Death's Last Call

Idly wondering what the hullabaloo was all about, Keinde angrily flipped through the pages of her book. The minutes were precious, she couldn't afford to miss her deadline.

The noise drew closer still and she could vaguely make out what the crowd was chanting

"Crucify him."

"Burn him."

"Kill him."

"We want Belialas."

Not again she groans. This was a blood thirsty lot, ever ready to kill innocent souls egged on by the brotherhood's apostolates. Who on Earth would prefer Belialas the terrible over whoever was been led to the slaughter? This fella they were burning or stoning or crucifying at this early hour must be one hardened soul.

Since moving to this neighborhood, it had been one lynching or the other. Her family had strongly resisted her relocating to such a neighbourhood they termed as scum. Even the name pointed  out to the hopelessness of it, Dead End Zone. She wondered whether the developers were high on something the day they came up with such name.

Many said the early settlers had had one misfortune or the other befall them and they had hurriedly fled considerably lesser than they had arrived, hence the name.

Whatever the story, Keinde couldn't be bothered. She was here on a mission and was going to see it through. The life of a Journalist was a perilous one, not to talk of that of an investigative journalist.

Word had reached her Organisation of the nefarious activities carried out by the Sect called The Brotherhood and she had been dispatched to go digging.

It was said that they were responsible for most of the disappearances and killings reported on the media and the neighbourhood lived under their shadow.

The crowd's chant intrudes into her thoughts. With a sigh of exasperation, she gets up to close the window but her hand freezes as looking out, she recognises the cause of the crowd's ire. What? It was the young Rabbi, a really charismatic fellow. She had sat in on a few of his teachings and had even interviewed him. He was one of the few who openly rebuked the activities of the brotherhood.

Surely there'd been a mistake? Such a nice man, what could he have done? And the crowd chose him over Belialas? No, something smelt fishy and that's when her journalistic instincts kicked in. She could feel strongly that this man's death was tied to her investigations.

She rushed back to her desk, grabbed her note pad, a pen and tape recorder and rushed out the door. This would make for a good story she thought.

Photo Credit: Google

MMC: An Unusual Worker

When news made the rounds that Ztembe had been sacked, there was a collective gasp of shock. No it couldn't be Ztembe. Ztembe the golden girl, the one who always pulled through with deadlines, the one who always brought in the big bucks. Everyone was in awe of her skills, even the most difficult of clients.

That Ztembe, getting the boot? No, it couldn't be, can't be. Everyone was certain there was a mix up somewhere. Everyone but Ochuko.

Theories were put forward and then discarded; maybe she'd had a fall in with management as Ztembe was one to talk when she ought to be silent.

Maybe Ochuko did finally pull some strings another conspiracy theorist postulated but that was quickly shot down. Ochuko would not do such a thing. Yes, there was bad blood between them but the most he could do was get her transferred to another branch, not outright sacking.

While speculations ran rife, no one bothered to ask the subject matter herself and she was quite enjoying the tall tales her little birds brought back to her.

Ztembe was quite unconcerned about the whole affair, all she thought of was that the day should end already. She had gotten into similar situations like this before, so this for her was a piece of cake and she would make mincemeat out of whoever came for her she had decided. Surprisingly, no one had approached her yet. As if they knew her state of mind.

Meanwhile, the conspiracy theorists were running out of fodder for their isms and nihisms and found themselves in a quandary; to approach or not to approach Ztembe, that was the question.

In another part of the office, Bimpe and Sempei are engaged in intense conversation.

"No, that's not what I heard," Sempei objects. Topic of discussion was Ztembe's sack.

"According to Zubi, you know Zubi now that works in HR?" She continues after Sempei nods in affirmation. "She said that management had re assigned Ztembe to PO and Ztembe turned it down being that, she was overqualified for such a position".

"So is that why they sacked her?" Sempei cuts in.

"Wait na, e never finish. Ztembe told them that instead of her taking up that position, she'd rather be sacked."

"Chei, that girl, that girl. That her mouth too sharp. So wetin kan happen?"

"Na the matter they still dey drag."

"But come o, I hear say she don go hire lawyer, say this tin wey management do dey against labour law. Na true?"

"I don't know o, but You know say Ztembe go school so e fit possible."

"Hmm," Sempei sighs, she looks thoughtful.
"Wetin you dey think?" Her friend asks.

She sighs again, "You know, I just they think am o, many tins wen dey dey do here no good at all. Take for instance, that three years I worked straight, no leave. E good?"

Bimbe has no answer for that. She was the kind of employee that asked no questions, as long as her salary was paid on time. She couldn't understand  Ztembe and her many fights with the management.

What she and most of her colleagues however failed to see was that in the long run, it would pay off not only for Ztembe, but for everyone else.

Photo Credit: wemagazineforwomen, Source

Sunday Special: The House Yonder I

This here is Mr. Grief, he lives at No. 6266 Despondency lane yonder down the hill, off Salvation Street. He had tried several times to be allocated a house on Salvation Street, but his requests were always denied or maliciously thwarted by the vile Mrs Bile who acted as estate manageress.

All his life, Grief had lived on Despondency lane, he was sick and tired of it. He saw how the other folks lived on salvation Street; they were happy and healthy and he wanted that too. From an early age, he knew something wasn't right, like something was missing and what he needed was right on Salvation Street. He could feel the pull strongly.

***

"No, no, you misunderstand me Bile..." Pause
"Uh-huh, exactly..." Another pause.
He was on yet another lengthy phone call with his estate manageress. An outsider looking in would see a shrivelled up figure of a man hunched over a desk phone. He cut a pitiful image, like the world bore heavily on him.

He had grown weary of having to say the same thing over and over without any change. The one sided conversation finally comes to an end and it is with a sigh he returns the phone to its cradle.

He looks out his window, the one looking out on Salvation Street. Oh, how he longed to be there, to be like those happy people, he tries to smile but realises he can't quite pull it off. It's been so long he smiled. He couldn't remember the last time he smiled.

Another world weary sigh escapes from him, how did they manage it, those folks? They laughed and smiled so effortlessly, everything they did was so effortless.

He had lost count how many times he'd sat here wishing for the same thing, a house on Salvation Street, he could just picture it. He feels tired. 

Tomorrow, he thinks, tomorrow, I must go to see the man everyone talked about. The man they called Rabbi.

***To be continued...

Photo Credit: Jesusdaily.com

Babysitting the Phone

It was the height of boredom, the lowest of spirits and the laziest of days that made me sit by my phone. Waiting for it to ring, to beep, to do anything. Just one beep, one sound I silently plead. 

Within, I brace myself, breath held willing for the phone to do something; anything. With the situation I found myself in, I was willing and ready to take anything-or so I thought-as self-validation, to show that I was important, I was loved, I was missed. That I was cherished and highly treasured.

So sat me by the phone all day.
Waiting.
Hoping.
Pleading.
Wishing.

“Ring, ring” cries the phone. This jerks me out of my thoughts - deep, deep thoughts. Finally, I crow with delight, feeling pleased with my wishing skills (my genie’s the best). It is with joy that I pick the call. But wait! Who calls? 

It’s a network call, advertising their decent call tariffs. I sigh and begin the long wait all over. At least, the phone did ring even if it was only my network provider trying to rip me off. Oh well, I was remembered I console myself.

Photo Credit: ijustmetme

My Dream

This is the Nigeria of my dream.

A Nigeria where a pretty young lady can afford a comfortable lifestyle without being labeled an aristo/call girl/runs girl.

A Nigeria where one's lifestyle's choice isn't questioned, where one can stay single for as long as desired without society calling names and making up stories about the reason for that and intimating that something must be wrong with you else you should be hitched by now.

A Nigeria where I can walk to the park without being harassed/tackled by touts and nearly brought down.

A Nigeria where I am free to be me in all my weird glory; a deviant, an anomaly, strange and different and be relatively safe.

A Nigeria where I can freely talk about my faith/beliefs without being labelled a religious bigot/fanatic.

A Nigeria where I can speak grammatically correct and sound English without being labellled an efico/show off/forming.

A Nigeria where I can trust my neighbor to watch my back. 

A Nigeria where the dissenting voices are patiently given listening ears in view of resolving issues

A Nigeria where every naturally endowed fair skinned lady isn’t attributed to skin bleaching toning. Where I make healthy lifestyle choices without being labeled a health fad junkie.

A Nigeria where I prefer my own company without being considered haughty and proud; a snob.

A Nigeria where I am recognized by merit.
Where I can be gainfully employed based on my skills and not by who I know ('connections').

A Nigeria where a young man’s wealth acquisition is attributed to the dividends of hard work and not 'yahoo'/nefarious activities.

A Nigeria where I chose to be my own woman and not called a failure because I have neither husband nor child.

A Nigeria where I can walk down the street poker faced without random strangers asking me to smile because pretty girls ought to smile more.

A Nigeria where friendship(s) with opposite sexes exist without speculations running rife.

A Nigeria where I am not shouted down because my opinions differ from my neighbor’s.        

A Nigeria where I write this down and not have hastily drawn conclusions about my person.

This, is the Nigeria of my dream. 
And then some more.

Photo Credit: Google