#review #flashfiction #Omueti
Title: Hyenas on the Street
I had searched for jobs but failed to secure any. I tried to borrow money but no one was willing to lend me some. Hunger soon ravaged my home like a strong beast from the wild. All day, I pushed myself around and was forced to approach people on the streets to ask for assistance; I even prayed for them that Allah should bless them and replenish their pockets, but they only walked faster and avoided me.
At long last, comfort was on the other side. We paused and observed, like brothers, bonded by sufferings.
“Quick!” I hollered at the Okada rider. We hopped on his bike and chased after the woman. The plan was perfect—he would slow down for me to snatch the phone, then, abscond like there's no tomorrow. As his bike fired on, and the alternating sounds of his gear toggled, I remembered when I sincerely wanted a good job and didn't ever consider harming anyone.
My heart raced uncontrollably. I wanted to tell him to “Stop!” My desperation should not push me to this extent. But I didn’t. I didn't look at the woman’s face as we drew closer. She occupied the entire backseat of the motorbike, while her sagging purple jean left a lot for the eyes to ponder. I went straight for the phone loosely hanging by the side of her bag. I heard a loud horn, a screech, and then, I found myself on the ground. My bike rider quickly jumped on his bike and sped off. I was still on the floor. The woman screamed, "Ole! Ole!" I got up and attempted to run away too.
The shout of "Ole" increased. I had been in Lagos long enough to know that chant wasn’t one of approbation. Someone shouted, "No let am run o! Hold am." Like hyenas, they all seemed to be laughing as they picked up stones. Small stones like toy guns started raining on me. I made moves to run, someone gripped my collar from behind.
“Abeg!” “Abeg!” I implored, dropping my knees to the ground and making hand gestures.
The number of people multiplied. I saw them running to select more massive stones. Some brought out their phones. What will my students in Zaria even hear—that Uncle went to Lagos and became a thief? Memunat will say she knew it! That was why she left me to become Hakeem's 13th wife.
The stones kept coming. Bigger. Heavier. But I knew pain. It wasn't any different. When Sadeeq died in my hands due to ordinary Malaria, that was pain. I saw women standing by the side of the road with their hands folded in shock as I tripped to the ground. My cloth was already soaked in my own blood.
"Forgive me Allah!" I gently thought, as an amused man who stood beside where I laid, lifted up a big stone and sunk me into eternity.
THE END
Title: Hyenas on the Street
I had searched for jobs but failed to secure any. I tried to borrow money but no one was willing to lend me some. Hunger soon ravaged my home like a strong beast from the wild. All day, I pushed myself around and was forced to approach people on the streets to ask for assistance; I even prayed for them that Allah should bless them and replenish their pockets, but they only walked faster and avoided me.
At long last, comfort was on the other side. We paused and observed, like brothers, bonded by sufferings.
“Quick!” I hollered at the Okada rider. We hopped on his bike and chased after the woman. The plan was perfect—he would slow down for me to snatch the phone, then, abscond like there's no tomorrow. As his bike fired on, and the alternating sounds of his gear toggled, I remembered when I sincerely wanted a good job and didn't ever consider harming anyone.
My heart raced uncontrollably. I wanted to tell him to “Stop!” My desperation should not push me to this extent. But I didn’t. I didn't look at the woman’s face as we drew closer. She occupied the entire backseat of the motorbike, while her sagging purple jean left a lot for the eyes to ponder. I went straight for the phone loosely hanging by the side of her bag. I heard a loud horn, a screech, and then, I found myself on the ground. My bike rider quickly jumped on his bike and sped off. I was still on the floor. The woman screamed, "Ole! Ole!" I got up and attempted to run away too.
The shout of "Ole" increased. I had been in Lagos long enough to know that chant wasn’t one of approbation. Someone shouted, "No let am run o! Hold am." Like hyenas, they all seemed to be laughing as they picked up stones. Small stones like toy guns started raining on me. I made moves to run, someone gripped my collar from behind.
“Abeg!” “Abeg!” I implored, dropping my knees to the ground and making hand gestures.
The number of people multiplied. I saw them running to select more massive stones. Some brought out their phones. What will my students in Zaria even hear—that Uncle went to Lagos and became a thief? Memunat will say she knew it! That was why she left me to become Hakeem's 13th wife.
The stones kept coming. Bigger. Heavier. But I knew pain. It wasn't any different. When Sadeeq died in my hands due to ordinary Malaria, that was pain. I saw women standing by the side of the road with their hands folded in shock as I tripped to the ground. My cloth was already soaked in my own blood.
"Forgive me Allah!" I gently thought, as an amused man who stood beside where I laid, lifted up a big stone and sunk me into eternity.
THE END
#review #Omueti #ShortStory
[Untitled]
As Motun rushed to beat the Lagos traffic, he hit his leg on a hard stone but continued moving—any unnecessary delay will be costly—those bus drivers will jump at any opportunity to hike up their fares. As far as Aunty Edia was concerned, Motun was just one of those spoilt Port-Harcourt grown kids that knew nothing about life in Lagos. It didn’t take long for Motun to realize she thought that way about him. “Let him come to Lagos and stay with me after his youth service.” She told his mother. “When he has gotten a good job and is comfortable, he can move to his own apartment.” Since then she hasn’t ceased to supervise him whenever he was crossing the road. “Keep your phone in your pocket!” she would snap, whenever they sat in a public transit. “These Agboro boys will just snatch it from the window now, and runaway, that’s when you will learn!” Motun was sure she was totally paranoid. She was vindicated, however, the day a confused looking man jumped into their bus, along Iyano-Oworo bus stop lane. He implored the driver to chase the bus in front, because the passenger who sat beside him in that bus had just pick pocketed his phone. On hearing this, she turned to look at Motun, but said no word.
The day was about to break and the cold was still thick in the air. The street was stark dark and only occasionally lightened by mobile flashlights and car headlamps. Steps were brisk and early morning prayers could be heard from the nearby mosque. Generators were steaming from bakeries and sachet water factories. Gutters gave off dense hypnotizing stench and passers-by did not hesitate to shoot back deeply conjured saliva. Fully charged by tobacco and strong liquor, bus conductors jovially insulted themselves while desperately calling out their bus destinations.
“Tinubu Square—250—No change o!” said one of the conductors in a deep wrangling voice, as Motun climbed into the bus and took the left window seat at the far back.
Having heard Aunty bitterly threaten one of her debtors over the phone, that she will strip naked in the middle of the night and curse him, Motun knew it was time for him to move out of her house and into his own apartment. At least he just got a job. He should have noticed the state of things—the soups have become more watery of late and she hasn’t been eating at home either. True, it’s difficult to tell when she’s in a good or bad mood because of her dry sense of humor and rigid persona. In fact, the only time Motun heard her loosen up and permit a strong-veined laughter was when she called that pastor she often calls “daddy” to appreciate him for sending her airtime. Then she will float in extended explanations and often punctuate them with her flagship phrase of optimism: “It is well.”
The bus was almost full. A young boy guided the hands of a blind beggar who impressed Motun with his impeccable eloquence. The man pleaded in the name of God as he narrated that he was a well to-do civil servant in the office of the Lagos State Accountant General before he lost his sight. Many passengers seemed moved and unusually generous as they doled fifty and hundred naira notes to the man. The bus had just began to move when Motun reached in for his phone, which was still in his pocket and switched on his data connection. In, came endless WhatsApp messages, two job rejection emails, one teaching job interview invite and one postgraduate scholarship denial. Among those, also included an email from his employer, sent since 6am. The email read that the office will not be open from today, being the first weekday of March. This closure will be till further notice, for safety reasons, due to the COVID-19 virus outbreak. Motun frowned at this email, only to turn and realize that the beautiful passenger that sat beside him was far deep into sleep, while her head wiggled around with the moving bus.
No job means no money. No money means he'll starve in Aunty's house. Motun has to go back home for now, but that means he'll have to deal with…
To be continued...
[Untitled]
As Motun rushed to beat the Lagos traffic, he hit his leg on a hard stone but continued moving—any unnecessary delay will be costly—those bus drivers will jump at any opportunity to hike up their fares. As far as Aunty Edia was concerned, Motun was just one of those spoilt Port-Harcourt grown kids that knew nothing about life in Lagos. It didn’t take long for Motun to realize she thought that way about him. “Let him come to Lagos and stay with me after his youth service.” She told his mother. “When he has gotten a good job and is comfortable, he can move to his own apartment.” Since then she hasn’t ceased to supervise him whenever he was crossing the road. “Keep your phone in your pocket!” she would snap, whenever they sat in a public transit. “These Agboro boys will just snatch it from the window now, and runaway, that’s when you will learn!” Motun was sure she was totally paranoid. She was vindicated, however, the day a confused looking man jumped into their bus, along Iyano-Oworo bus stop lane. He implored the driver to chase the bus in front, because the passenger who sat beside him in that bus had just pick pocketed his phone. On hearing this, she turned to look at Motun, but said no word.
The day was about to break and the cold was still thick in the air. The street was stark dark and only occasionally lightened by mobile flashlights and car headlamps. Steps were brisk and early morning prayers could be heard from the nearby mosque. Generators were steaming from bakeries and sachet water factories. Gutters gave off dense hypnotizing stench and passers-by did not hesitate to shoot back deeply conjured saliva. Fully charged by tobacco and strong liquor, bus conductors jovially insulted themselves while desperately calling out their bus destinations.
“Tinubu Square—250—No change o!” said one of the conductors in a deep wrangling voice, as Motun climbed into the bus and took the left window seat at the far back.
Having heard Aunty bitterly threaten one of her debtors over the phone, that she will strip naked in the middle of the night and curse him, Motun knew it was time for him to move out of her house and into his own apartment. At least he just got a job. He should have noticed the state of things—the soups have become more watery of late and she hasn’t been eating at home either. True, it’s difficult to tell when she’s in a good or bad mood because of her dry sense of humor and rigid persona. In fact, the only time Motun heard her loosen up and permit a strong-veined laughter was when she called that pastor she often calls “daddy” to appreciate him for sending her airtime. Then she will float in extended explanations and often punctuate them with her flagship phrase of optimism: “It is well.”
The bus was almost full. A young boy guided the hands of a blind beggar who impressed Motun with his impeccable eloquence. The man pleaded in the name of God as he narrated that he was a well to-do civil servant in the office of the Lagos State Accountant General before he lost his sight. Many passengers seemed moved and unusually generous as they doled fifty and hundred naira notes to the man. The bus had just began to move when Motun reached in for his phone, which was still in his pocket and switched on his data connection. In, came endless WhatsApp messages, two job rejection emails, one teaching job interview invite and one postgraduate scholarship denial. Among those, also included an email from his employer, sent since 6am. The email read that the office will not be open from today, being the first weekday of March. This closure will be till further notice, for safety reasons, due to the COVID-19 virus outbreak. Motun frowned at this email, only to turn and realize that the beautiful passenger that sat beside him was far deep into sleep, while her head wiggled around with the moving bus.
No job means no money. No money means he'll starve in Aunty's house. Motun has to go back home for now, but that means he'll have to deal with…
To be continued...
#review #Omueti #Flashfiction
Title: Hyenas on the Street
I had searched for jobs but failed to secure any. I tried to borrow money but no one was willing to lend me some. Hunger soon ravaged my home like a strong beast from the wild. All day, I pushed myself around and was forced to approach people on the streets to ask for assistance; I even prayed for them that Allah should bless them and replenish their pockets, but they only walked faster and avoided me.
After two weeks of grappling and struggling to overthrow my mind’s contemplative offerings, at last, my ego, well, knocked senseless; my principles, and all its grandiose, melted like wax. I have become a slave to my belly. I have been outpowered. Comfort, at least, was on the other side.
We paused and observed, like brothers bonded by sufferings.
“Quick!” I hollered at the motorbike rider. We hopped on his bike and chased after the woman. The plan was perfect—he would slow down for me to snatch the phone, then abscond like there's no tomorrow. My heart raced uncontrollably. I considered voicing the word, “Stop!” Of course, my desperation should not push me to this extent but my mouth stayed closed. As we drew closer, I didn't look at the woman’s face. Her entirety poured throughout the backseat of her motorbike, while her sagging purple jean left a lot for the eyes to ponder. I went straight for the phone loosely hanging by the side of her bag. I heard a loud horn, a screech, and then, I found myself on the ground.
My motorbike rider quickly jumped upon his bike and sped off. I was still on the floor. The woman screamed, "Ole! Ole!" I got up and attempted to run away too.
The shout of "Ole" increased. I had been in Lagos long enough to know to fear those words. Someone shouted, "No let am run o! Hold am." Like hyenas, they all seemed to be laughing as they picked up stones. Small stones like toy guns started raining on me. I made moves to run; someone gripped my collar from behind.
“Abeg! Abeg!” I implored, dropping my knees to the ground and making hand gestures.
The number of people multiplied. Some brought out their phones. What will my students in Zaria even hear—that Uncle went to Lagos and became a thief? Memunat will say she knew it! That was why she left me to become Hakeem's 13th wife.
The stones kept coming. Bigger. Heavier. But I knew pain. It wasn't any different. When Sadeeq—the son of my strength—the only good gift Memunat gave to me, closed his eyes in resignation, never to be opened again due to ordinary malaria, that was pain. I saw women standing by the roadside with their hands folded in shock as I tripped to the ground.
"Forgive me, Allah!" I gently thought, as an amused man who stood beside where I laid lifted up a big stone and sunk my hungry soul into eternity.
Title: Hyenas on the Street
I had searched for jobs but failed to secure any. I tried to borrow money but no one was willing to lend me some. Hunger soon ravaged my home like a strong beast from the wild. All day, I pushed myself around and was forced to approach people on the streets to ask for assistance; I even prayed for them that Allah should bless them and replenish their pockets, but they only walked faster and avoided me.
After two weeks of grappling and struggling to overthrow my mind’s contemplative offerings, at last, my ego, well, knocked senseless; my principles, and all its grandiose, melted like wax. I have become a slave to my belly. I have been outpowered. Comfort, at least, was on the other side.
We paused and observed, like brothers bonded by sufferings.
“Quick!” I hollered at the motorbike rider. We hopped on his bike and chased after the woman. The plan was perfect—he would slow down for me to snatch the phone, then abscond like there's no tomorrow. My heart raced uncontrollably. I considered voicing the word, “Stop!” Of course, my desperation should not push me to this extent but my mouth stayed closed. As we drew closer, I didn't look at the woman’s face. Her entirety poured throughout the backseat of her motorbike, while her sagging purple jean left a lot for the eyes to ponder. I went straight for the phone loosely hanging by the side of her bag. I heard a loud horn, a screech, and then, I found myself on the ground.
My motorbike rider quickly jumped upon his bike and sped off. I was still on the floor. The woman screamed, "Ole! Ole!" I got up and attempted to run away too.
The shout of "Ole" increased. I had been in Lagos long enough to know to fear those words. Someone shouted, "No let am run o! Hold am." Like hyenas, they all seemed to be laughing as they picked up stones. Small stones like toy guns started raining on me. I made moves to run; someone gripped my collar from behind.
“Abeg! Abeg!” I implored, dropping my knees to the ground and making hand gestures.
The number of people multiplied. Some brought out their phones. What will my students in Zaria even hear—that Uncle went to Lagos and became a thief? Memunat will say she knew it! That was why she left me to become Hakeem's 13th wife.
The stones kept coming. Bigger. Heavier. But I knew pain. It wasn't any different. When Sadeeq—the son of my strength—the only good gift Memunat gave to me, closed his eyes in resignation, never to be opened again due to ordinary malaria, that was pain. I saw women standing by the roadside with their hands folded in shock as I tripped to the ground.
"Forgive me, Allah!" I gently thought, as an amused man who stood beside where I laid lifted up a big stone and sunk my hungry soul into eternity.