Dear Facebook Scrabble,

I used to love you. Not anymore. We had a good relationship,  till you went and ruined it. Why couldn’t you stay the same? You wanted more of me than I was willing to give? You wanted the ability to interrupt my flow of thoughts with your obtrusive adverts at will? And you thought I would hang around and take your shenanigans because we had been together for years?

I’m off. I’ve had enough. I don’t care about my stats, I’ll build them up again. I do care about the ability to choose who I want to play with. I don’t like the fact that I have to manually refresh the page every so often to see if other players have made their moves. I hate the fact that I get irksome notifications from you that XYZ has played..

I have ‘unliked’ you. I wish all the other people moaning about the changes would ‘unlike’ you too. So that you will realise that new is not necessarily better. You’ve done me a favour though. I don’t go on Facebook as often as I used to, and I have returned to my first love. The Internet Scrabble Club. The bestest online scrabble site ever. It’s at www.isc.ro and I’m back for good.

What do I like about www.isc.ro? Normal scrabble board. I don’t need sunglasses to protect my eyes from garish coloured schemes inspired by the copious consumption of LSD. I can choose the length of my games. I can choose what level of opponent I want. I can use the commonly recognised dictionaries, like SOWPODS. I am not confined to using just Collins or TWL. I mean who plays with those anymore? 

I’ve currently got a few games going, and will complete them out of courtesy. Once done I am deleting and blocking your app. Permanently. If you are ever around on www.isc.ro,just to have a look at what proper Scrabble is all about, please match me. My name’s dejoxy on there, and I’m always up for a good scrap.

p.s I hear you have been blocking and banning people for making negative comments about the changes. That is such a genius move. Kudos for being so forward-thinking.

And as for you my dear reader, thanks for stopping by .

Answer me this….

….does it make you feel better? This constant assertion that because he had never been to Nigeria, he is not Nigerian?

….does the colour of his passport lessen the heinousness of his murderous act? The cold-blooded hacking down of a fellow human being in broad daylight?

….would you have cared about his nationality if that had been your brother, son, cousin, father or friend cut down so savagely in the prime of his life?

….are the reports of Boko Haram extremism in almost every part of Nigeria an exaggeration, a cruel invention of the British press merely out to malign a nation?

I ask these questions because I fail to see the point of all the denunciations of Michael Adebolajo winging their way across Facebook, Twitter, Whatsapp, and I dare say, BBM.

The facts as I know them are this.

Two men, at least one of whom has been identified as being a British citizen of Nigerian descent, attacked and killed a serving British soldier on a street in Woolwich, London yesterday. One of them was making statements on camera as to why they carried out this horrific act. They made no attempt to run away or evade capture. They urged witnesses to call the police. Allegedly, one or both of them ran towards the policemen with meat cleavers/machetes in both hands. T o my mind, they were seeking to commit suicide by cop. Their desire was to be mown down in a hail of bullets and thus achieve martyrdom, their Nirvana. But this is Britain, where the rule of law prevails.

I am proud of our British police force, who in spite of extreme provocation, were disciplined enough to restrain themselves and not shoot to kill. Instead, they used reasonable force to disarm and thus neutralise the deadly force of the duo who will recover, stand trial, and be made to pay for their dastardly act according to the laws of the land. For that is what makes Britain great, our refusal to sink to the levels of the depraved, the zeros.

As for you, my fellow Nigerian by virtue of descent, I know you will sleep better tonight. Because you have have helped in your own small way. You have disowned the culprit(s) in the most public way you can think of (via social media). And all is well with your world, you have proven you are not ignorant.

Adieu Lee Rigby, our fallen hero. You died in the service of Queen and country. For this, we thank you, rest well.

‘Give me your belt’ – Tales from back home

We made it to the airport in good time. We the travellers that is. Our bags hadn’t arrived yet. Well, some of them had. The rest of them were in a second car. Five people travelling, 8 pieces of luggage, we were travelling light, but we all couldn’t fit into the one car. So we waited at the airport for the other car to arrive. It was pouring with rain, my Etisalat phone that had conked out on me in the village for the duration of our long four day stay decided to do the same thing again. I couldn’t call the driver, and I guess he couldn’t reach me either. Network problem. Fortunately, I ran into a new friend of mine who lent me her non-Etisalat phone. Problem solved. We were reunited with our bags.

And so the process started. Bags weighed. Verified. And then customs inspection. To make sure you’re not smuggling anything illegal out of the country.

First bag unzipped. Loads of ankara outfits tumble out. ‘Seems like you are taking all of Nigeria with you’ comes a grumble from the inspecting officer. I smile as I try to shove the clothes back into the very full case.

Second bag has cartons of indomie noodles. I remove the sealing strip on the box so she can see the contents. She waves it through.

She goes through the next bag cursorily. I hold my breath. My parents’ egusi seeds are wrapped up in a towel. I know they might hassle me if they find it. I know that if I had ground them, I would not have had any problems. But they do not know my mother. She has requested for whole egusi, not ground, and it is more than my job’s worth to take anything other than what what specified back to her. She does not find the egusi. I exhale slowly.

Other bags go through,including the one that has about 10kg of Ijebu gari in it, no wahala.

The final bag is THE bag. It has a three-quarter full keg of coconut oil in it. I have frozen the oil so it won’t leak in transit. It has my smoked fish in it. It has my dried king prawns, ground crayfish and ground ogbono. It has my frozen peppered snails in it. N and my aunty got me the snails. J’s cook peppered some of them for me. It is THE bag.

The inspecting officer passes it to the head honcho and tells her ‘This one.’ The madam at the top looks in the bag and says ‘You Londoners! Okay you have to give me something otherwise this bag is not going.’

I have to state categorically here, that I am fundamentally opposed to the notion of giving or receiving bribes, and I do not consider it acceptable under normal circumstances. Nigeria obviously falls outside this category. Take that as you will.

Back to my madam. She says ‘You have to give me 5000 naira.’ I do a quick mental calculation, that’s roughly £25. Gell no! There’s no way I’m letting go of that much. So I smile at her and explain that I can’t afford that.

I am holding a pen in my hand, and I am stunned to hear her say ‘Okay, give me your pen.’ I got this pen from my aburo/omo mi Deronk. She gave it to me after I shamelessly begged for it. The pen and I have been together for about three weeks. And now madam wanted it. Jell no! I smile and explain that it was a gift, and I can’t let it go. She eyes me in disdain.

The pen

‘Give me your belt’. I hear the words from a distance as I am sure my ears are deceiving me. I look down at my belt. It is holding my jeans in place around my waist. I have had this belt for about five or six years. It is one of two belts I own. It is a Tommy Hilfiger belt. Yes, I admit it. I love Tommy Hilfiger, it is about the only designer brand I can afford. For now. I am attached to this belt, in more ways than one. ‘My trousers will fall off my waist’ I protest mildly. ‘Ehn, take another one from inside your case’ she retorts. ‘I only brought this one’ I explain. ‘You London people are very stingy’ she mutters in Yoruba.

The belt

‘Everything you are carrying is legal by the way’ she offers. ‘However, I can take you to the office and make you fill out some forms, and waste your time’ she continues, in conversational tones. ‘How much can you give me?’

I am happy she has not asked for my Joxy bag. It was designed for and named after me by my friend Amina of Gidan Nodza. It is a 100% leather bag available in various colour ways, and is gorgeous.

Gorgeousness

‘1000 naira?’ I offer. ‘I reject that in Jesus name!’ is her emphatic response. Her sidekick seated beside her repeats the sentence for added emphasis. I gape at her in disbelief. I can’t believe that she is invoking the name of my Saviour whilst trying to extort money from me. And then I ask her ‘Ki le se so yen na? You reject it in Jesus name’?’ She looks a bit sheepish as she realises the incongruity of her declaration. We both burst out laughing, but I am not amused. We’ve already spent over 15 minutes on the examining table, and we still have to hand over our passports, check in for the flight formally, etc. I am tired, and just want it over with. I want THE bag too. And so I give her 2000 naira, she wishes me a safe journey, and I move on, with my contingent.

It’s smooth sailing after that. The immigration guy tries to shake us down for money, and I smilingly tell him, we are out of naira. He tells me to go ahead with the children, and asks T to wait behind. I skip off merrily with our girls. T has no money on him at all, the wallet is in my possession. We whizz through the barriers before he realises his mistake. T rejoins us a short while later, and we grin at each other.

Thanks for stopping by .

 

 

Popcorn and groundnut – Tales from back home

It was a long road trip from Lagos to Akure, and this time unlike our last trip two years earlier, I was determined to sample every culinary treat the roadside sellers had to offer.

And so I began. Loads of water for everybody, whatever brand looked the coldest.

La Casera for the girls, because milk remains E3’s favourite and only drink apart from water. Apple flavoured, because E2 is fussy, but she likes apple fruit juices. E3 drank hers, E2 took a sip, then shook her head violently to convey her distaste. Chocolate Fan Ice a while later was a hit with E1 and E3. E2 shook her head after one sip. I didn’t like the La Casera…..and the Fan Ice tasted so different from how it had when I was growing up. It tasted artificial, but maybe that is because my taste buds have aged. Whatever.

I saw plantain chips, but did not buy. My teeth are now Westernized, a previous trial had convinced me they were too hard to attempt eating, and were not sweet enough either.

The smell of fish being fried hit my nose way before I saw her. She had a big basin of fresh fish beside her, and a tray of fried battered fish in front of her. There might have been a bowl of batter too, I did not notice it. I had eyes only for the fish. Tasty, well seasoned, steaming hot. It did not disappoint. We all enjoyed it, I wish I’d bought more.

Don’t know what fish it was, very yummy nonetheless

We duly did it justice.

All gone

My eyes lit up when I saw the popcorn seller. The legend on the packet said popcorn and groundnut, and the memories of this treat came flooding back. I happily handed over the money in exchange for one, ripped the packet open, grabbed a handful then passed the bag around. As I ate, it occurred to me that all I was crunching between my teeth was popcorn, but I thought I’d been unlucky. The bag came back my way, still only popcorn. The popcorn was nice, slightly sweetened the way I like it, but where were the groundnuts?

I asked the others if they had eaten any groundnuts. They hadn’t. ‘They called it popcorn and groundnut na’ I grumbled aloud.

T piped up from the front seat, ‘I’ve found it’ as he handed something over to me. I stared in disbelief at what he had given me. It was a solitary groundnut tied in a clear bag. I rubbed my eyes to clear them properly, and stared at it again. Then I read the packet slowly. It was there in red under the list of ingredients. Hybrid popcorn, Vegetable oil, Groundnut. As in singular. One groundnut. I wanted to cry at the injustice of it all. But I had to applaud their ingenuity. The item had been sold as described. Sheer genius.

Spot the groundnut

Thank you for stopping by .

Silent answers – Tales from back home

She: ‘I want to have a talk with you. I am glad you understand Yoruba very well, so you will understand what it is I am saying to you. I have noticed you are very lazy. Your husband does all the work. He takes care of the children and does everything for them. It is not right. You should do something too. It is not as if you go to work.’

Me: ‘Yes, T helps me a lot, and for that I am grateful. You don’t have a clue about my health issues, and I’m not about to bring them up in my defence. You don’t know what happens in my home. Yes I don’t go to work, but I pull my weight at home. T is out of the house from early morning till late in the evening. I take care of the children and feed my household, but I don’t need to justify myself to you. I will not knock myself out running around just to prove to you that I am hard working. What we do is none of your business.’

She: ‘There is this man who was a workaholic, and it wasn’t until his wife insisted, that he went to have a growth on his neck checked out. It turned out to be cancerous. It is nice for couples to grow old together. Things are never the same if one spouse dies through overwork.’

Me: ‘So are you saying I am trying to send your son into an early grave? That I am overworking him because you have seen him bathing his children? Is he not their father? I reject your pronouncements in Jesus name.’

She: ‘I have said this to you in the past, and I am telling you again. You need to train your children properly. Yes they live abroad, but you still need to train them. Otherwise they will turn out to be a liability to you and your husband in the future. You don’t want to do the work, but you should train your children. The worst thing is that I noticed that when E1 wanted to use the pestle, you were telling her to be careful. You had better train your children so they know how to do housework. There was this woman who didn’t train her daughter, she was always asking other people’s children to do the work. Now her daughter can’t even make eba.’

Me: ‘My children are very well behaved, and even total strangers have attested to this. They are doing well academically. What more do you want? They are 9, 6, and 3 and you are going on about training. I do the housework. Have I ever come to complain to you that I am tired? There is time for everything, they will learn what is necessary at the right time. Yes I told her to be careful because there were splinters along the length of the pestle, and I didn’t want them piercing her hands. What good is it to her to know how to pound egusi? Or even yam for that matter? My children live in a different time and age. At the right time, I will equip them with the skills they need. They are children, let them enjoy their childhood. I can make gari from scratch. Plant the cassava, harvest it, peel and soak it, take it to the mill to get it pressed. Grate and fry it. I made gari growing up. Ditto ogi, elubo, lafun. All from scratch. Plant corn, harvest, dry, shuck, soak, grind, sieve. The works. I can live on a farm and grow fat. So don’t insinuate that my mother did not train me, because you and I know that that is what you are saying. I am not a good cook. I am a fantastic cook. But I do not need to prove anything to you.’

It is a dark night. NEPA has taken light and we are sitting outside on the veranda, whilst the children sit indoors with lit torches. I glance upwards at the sky, and am amazed to see hundreds of stars twinkling away. I have not seen stars in years. I am in awe at God’s handiwork  Her voice brings me crashing down into the here and now. The tribunal.

She: ‘I had been thinking that the next time you dad comes to Osogbo, we will go to see him and do your engagement. But it is all in your hands, and is dependent on your behaviour. So plan properly, and know what you will do.’

Me: Snorting in derisive laughter ‘Engagement? Engagement? That is the inducement you are dangling over my head? Engagement ko, engagement ni. I’ve been married for almost 13 years and you still think my ultimate desire is that you come and do my engagement? I don’t give a toss about getting engaged, you can hold your plans. If this is what you think will make me docile and submissive, you have played the wrong card. Because I have had enough. This is the last time you will see me here in your village. And when you come to England, you will see your grandchildren, but not me. You have gone too far. My silence does not mean I am stupid. I am not going to give you the opportunity to air your opinions about me or my children to my face anymore. Enough already.’

There is a long pause. She has run out of steam and I guess the tribunal is over.

I kneel down and thank her. They are the only words I have uttered. And then I get up and go inside. My unspoken answers ringing in my head.

Thanks for stopping by

Flash fiction – Bade

She looked at her watch, then glanced at the kitchen clock for confirmation.

It was 7pm and Bade was nowhere in sight.

She called his mobile phone for the umpteenth time and hissed when it went straight to voicemail.

God knew she had prayed. She had prayed and prayed for Bade to stop his philandering ways and come straight home after work. She had prayed that he would be content with what he had, and not go chasing after other women. She was confident that her prayers were being answered.

She looked at the table and sighed. Bade liked ewa agoyin so she had made that for him. She had opened the windows wide despite the freezing weather, just so she could make the accompanying aya mase stew for him without stinking out the house for weeks. The assorted fried meat and boiled eggs nestled in the oily stew seemed to wink at her as she looked at them. She loved to cook, especially for her Bade.

She had pestered him for weeks about going to church. She was an active worker in two departments, and could not understand why he wouldn’t attend services, at least once in a while. She wasn’t fussed about him attending her church, but there were other churches around that were just as good. She believed fervently that it was important for one to maintain a relationship with God, he just didn’t seem to get it.

She smiled as she remembered the fun they’d had at Alton Towers over the weekend. They had shrieked like teenagers as they went on one gravity-defying ride after the other, the pictures were up on her fridge for all to see. All had seemed well as he had departed for work that morning, she had blushed as he whispered his plans for the evening into her ears.

She sat down to take the weight off her feet and then decided to have some beans whilst she was waiting.

Two platefuls later, too full to move, she placed the plate on the side table beside her and shut her eyes.

She jerked awake as a text came in a few hours later.

Still disoriented, she felt around for her phone, then squinted at it as she read Bade’s text message.

‘Decided to spend the night at home with my wife. Ttyl.’

Thanks for stopping by .

Closer than a brother by Nkem Ivara

Set in London, this is a fast-paced romance novella that grips you firmly from the first page, and refuses to let go even after you have turned the last. They met in their teens, and grew up together. Now Sami and Daye are both successful professionals in every area of their lives, except it seems, in matters of the heart. They confide in each other about everything except the one secret they refuse to share. Will the truth be revealed, and at what cost?

I enjoyed reading this story as it is a believable piece of writing, with authentic settings. The writer has a knack for drawing one into the lives of her characters, and  I found myself rooting for both the main ones, even as I willed the story not to come to an end.

It was with regret I read the last word, not because of the great ending, but because I simply wanted more.  I sincerely hope it won’t be the last we see of Sami and Daye, it was that gripping. Nkem is a talented writer who tantalizes one’s senses  even as she entertains, and I look forward to reading more from her in the future.

Blurb:

Daye Thompson didn’t know when it happened, but while playing the role of the-big-brother-she-never-had to beautiful Samantha Egbuson, he’d gone and fallen in love with her. Confessing his true feelings could signal the end of their lifetime friendship. Can he risk losing her altogether. She may have fallen for her best friend, Daye but can Sami trust him with her heart when she’s had such rotten luck with men she trusted in the past?

 

From this Friday, the 8th of March, the book will be available for purchase from Whispers Website, All Romance Ebooks, and Amazon. It will be also be available on Barnes and Noble at a date to be announced.

Thanks as always, for stopping by .

Morning runs

I get the girls to school early and am back home just after 8.45am.

E3 is home today, she grabs her spoon and heads upstairs. I follow after her with a box of Crunchy Nut cereal, and a bowl of milk. She waits impatiently while I fire up my laptop, and then we get down to the business of her breakfast. She gets through quickly, her mind on the game she wants to play.

There are two choices, Big City Adventure London, or Big City Adventure Paris. She opts for London, and away we go. She is the one who wants to play the hidden object game, but she needs some help, especially as she can’t read, and doesn’t know which items to look for. We end up playing it together, she’s learning new words as we go along, and having fun too.

I think she’s spent long enough staring at the laptop screen, so it’s telly time. On the menu today, Timmy Time, Curious George and Dora the Explorer. We go downstairs, I tuck her in under a comforter on the sofa, put on the first of the trio, then come back upstairs.

I go get some peach and passion fruit yoghurt, and top it up with Simply Nutty Muesli. Breakfast sorted.

I call Eddie, he’s been suggested to me as a possible future supplier of raw shea butter. I use shea butter for my heels and for our hair, and have almost run out. Eddie doesn’t know how much the shea butter weighs but will call Ghana to find out. He offers to send me a sample so I can assess the quality. I text him my address.

I do some research on a joint project Nkem and I are considering, and send her my findings.

In between I go up and down the stairs to attend to E3’s viewing requirements. I tell her to turn off the telly after Dora and come upstairs.

I stop by Twitter. There is a storm raging. Someone tweeted an offensive joke, someone else retweeted it, and everyone is clamouring for the head of the retweeter. I like Twitter when it’s fun. This is not fun, and I have no opinion one way or the other so I exit quickly.

I haven’t spoken to Maryam in a while, so I call her, and we catch up. I hear E3 singing ‘Chuck my money….I don’t care’ as she comes up the stairs. She interrupts our conversation constantly and Maryam threatens to come round with a koboko. The word thrills her and she grins excitedly as she says she wants aunty to visit her with kokobo in tow. Maryam and I laugh over our koboko-filled childhoods. We are thankful our children will never have to go through that.

Conversation over, E3 and I talk about everything and nothing, whilst I play Facebook Scrabble. My name is Joxy, I am a Scrabble addict.

‘I’ve finished!’ rings out E3′s voice from the bathroom. ‘What did you do?’ I call out. ‘One poopoo and three wee wees’ she replies. I head there to help clean up.

Something is niggling me about Tok’s status update, so I whatsapp her. The conversation goes on for a while and I am struggling to keep my eyes open. ‘E3, do you want to take a nap with mama?’ I ask . ‘Yes, let’s nap’ she replies.

I call T at work to say hello, and to tell him I am about to sleep. He’s busy so doesn’t stay talking for long, which suits me. I am that sleepy.

It’s about 1.30pm, I set my alarm for 30 minutes, cuddle up with E3, and go to sleep. I sleep with the phone ringer on, my girls are at school, I need to be reachable.

My phone rings at 1.32. It’s PJ, who asks if I was sleeping. I reply in the affirmative, and she carries on with her purpose for calling, regardless. We conclude, I go back to sleep.

My phone rings at 1.56. It’s Hina, my friendly neighbour, who apologises for waking me, and wants to know if we have electricity. I turn over, squint at the clock and see its red digital display. I reply that we do, reset my alarm, and go back to sleep.

My phone rings at 2.14. It’s PJ again. She’s sorry for waking me up, but she needs a decision  about the ATP tickets right away. I give her my decision, and go back to sleep.

My phone rings at 2.21. It is PJ. She has decided not to buy the tickets, and she explains why. I am awake by the time she says goodbye. 

I call Hina to find out how far with NEPA PCHN her power company, and she says she’ll be round to borrow matches. I throw on clothes and go downstairs to the kitchen. T made a salad yesterday. He makes great salads. I am having that for lunch, there is a dress I want to fit into. I haven’t bought it yet, but I want to be able to fit into it when I do.

I put noodles on for E3, and hear Hina at the door. She’s brought me some crushed garlic, and crushed ginger too. I ask her to come stay with us if she needs to, and she leaves.

I eat my salad with loads of extra olives. I love olives. Green olives.

I hear E3 calling me just as the noodles are ready. I carry her downstairs, and begin to prep for picking up the girls.

As the noodles cool, I throw in packets of Quavers and Wotsits into the girls’ snack bag. I also put in packs of Caprisonne and E3’s milk beaker. I feed E3 whilst watching The Glades. I’m two episodes into the first season, and the jury is still out. It’s not doing me gis gis like my adrenaline-filled Nikita and Burn Notice. It is not cracking me up like Castle. I’m not sure at all.

I’m cutting it really finely. I need to be at the girls’ school at 3.40, and I’m still at home at 3.25. It’s a 10 minute drive normally, but there are roadworks…..and yep, I’m still driving when Bunmi’s number flashes up on my phone. I answer and hear Elizabeth’s voice asking if she should collect E1 as her class is out. I say yes, she passes the phone to E1’s teacher, transaction concluded.

Baba is my nickname for our local PCSO. He stands guard outside the girls’ school to ensure parents don’t park on the double yellow lines. He is not there today. I park on the double yellow lines and dash across the road to go get my girls.

Thanks for stopping by .

Dear Informed Viewer……….(3)

Scotch bonnet (C. chinense) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Thank you for following my series on the various types of peppersoup that are found around Nigeria. Contrary to what some people think, peppersoup involves more than putting curry, thyme and pepper into meat stock and hoping for a tasty outcome, and I sought to illustrate this on my YouTube channel, ‘Cooking with Joxy’.

The range of traditional spices used in the preparation of this soup varies greatly from one end of the country to the other, but one of the base ingredients, especially in Western Nigeria, is the scotch bonnet pepper, known locally as ata rodo.

Whilst scotch bonnet peppers are rated as one of the hotter ones on the Scoville Scale, their heat tends to vary from pepper to pepper, some being milder than others. In my video, I advised viewers who were not used to handling ata rodo to wear gloves if required whilst cutting them as they tend to stay on the fingers for a while even after the hands are washed, and this can result in extreme discomfort and irritation if said fingers are inadvertently introduced to certain body parts. I also advised that the peppers be deseeded before use, as a lot of the heat is actually in the seeds.

I gave an anecdote of how once, whilst shopping in Peckham, I was encouraged by a seller to nibble at the tip of a pepper to test its heat. Seeing other shoppers doing the same, I was emboldened enough to try,and my tingling tongue assured me that the peppers I’d selected were indeed very hot.

I only mentioned this in passing, I never for one moment imagined that any of my viewers who had not previously been exposed to this pepper would try to follow suit. You can therefore imagine my consternation when I received your letter this morning, along with the enclosed newspaper clipping. It was with great shock I read that whilst buying the ingredients to make peppersoup, you decided to toss a whole ata rodo into your mouth to test its heat. I understand that the seller tried to warn you against biting down on it, but he was too late. I am not surprised that you choked, and immediately passed out upon swallowing. It is indeed fortuitous that a passing ambulance crew were able to administer first aid at the scene, before conveying you to the nearest hospital. 

I am glad you are fully recovered, and advise you to stick to the tinned soups in future. These can always be livened up with drop or two of hot sauce should you desire. I appreciate your interest in Nigerian cuisine, but given your  history, perhaps you might be better off buying pre-cooked meals? These are now widely available in all the major supermarkets.

Thank you again for watching  ‘Cooking with Joxy’.

The husband – an excerpt

It was a day just like any other. The only difference was, this was the day he had decided to kill her. He heard her stirring outside, and he turned over in his bed, pulling his wrapper over his head as if to stave off having to get up. He dreaded seeing her and her accompanying drama, dreaded hearing her voice that seemed to have perfected the art of scraping along his very raw nerves. He contented himself with the thought that today was the last time he would see her miserable face, and with this comforting thought, he drifted away again on the wings of sleep. A cock crowed outside, hesitantly at first, and then as though gathering boldness from the lightening sky, with more and more gusto. As he further toyed with the idea of staying in bed for a little longer, his wife came into the room.

‘Good morning Baba Seye’ she muttered, the greeting sounding more like a curse than a benediction.

He gazed at her sullen, resentful face and wondered who or what it was that had upset her so early in the day.

‘Good morning my queen’ he replied, hoping to stave off the flow of words he knew was coming, sure as day followed night. ‘I hope you slept well’

‘Slept well? With the words of that woman ringing in my head, how could I have slept well?’ she retorted, casting him a pained look as if she felt he was just as culpable for the words as the party who had said them.

‘It is okay my queen. They were only words, her usual utter nonsense, nothing to take to heart’

She maintained a martyred air as she bustled around the room, tidying up ostentatiously. The room was sparsely furnished, all it had in it was the bed, some suitcases and a low table, and still she bustled from corner to corner. He watched in silence as she picked up his dusty pair of trousers from the floor where he had dropped them in his exhaustion the night before and held them out to him.

‘She even commented about these trousers’ she said in a suddenly lowered tone which inexplicably turned into a long, drawn-out wail.

He gathered her into his arms as he gazed at the once-graceful arch of her neck, wondering which of his machetes he would use to deliver the coup de grace. Her wails subsided into sobs, and then gentle hiccups as she appeared to reach the end of her seemingly bottomless reservoir of tears. He patted her on the back one more time, and marvelled at the change that had been wrought in his once cheerful wife ever since they had moved into his family compound.

Who could have imagined it would come to this? They had started out their married life in a small room in a ‘face me, I face you’ three-storied tenement in downtown Akure. He had proudly gone off to work daily as a clerk in the small Local Government Secretariat, and she had been glad to receive the sheets of paper he pulled from various files at random, they had come in handy for wrapping the roasted groundnuts she sold at a small table in front of the building. Their life had been near idyllic, and he was sure it would have continued that way had the Northern Nigeria bound train not derailed, and fallen over right into his office.

The accident had happened in the early hours of the morning, and he had arrived at work that day to find scenes of total carnage. The entire block that housed where his office used to be was a mound of rubble, twisted metal, with bright splashes of red streaking various random surfaces. He had drawn close enough to ascertain that the streaks were blood, and the pieces he had assumed was luggage flung out of the windows of the train carriages were actually human limbs and torsos.

He had helped in the rescue and clean up operation for many long hours, and by the end of the day, had not been surprised to learn that his department had been closed down for the foreseeable future. He was not one to dwell on ill-fortune, had no patience for those who held on to the dreams of yesterday instead of living for the reality of today, and had decided almost immediately to return to his village until his job reopened. His wife had been aghast at the thought of going there, but had capitulated when he reassured her that they would not have to live in the family compound.

And despite all his plans, it had come down to this. He had to use his own hands to end a life, just so he could retain some sanity in his.

He let his wrapper drop as he reached out for the trousers she was still clutching in her hand, and she stared at him with bold eyes as he stepped into them. That was one connection they had always shared, and it was with regret he moved towards the door, grabbing the tin cup that held his toothbrush and toothpaste as he went out. He stifled a gasp as the cold air hit his bare chest, and then made his way quickly to the tin shack that served as a bathroom for him and his wife. The others had jeered as he had constructed it, wondering aloud why his wife couldn’t go to the stream to bath like the rest of them, but he had wanted to do something to please her, to enhance the quality of her life since she had been forced to relocate with him first to his village, and then to his family house.

His bucket of water was already in there, and he noted with pleasure that she had heated the water, probably by scooping some water from the big communal pot that the other wives had put on to boil in the middle of the compound. He scrubbed himself with the raffia strands that had been fashioned into a sponge, and inhaled the smell of the black soap appreciatively. She had made it for them specially, adding honey, lemon and camwood to theirs especially, unlike the batch she produced for sale. She was adamant it enhanced their complexions, and he was not sure if it was just that, or also his physique that had earned him admiring glances from other women. Of course he had pretended not to notice, as he hadn’t wanted his wife to feel any more insecure than she already was.

He rinsed off the lather, dried himself with a clean, old cloth, then stepped back into his dusty trousers. It was ironic, he thought to himself, getting so clean in preparation for a job so dirty, and then as he remembered the blood-letting scheduled for later in the day, a smile split his face, and he stepped out with a brisk step.