#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 #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.