Unwanted Label

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I have always liked looking at girls; the beautiful dresses they wear and how well groomed they appear. Most other guys would probably say the same but would probably put it in sensual terms. I have never seen girls from this point of view.
I grew up without a father and in a house full of big aunties and my beautiful mother. I guess I always assumed I was one of them. At the tender age of nine, my mother sent me to boarding school. I was horrified at the prospect of not being able to spend my saturdays going through fashion magazines and discussing every detail of what the women were wearing. I was incredibly disheartened when I realised I was going to spend the rest of my many days living with aggressive boys who had volumes of testosterone bursting through their veins, having to deal with horrible, difficult school work. On the first day, after my mother dropped me off at the school entrance, I turned to her to wave goodbye with tears welling up in my huge eyes but seeing other boys; bigger boys not even seem bothered as they walked into the hostels without waving at their parents, I held back my tears and soldiered on into the school. I consoled myself with the thought that i would be re-joined with my mother soon.
After the episode with my mother, I was shown along with a group of other boys into a room. It was a noisy, stuffy 10 bunked bed room. The room looked a bit like a huge prison cell. The iron looking bars at the sides of the room behind each window did nothing to make matters any better. I roamed the entirety of the room with my eyes hardly hearing anything the tour instructor was saying. My mind was busy making conclusions about the people in the room. One of them had his face dipped in a bowl of grainy food, he grubbed very quickly and smiled heartily. A hugely built person he was. I immediately labelled him a glutton. I saw two smallish looking boys probably my age. One was sleeping, surprising to me how anyone could sleep in the noisy environment of that room. The other was reading a Harry Potter novel, I immediately liked him. He had a lovely dimple on the left side of his face.
Before I could roam any further, I was tapped on the shoulder by a fellow new boy, who told me our next destination had been announced.  On my way out of the room, I saw the glutton boy snatch a 40leave notebook from a smaller boy to ‘fan’ himself with, after his hearty meal. I was immediately gripped with fear as I realised he was also somewhat of a bully. I prayed against ending up in his room.
The tour was soon over and I was handed uniforms, nametags and assigned to my room. My night was spent in sobs. While the other 19 people in my room were fast asleep with most of them snoring loudly, I was crying and wishing for an end to the horrible dream that was the beginning of my secondary school days.
The first few weeks went by in a blur. All I remember is senior boys having fights in the hall way. Most of the fight were either because of a girl from the neighbouring school or over food rations or bets. I painfully missed my saturdays going through fashion catalogues and admiring girls dresses. Sometimes playing make-up and wearing my mother’s cloths. In school, any boy caught doing such was said to be “gay”. It was the sacred 3 letter word in school. Every boy tried to act macho to avoid being called that.
Every junior boy was expected to be the “servant” to at least one senior, that’s if they were being nice. Some heavily unliked boys had 3 or more “masters”. We had to make their beds every day, get food and every other thing in between. My master was one of the most popular boys in school. He had approached me during the week school resumed. We formed a bit of a friendship, If that’s what I should call it.
He always protected me from getting bullied by other boys. He gave me extra food rations and was always there for me to talk to. On many occassions, I caught him looking at me strangely, almost as if he were in a trance of some sort. One late evening, after prep time was over, he called me into a small empty room and asked me for a foot massage. He had never done this before. I went quite happily with him. I massage his feet and we conversed till late in the night, after lights-out. Suddenly, he got off the chair he was on, walked towards the door and locked it with a key I didn’t even know the door had.
Strange things happened to me afterwards, in simple terms, I was penetrated. Later on, he tucked me into bed quietly. Althrough to the morning and beyond, my shit-hole hurt and walking felt like a task. However, i was pleased about the events that had taken place the night before. I assumed my master and Iwould become even closer than we already were. Soon after lunch, I was called into the head master’s office. The atmosphere was tense and I felt a rush of guilt. I was bombarded with questions about the night before. I found that I had been reported by a student who had seen it all happen. Being a horrible liar, I cracked under the pressure and told them all about it.
After my confession, my mother was asked to come to schooI. They ordered me to go and pack up all of my belongings and leave. It was a silent ride home and my mother has never broached the subject since then. I haven’t seen my school “master” either.
If you have reached an anti-climax/no climax, there’s a continuation next week……. same time.

Question Mark Magazine

As i mentioned earlier, i write on a weekly basis for question mark magazine online.I am  @AdedoyinHazel and all my write-ups are tagged with @AdedoyinHazel you can check it/them anytime questionmarkmag.com cheers! :)

TRAPPED

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Tahir (mariam’s father) was beaming with huge smiles, highly unusual of him. He only ever smiled when Fazilah, his younger wife brought him food. Tahir could only afford 2 wives, Mariam’s mother being the first, because he had never been a rich man all his life. Now that Mariam was 14 years old and ripe for marriage, he was going to give her to Samir who would in turn, give him 150 cattle and an ivory jewelry which Mariam would wear as a symbol of marital status.
Tahir’s unhidden pride soon began radiating about the house. Until he had confirmed the marriage dealings with Samir, he had kept it secret from everyone else, including Mariam. Mariam who had been most unaware of the development had only just returned from school during the wee hours of a Thursday evening when Tahir called her into his room and delivered the news of her marriage which was to begin on the day after the next.
Astounded by what her father had just told her, Mariam’s mind went numb. She had heard of other girls being married off early, in fact, other boys too. Only about a year before, had her cousin, Pubudu, been married to a 13 year old girl. The poor girl had cried all through the wedding ceremony. Mariam had however thought that her father would never do the same to her. He had previously told her he would wait till she was done with grade school. She wondered why he was in such a haste to many her off, when she was only still at grade 4. Mariam sat still and in silence for a few seconds and watched her father’s heavily wrinkled face as he nodded with pride and beamed at her as he told her about all the advantages of getting married off and especially to a rich grown man. His fore head lined with 5 stress-lined which formed folds everytime he shone his bright yellow eyes. His cheeks slightly saggy, not due to age but because he had spent most of his life slaving away.
Mariam, although scared, understood the situation and knew even though it was unfair on her, it would soon be time to give up her childhood and innocence, to create wealth for her father and rear children for an unknown man. Mariam left her father and began packing her few belongings and preparing her mind for a new life. Into her bag, her mother placed 2 tobes(traditional sudanese attire), one, bright red and the other, dark grey. It was all the possession her mother could afford to give her.
On the night before the day Mariam would finally meet her husband, she thought about her prospective future and wondered what sort of person her husband would be. Was he going to be kind or mean? She concluded he must be mean because if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be coming to marry a child like her.
A certain noise that gradually became louder greeted Tahir’s home on the morning after the night before. It was the cattle Samir was bringing on behalf of his new bride, accompanied by a dark green van which Samir was in. With no delay, soon as the cattle was put Tahir’s possession, Mariam’s mother squeezed her arm as a sign of reassurance. She grabbed her bag and looked upon Samir’s face as she climbed into the van. From his face, Mariam knew he was a much older man, possibly middle aged. Through her mind’s eye, she could tell she wasn’t bound to have an enjoyable marriage, she had to obey tradition, what was she going to do about it became the question. It prodded her mind throughout the bumpy journey.
When they arrived Samir’s home, it was late at night. He wouldn’t let her to herself, instead, he partly dragged her into his inner chamber. He ripped off her tobe and in the most raspy voice possible, he said “let us complete this wedding”. That night, her body became synonymous with pain. With each rough entrance of his endless thrusts, he groaned and mumbled how much he had paid for her. Mariam felt as though her end had arrived, of course that she would have preferred.
When Samir was done, he pushed Mariam unto the floor and he slammed his sweaty body on his bed. Till the break of dawn, Mariam lay on the floor, stiff. She knew she had to escape this life. One of Samir’s older wives, Subin, an 18 year old mother of two, came to cleanse Mariam. The older girl had anger written all over her face. Mariam asked her how she could escape while they were at the baths, Subin immediately hushed her up and advised her to behave only according to how their husband would  please, else, death awaited her. Subin’s advise did nothing to deter Mariam’s plot to escape.
Every night after Samir had his carnal way with her, she lay thinking of an escape route.
One night, Samir failed to summon Mariam, although she thought it strange, she thanked her stars and hoped it was because he had gotten tired of her. The next morning however, Mariam found this not to be the case. Another young wife of Samir had attempted to escape in the night but was caught and her judgement had just been passed. She was to be stoned to death. They called it honour killing, Mariam wondered what honour there was in a public killing.
The girl’s parents and family watched as the girl knelt in the sand while hefty men began shouting and throwing stones at her. Soon as the stoning had begun, a huge sharp stone landed on the rear of her head with such high momentum. She fell to her face and began bleeding profusely from her head and mouth. Mariam watched from a distance in anger and fear, the girl’s mother’s eyes welled up, the girl dead, along with her, Mariam’s dream of freedom.

That Red Thing

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I woke up very early in the morning, before the sun, with a sudden urge to I woke up very early in the morning, before the sun, with a sudden urge to puke. I quickly threw off my duvet, not minding that my room was incredibly cold with the air conditioner on full blast, dashed towards the toilet, my bare knees on the floor, holding unto my stomach tightly as I threw up violently into my toilet bowl. I rolled unto the white tiled floor of my cubicle,stared at the ceiling for what seemed like an eternity, wondering in my little mind, the cause of my sickness which I experienced almost on a daily basis. For the rest of the morning, I could not sleep, instead I crawled into my bed, curled up and ruminated on my thoughts.
      I thought of many things as I dressed up for school, my undone ‘yoruba’ homework (I’d always hated yoruba and wondered why it was included among the compulsory subjects even in senior secondary school). I thought of Tekena, my boyfriend (I thought of him every morning because it made me smile), my parents also sprung to mind. I rarely ever saw them; somehow, I think I was glad I never really saw them because all my agemates complained bitterly about how demanding and protective their parents were of them. As for me, I had the house to myself, including the maids and the driver but most importantly my freedom.
During school hours, time seemed to crawl by as usual, I constantly felt nauseous and worst of all, I hadn’t seen Tekena all day which was rare of him, he was the kind of boy who would always make an extra effort at every and anything involving school. He really wasn’t the typical boy, quite undeserving of a bad bird like me. Apart from Tekena’s absense, something happened which baffled me…I unwittily but unintentionally locked eyes with Mr Shola (my math tutor) he was a middle-aged man who bizzarely had traces of white hairs at the roots of his head that looked as though they were patchyly covered in black dye. Immediately after the awkward ‘eye-contact’ moment, I felt unexplanable pangs of guilt. The incidence strangely made me think of my morning sickness. Aha! ”Morning sickness”. The mere subconcious thought of that phrase brought worry and concern to the very extremities of my tingling body.
    I began to think about everything that could possibly come to mind about what I had done that could have caused this morning sickness that only pregnant women are supposed to have. I knew I wasn’t pregnant. Ofcourse I wasn’t, or at least I didn’t want to face the reality that I was. At home, that early evening, I thought of asking Dr Okorocha (a friend of my mother’s) for a pregnancy test. I laughed at myself that I would consider such; the baffled woman would probably tell my mother even If I had put a knife to her neck.
On a calm saturday evening in the month of July, my parents came home and gave me a speech on how and why they planned on spending more time at home and with me. I didn’t deem the new development necessary but I could not help the situation. By this time, my feelings of nausea had subsided and I was living my life as usual. Going for parties and ‘getting wasted’ as I liked to call it. One night, after one of such parties, as I took off my clothes, I stared at my image in the full length mirror that stood galantly in my room. I remembered my younger self, stuffing tissue down my school blouse to create the impression that I had breasts so that I could catch the fancy of any of the senior boys. I giggled at the thought and caught the reflection of the dimple in my left cheek. My mother told me she created it by dipping her fingers into my cheeks as a child. I planned on doing the same to my children…… CHILDREN! ….I shuddered. I sat down quietly and wondered for a little while; why I always got anxious at the mention or thought of anything to do with pregnancy or children.
Over the next couple of months, my body did look fuller and my stomach, more robust. People commented that I was putting on some significant weight but the topic was always laughed off. In december, christmas preparations at my house did get very heated my mother said she wanted it to be ”the best christmas ever” ….not that I was interested in her plans whatsoever. She did however make me participate rather heavily in her preparations. I usually felt discomfort in my lower abdomen during the activities but I never told her about it.
   One cold night after my parents had gone for a christmas dinner at a friend’s, I started feeling infrequent increasing intensities of tightness and pain in my lower abdomen, stomach and lower back. I thought I was dying. I rolled off my bed unto the floor, in great discomfort and ache. I closed my eyes for a few minutes and when I opened them, I saw water on the floor and found out the source to be me. For the first time, it really ‘hit me’ that I was truly pregnant, in fact, I wasn’t only pregnant, I was having the baby.
In between contractions, I looked out through my window out to the neighbouring house opposite my room and saw a little girl switch off her room light. I gathered she was going to sleep. I turned to the other side and watched the wind blow the wild and now bushy surroundings of a demarcated unbuilt piece of land.
My thoughts were soon removed from anything apart from the pain I feeling.
     I dragged myself to the bathroom, stuffed my mouth with cloth (to deaden any sounds I was going to make), pushed my arms against the wall and held unto the corners of my bathtub. In tears, for over three hours, I stood, bent, twisted and writhed in pain trying to force another being out of my body. It was the worst type of pain I had ever felt. Burning sensations ran through my entire lower body and I shook and trembled. I finally succeeded in my feat and as I felt the slimy little red thing slide down between my thighs, I quickly grabbed hold of it’s head and flung it far out of my window into the wild grasses without much thought, maybe I didn’t want to look at my creation in the face. I dropped unto the floor and sat, exhausted, in a small pool of my own blood. Sweat running down my chest, a trickle sliding past the brown mould I called my right breast. I was numb but my mind flashed images of Mr Shola (math tutor), his face over mine, another image saw him zipping the fly of his “favorite’ blue trousers. Why was he the only one coming to mind? Was he the owner of the red thing, alias baby, I’d removed from me?

The Upbringing

I am Chuka and I grew up in the Eastern part of Nigeria in the late 70′s. My Mother had me at a time when many thought her biologcal clock had stopped ticking. She was a tall light skinned woman with a strong build. Her legs were strong and hard and sometimes looked as though they were made of the very tubers of yam that grew at the center of the town square. She was a popular and fairly successul trader at the famous Aba market. My father, well I can’t remember much about him, except that he was an extremely quiet man and he was frequently referred to as woman wrapper.
        It was commonly said that he was scared of my mother, ofcourse this was only whispered in people’s backyards for fear of my mother hearing. I also remember when I was much younger, my father returning from work, his frail stature appearing from the distance while the sun set and my older brother running towards him to collect his torn leather okrika otherwise called ”second-hand” brown box. Our home was a bizzare one, my parents hardly ever spoke to each other and when did, it was because they were arguing. I always wondered why they got married in the first place. School was a place of freedom for me.
      I didn’t have to bear the sounds of my mother scolding my father and I could eat as much of the food portions as I wanted during school lunch hours, unlike at home where I had to share a piece of meat with my selfish brother who usually threw the whole thing in his mouth and swallowed it before I could protest. At school, I usually heard tales from other children about their family trips and holidays to Onitsha and Lagos. I always went green with envy as I had never been to anywhere except my local village in Aba. These happy children also snickered among themselves about the activities of their parents behind their bedroom doors. I heard them talk about muffled sounds of moans and screams. Of course I never heard such sounds from my parents. They never even held hands!
     On a certain july morning, during our school assembly, the school headmaster, an incredibly short Indian man, annouced that a successful coup had taken place and the head of state had been overthrown. At the time, my mates and I wondered what this had to do with us. After the all important news the principal had made, on the home front, things got tougher as my parents had even more heated arguments, during one of such arguments, I heard my mother mention that we had no money and she was no longer making sales at the market. I wasn’t quite sure the effect this would have on us but I knew it would be bad. As the weeks went by, food rations got smaller, my mother got stricter, my father got leaner and quieter but thankfully, my brother became more considerate.
      One evening, after my father returned from work, he seemed to have something on his mind. I went to try and strike a conversation with him and all I could eventually get out of him was that he was travelling to the south for a short while and would be back as soon as he could. He hugged me uncomfortably and waved at my brother. As he was leaving our little compound, my mother approached the house and accosted him. My brother and I watched them make gesticulations at each other as they spoke for what seemed like an eternity. At the end of the evening, I saw my father walk away and my mother storm angrily into the house and into her room. All through the night, I listened to my mother rant, agonize and go on and on about how unfair my father had been by leaving her to raise my brother and I alone in such difficult conditions without leaving a dime.
    I couldn’t sleep that night and for a few nights after my father left. I still wonder how my brother did. I partly blame my mother for his abandonment, the woman was always breathing down his throat. I was incredibly pained by his exit. I missed his quiet presence, wise jokes and the air of serenity he always had. Everyday, when I close my eyes to sleep, I reminisce about my father and hope to see him again.

Bad Valentine

(c) letitflow.

I remember waking up every morning and all I could think of was him. That’s what I was told. She always said she knew It was a good feeling but it also felt like something wasn’t quite right. You see, she had long-term memory issues. The date was 14th February and he had been her boyfriend. They had been planning for this very date for over a month (you would probably think it strange that a man would be planning for valentine’s day). The day had finally arrived and she ensured that she took her time to get immaculately dressed-up for her beau. As she arrived the restaurant, he saw his lady approaching and went out to meet her. Unluckily, a huge vehicle was coming along at high speed, drove off the road and smashed him to a wall…..
Blood dripping, people shouting, his lady stunned/shocked, he was dead.
The rest of her life to be spent in unending pain. She was Tracy and he was John (a soldier) it was 1945. Tracy underwent Electroconvulsive-therapy to battle her depression, it was this that resulted in her memory disorder. At least she could no longer remember the horrible incident that was his death…

Thank You

I haven't checked this my blog in a month! that's a pretty long time. I didn't know people had read it and followed. Thank you. Since the past month, I've been writing stories in my column for QuestionMarkMagazine. I have decided to upload the stories unto my blog. please read and enjoy. Thank you.