IT’S BEEN A WHILE.

I can’t remember the last time I wrote. It’s been more than a year. I can’t believe it! I’ve tried a few times to pick up the pen and fill up the pages but for some reasons I couldn’t. Actually I miss writing. The kind of joy it brings to me, I have no words to describe it. After reading a Facebook post by my friend Nwilo yesterday, congratulating Alice Munro the winner of the 2013 Nobel Prize for Literature, I felt the urge to pick up the pen again but my hand failed me.

This morning, Adaobi a fellow corps member came into my room while I was playing Zuma game with my laptop computer, “Chuka can you show me a copy of your CV? I need to draft mine” she begged. I paused my game. I clicked on My Document icon to reveal my documents in my computer. The first thing that hit my eyes was a file titled ‘My personal Journal 1’. Back in Nsukka, while I was still an undergraduate, I use to keep a dairy. It wasn’t a daily diary. It was just a collection of interesting events around me. By the time I finished reading the first two page of My personal journal1, immediately, I opened a fresh page and started writing this (I don’t even know what to caption it). Along the line I remembered a short story I’ve been writing for more than a year now. It’s titled ‘The Crush’. I think it’s high time I completed it.

It’s about a very religious fresh graduate, Chima, who left Enugu to Lagos in search of a greener pasture and his ordeal with his best friend’s teenage sister who has a crush on him. She tried every tactics, written and unwritten in her quest to have Chima sleep with her. Chima on the other hand was struggling to remain a faithful friend to his best friend Obinna who was accommodating him in their little family apartment. The question is, if Chima will protect his friendship? or give in to the incessant demands of a horny teenage Onyinye? You have to wait till next week to find out. I pray the ugly hands of laziness wouldn’t grab me again. hehehehe.

The truth is that I have been much occupied since May last year. The pressure that comes with degree exam.  And before I could have enough time to rest it was time for NYSC. NYSC has been a life changing experience for me. In fact I’m going to write a short story about it. I think it’s going to be titled ‘My NYSC experience’. I’m already excited about it. I can’t wait to start writing already. You are going to be thrilled. I remember the day we were made to sit under the sun for two hours by the soldiers at the orientation Camp. That was just a tip of  the iceberg. I saw my ears with my own eyes.

I got to sign out now. I pray the internet will be strong enough so as to upload this now.

Thank you for stopping by to read a piece of my heart. Have a fun filled weekend!

Chuchu.

ONIONS MAKE ME CRY BY NWILO BURA-BARI VINCENT.

Here is a short story from soon to be publish collection of short stories 'The Diary of a Bloody Retard' by Nwilo Bura-Bari Vincent. Nwilo was Bozza Applications’ Man of the Day in early 2012, for his contribution to poetry and fiction writing. Nwilo has been published in print by The Guardian newspaper, 234next etc. He works part-time with his independent film company, IW Films. Nwilo is the founder of Port Harcourt Literary Society, an organisation based in Nigeria. He currently manages and edits at TheMetropolitanReview.com amongst other things. Enjoy! 

ONIONS MAKE ME CRY

I like female nurses. I like all of them. I like the tall and the endowed whose skins are dark and creamy. I like the chubby and the fair in complexion, on whose skin during rainy days you would wish you were crested. And definitely, the pretty faced nurses with nice dentition and perfect dimples. It makes you want to keep smiling like a man whose miracle arrived in trucks. And O goodness! their gracious onions, plump and beautiful in both size and sight, make me cry. I like the way they walk in their uniforms, shaking all danceable parts of their bodies, making you want to fall sick and remain bound in their care, forever. God bless nurses.

“But what would a sick man do without female nurses, son?” my adopted father, Richie, would ask me. “Stay in bed and allow some muscular men feel the pains on your stomach with their hands?” I would reply. “No!” He would exclaim. “Learn faster, son. You should know better.” I now know better. And I’m sure his spirit would be smiling down on me, ticking in his notepad how a trustworthy son I have become.  “These female nurses make you wish you were ill, especially in their working mood.” He has said this the night we met before he never came back. “If I were to make a choice, I would prefer a hospital where the nurses are eighteen years of age to thirty”. O, what a hospital that would be. And I love Richie for his imaginations. He was not older than I was but smarter, with the women, while I learned. “We would have late night parties. All the patients on bed would be rolled into a hall. The music would be mild and the nurses would mimic those ladies in Mo Hit’s music video, Booty Call.” That’s some crazy arse video. Retards! I always tell him.

I think employers of labour in the healthcare sector are like those of the banks; they are brilliant and business minded.  I rarely find a nurse whose physical features would make you want to reject the hospital bed without an option. There might be a lot of them around. But I wish not to see them. Richie would forbid me from any of such. He knows better than that. It would be a pain – some un-royal pain in the arse. The process of recruiting these nurses could be visualized. A lot of wannabe nurses are lined up. An intelligent womanizer, like Richie, is assigned to find out which of the nurses can make a married man sick. He would push up his glasses, walk around the ladies, asking them to turn around. He would look behind them to see the raised flesh, and the most flexible waist thereof. Then he would look up and see if the succulent onions are threatening. Some are, really. Some could be given amnesty. They scream fear into you and take your confidence hostage when they stare at you. Ugly nurses could seek for jobs as cleaners. They may never get anything more decent. Pathetic!

The Honda car we had driven in to the hospital packed up in the middle of the road.  The three people in it alighted. We all had straight faces. One of us was sick. He had ulcer. And he had struggled with it for the past week. The sign on the wall of the hospital said “HALTEN.” We walked in, sat and watched the confused nurses attend to their wandering minds instead of the bent man who already sat between Tycoon and me. The raised volume of the television distracted my thoughts. The nurse at the front desk, screaming above the television sound, asked if we had a card. Oludare nodded. He had one. He had come the previous day to get a card. The nurse ran through the files confusingly and pointed us to an office. The door of the office was slightly open. She walked ahead of us, presented the file to a man who strolled out of his office as if he had been roused from sleep. The man stared at the file like it spoke a language foreign to his understanding. He wore dirty slippers. They called him the resident doctor. I guess he looked like a resident lazy kid in a flapping shirt that could make him two if trimmed. He noted a few prescriptions and gave the file to the nurse at the reception.

I’ve grown to love several places, courtesy of Richie. Some are familiar while others are not. Some defy rules, others don’t. But I like me for my imperfections. I like the way I fall into troubles and rise immediately declaring myself a victor. I spent two nights in the hospital. I wasn’t sick, Oludare was. He had ulcer. And it became complicated. I thought he was joking when he lowered his frame and whispered into my ears. He asked for my help. He is 5ft seven inches tall. And I am somewhere below his chest. Bloody short me! “My help could be short,” I once thought aloud when the demand was serious. But seriously, we found ourselves in the hospital. He was a mess. He had so much pain. And every delay from the nurses ate into him like a worm. He once asked if he would survive the process. And I nodded. I guess he needed my faith to make his come alive. The nurses were ridiculously sloppy. And they wanted money; they could not allow you breathe the hospital air freely.

We climbed the stairs to a room. There was none on the ground floor. The nurse who had led the way spread an old wide bed sheet on the spring bed, as if she wanted both of us on the bed. Oludare stretched on it. I turned on the television. Plugging my computer, another nurse who had followed us, noiselessly, placed a big transparent bag of water against a pole that stood erected by the side of the bed. She connected a wire to Oludare. It looked like some communication gadget, but I knew better. It was not. It was all medical. I guess I suck at medical terms.

In minutes Oludare whispered that he was hungry. I knew he was. I saw it in his eyes. I saw his intestine with a plate, begging me for food. He opened his wallet and brought out One Thousand Naira note. “Could you get me a plate of rice, please?” I nodded. I collected the money from him. I ran around the streets like a mad man looking for rice and stew at about eight-thirty in the night. I later found a restaurant where I bought him rice and soup – pepper soup. Crazy me! He ate the food and shelved the pepper, literary. Lucky me!

In the middle of the night I saw blood in the bag of water that hung above Oludare’s head. He noticed it too. I ran to call the nurses. It was late in the night and the hospital was so quiet. All of the nurses had closed for the day. There was just one around. Dark and sexy, I had seen her when I was taking notes of the facilities in the hospital. And she was truly a nurse. I met her, panting. She however was on the phone, giggling to someone. She was talking with a man. I spent about ten minutes, which seemed like a year, trying to get her off the phone. I could not get madder as she continued the call like I was not important.

She gestured a “Wait, can’t you see I’m on the bloody phone.” I could see me eating her eyes, her mouth and sending her to an early grave – but I was not a vampire. I was just a gentleman who would not get so mad at a woman just because she is beautiful and she has body features that makes the senses die at a glimpse. I think I almost died.

I looked at her with grave anger. She smiled to the caller. I touched her again and again. I guess she saw how desperate I was and what was running through my mind. I left her after several try. She opened the door when I had left out of frustration and attended to Oludare. Her attitude killed her beauty. And even when I wished to talk some love to her, I had to shelve it. Some folks are just beautiful from afar. 

You’re on your own By Chuka Chuchu Ejiofor

A very promising day it seemed. I opened my eyes to a well illuminated room. I must have dossed off with the lights on, I had thought. Before I go to bed, I usually leave the bathroom light on or my blue rechargeable reading lamp, hidden at a corner so it wouldn't shine so brightly because I can’t sleep in very dark or very brightly lit room. Surprisingly the lights weren't on; in fact there was a power cut, trust PHCN. It was the Sun! The way it smiled down on me through the window, bringing so much brightness into the room, gave me the feeling it was going to be a great day.

My friend the cute little Sparrow that visits most mornings was already pecking at the glass window as it fed on the spiders that made webs on my window from the outside.

I checked the time on my old Nokia phone. It was 7:15am. I noticed an unread message. It was mum. The message read; “pls be very prayerful and if u can pls stay back but if you must come be very careful and pray well and mind the vehicle u enter. U can see the Ibebuilo’s later. Nk and Eby are not going. I have dis strange feeling ok. Call me in d morning 2 let me know ur decision ok? Luv U”

I was supposed to travel to Awka that morning for a funeral the next day. The Ibebulo’s were close family friends of ours. Mr Ibebulo (papa Ik) as we often called him had died after a brief illness. I really don’t know exactly what it was he suffered. He was in his 70’s. Mum’s text message got me a bit worried. The previous day, I had called Eby my sister in whose house I planned to stay for the few days I’d be there. I don’t really like it much at my parents', although I get to eat more there, but it can be very boring at the same time. Chukwudi my little nephew had always made my stay worthwhile at Ebys'. He always wanted to be carried about. Try dropping him and receive a resounding cry from him. He is a bunch. Eby told me that she and Nk were supposed to sit for an exams on the day of the funeral but due to a public holiday in celebration of Sala by the Muslims, their exams were postponed. I guess mum wasn't aware of that.  So I called her. She sounded cheerful as always and a bit relieved. I could tell from her voice. I rarely called my parents or anybody at that. I call when it’s really important or necessary. I prefer to send text massages. I find it easier.

“Did you get my text?” mum asked.

“Yes” I responded.

“So what have you decided? Should we expect you?”

“Yes”, I said. I told her about my call to Eby the previous day and that I needed a change of environment too. I hadn't left Nsukka in 6 months, not that I complained. I love Nsukka. I wouldn't mind being in Nsukka for 365 days without moving an inch. A lot of people find it boring here because there are not much recreational places to visit. It’s just the university, the main market, a few Banks and Hotels. It’s a small town where everybody knows almost each other. But I still love it here. The weather is lovely and it’s relatively cheap to live here.

“I’ll call you before I leave”, I told mum.

“Just send a text” as if she knew I wasn't going to call.

“Okay” I said with some air of mischief attached to my voice.

“Buy some roasted groundnuts”, she said in Igbo, almost commanding.

“ooo”, came my response. Mum loves roasted groundnuts. She eats them like her life depended on it. She thinks the ones from Nsukka tasted better. To me, they are all the same. I prefer them roasted until they become dark brown, a bit burnt. Try it with Garri in cold water and sugar on a hot afternoon and you will never remain the same. There is nothing like it.

“See you! Be careful and don’t forget to pray!”

“I will. See you!” I said at the same time pressing the red button on my phone and ended the call. If not, she would have gone on and on. A mother’s care is like no other.

I quickly got off the bed, had a bath, put on some clothes, packed a few things I had needed for the trip into my black back sack and left.

Globis Mass Transit’s park is just opposite Ogige main market. I had wanted to buy a ticket and secured a seat first before going to buy some groundnuts for mum. But I didn't want to rush things. So I went for the groundnuts first. I like to buy them from the market. They are cheaper there, and fresher than those carried about on a round metallic tray by those Nsukka women at the parks. I carefully made my way towards the market. I looked before every step. Avoided anything that could soil my neat black Gola pair of snickers I had bought newly, at the same time avoided been hit by Okada, keke or people coming towards me. It was 11:15am. The Sun was mild because it was a bit windy. I wasn't sweating. How I hate to sweat. Just a few meters away from the main road into the market, I sighted a groundnut seller in a distance. She had her wares in a wheelbarrow which she positioned just by the side of the road as she attended to a customer. She was a young lady in her late twenties. From her dressing she didn't look married. She had no wrapper tied around her waist like most married market women. She was wearing a bit tight short black skirt which ended a little below the knees and a white blouse with the word “Gucci” crested on it at the burst area. It couldn't have been the original Gucci. She couldn't afford one, not from selling roasted groundnuts. The blouse looked a bit tight on her. The way her breast struggled for space in it, made it obvious. Probably she may have thought she needed to appear appealing to the unmarried traders, Okada riders or the barrow pushers which are the people she saw on a daily bases. She looked neat except for the red brownish dust that settled on her feet as a result of long hours of marching, pushing her wheelbarrow from one point of the market to another just to make some sales. As I proceeded towards her, she beckoned on me to patronize her. “nwoke ocha ichoro okpape?” she asked in Igbo, as she picked up a nut from the heap in a transparent nylon bag which was placed on the wheelbarrow, and  threw it inside her mouth without peeling off the brownish paper weight shell that wrapped the nut itself. I didn't risk smiling back. I wanted to be sure her groundnuts looked nice before approaching her. If not I would have just walked on not hurting her feelings in the process. Her nuts looked nice. I picked one from the heap, peeled and ate. It really tasted nice. “I want 5 cups” I said in Igbo. She carefully measured them into a black nylon bag; one cup at a time, made sure the nuts went a little above the tip of the used Peak milk tin cut into a cup. I paid her and just as I was about to turn and leave, I felt a sharp pain on my knee. “You no dey see road?” came this harsh cracked voice, evidence of too much Kaikai (local dry gin) intake. “What an effrontery” I had thought, while rubbing at my knee.  I looked up; there, standing in front of me was a young looking guy with a badly burnt skin smiling at me as he struggled with his over loaded wheelbarrow. “Bros no vex ooo”, he politely apologized. I couldn't help but laughed at his sense of humor. “It’s okay” I said and walked away.

At the park, I bought a ticket to Nnewi as there were no direct buses to Awka from Nsukka. There was only a space left in the white Hiace bus. It takes fourteen passengers at a time. The only space was at the back so I took it. On a normal day, I wouldn't have taken a back seat. I had rather go to another empty bus and waited till it got filled. As the driver was cross checking the tickets, I asked for the passengers manifest form to fill out as required. It was with an elderly woman, two seats in front. She was helping another elderly woman who couldn't write to put down her details. They looked like friends to me. There was this air of familiarity in their voices as they conversed. As she handed it down to me it fell off her hand. A man who could have been in his forties sitting right in front of me picked it up and handed it over to me with a pen. “Thank you” I said. He nodded and smiled. I was still arranging the thick cover book filled with pink and white sheets, making sure the carbon paper was properly placed when the bus started moving and breeze rushed in through the windows disrupting me. The swaying and swerving of the vehicle by the driver as he tried to avoid potholes and Okada that bumped into the road unannounced at intervals didn't help matter. I struggled with the pink and white sheets and my little over packed back sack that was falling off my laps. It was crazy.

In the middle of all that madness, a fair feminine, badly manicured hand came from nowhere, went through my face and closed the window. “Why didn't I think of that?” I asked myself. Sitting by my left, smiling at me was a young girl in her late twenties. “dalu”’ I whispered in Igbo and she nodded in response. Normally I would have said that in English (thanks). I usually speak in English in public places mostly to strangers because here in Nsukka, one meets people from different parts of the country. In order to save myself the stress of repetition I often spoke in English. But that wasn't the case here. The truth was that she didn't look like someone that could speak in English even if her life depended on it. She is what my friend Emeka Nzenwata called “Skelewu”. According to him, a Skelewu is a girl who is trying so hard to belong to a social class way above her's. That was exactly who sat beside me, a Skelewu. Is it her horribly fixed hair extensions, or the off color lipstick on her lips? not to talk of the eye liner that went horizontally on her bushy eye brows. She looked unfinished, like those figurine I had seen in the shrines of those Nollywood movies on AfricaMagic channel. With much patience, I managed to fill out the passengers manifest as the swaying and swerving of the bus couldn't allow me. When I was done I handed back the compiled pink and white sheets to the man in front of me who in turn handed it down to the woman that dropped it earlier and then to another lady and then to the driver at last. The driver folded it and placed it between the windscreen and the dash board at the same time controlled the steering. About ten minutes after, I felt the bus slow down. I was surfing the internet with my phone at the same time listened to Frank Edwards just to avoid the Skelewu by my left who chewed loudly as she ate garden egg and roasted groundnuts. A combination I fund funny. I looked up and there in the middle of the highway stood an officer of the Federal Road Safety Corps flagging us down. Within seconds the bus came to a complete stop. I removed my headset so I could hear what transpired between the driver and the FRSC officer. With much strain to my ears I heard the officer say “manifest”. “I want to see the passengers manifest” the officer said again. The young driver brought out the manifest from where he had kept it and gave it to the officer who took the pink and white sheets and started making round the bus looking inside at intervals as he checked on the manifest. When he got back to the driver he asked, “Why are the names not complete?”

“I don’t know sir” the driver responded, smiling sheepishly. (A guilty smile I called it)

“And you moved the bus without checking on the manifest?!” thundered the officer. at this point everybody in the bus was now at alert, looking at the driver and then the officer as the conversation went on.

“Please who didn't fill out the passengers manifest?” the driver asked in Igbo. No one responded. The officer asked the same question again, this time in pigeon English. And there was no response again.

“Driver park well. Una go dey here bi that nah” the officer said in anger, and left to attend to other motorists. The driver parked by the shoulder of the road and went after the officer. Everyone in the bus murmured and stole glances at each other. I didn't really know what to make out of the whole situation. I was sure I filled the form. After about two minutes with the officers of the FRSC, the driver came back to the bus with the manifest and started reading out the names. “If you hear your name, indicate by saying yes” the driver said in Igbo. As he read out the names, people responded to their names. Through the window I saw the officer and two other officers a male and a female coming over to our bus from the other side of the highway. I asked myself of what important is this manifest? How does it prevent accidents on the roads? By the time the 13^th name was read out and the driver’s voice came to a halt, my heart skipped beats.

“Who didn't hear his/her name?” the driver asked in Igbo.

“I didn't hear my name”, I responded with so much confidence attached to my voice. I was so sure filled out the manifest.

“So you've been the one keeping us here” came almost every voice in the bus, mainly in Igbo and a few in pigeon English. Over thirty eye balls bored holes on my body. I opened and closed my mouth, vomiting words I couldn't hear in an attempt to defend myself. I turned to the girl by my left, “but you saw me writing on the manifest?”

“abeg bros you are on your own ooo” she said and moved further away from me.

“May thunder blast your tongue! Who is your brother? God forbid! I can never have a Skelewu for a sister” I said in my mind. I was angry, confused, and heavily embarrassed. I looked in front and my eyes met with the elderly woman that dropped the manifest earlier at the park but she looked away. Even the man in front of me never looked back or said a word to my defense. To say I was shocked is putting it mildly. I was dazed. As the girl by my left rightly put it, I was on my own. Suddenly a voice came up to my defense. “At last there is still a human being in this bus” I said to myself.

“I remember when he asked for the manifest” he said in Igbo. Honestly, I just noticed the man for the first time. Like Rihanna sang, “we found love in a strangest place”

“Can I have a look at the manifest” he said to the driver stretching out his hand and collected the bounded pink and white sheets.

“What is your name?” he asked me.

“Chuka Ejiofor” I answered.

“Can you please come down from the bus” said the female officer. She is a young lady in her late thirties.  She had her hair cut short. Growing up I had the impression that women that wore short hair were wicked. Her hair was lower than mine, which means she could be very wicked. The shorter the hair the more wicked they get, I had thought. She had no smile on her face. She looked like she was forced into her uniform. On the outside I looked composed but on the inside, I was melting in fear, my heart was racing, my bladder felt like it was about to give up. I tried not to make eye contacts with anybody for the fear my eye might give me away.

“Please make way for him” she said.

As I was making for the bus entrance my name was found. “Here is his name” he said in Igbo.

“He wrote at the wrong place” he said this time sounding a bit sympathetic.

Immediately I felt a huge chilling sensation in my heart, like ice was poured on it.

“na that time way the thing fall oo” said the man in front of me.

“You are a big idiot” I said in my mind. I wanted to give him a hard knock on his almost bald head. I didn't say a word to him or made any eye contacts. I just stretched out my hand and collected the bounded pink and white sheets and wrote on the appropriate places.

As soon as I finished writing, the bus moved. Skelewu who had moved away from me had returned to her normal position. As the bus sped on, I pondered on the whole event. The fear in the eyes of the passengers and the questions they carried. “Is he one of them? Boko Haram? Does he have a bomb with him?” they may have asked. At some point, I stopped being angry at the Skelewu, the man in front of me and the elderly woman. Who knows their stories? Nobody wants to be associated with failure, evil or anything bad. I remembered the text I got from mum. I remembered how worried she sounded as she said “be careful and don’t forget to pray”. Immediately, I bowed my head and said a short prayer. “Medicine after death. You only remember God when in need” I said to myself. “I’m no saint” I countered almost immediately. I laughed.

   “gbagardarrrrarararara” came a very loud sound.

“Blood of Jesus!” shouted most of the women in the bus.

The deep-seated ache on my head as it hit the bus frame above got me angry all over again. The driver couldn't have avoided the pothole. It’s the type you notice when you are only inches away from it.

“driver abeg take am easy ooo” cried the girl by my left.

THE END.