The Initiation

Editor’s Note:

Nnamdi Anyadu is a reader, writer and movie enthusiast. Find him on Twitter @The_Africanist


We stand in the dark shadows, in the dead of the night, in company yet alone. Hands bound behind our backs. Eyes covered even in darkness.

We stand in line, shoulder to shoulder, wearing but our undergarments. We can hear the night cry of the bush baby, the sinister ruffle of the forest leaves, the ominous song of our rebirth.

Some of us have come to seek power, others belonging, a few even, salvation. Continue reading

Memoirs of a Gay Teenage Virgin (entry one)

I first realized I was gay in my third year in secondary school, I had just started at a new school due to a certain illness I suffered at that time which led to me having to be withdrawn from my old school which was a boarding school to become a day student at a new school.

I was devastated. Having never been the social type, I was dreading the idea of having to start afresh at a new school, the idea of having to meet with new people terrified me, plus, I missed my Continue reading

Musings of a Broke Ajebo (entry one)

PLEASE IF YOU ARE CLOSE-MINDED DON’T READ THIS. JUST SKIP THIS POST. I TAKE GOD BEG YOU. THIS IS NOT FOR CLOSE-MINDED PEOPLE. IT IS MEANT FOR PEOPLE WHO ARE INTELLIGENT ENOUGH TO THINK FOR THEMSELVES IRRESPECTIVE OF WHAT SOCIETY SAYS. SEE? I HAD TO WRITE IT BOLDLY. IF YOU ARE CLOSE-MINDED, BYE. PLEASE, DON’T READ FOR THE SAKE OF WHAT YOU HAVE BEEN TOLD TO BELIEVE. BUT IF YOU MUST READ, BE TRUE TO YOURSELF.


Sunday Sister

We Are All Going To Hell.

June 28, 2015...

I’m “spiritually adventurous.” I have read the Holy Qur’an, the sacred book of Buddhism-Tipitaka, a little of the BhagavadGita, and the Holy Bible. I have even dabbled a little into the occult. (When you say occult people think of the Devil). One thing all these books teach is LOVE. Do unto others what you want them to do to you. (Do you love your neighbour? Do you sincerely wish him/her well? Jesus said, “Love God and love your neighbour.” But that is not what I want to write about today).

When people ask what church I attend, I tell them, “my parents are Catholics.” I didn’t choose to be a Christian. I found “them” practicing Catholicism and just like that, they involved me. If I were born in China, I would have been a Buddhist. Continue reading

Wish Me Well

Author’s Note

A Story Inspired by Timi Dakolo’s Wish Me Well Song.


The oil lamp burned low depriving Nnenna of warmth, her wiry body hidden beneath the double wrappers, her teeth moved in her mouth involuntarily.

Her son Obinna had gone to fetch firewood since the sun bade the skies goodbye. From her hut she couldn’t see anything, it was dark and she could hear the village children playing gleefully, singing songs and playing underneath the moonlight.

Children, she thought.

She tried to reach for the herbal drink Obinna had prepared before he left when she heard company. Continue reading

Blurred

He sat in the enclosure staring at the faces of the twelve people that would decide his fate. Twelve strangers. It wasn’t fair. These twelve strangers didn’t know him. They weren’t there when he would rummage through rat infested dustbins and dark alleys, all to ensure his kids never went to bed hungry. They were his siblings, but he had grown to recognize them as his. Annoying little buggers. But he had risen to the task when his parents split. Continue reading

Becoming Zuri 5

photo-via-polish-magazineThis is the last part of this story. Read the previous part here.


She felt Miriam’s soft lips claim hers’.

She was dazed. She didn’t know what to do.

Miriam stopped. “So, I think I love you. These days just made me realise that. But, you don’t have to love me back. I’m okay with us being just friends.”

Zuri tried so hard to suppress a laugh. “The problem with you people who weren’t born in Nigeria is that your eyes are too open. I couldn’t have imagined kissing you. When I think of kissing, I just think of boys.” Continue reading

Game of Fire

I saw him sneak out of the room into the smoke in the parlour. He’d locked his wife inside to burn black. I heard his wicked laughing interrupted by his coughs. He looked uglier in the fumes, dark, thin and long. . . Why did I even marry him? He didn’t check the pillows covered in blanket beside him, didn’t bother to even switch on the light. If he had, he would have realized I wasn’t in the room. He ran across the parlour, opened the door and jumped out. I bit my fingers. The fire would reach the kitchen soon from the dining room. I rushed to the back door and slipped out. I was welcomed by the neighbours, with torches and worried gestures. I flung myself on the group and started wailing.

“Just be thankful you escaped madam. Your husband said he couldn’t find you,” one short man consoled.

My husband moved through the crowd and held me. He hugged me tightly. Then my mistakes came crashing down on me.

If only I had ensured he drank the wine with the sleeping pills. If only I had started the fire in our room. If only I had remembered to lock the front door!

“It’s ok, dear, it’s ok,” my husband said. He didn’t suspect anything. This was good. So he would still see that Shewa. But it isn’t over yet, another plan began to take shape again. A smile danced at the edges of my mouth.

Ishola Abdulwasiu Ayodele.

III

Another story from the e-book: Love and Other Cures of the Common Cold. Find more of the writer’s works here.


The loud sound of the transistor radio turned on jolted her awake. She hissed in frustration, he turned from where he sat at the edge of the bed and looked at her mockingly as if to say, “What are you going to do about it?”

He changed stations, adverts! Music, static, static, 7am news. There. She cursed under her breath. One day she would find the courage to drive a screwdriver through his temple. Right now she just wanted to throw the radio with all her strength far away from her as possible. Continue reading

The Sex Education of Mimi

Find more of this writers works here.


When your mother would bring up the sex talk, – you had expected her to eventually, she had brought up the menstruation talk, unlike your friends mothers. When your mother would bring up the sex talk you thought it would be the usual, the myth and the fear they passed on to keep their babies from becoming unprepared mothers or from picking up some lousy diseases. Continue reading

Imagine Nigeria Without Writers

cropped-ed163c34-75a1-4230-bb0a-9fc4edbebbe68.jpgOriginally published on A World with Words.


This year, I read opinion pieces and articles on Nigeria’s newspapers and blogs than I had read in years. From Elnathan John’s weekly humorous, but reflective satirical pieces to Tolu Ogunlesi’s deep, and debate provoking articles. I read pieces from Nigerians who learned to write, effectively, out of strong interior need to say something relevant. These articles flooded the newspapers- hard and soft copies- and while some of the writers were angry, others guided their humane, not losing their sense of humor in the process of reflecting on the conditions of the country. Regardless, however, they all have proven that Nigerians are conscious of their challenges, and are ready to keep strewing words together until we get it straight in the country. Continue reading