When I looked, she was pale-skinned. A white woman like Gran, with lofty blue eyes that saw without really looking. Perched on the sofa beside her was her husband, an afro-headed man about Daddy’s own age. He had a hand around the woman’s shoulders and they both observed my advancement with mild interest.
I stopped in front of their chair, cursing
September was the smell of the house in Mushin. Its cold, musty floor boards. The gradual rot of big, overripe cashews sitting forgotten in a plastic bowl on the kitchen sink. The aroma of fish, fresh fried fish sauteed in the hot, peppery sauce that Grandma made on Saturdays for the women from her Bible study group.
I didn’t like those women. It was something
Episode 2
If he had heard her, his face didn’t betray any emotion. She blanched in shock when his hands snaked into her blouse. Kosi knew she ought to be excited when his cold fingers slightly brushed the warm, sensitive skin of her stomach but she only wanted to slap his hands away. She sat still, unfeeling. She badly wanted to feel, to feel something for Esele’s sake only that her traitorous nerves had numbed. Common sense swam back into her head when she felt his adventurous hands tugging at her bra clasp.
“Don’t…”,
First of, you must accept that there is no such thing as minority discrimination in Nigeria and this is not because it is truly non-existent but because the majority do not want it to exist.
There are 10 things the Majority expect you to understand:
1] If you want to talk about minority segregation then, it’s alright but don’t seem too aggressive lest you discourage potential helpers. Occasionally your audience
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The salon is off the highway; a small, frail thing squeezed between a beer parlor and a drug store in grotesque similitude of a throttler’s hands and the victim neck.
It was almost missable but for the glossy packs of X-Pression weaves gracing the surface of its decaying wood door. The door was hunched in such venerable ambience that each blast of air seemed to set it farther away from its hinges.
The owner of the salon is a small, gap-toothed, wiry woman with an ingratiating smile.
He is on my dining table when I wake up this morning.
Lulu has gone to the pharmacy store with Rashid. I am alone. Vulnerable. A diabetic teenager in an oversize pair of pyjamas and matching flip flops that make funny sounds when my steps get labored.
I stand transfixed at the doorway, observing the intruder warily. My voice is an husky croak when I ask what does he want?
He half-smiles in absence of mind, his yellowed eyes fixed on a spot on the mahogany table
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Room 29 is the heaven of the loud-mouth, the prison of the have-not, the kingdom of the chatterbox…
They walk past and you’re in trouble the moment your sorry nose catches the exquisite scent of expensive deodorant. “You smell nice”, that’s your traitorous mouth moving of its own volition only they are too pre-occupied with the new shade of white the clouds are sporting this afternoon to hear you.
Her name is Seun. She is the Ibadan babe whose face is especially fairer than the rest of her body. Sexcellency is what they call her and she’s always flexing her jaw by chewing gum. She can’t hear when you call her name, she does not say much either; she lives in the world of her iPhone
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