer. It seemed my earphones couldn’t drown their noise and yells as well as the shatters. I didn’t want to get emotional, so I got up from my bed, went straight for my drawer and picked up my Beats by Dre headphones. The bass tone would’ve been enough to shut out the noise even from a drone. Tears slid down…
How I Killed My Sister
I was 7 years older than her. She was 9 and I was 16. She had round blue eyes & long blonde hair. I had dark eyes with short black hair. I hated the fact that everyone loved her. My parents paid more attention to her than they did to me so I was never at home, but rather with my friends whom I felt at home with and rather accepted. Whenever my little sister came to my room, with the hatred I had for her I screamed at her and told her to go play with her dolls. At school, my friends and I always made fun of her. One day, at home, during dinner she brought out a little piece of paper and handed it to me smiling charmingly. She asked me to open it. I thought it was childish and useless to look at the paper so…
A Cry From the Deep
The stars dangled in the sky, casting silver shadows so that the night air glowed. It was cold. The villagers did not seem to mind. Children littered themselves in the open space: some danced, bathing in the moonlight, their bare feet sending red dust into a frenzy. The calmer ones sat, listening to Mma Obiageli as her words came to life in their timid minds. They would suddenly break out in a chorus at intervals, singing until veins protruded from the sides of their neck. The hunters sat down under the mango tree. They sent sweet melodies from the Udu that diffused into the cold night. They sang epics; tales about the hunter and the hunted. Anuli sat on a stool, at the entrance to her hut, her wrapper sagged around her chest so that the cold air splashed against the top of her breast. She could hear her mother’s…
Story: Paint, Ink, Blood
Mayen felt nothing. And it was the worst feeling she had had in a while. No, it was the worst feeling she had had in her life. They was a panging in her stomach but she didn’t feel it as much as she knew it was there. She wanted to die. She deserved to die. She rolled over on the bed dragging a pillow under her. She wouldn’t think about it, she wouldn’t even try to remember it. There wasn’t anything to remember anyway. Her mind had shut down when she went through those doors again. And she wasn’t sure it had come back up. How could she be alive when two children were dead because of her? Because she had believed the devil would change, that things would get better. That was why she had stayed on. And how she had been wrong. She stood up and walked out…
Poem: Mother Tongue
It is amazing how unique every language sounds From the easy to speak to the difficult to pronounce Languages are one of God’s masterpieces Sounding on lips like Angels Kisses The melodies of Francophone The harmonies Anglophone Speaks louder than the microphone Goes farther than the telephone We worship everything coming from Overseas Now we are one of those, Mr. Oyibo oversees His white presence still lingers in our Lingua franca A thousand words cannot express these any franker What is as bad as being lost in your own home? With your identity buried in another’s tomb? It is our responsibility to watch over our personality We are the custodians of our posterity What will we pass over to our offspring? Burgers, Pizzas, and Ice cream? I Scream! Whatever happened to our Ekpang Nkukwo, our Efere Afang Perhaps they got lost in the big bang What will we call our…
Short Story: Gray
I looked at her for as long as I can remember. Beautiful box braids I wish I could afford to make for myself. Her finger nails were polished royal blue with little black stars spotting them. Her eyebrows weren’t at all looking like those other fake-professionally-touched brows, they were touched quite alright, but they looked natural. She wore a lipstick the color of nude. Her lower lips had a rather extravagant smiley-curve-rich-beauty about them—I thought. Her eyes, the colour of her eyes were gray. I looked at them over and over again to make sure I wasn’t wrong. I looked at them until she caught me looking at her. I gave a sheepish smile. She knew me so she smiled back. Gray eyes, I thought. Gray that reminded me that if I envied her more, whilst in church, my soul would no longer be white. I’d be gray. Mirabelle Morah.
Run Away, Love
It takes a heart to love, stay away from it until you’re ready, he said. I think he forgot to add, that it also takes a heart to be torn to pieces, run away from it until you’re sure you’re ready. I always told her that I wanted to love her the right way, the way the good Lord would approve of. Who was I kidding? She didn’t want that kind of love, she wanted the other love, the one that came with fireflies in the belly; blushes; stutters; kisses. It didn’t take long for me to get entrapped in this lost love called lust. O Boi you don hit jackpot o, they would tell me, I feigned disgust, I secretly loved to hear it but I knew I was wrong. I was a church boy, I’m trying to be that again, and I knew our love wasn’t what He…
The Hard Life
Some days #200 was hard enough for him to get. #200 could be his transportation fare, meal and even entertainment for an entire day. Life wasn’t a bed of roses for him. By age seventeen he was already being the man of the house. Working, feeding his siblings and giving his father some money. Now, they were asking for #200 again, #200 to register for a course at the university. Where was he going to get it from? Money didn’t fall like manna for him. He secretly shed tears everyday. Wishing he could have the things most of his course mates had but were never content with. Things like having someone to pay his fees, coming back to meals at home, having enough money to buy books; things like having a mother to console him in moments when all hope seemed lost. Mirabelle Morah