One of my short stories

More than a Thousand Miles from Home

“There is a wave of stupidity that crosses the regions in the tropics” he explained,

as he drew an invisible line in the air that demarcated the north temperate zones from the

tropics. His cheeks that usually looked bulbous, now had a flat appearance as he

enlightened the listeners on the backwardness of Africa, most especially Nigeria. “All

third world countries have the same brand of stupidity” he said with a grin on his face.

Josephine, whose new pride was being married to him, could not agree more. She placed

her arms that had the color of white chocolate over his shoulders, and for a moment, she

thanked Jesus that her white mother had insisted on leaving Jamaica. The thought of her

walking the streets of Kingston, because of her father’s love for his home gave her mixed

feelings. These mixed feelings bordered between victory in living the west and

amusement of what she would have turned out to be if she lived in Jamaica. She

loved his ebullience that sparked as he spoke of his homeland, Nigeria. He smiled as

Josephine winked at him. He knew what she was thinking in her head. He was convinced

that her adoration for him resonated in her head like a John Legend song. And that gave

him more drive to speak on, as he waved his arms and described to the listeners who were

all Canadian, of the corruptness of his people. He also did not forget to mention the

several cultures that were just evidence of his people’s foolishness.

The Canadians had enjoyed his rant. And one of them had remarked how

theatrical he looked, as he gestured and raised his voice. They were surprised to see him

speak so loudly and unrestrained. The Canadians had never seen so much passion in him,

except when he spoke about the new projects that had potentials for huge profit. May ,

the only female among the Canadians giggled flirtatiously as she commented on how he

spoke badly of his homeland. While, the males laughed loudly as they stood under a tent

peeking at him, the Nigerian and Josephine. May laughed harder almost spilling the

Alexander Keith’s beer on her denim pants, as she remarked on his trying to separate

himself from the stupidity he claimed his people had. One of the males, who was drunk

and had temporarily lost the Canadian politeness, stated that Africans were undoubtedly

primitive but the Nigerian man did not need to state to obvious to them. Their hysterical

laughter slowly dimmed as they all agreed to themselves that what the Nigerian man had

said only proved that guilty notion they had of Africa.

Soon he and Josephine walked up to the Canadians who were about to leave the

artificial palm-leaved tent that stood mismatched in between two tall buildings. He

looked up at the fourth floor of the building, with his eyes focused on the room where his

office was located. A smile was stamped on his face as he spoke to the Canadians.

“The sculpture is beautiful, and what remarkable detail it has” May said, trying to

conceal the guilt she felt on mocking the Nigerian and his homeland. He looked up to the

sculpture that was hung on the wall to give the tent a wild and more African look. He then

smiled briefly at May and turned again to see the sculpture ,which was a replica of a Yoruba

bronze head. The hollow eyes and metallic luster of the bronze head reminded him of his history
classes back in Nigeria. A black framed picture of him sitting in a class and listening to a

lecture on the lost wax-casting process, formed in his head. He could remember his

teacher describe this technique of creating bronze sculptures from wax, brass and clay.

These sculptures that were intricate in their structure and creation techniques that date back to

the 6th and 12th century had intrigued his teenage and impressionable mind. Slowly, the black

framed picture faded in his head. He turned away from the bronze sculpture and continued his

conversation with his Canadian friends.

DID YOU KNOW!!!

Apart from blogging, I enjoy writing. Since I was 7-9, and I saw the Alaadin movie, I grew an interest in writing. I write short stories, poems, books(that haven't been published yet). Everyday I wake up in the morning, thoughts and ideas come into my head. I can't go talking to people about these. "Abi were ni bobo yi" (mind my yoruba)will be in everyone's mouth.But writing is the only way for me to share my imaginations and ideas. This is a SHORT STORY I read during the April rabbit poetry and short story reading event. I know it's kinda long, but just read through. I tried picturing the scenario of a woman running with her child away from an abusive marriage and the biafran war.


OMO

The night was drawing near. Its arms were soon going to embrace mother earth. Even the sun was no where to be seen. "This is our chance" she kept whispering to her baby. The faith she had was too strong that she spoke to a baby who was not only deaf from his inexperience with words, but also from the horrific sounds of war. Her legs kept swaying but her head had no idea of its destination. The baby fastened to her back was a burden. But, she cared less. After all, she was running for him. She was tired of that place. It wasn’t home any longer. The thought of her choice kept ringing in her ears. The thoughts clogged her ears, that she failed to hear the voice of the incoming mob. They were furious, each with eyes stinging with hate. They held their batons and spiked edged clubs ready to devour. She stood under the frangipani tree, watching the scarred chested men. Her face had no expression, it was vague. Even her eyes were lax in unconcern. She wasn’t moved my their masked expressions of hate. She had seen it all before. They yelled at her swinging their clubs and batons near her. She didn’t utter any word. Then, a man walked out amidst the crowd. He was stern looking with a tribal marked that traveled from the ridge of his nose to his jaws. He walked towards her with his face focused on her baby. She saw this and turned her back, so her baby wouldn’t see his face. He sensed this and smiled briefly. He surveyed her body like she was a map work. He walked around her mimicking the oblivious mosquito that spun around her baby’s head. She wasn’t a beauty, certainly, if he was to judge from now. But, he had so much experience with women as to see that she once possessed a striking beauty. Her sullen eyes and ridged lips could already tell her story. "Woman, where are you coming from and where’s your husband"he asked. She didn’t utter any word, neither did she look at him. She just kept staring at the red ground. The mobsters wondered what sort of woman wouldn’t reply their leader. "Aren’t you afraid" one of them yelled. She still didn’t answer. Her silence was too piercing for him to bear. She made him look too stupid for a man. Suddenly, he raged at her, grabbing her baby by his neck. She yelled and pushed herself from his grasp. The wrapper she used in fastening her baby to herself, flew off her dead breast.Her eyes were suddenly filled with tear soaked rage. She threw herself into red ground with her arms wrapped around her baby. The man stood watching her with shock and a masked pity. He swallowed very discreetly a lump of saliva . He didn’t utter any word but wondered what pain would befall a woman, for her to act in such a manner. The background noise from the mobsters rioted with the pity he had for this woman. He turned to them and yelled for them to be quiet. They suddenly stopped barking. He held his hands towards her. She didn’t move. He smiled at her in a peaceful way, revealing a set of tainted white and chipped teeth. She took his hands and he raised her up. The baby cried as the man tried to hold his arms. He was used to weeping at the sight of men. This was no different.

As she sat facing the burning and chattering fire wood, she wondered who the mobsters were. They were probably the freedom fighters who fought against the chameleons. The night had finally come. Its scintillating yet conniving arms swept through her skin, as she shielded it from her baby. It reminded her that she couldn’t stay in the same spot. The chameleons would get her. She had to keep on running.