AMINA

A short story by Daniel Omale

photo credit: Africanquarters.com

“Move away from the wall!” 

Amina screamed in a suppressed voice like a desperate, mad woman. 

“Those devils might see you,” she cried. 

We have been hobbled here for three days, three dark days. Every passing dead day thickens the terror that gripped our hearts. Such morbid fear that makes the streaming rays of the noon day sun that drips through the holes on the roof stab our hearts with terror, such great terror that drives us to cringe ourselves into the darkest corner of this single room. This room that somehow has become our refuge, our prison and may be our grave. Death’s been everywhere in this village for three days and four nights, but Amina and I have managed to elude it only for this long. 

As I heard rasping footsteps approaching the door, I moved toward the window to get a peek through the eye-sized hole on the wall created by a raging stray bullet below the wooden window that we have tightly shut since we took refuge here that night. As I peeked with my good right eye, I could see nothing but dust, death and decaying corpse left bare in the open street. Although the rasping sound of steps was only a bold confused rat running around the abandoned school seeking for a hole to hide. But now every single approaching sound violent or stealthy drowns us anew in fire of fear. This was such a brutal baptism to feel death lurking around, daring you, mocking you, letting you know. ‘I’ve got you, you are mine.’ 

Such silent sound that echoes within the silence of your racing heart; such vicious voice that whispers in your ear every moment; ‘ I’ve got you.’ 

But four nights ago, life was normal. I had come to school as always bare-footed but desperate for knowledge. I was filled with a heavy hunger to learn. A passionate desire to live high and above the ignorance and illiteracy that is eating up my village and its inhabitants. It was mid-May. As I galloped through the dusty path that lead to my classroom, it felt like running toward the light hanging lamp-like in the horizon, like approaching the last point on a treasure map where the gold, diamonds and all kinds of precious stones are stowed up. I dashed into the classroom and Miss Amina was there the earliest as usual waiting patiently and calmly for her students. As I crashed in through the door and prostrated in greeting, she nodded her head in response, and beckoned to me to take my seat. I was always the first student to arrive school every day. Yet no matter how early I get to school, Miss Amina would always be there waiting. She is a young but a fountain of knowledge, she teaches Math, science and English Language in my school; the only school that serviced nine villages yet most of the classrooms are empty. Owing to the threat the dreaded terrorist group placed on our village if parents dared to send their wards to acquire a formal education. 

Amina told us once; “Don’t ever be afraid to come to school and learn, knowledge is power and you need that power,"she told us. "Gaining knowledge will make us powerful enough to put an end to all forms of confusion and problems we have around us". 

And when she spoke, we all sat still and drank. We drank of her voice, we drank of her knowledge, we drank of her wisdom, and she had wisdom in abundance. She told us to call her Amina, and not Miss Amina, that she was our friend. Amina broke down the walls terror and ignorance had built around our hearts and mind and set us free. She gave us the key to become conquerors of evil and terror. Like when I was able to read my first word: ‘Balarabe’ it is my name. I have never seen it written before. ‘It means a son born on the first day before Friday,’ Amina said.

Miss Amina taught me the magic of letter sounds, and she held my hands and showed me how to build words on paper with a pencil. I felt the joy of conquering the darkness of illiteracy. I felt the light of stepping into the world of western wisdom that the terrorist group threatening my village antagonize so brutally.

Just before the close of school; there was pandemonium, a chaotic confusion coming from the outskirts of the village heralded by the loud blast of machine guns, and the killing cry of terror. 

My school has three classroom building, and one administrative building; all constructed in a rectangular form without walls to separate it from the rest of the village. The Bushigas arrived the school on an open-air van shooting sporadically. I counted forty armed men shooting with direct aim at students and teachers they moved between class rooms,  killing everyone in sight. I asked Miss Amina to follow me,  and we entered a room where broken desks tables and chairs were parked. We shut the window and laid face-down on the ground. The attack lasted for five hours. The Bushigas killed all the male students and male teachers in sight and they took the girls hostage. The gory stories of their adventures with the female teachers and students cannot be relieved on these pages.

"I Am Light"

I am light, I am light

I am not the things my family did
I am not the voices in my head
I am not the pieces of the brokenness inside
I am light, I am light

I am light, I am light

I'm not the mistakes that I have made
Or any of the things that caused me pain
I am not the pieces of the dream I left behind
I am light, I am light

I am light, I am light

I am not the color of my eyes
I am not the skin on the outside
I am not my age, I am not my race
My soul inside is all light

I am light, I am light

I am divinity defined
I am the God on the inside
I am a star, a piece of it all
I am light!

                                                                             
poem by Sandra Ani

(c) 22nd October, 2019

Helen of Troy.

Beauty and charm,
Forged by the hands of the gods.
They say in her bossom,
you find bloom.
Yet in her heart doom.
They say the gods themselves,
set her on her path.
A path that criss-crosses
The path of all men.
A path no man will fully understand.
A knowledge
For which we forever
Draw arms,
Speaches and strategies.
The beast thinks he owns her.
And Prince charming to the rescue.
For blood and honour,
Or love.
For which do you battle?
Men will die!
Legions will fall,
And generations will follow...

Will she bring peace
After a life time of war?
Will she?
No man has adequate answers,
There is no end!
O! Helen of Troy.
What is the purpose of creation,
when you live to destroy!

For women the world over.
Poem by TSM.
(c)14 Aug. 2013

The Tool of the Writer

It is just not enough to put words down on paper, a writer should be able to establish his targeted audience, know the right words to use and know how to use those words to achieve his objective.

Building a rich word bank becomes important, as the need to express ideas better through words grows.  Anyone involved directly or indirectly with expression of ideas, whether written or verbal, should task themselves to have a rich resource of words.

At a just concluded teachers  training program   on “Literacy”, one of the facilitators, Miss Pepetual Chiwendu Igwe, expounded on vocabulary development, as one of the ways to help with literacy in the twenty first century. According to her, if educators would do their homework well, the students in their custody would gradually start building their own word bank.

Miss Pepetual Chiwendu Igwe on literacy

There are many ways of going round a subject, this is where creativity comes in. what gives a writer that unique expression, is his or her ability to use words in a creative way. Creative writing, is a product of creative thinking and creative thinking,  is a product of what the mind has been exposed to. Of course, there are many things that spur creativity, but for the writer, having a rich word bank is key.

Nobody wants to read a writing piece filled with repeated words, when there is something more appealing to read. Writings that are spiced up with choice words are more interesting and catch the reader’s attention more. Apart  from the information they provide, such writings educate the readers by giving them the opportunity to also learn new words.

To have your own unique voice, learn the craft of words and trade with them!

Ada Obim.

It is yet election day,
But you have won your way
To ruling my universe.
With no thumbprints, or
Ballot papers,
You have rigged the very seat
Of my soul.
And with no Coronation,
You have become the Queen of my heart.

How I swept you off your feet,
Only Ndi APC can explain.
In you I have a lover, mother,
A cover, my umbrella, my strength,
My power to the people.
Ada Obim,
If only I was a member of APGA,
Maka Chukwu,
The taste of Okuko,
Will never leave your memory.

And in these days of subsidy, and scarcity,
Nne, gbacha nkiti,
I will fetch for you,
Dried angala and mushrooms from Akwete.
I will draw for you,
Everlasting water from the river of life.
I will thread the oil mill,
Harvest fresh cassava
And prepare for you,
A tasty pot of Abacha.
Allocated with onions,
Fried fish, garden eggs, kanda
Ugba, and utazi.
And after a jolly full stomach,
We lie side by side,
Gazing at the stars.
In HOPE for change or transformation.

And though we fight, or
Quarrel sometimes.
Ada Obim,
I assure you of zero opposition.
No tribunal, or appeal or supreme Court
Can nullify this love.
No need for re- election
No campaign, or rallies
No need for posters.
You Win!
Asa,
You have already won.
E dela aha gi, na Obim.     

                       
Poem by TSM.     

Voice

I want to write.
Of a generation slipping
Of a people without resilience
Of a get it quick and easy generation.
Of boys talking about
Girls and football
Of girls, talking about
Boys and dresses.

I want write about sons
Leaving home for club houses
About daughters  Leaving mothers
For brothels.

I want to write for the voices not heard,
I want to write with the voice that can only be heard.
I want write for the dashed hopes,
For the lively hope.
For the many injustice
Will my pen bleed on this sweet?

I want to write for mothers,
Whose breast gave suckling
But live not to enjoy that child.
I want to write of fathers, who tried their hardest,
Yet broke their homes with infidelity.

I want to write of a faithful wife
Now HIV positive
Her husband was not discreet enough.

I want to write of dreams
That will only be dreams
Of wishes that will never know reality,
Of fantasies that keeps
A grown man a child.
I want to write of truth that will never be told.

I want to write of a lost generation,
Of churches no longer a place of hope,
Of mosques no longer a place of prayer.
I want to write about this loud silence
About this silent noise.
I want to write about faith without work
And of work without faith.

I want to write for those on the pavements ,
of those in the villa.
I want to write to tell a tale
That will never be told
Of mysteries that can never be broken
Will my pen bleed on these sheets
For issues men will never know.

I want to write of husbands who left
Willing wives for mistresses
Of strange women
Who break homes.
I want to write of wives
Who left good men
For rough rich men
Of women looking for guarantees
Not possibilities.

I want to write of fathers
Who left, of mothers who stayed,
Of children pulling on mama’s dress tail.
I want to write about devotion,
Extreme fidelity.
About indiscretion,
Of sincere infidelity.

I want to write of fame and notoriety,
Of winter days that won’t end,
Of sad seasons that will not change.
I write of love unrequited,
Of blue days
And of green days
Of red days,
And of purple days.

I want to write about moonless nights
And sunless days,
About desired yesterdays
And delayed tomorrows.
I want to write of static todays,
Of ups and downs
But of more downs.

I write about preys and predators,
Of the rapist and the raped,
The victim who would
Never speak of it.
I write of her pain and her silence.
Of her heart and her hurt.

Poem by Daniel Omale

When I First Met You

When I first met you
I promised to be true
I promised to be good
Good and true to you
And you did the same too
.
But promises are not made
At the spur of the moment
There will be mountains of doubts
There will be valleys of fears
Even with someone you hold dear

A little stream of doubt
Can become an ocean of fear
Tearing at the fibers of the soul
Once shy, I became bold
But the love has gone cold               

Poem by Joe Umoh Etuknwa