The Shuttle 2022

THE SHUTTLE
A Publication of the
National Association of Students of English and
Literary Studies (NASELS)
University of Lagos Chapter
2021/2022 Edition
TABLE OF CONTENTS
NASELS 2021/2022 EXECUTIVES ii
THE EDITORIAL BOARD iii
FOREWORD iv
PRESIDENT’S NOTE v
EDITORIAL vii
FICTION 1
 POETRY 1
 SHORT STORIES 77
 DRAMA 113
NON-FICTION 121
 ESSAYS 121
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EXECUTIVES OF THE NATIONAL ASSOCIATION OF STUDENTS
OF ENGLISH AND LITERARY STUDIES (NASELS),
UNILAG CHAPTER 2021/2022
NAME PORTFOLIO
NWANI Hope Onuwa President
NKEM Nancy Nneka Vice President
ALADESANMI Miracle General Secretary
AMANSO Oluchi Mariagorretti Financial Secretary
ORAGUI Christabel Treasurer
ODUBAYO Modupe Esther Welfare Secretary
OGUNTIMEHIN Adediwura Social Secretary
EBISIKE Victoria Chibuzor Sports Secretary
ALIM Barakah Public Relations Officer
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THE SHUTTLE 2021/2022
THE EDITORIAL BOARD
NAME EMAIL ADDRESS
AZUMA Anastacia Onyinyechi azumaanastacia@gmail.com
EBISIKE Victoria Chibuzor vebisike5@gmail.com
UDE Chiedozie atomicdozie@gmail.com
ADEKUNLE Abraham Adejare adekunleabraham3@gmail.com
UDE Ugo Anna udeugo179@gmail.com
ẸNÌTÀN Abdultawab Boluwatife tawabenitan@gmail.com
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FOREWORD
Contemporary experience with the creative world, in every sense of creativity, has proved
the significance of personal and interpersonal communication strategies to progressive
humanity. This is one of the many reasons so much is often expected from university
students when it comes to the use of language to express the complex but interesting human
experience. Particularly, students of English studies are burdened with task of directing and
participating in the endeavour to show the world the creative path to humanistic
development which they have been trained to thread. Reading through a journal produced
by university students of English and literary studies should naturally give the reader the
confidence that humanity is progressing.
The Shuttle, a journal of the National Association of Students of English and Literary Studies,
University of Lagos Chapter has sustained the tradition which it began many years ago in the
publication of this edition. The journal not only appeal to students because of the enormous
academic insights and creative use of language it provides in the poetry, prose fiction and
drama sections, it also covers a range of topical issues bordering on academic discourse in
the essay section which may be of interest to the general reader. Indeed, this edition of the
journal is appealing to the reader because of the interest it takes in chronicling diverse
intellectual pool of creative ideas, which are audaciously interrogated.
It is even more delightful to observe that this edition of The Shuttle includes contributions
from other universities. This new development in the publication history of the journal gives
it a novel status in the comity of student journals. It therefore gives me a great pleasure to
recommend this edition of The Shuttle to you.
Nurayn Fola Alimi, PhD.
Staff Adviser
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PRESIDENT’S NOTE
Paul Coelho in The Alchemist rightly asserted thus: ―It‘s the possibility of having a dream
come true that makes life interesting‖. For us, it has been quite an interesting journey, where
dreams and mere talks have become a reality. The Shuttle was foremost on the agenda of this
tenure, not merely because of the ritual it had become over the years for the department of
English, but also because of the novelties of this edition. They started out as penned down
thoughts and ideas, and with the help of several persons, visions made plain on tablets have
become tangible realities.
Upon my election as president of the department‘s association (NASELS), I began making
plans with my fellow executives to ensure that The Shuttle is given a new face after almost a
decade of doing things the same way. We were ably supported by the department‘s staff
adviser (Dr. Nurayn Alimi, Ph.D.), who was ever ready to help in every way. The editorial
board, ably led by AZUMA, Anastacia Onyinyechi, was strategically a backbone of the entire
project in all its newness. Additionally, the great NASELSites proved helpful and very
supportive, especially during the period of collation.
The major features newly introduced in this edition of this annual publication include: the
introduction of the soft copy version of The Shuttle on the new NASELS UNILAG website
and the admittance of student writers from other schools into the system. As a result of the
evolution of written literature from mere hard cover books to pieces published on the
internet, a paradigm shift for the preservation of The Shuttle heritage became of utmost
necessity. Hence, heads were put together, first, to build the official website for NASELS
UNILAG, and then, see to the successful upload of the complete version of the journal for
ease of access for all and sundry. However, this paradigm shift does not take out completely,
the existence of a hard copy version for The Shuttle, as the latter is kept in the annals of the
department.
As regards the admittance of student writers across the country, the members of the
executive council of NASELS, as well as the board of editors, thought it wise to give room
for a broader spectrum of writers. This is to give an opportunity for every student writer out
there to become published authors. For NASELS UNILAG, it is a shot at pushing for a
larger audience for this beautiful heritage. Indeed, this year‘s edition of The Shuttle is a
potpourri of talent, creativity, and excellence in their numbers.
At the beginning, I stated that this edition of The Shuttle is one that has been quite an
interesting journey. The interesting aspects of the journey are not just all about the novelties,
but also about the peculiar challenges of any publication. From collation to publication, each
process came with its own troubles. Apart from the unique challenges that publications face,
this edition had the challenge of the educational instability in the country. At some point, it
seemed as though the entire process was put on hold due to the recurrent and prolonged
strike action of the Academic Staff Union of Universities (ASUU). Nevertheless, strength
was found in the determination to ensure that mediocrity is never settled for.
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Again, special thanks must be given to the editorial board of this edition. These people put
in time, effort, passion, creativity, and even resources, all for nothing but deep gratitude–all
in a bid to produce a perfect piece. As the good old book says, ―their reward is indeed in
heaven‖. This great feat was also made a success because of the immense support of the
department‘s staff adviser. We owe our deepest thanks to him for being such a support
system that would never let anything die in his hands. Special thanks also go to every
NASELSite who helped in ensuring that people know and submit entries for the journal.
And to our dear writers, we say thank you for sharing your light with us. Indeed, there would
be no journal without you all.
We specially acknowledge in appreciation, all the lecturers of the department of English who
we believe to be the backbones of the students‘ success. Without a shadow of doubt, we are
convinced that the lecturers of the department of English in UNILAG are blessed with great
minds and are not unwilling to share their greatness with their students. We would also not
fail to thank all those who financially supported this edition of The Shuttle and saw it through
till the end. All our ideas would have remained in our heads if the financial resources were
not made available for the job to be done.
This edition of The Shuttle is indeed a product of collective responsibility, which represents
one of the key tenets of NASELS UNILAG. It is indeed my pleasure to present to you this
piece whose beauty is generated by that which every joint has supplied. Also, I want to
reassure you that I and the other members of the executive council of NASELS UNILAG
are putting heads together to see how we can tick all our boxes in no time. Again, this
administration will continue to work towards bridging the gap between English and the tech
world. Sit tight, fasten your seatbelts, as we carry you through this interesting journey of
turning all of our dreams into tangible realities.
Yours in service,
Nwani, Hope Onuwa
President, NASELS
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EDITORIAL
Literature, indeed, does not exist in a vacuum. It is a spider‘s web interwoven with the
realities of the society and milieu it reflects. It connects with the stories and experiences of
individuals, both fictive and non-fictive, within a given socio-political, economic and cultural
setting. It is this interconnectedness that is delineated in the creative weavings of writers in
The Shuttle. The Shuttle is a literary journal annually published by students of the Department
of English, University of Lagos, and just like previous editions, this edition is a continuation
of the literary exposition that has been a part of the Department for many years. In
sustaining the legacy of the Department of English, the editorial board put in their best
efforts towards the publication of the many beautiful entries received for this edition. To
these amazing individuals, I say thank you.
This edition of The Shuttle is divided into two sections – fiction and non-fiction. The first
section, which contains all works of fiction ranging from poetry to short stories and plays,
explores Temilade Anjorin‘s metaphoric depiction of the colour orange in ―A Slice of
Orange‖; Akintola Timothy‘s validation of self in ―I Am‖; Ibrahim Nurudeen‘s thrust into
the beauty of nature and culture in ―Òdàn‖ and Kehinde Mayokun‘s prompt explication of
the uncertainties that life holds in ―Pages of the Sun‖. Barnabas Ekpima‘s Mother of the
Father takes one through the tragic trajectory of a girl who never finds herself and Khadijah
Onimole‘s Jawad and Kaheela plunges one into the heart-breaking realities of love. These
fictive works, like others in this publication, open the eyes of the reader to see the beauty in
expression through words. The second section contains non-fictive works such as essays on
poignant issues in the society, as well as articles on language and literature, all of which are
useful for the enlightenment of readers.
Indeed, the publishing of this edition was not without its obstacles, prominent of which was
the delay caused by the Academic Staff Union of Universities‘ (ASUU) strike, but that
spurred the team to discovering newer and trendier innovations such as moving the journal
to the online space. This is the first of its kind in the history of The Shuttle, and this has
enabled contributors to have access to their published works on the NASELS website. It is
my hope that subsequent publications are made available to the public in this manner. Also,
this edition incorporated the literary works of students from institutions across Nigeria,
giving these individuals a platform for the expression of their creativity. For the contributors
whose works are acknowledged in The Shuttle (2022), thank you for your patience through
the publication process. For individuals whose submissions did not make it past the
acceptance stage; your interest in writing is all that matters. Keep up the good work, and
never stop improving on your writing skills. The contributions of Dr Nurayn Fola Alimi,
John Amao, Victor Akinwande, Barakah Alim and the president of NASELS for the
2021/2022 academic year, Hope Nwani, do not go unnoticed. Thank you for your efforts
towards the success of this publication.
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In all, this edition of The Shuttle shows that writers are still very active in facilitating social
change through their works, as well as in illuminating the seemingly ―unseen‖ aspects of
human life. This edition illumines literature as a mirror that reflects the various expressions
of life in tandem with the existing social milieu. Indeed, The Shuttle sets a unique standard as
one of the literary journals published by university students in Nigeria and I hope that it
continues to do so. So dear reader, as you go through the pages of this journal, it is my desire
that you find excellence in the words of these writers, as you relate with the web of
experiences that is our reality.
Daalu.
Azuma, Anastacia Onyinyechi
Editor
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FICTION
POETRY
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TEMILADE, ANJORIN
Institution of Study: University of Lagos
Email address: temiladeanjorin04@gmail.com
“A Slice of Orange”
Orange…
Orange is colour.
It is a bright splash screaming your name from across the hall.
You step into the light and all eyes land on you.
You – a Goddess,
A marvellous creature carved of natural spotlight.
With orange, you have no place to hide.
It boldly screams your name –
No,
It declares it.
Back now rim rod straight,
Shoulders once tense now relaxed,
You look straight ahead and blaze.
Give them a smile if you can.
With Orange, you‘re a damn queen.
Orange is rare.
It screams so loud people subconsciously avoid it.
An orange clutch,
An orange bag,
An orange shoe,
An orange blazer,
An orange tie,
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An orange hoodie.
Rarely would you ever see orange pants.
Orange screams of life,

Of health,
Of vitality,
And of a different and subtle kind of royalty.
It screams elegance with just that hint of playfulness.
Orange is a fruit.
It is sweet.
It is sharp.
And can be oh, so messy.
Just stick them in a freezer,
Get them out on day two,
Hand them over to Papa,
And he‘ll slice them open for you.
That circle now in two,
You race to a corner
And have those juices pour down your throat.
Uncontrollably, you trail off and it‘s like ―Hmm...‖ damn!
Orange is sharp.
Orange is sweet.
Orange is plenty.
Orange is the fragrance in the air freshener.
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It fills a room – so much so, that you can‘t avoid it.
It‘s the smell on your best friend‘s sheets.
It‘s the smell that greets you when visit your grandma in the hospital.
Even now, it is the smell of your home.
It never ceases as the automated dispenser finds it necessary to refill the air every time with
its sweet citrus scent.
It‘s in your hair,
Your shampoo.
Now, it‘s in his, too.
Oh, now you‘re smiling.

So, the other things I said didn‘t concern you, ehn?
Anyways, I‘m glad I got a chance to make you smile.
For in the end, what else is the purpose of Orange
If not to be a fresh burst of life unto others?
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ADEOLA, ZAINAB
Email address: adeolazainababimbola@gmail.com
“Life’s Struggle”
Can I just live like a ghost
without dreaming?
Sleep like a ship
without sinking?
My pen bleeds
like candle words melt on paper.
My mind unleashes,
tired of being the keeper.
When my head is numb

and heart heavy,
Emotion starts to fade into blankness;
Thinking faculty collapse like a weak edifice.
I feel like a total stranger in my own body.
Same journey starts every day,

the journey of survival.
Dip a leg in the stream, it gets deeper.
At the breaking point, you halt,
Herculean task hovering over.
Life is a race of many struggles.
While struggling, we could die running.
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Oh, what a harsh reality!
They say if life was easy, it would be boring.

Now life is hard and it is tiring but
―Does life have to get so hard?‖
I ask the air.
―If so, how do I make a meaningful impact
as a sign of passing?
Is it with a continued influx of struggle?‖
Then again, I pick up the journey from where I left off.
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OLUWATIMILEHIN COKER
Email address: heavymetalreason@gmail.com
“Black”
I do not mind
that you left a piece of yourself
bloody and raw
on my doorstep
I trample on it with love

caressing its essence
With the dust clinging to my boots

I worship the squishiness
I do not mind
that you took hot coals to your eyes
black out and out
and left them on my bed
I wear them with the pinkest of pride

stroking its twisted images
With the grump-wrenching squeal upon squeal from me

I adore the din of heavy, black blood
I do not mind
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that you left yourself for dead
burning and ugly
at the place of my affections
I‘ll light you up with my own soul

tasting with pleasure the gasoline that consumes you
With the singe that comes with feeling

I revere the sacrifice that is your pain
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AYENI, TAIWO
Email: ayeni.taiwo2000@gmail.com
“Comrade”
Our dark heart is now far from home,
Thousands and thousands of miles afar.
We‘ve journeyed in solitary:
Not a glimpse or a peep
But farther we leap.
Our home;
A house that once sheltered our sobering soul,
A hostess to out yearning
And a rhyming melody
Has been exchanged for a quest.
Million miles away are we

From its glittering source,
Ample and prolific,
Feigning the appetite of
The white master‘s pupils.
Rampaging has its loneliness cries.

Our heart has refused its clarion call.
Today we are now the exploiters
Of our land.
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Yet long enough are we dispensed,
Enough from homely pleasure,
Which is now left for self-venture
field of lustful gesture.
Rampaging has its loneliness cries.

Our heart has refused its clarion call.
Now are we the exploiters
Of mother‘s soil.
Comrade let‘s race home still.

The soil that raised us
Awaits our burly sage.
Though her mourn of past torrent tarries,
Our gracious arms would ameliorate her still.
Mother‘s soil awaits your light still

Before the void of strong blindness blinks
In terror and crimes.
Make your return be swift.
And at this dark sight,

Our mind be a majestic castle.
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AVOSE, PEACE EKOYON
Email address: avosepeace@gmail.com
“Her”
Living by a stereotype:
Ladies should have no mind.
In all you do, be a courteous child!
Shoulders straight! Your thoughts, hide!
Clean braids! Always be on time!
Your tongues, tame! Don‘t put up a fight,
Your husband holds your fate,
Be submissive! And your home, supervise!
Oh yeah, education is for all.

Educate a woman, you change the world.
Yes, to this we concur,
But there should be a limit to her call.
No woman‘s picture can reach that wall,
What!
You mean no man could better this work?
She doesn‘t deserve the accolades or the love;
She must have seduced her way to the top.
A wife must know how to cook,

Must always please her groom.
She‘s unmarried, Look!
Her ambition drove away Jude.
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Who could want her? She can‘t be subdued.
But she‘s more than just a tool:
She‘s got a mind and shouldn‘t be made a fool!
She‘s powerful and must be seen for her good.
She‘s wistful and wise;

Scared she‘ll see past your paradigm?
Watch her tear down those blinds!
The ones you hoped would block out light,
Blurring every single crass line.
Breaking through your obstacle she‘ll rise,
Emerging as a queen with strength and might;
Put some respect on it! She‘s my pride.
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OKE, RACHEL OLUWADOLAPO
Email address: rachelokeone@gmail.com
“Don’t Get Too Close to the Sun”
Don‘t get too close to the sun.
I say people are like stars,
Some burning brighter than the others.
I was buried in the shadows,
The darkest among the brightest.
Then there you were,
The sun – the biggest and brightest of us all,
You lit up – we were all washed out and pale compared to you and all the other stars seemed
to give way for you.
It‘s true.
Your mere presence seemed to illuminate me:
Your smile,
That smile.
I was hopeless and clueless.
I craved you.
I craved your presence.
I could never get enough of you,
The more you pushed the more I pulled.
―You shouldn‘t love me.‖
Words you echoed over and over,
But I didn‘t listen.
Your mere existence gave me life.
A breath of fresh air.
You always seemed to give and give.
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You were generous – with your mind, your thoughts, your heart, soul and body.
You were passionate.
When we loved, you gave as much as you took,
Your hand clutching mine.
The steady rhythm, your breath matching mine.
I‘d watch you while you cooked.
I‘d watch you while you made your sketches, ink on your fingers.
I‘d watch you while you paint,
Always with that apron with
Something on your face.
Sometimes it was paint;
Sometimes it was flour,
Your eyes shining each time.
―Careful,‖ you‘d say ―you might fall in love.‖
Well, it was too late.
I was blind and deaf to your flaws.
You were perfect.
Unmatched.
Love turned to obsession,
An obsession you didn‘t return.
I gave and gave but it wasn‘t enough –
You wanted to leave.
I couldn‘t let you.
How could I?
How could I?
I wanted to hold you in my arms and tighten my fits,
Never let you go.
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But a soul like yours could never be caged,
Could never be entrapped.
I couldn‘t watch him take you away,
So, I had to do it.
And when I did it, I couldn‘t live with myself.
I couldn‘t live with just the memory of you.
I couldn‘t.
If you‘re reading this, I‘m already standing on a ledge,
Holding the little box of memories that I have with you.
You can‘t save me.
Don‘t try.
―I love you‖ – those are the words I couldn‘t say but at least you get to see it.
I don‘t hate you and I don‘t blame you:

You told me,
―Don‘t get too close to the sun.‖
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NEGEDU, ILEMONA
Email address: ilemonanegedu@gmail.com
“Gone Shot”
She
Shot
Me
With silence,
Her pistol.
Now, like the dead,
I rest in peace, too.
Oh, but not my head but my heart:

My restless head writes another painful epistle
Of my heart, once again, smashed,
Like boiled yam by a pestle.
Her gone shot, her silence.
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AKINTOLA, TIMOTHY
Email address: akintolatimothy4@gmail.com
“I am”
I am,
brown skin
tall girl,
on the cusp
of adulthood.
Hidden messages
in squinted eyes,
top corner of class,
griot in feeble voice,
screaming,
―Mama I made it‖
I am,
child of two worlds,
hands clasped to jazz &juju,
thickER body,
high waiST,
grinding low
to rhythms of Afro-fusion
I am,
Inspiration.
scribbled ink
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on sophisticating papers,
you would find
my wonders in
the poesy of Psalms.
I am,
a confluence
of Aso Oke
and jeans
shattered like
dreams of Naija youths,
wearing our history
like I wore my mother‘s placenta,
pushing Africa‘s songs,
our history dancing freely
on Paris‘ runway.
History bears
me witness.
I am,
big dreams
rising from the
lunges of Lagos
to the midnight grinds
In Nairobi.
My heritage,
written in bustles,
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In Yoruba
immersed in English,
in black.
I am,
I am...
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TAIWO KAZEEM
Email address: taiwokazeem30@gmail.com
“Dear Politicians”
When you decided to take the leap,
I wondered what your thoughts were.
Did you see the blood your predecessors trailed behind and decide to change things?
Or did you get mad that they were the only ones taking everything and decided to take your
share?
After establishing a reason

Whether it was for good or for bad:
If it was good,
When making your vows did you genuinely believe that you could change things but lost
your way in the middle?
Did peer pressure get to you?
Or did you give up trying to be better?
If it was for bad,

What were the thoughts running through your mind when you made endless promises
To the desperate masses?
Did you stutter?
Did the lies threaten to choke you?
Or did you just swallow it like a simple lump in your throat?
Did you practice it over and over again until you seemed genuine?
Until you and them believed the lies?
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And afterwards how did you sleep at night knowing how millions of people couldn‘t afford a
modicum of what you owned?
How did you swallow morsels of excess food when you knew someone couldn‘t even get a
grain
Because of what you did and didn‘t do?
Did you hear their voices or did you shut them out over and over again because how hard is
it in your 10-million-dollar mansion?
How did you not feel their pain?

Hear their voices?
Remember their hopeful faces as they voted for you,
Hoping you‘d be the change they had been longing for?
How did you not hear their voices and help?
How did you take them for a ride over and over again without flinching?
How did you do all these to these people?
I hope that karma is real …
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CATHERINE OKUNOLA
Email address: catherineokunola69@gmail.com
“Cold Nights and Soft Mornings”
Cold rainy nights along that shyly lit road. Our hands intertwined, running away from the
rain. My arms around you, shielding you from the cold I felt.
My lips on yours, patting them back into warmth. I look around now, and I‘m alone on this
road. My fingers hang hopelessly even as raindrops flirt with them.
My arms have no more chores to do, and they seem to have put on the extra weight. Your
arms, I‘m sure, are around her right now.
Probably saying all the words I said to you, all the words you claim you never heard.
Soft mornings with dewdrops on every other leaf.
Our impatience and eagerness to settle our misunderstandings woke us both up, and we
agreed to meet at the garden where lovers sat and exchanged futile promises.
Your tears falling even as you promised me you would never have anything to do with her.
My palms cupping your face, ‘cause I believed every word you said and was sorry for the
pain I thought I had caused.
Now, my mornings often start sluggishly with my eyes tired from poring over books the
night before, anything to get away from thoughts of you.
A slow walk to the gym. I stop noticing the dewdrops, even though this time they are on
beautiful flowers.
But this time feels different. I wake up with this peace and calm that never was with you in
the picture.
There are no more tears to wipe away, and the only face my palms cupped were mine as I
muttered, ―I‘m so proud of you, baby girl.‖
Sunny afternoons with Scrabble games and pointless conversations. It always felt like you
took them a bit too personally, and even games were not just games with you.
They were always something more. My eyes staring at your forehead as it creased in worry,
and your lips quivering like this wasn‘t just a friendly game with the love of your life.
Now, your afternoons feature conversations with her, and I hear your laughter waft gently
towards me all the way from you, seven cities away.
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Does she make you as nervous as I did when we played? Or is she smart enough not to be
your competition? Worse, is she terribly awful at the game?
My afternoons are work-filled, light-ful, and friends-filled.
I do all I can do to let the light in at noon, so that when your darkness comes at night, and
your ghost hangs over me like unfinished business, I have enough light to serve me through
the night.
My laughter floats gently in my room, my heart feels lighter, and I know I could never have
felt this way if you were with me.
Don‘t get me wrong. You‘re good in blinding ways, and she seems good enough.
But I wasn‘t just good. I was perfect. Perfectly flawed. I had the kind of flaws girls my age
would kill to have.
I had the sort of worries women twice my age would kill to have. And you? Well, you just
weren‘t it.
I‘m good though. I guess I lied to you too.
You were right. I wanted more than you could ever give. More than you could ever be. And
I guess now that I see that, I do feel powerful and worthy.
Worthy of all the love from a dozen oceans, and all the affection from a hundred lands.
I am worthy of everything there is to give!
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FAITH OBI
Email address: faithndaliakuobi@gmail.com
“The Practice of Death”
The practice of death is being born
Resting between the crook of a mother‘s arm
Crying aloud and suckling till your baby lips tire
Till your eyelids have soaked too much sunlight
And fall slowly over whatever little consciousness that you may have come to know
The practice of death is a call to mobility

Learning to crawl and failing to crouch
Repeating the process until your limbs stretch themselves to hold you up
Until teeth sprout like inverted shoots
And you no longer move with your belly touching the earth like a serpent
The practice of death is learning to run

Trying to gain a wider range of motion
But not without bruised knees and torn lips
Not without wounds that need recovery
Not until a watchful eye sees that the pain of recovery has lulled you to sleep
The practice of death is lifting off the ground

But falling back down too soon from the jump
Repeating the same process multiple times
As many a time it would take until you have learned that everything falls back to earth
And you no longer hope to one day fly like birds swimming in the ocean of the big blue sky
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The practice of death is a time fast spent
Suddenly coming to know that thick strands of hair not only grow on your head
That you may no longer be able to dance and bathe in the rain without the world around you
coming to a halt
The practice of death is carrying the weight of another human being in your thoughts
Till they begin to weigh down your pupils
Till your lips cannot say their name without an upward turn
Till you begin to crave an experience your soul knows but your mouth cannot name
The practice of death is finding new ways to understand the complexity of your existence
contorting yourself to fit into moulds that you‘ve come to admire without questioning
Looking at the mirror a little longer each day
But never being able to convince yourself of who you are and of where you‘re going
The practice of death is a blur that encapsulates one phase of life and births another
It is the ever moulting reptile that births both non-human and human experiences
The practice of death is sleeping as a teenager trying to understand the world

And waking up as an elderly who knows more and more of life and less and less of what is
beyond life
The practice of death is knowing that with each night you close your eyes to sleep
you are one day closer to an unfathomable eternity
That with each day that grows older,
With each phase of life that runs continually into the next,
With the inevitable passing of a loved one,
With each new flame that dies out,
The Shuttle Page 25

Each new accomplishment that is withering,
You have been in a continuous state of practice your whole life without probably knowing
that you‗ve been practicing what it means to die
And so, the practice of death does not only happen at the expiration of all life forms
The practice of death begins at birth and slowly extends with the blood of a new day
The practice of death begins with being born.
You keep getting better at it until you become nothing.
The Shuttle Page 26

NNAMDI, ISIDINMA
Email address: isidinmamnnamdi@gmail.com
“An Unsilenced Race”
―Fem!‖ Mama says
Her hand like the heavy hand of injustice
Clamped down on my work-worn mouth
Who are they? my terrified self asks
Who are the ones who yield the weapon to
Cut down my pained voice?
Who, yet, are they
Whose eyes close in terror
like a prey in the clutches of its captor? Who?
With doubt, she stretches forth her hands
and at long last I see all
I see a land where Elephants run around and play
and the Plants quiver and die under their thunderous gait
I see a garden bathed in the blood of angry youths
Youths silenced by the iron fire on that fated day
What else do my young eyes behold?
Palaces where the raising of one pound too many
sews shut the mouth of a suffering race
I see a world where seven billion voices
are killed time and then finally
once again
The call of the coloured penny
has sealed the mouths of the Plants one too many
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my work-worn eyes see it all
When Mama calls again, ―Fem!‖
I open wide her cellulite arms
and cross over their threshold,
arisen a warrior
Fear, my past ally
courage my new friend
If seven billion voices are cut off in infinite quiet,
I shall be the first of an era to scream my name
I shall be the unsullied paragon
of an unsilenced universe
Even if my wake lasts till time‘s last tick,
patience shall be my penance
Then I shall rise again
My voice shall be heard from the very climb of Heaven‘s peak:
―I am of the world, the World is Mine.‖
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PRECIOUS MAKINDE
Email address: tumilaramakinde@gmail.com
“The Robot”
Scarred by the world, a new you was born:
Tough, unreachable, untouched.
Fighting to make sense from your feelings of loss,
You build yourself into a robot,
Working at daytime, never resting even when life‘s the worst.
You, my darling, have become lost.
Burying you slowly, you can‘t mourn the death of you because a man should never feel hurt,
of course.
And she, a bubbly little child without much knowledge of what little actions worth, held your
hand and said, ―It‘s time you get some support.‖
Your heart feels like it might burst.
How do you bring an end to the robot?
You do not know, and neither does she. But you‘re willing to give it a shot for all it‘s worth.
The Shuttle Page 29

OPEIFA, OPEOLUWA
Email address: augustopeifa@gmail.com
“Unwanted Guest”
He barged in through my front door
Looking lean without splendour
He gave me a life-draining hug
It was my long-time friend, Depression.
Well, looks like he‘s come to visit

He was always a terrible guest
Dumping all his baggage all about
As he did the last time he visited.
I queried his visit

And in disbelief, he bellowed at me
He mentioned how ungrateful I have been
If it weren‘t for him, I would have never met Solitude
I did owe him that

Solitude was my lover
I then remembered our lustful times together
I remember how she caressed me
And made me a lonely man
He then sat all of his recently acquired weight

Right on my favourite chair; my mind
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I stood there and watched him doze off
I could barely move, I was too drained to;
That parasite of a bastard just had me for dinner
He was still my friend

I mean he was there
There to keep the demons away
But I felt he was the real demon
Solitude comes in and kisses me

I feel the lonely ecstasy again
I kiss my love again
I have missed her so much
She begins to sing me the sweet songs

Sweet songs of deafening silence
As she only came around once in a while
Only when her brother is around, of course
Depression snores get louder

I can hardly sleep
My dog, Peace, starts barking in rebellion
I smelt smoke
My home is on fire
Depression is outside laughing heartily
He stands there with his sister, Solitude
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I‘m screaming for help but he adds fuel to the fire
He indeed was the demon I thought he was

He watches along with Solitude, my love
She mocked me with a weak attempt to put out the fire
She threw in a cup of water in the fire
I‘m still burning, who shall save me?

Who will hear my cries?
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ADURAGBEMI ONI
Email address: lordwright20@gmail.com
“An African Boy”
Deep beneath the seas lies the stories of my fathers
Stories untold, stories to behold
I am an African boy of many realities
Realities that are hard to live in
Harsh tendencies that the first world gave to me
Harsh tendencies that I have struggled through

My mother told me
Of how my father washed the white man‘s feet
While in his chains

Stories untold, stories to behold
If I could make a wish,
I will love to watch what the undying moon has seen through the darkest nights
If I could make a wish,
I will see to it that I cut off the manhood of those bloody rapists

I want to redeem my father of his pains
And my sisters of their cries
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I no longer want to sleep with the fear of what tomorrow holds
So, bring back the joy of our culture

And let me learn how to speak Yoruba again
Let me dance in my agbada
And crown my wife with beads
Let me hunt in the thick forest

And bring back the tiger‘s teeth
Let me farm on my hectares of lands
And bring massive tubers to my in-laws
Let my back shine with perspiration

And like Okonkwo,
Let me be the strongest cat in the village
Let us fight against civilisation

Because it has caused more harm than good
Let us bring back Africa
from the deep-forgotten seas

I want to bring back salvation to this land I was born into
The Shuttle Page 34

MUYIWA JOSEPH WOMILOJU
Email address: womiloju2muyiwa@gmail.com
“Rat Race”
Oh, rat race!
What an endless race you are!
Setting from the East to the West,
And from the North to the South,
Making man labour so hard,

Working in the hot scorching sun,
And in the heavy rain torrent,
To garner power, lucre and status,
With his creative might and power,

He chases the vanities of life,
Aiming to belong to the first class citizens,
So that he could influence decision,
He moves from pillar to post,

To meet the demands of the flesh,
Spreading over the borders,
To gather more vanities.
The Shuttle Page 35

ALAYANDE, LUKMAN OLAWALE
Email address: alayandelukman2018@gmail.com
“The Telephone Call”
A rumbling in my tummy like a bowel-movement patient,
The moving lips become motionless like a faulty car,
The clinching fingers produce silence like a bone yard,
A cloud of tears surrounds my eyes as if a policeman rounded up an armed robber.
Alas! It is a venomous unavoidable telephone call!
Have you ever thought of the darkest hours?

Have you ever thought of your life being stolen before the morning sun?
Don‘t you know the dawn of light can be broken any moment?
Don‘t you know you may not be part of the future you‘re worried about?
The smiling enemy is with you like blood and water.
Fear the telephone call that turns hopes to hopelessness.

Fear the gloom that puts the world under pressure.
Fear the melancholy telephone call removing us from here sending us over there.
Fear a halo of fading memories creating pains and regret.
Fear the expected unexpected autumn that autumns the spring.
The telephone call to the birdcage for donkey‘s years.

Where we remain homeless in our own home.
When the divine venomous unavoidable call is picked up.
We are the last to hear our own wailing.
The terra firma leaving its mouth ajar to swallow us like a python swallowing its prey hook
line and sinker.
The Shuttle Page 36

IYIOMO, FAVOUR
Email address: iyiomooluwapelumi@gmail.com
“A Second Skin”
You grow old enough
And you begin to see the hallucinations
The pictures are lucid they almost seem real
They untangle like a knot
And the truth unbuckles before you
The lies you tell yourself become baskets, useless in the rain
You grow old enough to know the first time comes with a stain
And a pain, one so visceral, it rips through your thin wall
You persuade yourself something feels wrong
Because you can‘t see what the pain left behind
the pain flashes on and off in your memory
You grow old enough

You wonder if it wasn‘t real
The shoes on the floor you lay on
The quiver on your back a trigger
The stench you can‘t escape
You are certain something did happen
You came to see how you nearly ruined her too

How you tore her innocence
Now you‘re grown and you disgust you
The Shuttle Page 37

Grateful she was too young to understand or even remember
You keep stumbling into the never-ending expanse of your guilt as your life rolls forwards
and your age gains weight
You grow old enough

And you wonder why you are haunted now
When you were just a kid when you did it
The other day you met, it felt like nothing happened,
Crevices in you were grateful,
They just wanted to hear:
―It never happened, it‘s all in your head.‖
This might just be the true nature of trauma
A worm ridden wound that won‘t heal
A reaffirmation that you might be living a lie
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ADESHINA, ABDULAZEEZ
Email address: adeshinaaa23@gmail.com
“A Boy’s Hope”
One sunny afternoon long ago
I was a boy still
Naive in the ways of the heart
New to the game we all play
The game of emotions
I had known you for so long

But one sentence that day
And I saw you – really saw you – for the first time
I'll always remember your face at that moment
You were laughing
So happy, I swear I could see a halo around you
I remember walking up to you

All brave and brash and full of bluster
I remember making you laugh
And thinking I could listen to you forever
Even now with my hopes and dreams and heart in pieces
I still think you were the one for me
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ODEWALE, TOBI PETER
Email address: odewalepeter17@gmail.com
“The Storylines”
What storylines do we expect?
The same tune emerges from the talking drum.
False truths are dished out
Since the genesis of the so-called land,
The land where ambush of tigers secures the jungle.

We are born of tears
To know tears;
Red ink becomes norm.
What sort of song suits the gbedu tune?
What new tears are to be shed?

The weak are preyed;
Trusted vampires secure fresh blood.
Is this how it would be till eternity?
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OLAYIDE, DAVID
Institution of Study: Obafemi Awolowo University
Email address: olayideade@gmail.com
“In Bed with the Grim Reaper”
I don‘t do this often
Pick up me pen and ink to paper put
But lest my head go to pieces from
The complexities of this illusion
I gotta write ‗n‘ ride like a bad boy
Psycho pain
No rave boy
When all my dreams are gone

Maybe from folly or some gun
And in peace at last I am
Laid in something with some silk
In a three-piece suits that fits
With my hands across my chest in perpetual prayer stance
And silence so thick that it weighs heavily
On the shoulders of the white faces staring down
At my face with the leer
Perhaps then and only then, am I what I am
But … wait
These walls are too close
I hate tight spaces
Chokes me up
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Choke, choke, choke
These hands of mine feel no throbbing pulse beneath them
Power has died out in what is me
What was red once with fever has gone grey
With mama Gaia I am at rest
On me, nay, on us, will roses grow.
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NURUDEEN, IBRAHIM ADEMOLA
Email address: adebowale6747@gmail.com
“Òdàn”
Amidst the recurring echoes of the past
And the consistent hooting of the òwìwí1
I behold the long lines of light
Slipping down through the branches of the Ìrókò
While the dew makes its descent to Earth.
I can hear the leaves whispering to one another
Under pressure from my crooked legs,
Picking stealthily through shrubs, accompanied by the wailings of bats in flight.
A lazy breeze caresses my face
And I can hear,
The flap-flap of heavy wings.

The reverberation of the sound of the kowéè bird
Breaks through the wind
Like the desperate arrows of Gbónká.
And I hear drumbeats from a nearby settlement
And I hear the animated voices of children
Chanting dialectic recitations under the moonlight
And I smile, at a new discovery.
I am an adventurous wanderer.
1
The owl
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DAKARE, TITEB-RIK CHRISTIANA
Institution of Study: Kaduna State University
Email address: titebrikdakare@gmail.com
“Essence of Man”
Once upon a confession.
‗In the midst of struggle, you don‘t get stronger;
You just get tired
And soon enough, you‘re tired of being tired.‘
Grovelling and gasping in a dark space,

Whizzing and waving in a full room,
The glass isn‘t half full or half empty;
It‘s a mirage of perfect.
Standing in rooms where I could let it all out,

I‘d rather choke than let out even a sigh.
It‘s when I‘m out of breath I remember to breathe;
I‘m only brave when I‘m forced to.
The good book says from suffering comes endurance.

It‘s only in the dark you see stars;
It‘s only pain that makes one resilient.
Men aren‘t just what they show; they are what they hide.
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KELANI, MERCY TIMILEHIN
Email address: mercytimilehin6@gmail.com
“Màámi”
How can I ever forget the sacrifices of màámi?
Màámi, the paddler of my life‘s boat

On whose heart lies my burden with hope
Whose dim eyes see through the pain in my closet
Whose feeble hands seek ease to my distress
Whose sleepless nights are to put me to sleep
An angel of perfection, is who you are.
Màámi, your virtue is of no comparison
The sincerity of your love surpasses comprehension
Beneath your wings lies my shelter
As a chick protected by the wings of her Mother Hen
You are my protector when the eagle seeks my soul to prey
My knight in shining armour.
Màámi, in you lies the emblem of agape love

Your selfless sacrifices I see in every milestone I attain
In awe it keeps me, the unquenchable fire of your love for me
It keeps burning, non-stop, even when I provoke snowfall
The fierceness of the fire of your undying love licks it up
Indeed, you are priceless.
Màámi, you are the strength in my weakness
The Shuttle Page 45

Forever will your love abide in my heart
Let the stars shine so bright, in amazing colours
For you, my superwoman, I‘d make a wish
Upon a shooting star, that you have long years
Robust and fruitful years, longer than Methuselah‘s.
Màámi, my greatest ally

Your seed seeks to blossom into a beautiful you.
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DANIEL SHOBANDE
Email address: shobandedaniel@gmail.com
“I Can Only Hope”
I hope you find some peace today
from the break of dawn
till the sun sets in its place.
I hope you find some peace today

to rent a smile to your lovely face
and choke your fears with blissful thoughts.
I know I cannot take the pain away

but can be a dose of ecstasy—
you won‘t have to look to see.
I just hope that in your smile

a thousand souls find tunes to play
from a comfort that evades sweet say.
to a love that would always find its way

even if you‘re several miles away.
I hope you find some peace today.
I can only hope that you do

because it‘s what keeps one sane
even in a situation as this.
The Shuttle Page 47

I just hope that you smile again
and make it a culture to live its reign.
I can only hope, but would you?
I trust you‘ll find some peace today

from the break of dawn
till the sun sets in its place.
The Shuttle Page 48

DICKSON, JOY
Email address: djkemmy17@gmail.com
“The Anthem”
Can you still remember?
―Arise O Compatriot…‖
There in my heart lies bruises,
The bruises of the news heard and unheard,
Those triggered by your lies with your allies.

―To serve our fatherland…‖
I waited, even I knew your demo would be crazy.
No demo, your silence speaks.

―To serve with heart and might…‖
You pleaded for power and I empowered you;
Then, you overpowered me.
As if that wasn‘t enough, you fed me to the dust.

―Peace and Unity…‖
For I will not be silent
until these are restored.
I am Nigeria.
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FELIX KEHINDE
Email address: felixkehinde42@gmail.com
“If”
If by ocean I built my home,
And by motion I tilted my dome,
Cold would have laid me on a pyre
And foolishly played me a sweet lyre.
If by nature I found my wife,

And by future I feature my five,
Joy would accompany me through Jos
Just to disguise like a charming boss.
The wave from the Atlantic is in motion
To engage my souls with matrimonial notions.
I shall toss together with my spouse in luxury.
Its fame would be as great as a felony.
If by reasoning I picture my kingdom,

And by understanding I get wisdom,
If in all my ways I acknowledge the Good God,
I shall do more like free god.
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BUKOLA AKINTUNDE
Email address: bukolaakintunde10@gmail.com
“The Path of Perseverance”
It‘s so difficult,
Harder than an apricot.
Why must I be so patient and hardworking?
Up till now I‘ve done nothing
But persevere and continued striving.
When do I finally start enjoying
And satisfy my heart‘s yearning?
Why must I continue to persevere

Even when the hunger is so severe?
Nowadays, there are many roads to get rich quick:
Yahoo, fraud, rituals and embezzlement are what people seek.
But still I believe, they are for the weak.
Strong as I am,
I need not stoop to such vices to succeed.
Although we may want to live rich in a big city,

We mustn‘t become a menace to the society.
And so, I must take this path of perseverance
To achieve my goal and dream.
Only then, will the fruit of my labour be sweet
And last longer than cream.
I dare not take shady shortcuts
Since I don‘t want to end up in life‘s courts.
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MAYOKUN, KEHINDE FOLORUNSHO
Email address: mayokunfolorunsho952@gmail.com
“Pages of the Sun”
(For Olamide)
Here the road ends again.
My journey appears like a new day.
Sweet sour years that lie ahead
Spread before me, greying paths to tread.
FESTUS, OBEHI DESTINY

Email address: festusobehidestiny@gmail.com
“Underneath my Nails”
i am a spider in a cocoon, dwindling,
i stumble across the stretches of marks on my own skin,
a stuttering destiny,
rotting dreams and burnt out nostalgia,
each click points me to the shallow fountain, each flip guides me through broken slates,
will the next rope come from my school?
or will I hang myself before good news pings my email?
Until the web springs from underneath my nails
Until my dreams pursue my reality into wake
Will a miracle come or will i hang myself under the shackles of a deserting hope
Under faultless stars
Wrenching beneath a guiltless face
The Shuttle Page 52

BASSEY, ANTHONY GODWIN
Email address: anthonyson16@gmail.com
“Desperados”
They came as saints
We received them guests
To show our great hospitality;
Gave them lands and they became
House and wealth owners on a foreign land
They later became landlords

We defeated champs:
Brainwashed to crumbs eating zombies
Unaware of the damages being done;
Falcons turn mere fowls of grains.
They came as saints of the gospel

Rob us of our wealth and riches
In daylight like desperados,
As Judas, desperate and greedy for more
More they took and still taking
They came as saints for genuine purpose
Looted us openly without a legal cause
Brainwashed us into crumbs eating zombies
Who turn on one another instead them –
We are still in the ward of recovery
The Shuttle Page 53

ADEBISI, OLUWATOMISIN
Email address: adebisioluwatomisin33@gmail.com
“Great Expectations”
Hope I saw
Revelling in the winds of time to come
Of the dark nights whirling into
Ecstasy noon – rapturous
Like the Saviour‘s ascension
For humanity
Hope I saw
When dry lands become fertile
Deserts filled with merry from its oasis
Valley revived to freshness.
Hope I saw
In a lost land of the great morrow
‘Twas hope, yes, a glimpse of hope
That tells all will be well
The Shuttle Page 54

JOY OLATUNJI
Email address: olatunjijhoi@gmail.com
“Beauty”
Oh! Beauty!
Just like a scarce treasure
Exploring its glory
God‘s act it is
That can never fade
Sweet like sugar
Soft like silk
Amazing in its appearance
Mind-blowing in its content
Glowing skin, sparkling eyes
All wrapped in an amiable beauty
Stunning, alluring, charming and elegant
Incredible pulchritude
Just like her tag
Joy is seen all over
Happiness from within
That overshadows all worries
Oh! Beauty!
My love for you is indescribable.
The Shuttle Page 55

IMISIOLUWA BAMIDELE
Institution of Study: University of Ibadan
Email address: bamideleimisioluwa@gmail.com
“Fallen Giant”
Its name coined from the Niger area
A giant abroad, a dwarf at home
A land that drowns the hope of seedlings
And smothers the sap of old plants
A nation rich in gold and rubies
But has become a borrow thrift
Torn apart by ethnic strife, myopic conflicts
Amidst the chants to bring back our girls

I chorus ―Bring back our land
Until our land is restored back to us.
We are but slaves in our own home.‖
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OBISANWO, OLADIPUPO
Email address: mroladipupoobisanwo@gmail.com
“Poverteers and Profiteers”
Regardless of tribe, age, and colour;
There‘s but a schism among sapiens.
We all are knights in this war:
An age-long war of class and difference.
A class takes the lower side:

A bunch of poverteers.
The other others‘ fate to decide
A school of glittering profiteers.
Profiteers are those whose charity

Is to empty the souls of others.
They enrich themselves with plenty,
Duly utilizing their powers.
Poverteers are those who dance
To the behests of their masters.
They live their lives like in a trance,
With bloodshot eyes like gangsters‘.
Profiteers mastermind inflations.

They act all cool and nice,
With loads of heavy donations.
Yet, they steal in suits and ties.
The Shuttle Page 57

Poverteers – servants of the ‗most high‘.
For mere sustenance they play low.
Profiteers – rulers of the sky.
Economies thrive as they say so.
Who shall mediate between

These syndicates of souls,
These aloof twins,
These fiendish foes?
The Shuttle Page 58

OLUWASEGUN MERCY
Email address: oluwasegunmercy1122@gmail.com
“Woes of a Drunk”
As the breeze blows, so do my thoughts sway in synchrony.
Why hold back?
I release myself to the whims of the breeze.
And it carries me far far far away from my troubles to my troubles.
One trouble to another trouble:
A concubine heavy with child, a woman killed by my own hands.
To whom shall I say it was a mistake?
My child pregnant with a child
Ye gods of misfortune, are ye done cooking up misfortune for me?
What do I do?
Plans to arrest me for the murder already underway.
I simply lock myself in my bottle.
where no one is permitted to come in.
Too bad, I don‘t hold the lock, neither the key.
But for the time this bottle permits me solitude, would I accept.
And then drink I the bottle.
More large gulps down my throats and I‘m in a better place.
The power of imagination, so great and potent.

Life is realistic, imagination is fanstasy-stic
How my life ought to be, No!
How I want and wish my life to be.
The Shuttle Page 59

Life, learn from my imaginations.
You need to bring me peace and good tidings,
not sorrow, struggling and pains.
Life is bitter and Imagination sweet!

Life is real and imagination is surreal!
Same way I walked through the door to my imaginations
is the same way I'm walked out.
Banging on my doors bringing me to my dilemma.
Out, Out, Out!
The Shuttle Page 60

ASHAOLU, PETER
Email Address: ashaolupeter15@gmail.com
“The Sea of Golgotha”
In the beginning was the world.
The world of my fathers and mothers
burned down by slavery
and quenched by colonialism.
I heard the voice of the sea

speaking in the wind.
The ebbs punching out memories.
Turbulent thoughts of history
clouding the sea.
At the sea of Golgotha,

Began their long walk from freedom.
Dolours rotten their body into carcass.
Puny souls like dungs dunked
into the liquid salt.
Buried in the belly of fishes
and their bones naked under the sea.
At the ship deck;

they were tamed into logs of wood.
Diarrhoea stunk them within and
poxes littered their flesh.
The Shuttle Page 61

Bodies blistered and bed-eared maggots.
For those who sought for salvation,
death became their only abyss of sanctuary.
I know of ships of Whiteheads

that brought us bittersweet nuts.
I know a sea,
whose tides speaks
of my ancestral savannah- Africa my Africa
The Shuttle Page 62

CHUKWUEMEKA ILOENYOSI
Email Address: kuscokings@gmail.com
“The Fort has Fallen”
The walls were built not in one day
With discipline and fleshly pain.
We swore an oath to protect the fort
No matter the condition, and no matter the cost.
We didn‘t presume the enemy will come in

when we left the gate open.
No one manned the gates,
because we felt the fort was strong enough to stop any enemy that wanted to penetrate.
The enemy is in, he has come

He has broken our walls with his storm
We are wounded, we are fallen
Our men are dying, are children are wailing.
We should have kept to the boring routine

Now the executioner has sharpened his guillotine.
Since this is what we have become,
Let it go down in history that we were once a strong and impenetrable Kingdom.
The Shuttle Page 63

AMAH, THANK GOD
Email Address: officialamah.t@gmail.com
“Mute!”
Pain Hosted a Concert

Patriotism Made the publicity
Hate was the Sound Engineer

Unity was in charge of welfare
ENDSARS was the Hit Song

Produced by Hunger
Voices of the People; Guest Performers

Silence of The People; Kicked the bucket
Innocence is now a SIN

SIN is The New Independence
I thought it was a Victorious Concert!

Why‘s Blood the Event planner?
Why‘s Death Taking Attendance?
Why? Mute!
# ENDSARS
The Shuttle Page 64

CHIEDOZIE UDE
Email Address: atomicdozie@gmail.com
“A Sad Sonnet for Nigeria”
Nigeria, country blessed with wealth,
But many people there do dwell
In squalor, lack and ill in health
As government claims to change propel.
By strife and greed her seams were slit
To serve those who must riches gain,
Few men who morals did omit
With ruthless hands these things they drain.
The tribes around the Niger spread
With hatred each the next does view
From east to west and north ahead
All plotting bloody change through coup.
So let us mourn our crumbling home
That sinks in deep and dreary foam.
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ODETUNDE, LATEEF OLADEJI
Email Address: odetundelateef04@gmail.com
“Akínrere”
Akínrere, here you are
Your cap has brought you this far!
Your chest has made this up for grabs,
Even your so called Ruger has done less,
During the battle of good heads,
Even the man o war, at its muteness,
Treasures your dry sweat,
The faded redness in your eyes,
Asseverates the means of your swedge.
Are you recognizant of the path that your steps built?

The Itamerin junction leads to a long land
Evinces mismatched sons and daughters of Adam and Eve
Plucking money mercilessly.
Oja Ale is not left behind,

In blessing the district of the unflagging heads,
The night at Sango hits differently
Like that of Laylatul'Qadr.
Akínrere, your seeds are everywhere,

Your face is what they all wear,
The rest of you is part of them.
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If only you see how highly they want to jump
To the once a mud chair that you fought for,
They now use the forbidden stick with a sorrowful fired mouth and an iron phallus.
Their language is pally not to the ear.
Akínrere, give us Osàkirè

To save our bacon.
Or you will tell your seeds,

that only your cap brings their autarky
And gives them their surname, ewú.
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GOODNESS SHITTU
Institution of Study: Federal University of Agriculture, Abeokuta
Email Address: goodnessshittu@gmail.com
“Somewhere between Peace and Purpose”
I long for a place towards the south,
perhaps the east, west or north.
Somewhere beyond the seas or above the clouds.
A place I am free from friends and foes,
a home I can dwell on my own.
A place I am not perturbed by my fears and goals; but yet happy and gay
that I am free from the world and my pestering thoughts.
Will I ever find that which I seek?
Somewhere beyond the shores of the earth,

where I am locked in an aura of undiluted liberty and fulfilment.
Is it an island? Probably an island.
An island where fantasies are real and dreams become reality.
But will I ever find it?
And one day, if I ever find what I'm looking for,

I hope it‘s worth the while.
And if not, I hope I learnt a lesson,
because truly, peace is all I seek...
Perhaps that peace which I seek is me.
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BIANCA IHUA
Email Address: ihuabianca6@gmail.com
“Chika Go!”
Chika go!
Pack your load and go back to Chicago.
You have brought me pains, sadness and trouble
And everything I built, you did crumble.
You have to go!
It is a must you go.
Off you go;
You can pack your load in a Ghana-must-go
I don‘t care if it‘s to hell you go,
Just go!
Chika go!
Go back to Chicago
Leave your life the way you want to
If you like run to Jericho.
All you ever did was pull me down
In the ocean of bitterness, you did make me drown.
You snatched all the suitors at my beck and call
Even my handsome Ikenna you gave a call.
Biko come and go
Before I call commando.
Chika go!
You can catch the next flight to Chicago.
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What is it you have that I don‘t?
A snake-like attitude, that is your wont!
Each time I warn you, you don‘t act docile
Instead, you behave like a reptile.
Yellow pawapaw, Omalicha, Oyinbo pepper,
They eulogise you with those words, yet they don‘t know you can‘t even grind pepper
Get out, you crazy slut!
Gawd! I hate your gut.
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OLUWAFEMI ILORI
Email Address: oluwafemiilori@gmail.com
“Gothic”
An explanation to the word gothic was needed.
‗Ain‘t nothing but a mirage of your lucid imaginations‘
You kept telling yourself.
Those ravens flying above won‘t go away easily
And as that whistling breeze sends down a chill to your bones,
You tried to give your verdict.
Only to realize that there ain‘t no reasonable hypothesis to this than this ahurissement before
you;
We‘re all wrapped up in this battle against the monsters of our very imaginations!
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IGWEBUEZE, BOLUWATIFE
Email Address: tifecrownsonyianna@gmail.com
“Lessons learnt”
It‘s sad how the present can affect the future,
How humans act now will determine the end game.
If only we look closer at the very clear picture,
Maybe then we will know our attitude is our name
Some words said became a haunting nightmare,

Some act displayed became my greatest regret
They said, ―Babe catch cruise, life na fanfare.‖
I did, but the scars I got from it, I wear like aigret
My personality was indescribable to me and those around me

My life became complicated while trying to be myself
My predicament I couldn‘t analyse, so I settled for meme
I avoided talking about my problem, even to myself
I knew I was the creator of my almighty formula,

That‘s why I couldn‘t transfer the blame to anyone.
Though I was living in confusion, I knew my life needed a scala,
And with that, I will need the help of someone
The question is, ―Who can I turn to for help

When everyone around me does not understand me anymore?
Who‘s that someone that will freely and willingly help,
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Without adding to my problems and making it a sophomore?‖
Then l realized I was such a fool to have forgotten

That there‘s someone who was able to help me out,
Someone who won‘t condemn me or remind me of the begotten
It is definitely Jesus Christ; that‘s the way out.
After coming to realization, I didn‘t waste any more time,

I went straight to him for help and guidance,
After all, I was once told I was welcome to ask for help anytime,
As long as I let Him into my heart, to rule and have dominance
He wasn‘t asking for what I couldn‘t afford to give.

Therefore, it was the greatest opportunity I could ever get.
All I had to do was give him my heart; then I‘ll receive.
That I gave, without contemplating, and my new life, he did beget
Though the past can never be completely erased,

However, there‘s assurance of a better future, which can help me avoid deja vu
I‘ll never forget the pain my past actions caused,
Because it‘ll help me avoid future occurrence and also a jamais vu.
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OYEBAMI, IYANUOLUWA
Institution of Study: Osun State College of Education
Email Address: alagbadatheking@gmail.com
“I Witnessed the War Too”
this is a war script encoded with sorrowful memories,
the bullets, the fallen fighters,
my friend who gave all but lost after all,
it all started consciously, and all I remembered travelled so fast like lightening.
I was told to stand for what is right,

I was told to sit and write it,
everything.
how the boy cried his eyes out,

how the people gave their wives out,
how we told lies to make them comply.
Tell me what you know about war,

and I will tell you where bullet live
I will tell you how the last bullet pierced through the vein of my friend and how all he gave
went down within a second.
Freedom!
That‘s all we wanted and stood for,

That‘s all we cried for.
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A new home,
a better land where we all are equal,
a place where all that matters is our happiness,
the sacrifice for our war was my friend,

the freedom we wanted was my friend,
he gave his all to make us whole,
he gave his blood to cleanse our land,
and today I‘m not only writing about the war,

I miss my friend too
and today like every year
I witnessed the war too but my friend is no more.
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DOLAPO, OLUWAFEMI
Email Address: dolapopoundz@gmail.com
“Constellations”
Your eyes tell and foretell for routine
It sees sky and seas, land and life
Everything in between.
It sees beauty that pervades strife
Be careful what you think you see.
See, that thing you scorned today
Would be deeply cherished tomorrow
But no one could have shown you how time works
You think that it moves forward in seconds and minutes
And that what‘s to come is better than what‘s gone
You see outer space and want to feel it
A void that you can never fill.
The blackhole itself singing to the blind
Existent and evolving in rotation
To astronomical dimensions
To be or not to be
According to perfectly imperfect orientation
The magnificent is amplified,
The insignificant shouldn‘t be downplayed
Stare into the abyss too long and it‘ll grow into your soul.
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SHORT
STORIES
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ENIFOLARIN, ARINOLA
Email address: ennyfolarinpeace@gmail.com
Boom-He-Rang
My blood ran cold as I heard his name. I could hear the thump of my heart almost too
clearly.
‗What did you say?‘ I shivered.
‗Your dad, Mr Thompson?‘ Dave said as if confirming who he was to me. ‗He is at the
door.‘ I paused and observed Dave‘s face for a moment.
‗Will you go and let him in or should I?‘ He gestured to me. I didn‘t say anything, re-
evaluating my decisions, shaken by how much evil this man sought to wreak.
‗Never mind, I‘ll just go.‘ Dave said and stood up from the bed.
‗No!‘ I jumped up, my head throbbing as I jerked it off the pillow. It was too early to do this,
but there was no excuse to die. I met him just in time before he opened the door of our
bedroom.
‗No, do not open that door, Dave.‘
‗What? That‘s your dad.‘ What‘s wrong with you?
‗I heard that right.‘ Dave has been my husband for four years; he had only met my father
once at our wedding and had no idea who he was, or more so, who I was. My family
believed in a Faith that was completely different from others. We were all initiated by birth,
so we had no choice. I couldn‘t decide whether it was the right time to drop it on Dave.
‗Listen to me, the man at the door is not my father. He is the leader of our Creed. You don‘t
want to open that door under any…‘ I couldn‘t end my statement before we heard louder
bangs on the door. Dave leapt.
‗What‘s happening, Sara? What are you talking about?‘ He looked as perturbed as I wanted
him to be. Great! I needed that fear so he‘d listen to me.
‗We‘re going to get a few clothes in a travel bag, get our passports and leave the country
now.‘
‗What?‘
‗Yes Dave, we have to do it.‘ We could hear him breaking through the glass window now.
‗We have to do it now, or he‘s going to kill us!‘ Dave sprang into action and ran towards the
closet door, flinging it open. He scurried for a moment for a bag and later found a small one
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we used for picnics. He shuffled some clothes into the bag, not minding what they were.
Meanwhile, I changed into a sweat pant and a tee-shirt, then I picked up our passports from
the bedside drawer.
‗What else?‘ He said, panting.
‗We run!‘ I barked. We ran towards the emergency exit, and for the first time, I was thankful
we had no children. Thompson was going to stop at nothing to find us; it was a taboo to
leave the Creed, ever. And I knew for a long time he was going to come after me, just like he
had done my mother. We ran towards the door and yanked it open. Then, at the door, we
met a huge man holding tightly onto a big weapon. I held him by the hand and made for the
door. I didn‘t have the time to check what it was.
‗Hello there, Sweet Sara‘, my father said.
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ẸNÌTÀN, ABDULTAWAB BOLUWATIFE
Email address: tawabenitan@gmail.com
Papa Will Come Home
―Mama, when will Papa come home?‖ I asked. The corners of my mouth cracked and hurt. I
wondered when fever will let me be.
I looked on. My eyes turned misty. It must have been the smoke from the bottom of the
earthen pot. I lay still, gazed at a lizard which clutched unto a wooden rail across the
thatched roof. On the wooden rail stood nails which held three metal sieves that held our
smoked fish and meat. In a bid to gain access, the lizard trotted round the metallic springs
but only nodded intermittently and scurried away.
I discovered an interesting scenery at the lizard‘s movement. For all intents and purposes, I
supposed the lizard was a special being; special in that it craved for freedom – the only
option behind a space of failure. I, too, crave for freedom. I craved for Mama, too. For
Mama, I realized her entrapped in the snares of life. This was not without a tad of hope. Her
only daughter lying between the realm life and death, her husband lost in the land of nobody
but her son grinning in the achievement of the completion of a university education. Life
and its tidings!
Mama placed the back of her palm on my neck. The coldness of her palm collided with the
hotness of my body. Mama had not been herself since the sad incident happened. She had
wept loudly and raved silently. That afternoon, I had collapsed in the front of the hut when I
was playing with some of my friends. Mama told me that white puffs of foams had swum
from the corner of my mouth, almost entering my eyes. My friends had fled.
―Go back to sleep, Moore. Papa will come home soon.‖ Her eyes were misty from the
onions she was peeling. She was making breakfast, though she had prepared hot pap
immediately after dawn.
That was it. But Papa had never returned since he left. It‘s been two weeks since Papa left
Kujore for Lagos to celebrate my older brother‘s convocation ceremony. In the letter Papa
received, Duro had inscribed the word CONVOCATION on the envelope, a paper work
which does not know its inmate. When Nadeer, the village interpreter, was called to disclose
the hidden news, Papa and Mama leapt for joy. At last, their son, my brother, had read all
the books in the university. Were it not for Mama‘s swollen feet, she would have travelled to
Lagos instead.
During those periods, Duro had visited twice and had been shocked when we asked of Papa.
‗Papa came, I swear and left the following morning,‘ Duro said during his second visit when
many of Papa‘s relatives were present. ‗We even took pictures. Let me show you.‘
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Now, he was close to shedding tears. He brought out his mobile phone and swiped and
swiped until the flashy pictures of Papa and Duro glinted on the screen. One, two, three,
four, five, six…I trembled. I never imagined losing Papa at seven.
―Hmm. It‘s a pity. Never in our clan have we lost someone on a journey of no-return. He
will surely come back.‖ Baba Osupa spoke. He was the oldest of Papa‘s clan. His tone was
very low and creaky.
―I think this matter is beyond ordinary o. Our elders say that there is trouble in Longe‘s farm
and Longe himself is trouble. Who knows? Nothing happens without a reason. I heard there
are many juju diviners in Lagos than we have here in Kujore. Consult one,‖ Iye spoke now.
Dirty and chubby, she was the wife of Papa‘s youngest cousin.
Nods of approval filled the air. Duro‘s eyes were still, so was Mama‘s. She had not uttered a
single word since the meeting started.
―If that should be the case, we cannot leave Duro on this matter alone. A single hand does
not lift a load unto the head. I suggest Iye follow him to see things out,‖ Baba Osupa spoke
again.
Iye rubbed her fingers on her ears. She mumbled something to herself. Murmurs rose again.
―See ehn, I am afraid I cannot follow him o. You want me to go and not come back, ehn? I
am not the only one here. I am afraid I will not follow him o.‖ She said and lowered her
small head.
A murmur rose again. Some nodded and some only shook their heads, and that was the end
of the whole drama. Nobody volunteered. Papa, yet, did not come home.
Mama resumed peeling the onion in her hand. I felt an urge to talk again. I was not
contented with the reply she gave me.
―Will life go on like this, Mama?‖ I asked.
―No. Life can't continue like this. Look at this onion. When you peel back its layers, what do
you find? You discover something new by each layer. You might shed tears as you do. Duro
did well to give us a new joy but we found tears instead. It will be fine after all.‖ It was as
though she had memorized the reply. It was sharp.
Menomo burst in panting. He was the town gossip. He knew almost everything that went
on.
―Baba Duro is lying beside the Opa River. Unconscious!‖ He said and bolted away. Mama
and I sprang up.
In the meantime, Mama rushed towards Papa‘s bicycle at the end of the yard and disarmed
the stand. She tried mounting it.
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―Mama!‖ I screamed. Now, I stood outside.
―Never mind. He once taught me how to do it. Opa is no child‘s walk.‖
As Mama mounted it, she stuck a foot on a pedal and stamped the other foot on the second
pedal. The object whined to life, plunging forward swiftly. Mama held the handle and
exerted extra effort on the pedals. In an instant, Mama burst in the wrong direction and
came jostling towards me. I thought she would swerve towards the right direction but I was
wrong. I watched as the swerve jerked sideways with Mama struggling to make a balance.
It was late. The bicycle bumped into me and Mama flew over, her wrapper billowing in the
air. We screamed. In the twinkle of an eye, Mama sprang up.
―That‘s another. Life is like this bicycle. It takes a while to get the hang of riding a bike, but
you always need to move forward. This incident will not stop me from seeing your father.‖
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DANIEL OGBA
Institution of Study: University of Nigeria, Enugu Campus
Email address: d.ogba@yahoo.com
Fragile Beautiful Creatures
Tonight your mother will draw you into the house by the ear. You will wince in pain as you
struggle to set yourself free from her grip but her grip will be too strong. Her hands had seen
grief and struggles and have moulded words into daily bread so they‘ve become so strong, so
hard they rarely set a thing free without leaving markings. You will imagine your ear
detaching from your head, and blood spilling down your face and her hands to the floor, so
you try to suck in all the pain her tight grip induces.
―How many times will I warn you to stop hanging around those bad boys? Eh! Those boys are bad omens,
Iferika. They are not your type! Why do you keep disobeying me you this child?”
You will watch her mouth move and her hands make gestures; one on her waist, standing
akimbo, the other pulling her ear to lay emphasis on her words. But you do not hear a word
she says. You are still wincing in pain. You will caress your face and feel the weight of her
palm indentured into your tender face. Your eyes see stars and there is a whirring sound in
your head. Several times, she‘d warned you to stop seeing the boys at the Buka. They weren‘t
good boys. They smoked wee-wee and stole from the kiosks of market women. ―Shameless
lots‖ she calls them, those boys. You know all this, but you hang around them, still.
You do not do all these bad things with them. Your mother tries to make you see reasons
but you don‘t find any in her words. She says girls are not meant to behave in the same
manner those boys do. But you will tell her that you are not a girl. She will stare with askance
into your face and tell you that you are gradually losing your sanity.
Tomorrow, she will ask you to sit with herself and Mmirimma, your younger sister in the
kitchen to prepare nsala for your father, but you will argue with her and tell her that ―boys
don‘t cook!‖ and she will chase you around the hut clutching tightly to her loosened wrapper
with a ladle in her right hand, pointing at you as you dash towards the gate, out of the
compound. You will turn around and stick out your tongue to her face, holding the lower of
your eyes to reveal bulgy eyeballs. This is how you learnt to express your victory, freedom;
with mockery to your captor.
And you will go, as usual, to meet the boys at the Buka. And you will have your first taste of
wee-wee. You will choke after the first drag, and they will laugh at you and call you JJC. You
will feel ashamed and enraged at the same time. And you will snatch the rolled paper with
bright yellow flame from Nnam‘s hand and shove the lighted end into his ear; a consequence
of his laughing too much. You will watch him scream, and scamper around in pain. And you
will run away. The boys, they will be too busy rescuing Nnam that they‘d forget to give you a
hot chase. Away from the boys, you will sit under an Oji tree to catch your breath. You will
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feel your heart burn, like the smoke has ignited a burning flame in it. You will cough roughly
till your eyes turn red and you will begin to cry.
At home, it is a dark night. Your mother will not wait for you to return. You will sneak into
the house to see that she‘s already deep in sleep and your sister hugging her tightly. You will
spread a mat on the floor and cry yourself to sleep.
―Girls are fragile, beautiful creatures. They are meant to be well groomed so when they get to a man‟s home,
they will be good wives to their husbands and good mothers to their children. If you keep behaving this way,
Ife, I‟m afraid, no man will ever take you in as his wife.”
One morning, you will wake up before dawn not feeling too well. Queasiness will be a noun
too complex to describe how you feel. A slight, strange pain in your tummy accompanied
with an uncomfortable, sticky warmth between your thighs. You will lift the sleeping sheet
and retch as the sickening, coppery scent of blood fills your nostrils. Confused, you will close
your eyes and reach down to run your fingers between your inner thighs. You will express
sheer surprise at the sight of your fingers as they come out wet and red. You will not let your
mother know so you will take the sheets to the backyard, alongside the refuse and burn them
in the hollow pit.
You will go out in the morning and return, changed. Your mother will tell you to go back
into the house and cover your body very, very well before leaving. You will disobey her. And
argue with her how you need to let fresh air into your body. She will not know what to say to
you, she has grown tired of your reluctance. You will leave the house to the Buka where
these boys now drink and puff smoke into the air and you will join them. This time, you will
no longer choke. You join in laughing at the boy who chokes and falls off his chair
coughing.
In the evening, a boy will hold your hands and you will walk with him through dark paths
leading home. You are not with your senses anymore. He will slide an arm over your neck
and let it hang loosely down your chest. He will slip a finger through the sleeveless blouse
you are wearing and his finger will draw circles around your bare chest. You will chuckle. He
will retrieve his hand from your neck and you will both stop short as he presses your back
hard to a tree. It is a dark, lonely path so he will slowly lift the hem of your blouse and slide
his hand upwards to cup your tiny, perky breasts. You will moan softly as his lips move to
brush across your nipples. You will throw your head back and your feet will ache, you will
feel aloof. He will tighten your hands in one hand and raise them above your head. The
other will wander beneath your thighs. There are no barriers, no underpants. You love to
feel fresh air breeze past that nether area when you sit with your legs spread. He will slide
two fingers upwards and caress your tightness. A surge runs through your body. This will be
the first time you‘re ever feeling this way, the first time you notice there actually is a tightness
between your legs. He will try to force a finger in, and you will whimper.
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Slowly, your senses will return to you, your head will become cleared, wiped clean like a slate,
and you will come to light. You will struggle to get him to let you go, but he will hold tight.
He will pull down his shorts. And his pants. You will feel his hardness rubbing across your
tightness, and you will yell and plead with him to stop. To please, stop! He will ask you to
keep calm and try to force himself into your body. You will struggle, you will kick him, even.
But he will push you to the ground and pin your hands above your head. You will resist but
he is a man. And he has more power than you do. But you, too, are not a girl, and you are
not weaker. So you will kick him harder, but his strength doubles as he pushes his hardness
into you. You will buck your hips in resistance and fear will well up in your insides, alongside
anger. You will shut your eyes and let your tears flow. You do not want to absorb this kind
of pain. It is worse than your mother‘s tight grip on your right ear. You will not relent. He
will slap your face and you will bite his arm, deep, so deep you will taste his blood on your
tongue. He will let go of your hands and you will kick his towering weight off your body and
run.
You will not stop running even when you reach home and your mother runs out of the hut
with a hand lamp and holds you still. You will hug her tight and let your tears moisten her
chocolate skin. She will take your half-naked body into the house, lock the door, hang the
lamp on the windowsill and she will hold your head still to her chest, and will pat your back.
―I tried to warn you, but you wouldn‟t listen. Those boys are bad omen. They‟re poisonous!”
Then you will know. You will understand everything your mother used to tell you. Girls, she
always says, are fragile, beautiful creatures. You were one push away from being broken; one
force away from losing your beauty. Then, you will truly understand. And from that night,
you will see light through your mother‘s words. A certain kind of light that teaches you to
see men as predators, as wild untamed beasts. A kind of light that ignites an awareness in
your bones that your body is not a zoo where these animals must learn to become tamed. A
light that teaches you that fragile things, too, when broken can be mended.
But tonight, tonight you are still cupping your ear, furrowing your brows as you tell your
mother that you‘re not a girl; that you do not want to be a girl. She will call you anuofia and
whip you with her flip-flops while clutching her wrapper.
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MAKINDE, PRECIOUS
Email address: tumilaramakinde@gmail.com
Happy Endings Don’t Always Happen
I don‘t know, maybe I‘m not just cut out for happy endings.
I remember vividly how she‘d approached me with the brightest smile ever and said ―Hi, I‘d
like to be your friend.‖
Weird right? Who approached a stranger and asked to be friends? Worse, the school‘s clown.
I was literally the goofiest human, hardly ever caught being serious. I‘m all about the fun
abeg.
But putting on this serious facade I then asked, ―Why would you want to be my friend?‖
―Well, you‘re literally the goofiest human I‘ve never even seen you look serious.‖
Ouch, that was true but it hurt hearing it like that.
She laughed and clarified that she meant no harm. She wanted to have fun in her life and she
believed there could be no better option than me.
***
A weird way to become friends, isn‘t it? But yes, we did become friends. Once you saw me,
you saw Lilian and vice versa. We had the best time of our lives – pranking others, me
teaching her to scale fences. There was never a reason to; it was just for the adrenaline. All
our escapades were fun and friendship goals till she passed out from exhaustion one day. I
don‘t think I‘d ever been more scared. Yes, I was the class clown and I related with everyone
but Lilian was my first proper friend and in those few months, I‘d grown to love having her
around. Had I overdone it with her? My panic worsened when the school‘s clinic said she
had to be transferred to a bigger hospital. I knew I had done it with her.
***
We got to the hospital and after a while, she woke up. When her parents left to speak with
the doctor, Lilian looked at me with tears in her eyes as I knelt and cried for her to forgive
me for pushing her beyond her limits, I had no idea she was a fragile one and the tears
would not stop till she muttered ―It‘s not you, I just have cancer.‖
At that moment, I felt the world freeze and I couldn‘t hear any sounds. Because really, at
that point in time, I knew I‘d rather be the reason she was there than what I‘d heard.
Mustering the little courage I could find in me, I asked ―For how long has this been?‖
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She smiled stiffly. ―A month before I approached you was when I found out. I heard I could
undergo surgery but coming out alive wasn‘t guaranteed and I hadn‘t really had a life before
you know. So, I‘d literally meant it when I said I wanted to have some fun in my life, the part
I didn‘t say out was ‗before I die‘. You aren‘t the reason I‘m here. You‘re simply the reason I
can smile despite being here. The surgery is tomorrow, and I‘d love to have you here. If I
died seeing your face, I couldn‘t be any happier.‖
I was a mess at this point that I had no words. I simply nodded, but my heart was far gone in
fear. I stood by her. Well, not literally since I couldn‘t be allowed into the operating room.
But I was there.
***
After some hours, the doctors and nurses came out and overhearing their discussion with
Lilian‘s parents, I couldn‘t hold in my tears anymore. I cried like it was the last time I‘d ever
cry. My heart was full and my tear glands as well. How dare I bring in humour at such a
moment right? I‘m sorry. It just came. Because why couldn‘t I be happy?
The surgery was a success and Lilian was alive...
I know I talked about not having happy endings. I guess I was too scared to expect one. But
gladly, I got this one.
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NNAMDI, ISIDINMA
Email address: isidinmamnnamdi@gmail.com
A Little Ray of Hope
―Push!‖
With sweat-stained eyes, Halima looks at the nurse and wonders whether it would be
considered murder if she strangled the persistently shouting white woman. She tries to snap
back at the nurse but a sudden contraction seizes her again and Halima cries out in agony.
―That‘s it! I can see the head!‖ cries the anxious doctor, readying her hands to receive the
baby. Halima feels it too. She pushes again but the baby refuses to come out to the world.
Exhausted and frustrated, she falls to the bed, cloaked in sweat. The doctor tries to
encourage her to push again so as to force the child out, but Halima no longer hears her.
Her brain pushes her out of her present situation and thrusts her into her subconscious. In
her subconscious, the past comes rushing back unleashed-the old demons buried deep down
arise. Suddenly, she remembers everything.
She remembers Father and Abdullahi. She remembers how her actual life‘s journey really
begun with those two men. Abdullahi was her father‘s childhood friend and an influential
man in her village, Geidam. In fact, he was probably one of the most influential in the whole
of Yobe state. And so it came to be that an agreement was made between the two men to
marry Halima off to Abdullahi on her 13th birthday. Distraught and angry, a young Halima
refused to accept her pre-destined fate. Her dream was to have a formal education and
become an engineer. In hopes of changing Father‘s mind, Halima went to her mother to
help her. But Mother did nothing.
In her mind‘s eye, Halima still sees her mother‘s stony face as she begged her to convince
Father to cancel the marriage. She recalls the deeply-felt betrayal and hurt at the rejection of
her own mother. Back then, she felt destroyed by that rejection, but she refused to give up.
Determined, Halima found a way to escape. She escaped with the help of Aunty Grace.
Aunty Grace was a Lagos trader well known in Geidam for her constant patronage of the
local farmers. She visited the village once every month for a new supply of food products. It
was on one of such visits that Halima met with her, and Grace helped her escape.
She relives her life with Grace, how shortly sweet their time together was until it turned
badly sour. Living in Lagos with Grace, Halima enrolled in a public school and worked as a
salesgirl at Grace‘s food stall in Oyingbo market. Things were going smoothly in their
relationship until Grace‘s husband proved to be a monumental thief, stealing almost all
Grace‘s life savings and running away after that. This left both Grace and Halima in near
destitution. Grace tried to rebuild her life and business again from the very beginning, and
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along the way, she became a different person entirely. Grace turned cruel, evil and hateful
towards Halima. The slaps on Halima‘s cheeks and the marks on her bum were a result of
Grace‘s sudden wickedness. She always searched for a supposed wrongdoing so as to have
an excuse to punish Halima. If she came to the shop late because of extra lessons at school,
a slap was the reward. If she wrongly placed an item, a flogging or kick in the shin was the
reward. Halima endured silently in plain, resolving to stay and finish her secondary school
education. She had no one else to turn to. If she ran away again, there would be nowhere to
go. And so, Halima stayed. Although once a bright student, her grades begun to drop
rapidly, and she was constantly being ridiculed by school mates. Once again, she felt utterly
alone. It was at this instance that John came into her life. John was the only person who
cared about her, her only friend and family
Halima remembers their walks home from school every day. Like a vivid dream, she still
hears their laughter, their jokes and feels their irreplaceable bond. John was the one who
gave her food when Grace locked her out of the house on some nights. He was her
companion. When the problem with Grace escalated to the point of near death, Johnny was
her saviour. Halima‘s mind takes her to that horrible night; the night when Grace nearly
killed her with the press of a hot iron on her slender back.
Halima tries to block that memory from rushing in. She feels the baby turning in her
stomach, and another slice of pain goes through her. Vaguely, she hears the doctor at the
background ordering her to save her strength for a few moments, but Halima does not hear
him. Her mind, still wrapped in the maelstrom of memories, separates her from her present
moment. The old, almost familiar pain accompanied with that night comes again. She sees
herself as she was that night, screaming, writhing and crawling away in agonizing pain as
Grace branded her time and again with the iron‘s merciless heat. And when the neighbours
rushed in to see her nearly dead on the floor, she begged them to call John, her only friend.
When, through her blurry eyes she saw the police handcuff an angry Grace, John‘s name was
on her lips.
He came for her. Upon her recovery at the hospital, he carried her home to his own loving
grandmother. His rundown bungalow became her home for two years. His endless
friendship was her solace forever. But John left her. He left to be with his parents living in
South Africa.
Halima thought she was alone once more, but she was not. John‘s grandmother helped her.
The old woman took her in as a daughter and trained her as best she could. She brought her
into her fold and taught her the one way with which Halima survived. Grandmother taught
her the art of cooking, taught her the many delicacies honed by years of practice and
knowledge. Grandmother gave her the tool to survive throughout her school days. Making
cookies and baking snacks, Halima was able to pursue her dream, a dream she had held unto
right from her formative years as a little Hausa girl back in the north.
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The baby kicks again. Halima groans, still in a daze, still letting her mind wander off to the
past. She remembers how things were. She remembers how she strived and worked through
those endless nights and backbreaking days. Grandmother helped as much as she could, but
in the end, it was all up to Halima. She struggled and at long last, she made it happen.
At last, she graduated as a first-class mechanical engineer with astonishing job offers both
nationally and internationally. Filled with pride and awe, Halima followed her dream right
into USA where she worked with NASA. All her sacrifices had been worth it. All her efforts
had been worth that price.
Suddenly, Halima is brought back to the present as a powerful, painful pulls reverberates
through her body, almost sapping out her airflow. This one feels worse than the others, the
pain more excruciating. Halima rises up and pushes with all her remaining strength.
―Yes! Yes. It‘s a girl!‖
The doctor‘s wild outburst is accompanied by the tiny screeching sound of her baby. When
the nurse puts the tiny being in her arms, Halima feels something spiritual lift from her soul.
All the pain of the past, all the hardships and pitfalls, the pain of childbirth were suddenly
gone. She felt it all flush out from her body. In abrupt awe, Halima looks down at her baby
as tears fall from her eyes and blur her vision. She realizes now that God had always been
with her. God had given her a far greater gift for all her hard work and suffering. Her
daughter was her redemption. She wonders if the tiny bundle of happiness in her arms
somehow realizes the impact she brings to her world just by being alive. Still transfixed, she
hears noise at the background of the room but doesn't pay attention until she feels a body
kneel beside her bed and hold her unto her arm. She looks up and peers into John‘s eyes.
They both stare intently at each other, the piercing love they shared reflecting in both their
faces. She wants to tell her husband how much she loves him. She wants to tell him that
God brought him and the baby into her life to save her. She wants to tell him all this but she
cannot. Something clogs her throat as she tries to form the words. She looks into his eyes
and sees that she does not need to say anything. He already knows.
When the screeching baby finally falls asleep at her left breast, the nurse smiles tenderly at
the family and asks ―I saw you both discussing earlier. Have you decided on a name for your
little angel?‖ Halima glances at her husband‘s agreeing nod and turns to the nurse, ―Yes, we
have. Her name is Hope.‖
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EKPIMA, BARNABAS JOSIAH
Institution of Study: University of Nigeria
Email Address: barnabasekpima@gmail.com
Mother of the Father
Your name is Ekaette, but you choose to be addressed as Kate. Although some of your course
mates believe that the name Kate was derived from Ekaette, it wasn‘t. Same course mates of
yours who forget every time that Akwa-Ibom and Calabar are two different places and
sometimes introduce you to their other friends as “...my friend from Calabar,” when you‘re
actually from Akwa-Ibom. You don‘t mind. You really don‘t mind because all your efforts to
correct them since your first year have never borne fruits – like the tall trees that grow on
UNN campus.
The question of origin is more or less about how people become- wanting to know who they
are by knowing exactly where it is they come from. Your friends, they often mistake your
state of origin for another while trying to introduce you to someone. Still you didn't mind
because you knew there are other problems in your life whose origin you have forgotten and
from whence they came. So, many times you forgive their ignorance in silence, and simply
introduce yourself as Kate.
Maybe that was why you loved Uche the way you did; he never mistook your origin.
―Wow! Are you really from Calabar?‖ Uche had asked the first time he met you, after one of
your course mates, Nnamdi, had introduced you to him as a friend from Calabar. You would
eventually tell him that you are not a Crossiferan as people from Cross-river were called but
you were from Akwa-Ibom. He would then ask you why you didn‘t object when Nnamdi
made the mistake. You would tell him that you were already used to it and that you had
chosen not to correct Nnamdi because you didn't want to make him feel embarrassed.
He would smile and say, ―That‘s beautiful!‖
Days later, you would wish he called you beautiful instead, because nobody ever did. Nobody,
except your mother.
***
Your mom said you were beautiful, but isn‘t that what parents tell their daughters to make
them feel safe in a world that has its preference for beauty as tall, curvy and fair? You were
the exact opposite. Dark, skinny and petite – you took your first breath as a baby. Your
mother said your birth was different from the rest of your siblings and since then you
remained the different one among your siblings, friends and course mates. She said it made you
special, but you knew a girl that looked thirteen at age twenty-two wasn‘t special but weird.
Doctors had called it hormonal imbalance.
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Your father named you Ekaette, „mother of the father‟. Connotatively it means „grandmother‟, but
in Akwa-Ibom, nobody ever translates it as grandmother because there is an actual word for
grandmother in your dialect and it is not Ekaette.
―What a weird meaning!‖ your mates in secondary school would say each time you told them
your name and what it meant, but your father was never there to see your mates treat you
the way they did. Ekaette was a popular name in the southern part of Nigeria, the way Okon
was, so when your secondary school mates called you weird, it was because the name didn‘t
suit their perception of you – the way your age didn‘t suit your petite stature. Ekaette was a
name Nollywood movies often gave female housemaids who were casted supposedly as
Calabar girls. This made you detest the name even more while growing up. But your father
called you Ekaette simply because you were dear to him, the way his mother was – your
grandmother.
Your grandmother was only sixteen at the time she conceived your father. She died after
your father took his first breath as a child. The doctors warned her before delivery that the
chances of both mother and child surviving were very slim. She was to choose between
having your father and staying alive. In 1972, she chose him. Your grandmother died due to
excessive loss of blood. Years later when your father would look at your blood-drenched
body as a baby, he would give you a name that would always remind him of the woman that
died to give him his first breath – his mother.
Ekaette, mother of the father.
Later, your mom was made to feel more like a failure than a mother for bringing a
housemaid from the village – the housemaid whom your father slept with the night he came
home drunk and your mother was away. He left his seed in her womb, too drunk on
pleasure to remember that your mother‘s womb had borne him three seeds already. Then,
your father had also decided to marry the maid.
―You don‘t just expect me to kick her out of the house with the pregnancy. She‘s not to
blame for all this,‖ your father told your mom. ―She‘s too young to bear such shame,‖ he
said.
―What about us? Have you considered the shame you‘ll put us through if you decide to keep
this baby?‖ Your mom persuaded him to dump the baby and the maid. He refused.
―She‘s from the village!‖ your mother yelled. It was one of her attempts to remind your
father of who the maid was, her origin.
Your mom cried every night. Maybe that was why you really hated the fact that housemaids
in Nollywood movies were often called Ekaette.
***
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When you finally got admitted into the University of Nigeria, Nsukka you would choose to
be called Kate – your mother‘s name, even though your official documents still had your
name as Ekaette. Uche would then unofficially break your heart in your third year, after which
you would apply for an affidavit to have your name officially changed from Ekaette to Kate
because the name Ekaette made you feel, made you remember all the men in your life; your
father, Uche.
Oh Uche! How you got fond of him easily.
He had never called you beautiful,
But his eyes did –
He stared at you with eyes that
Made you see his heart.
He made you feel beautiful.
You loved him.
“The educational system and labour market in Nigeria has gone bad,” Uche would say. “It‟s very typical
and almost normal to have an unemployed graduate in Nigeria, but still, the higher institution is a means to
buy us time from our parents – four years, six or seven as ASUU may have it, enough time to think of what
to do with our lives when we eventually graduate. How about you Ekaette, what do you think?” It was the
way he sought your opinion on little things like this that made you believe he wasn‘t like
your father.
The night you realized you loved him, it made you feel like a baby taking its first breath, so
when he called you Ekaette, it felt like a rebirth and for the first time in a long while, you
realized you had been dying in silence. You got comfortable whenever he called you Ekaette,
because it sounded differently in his voice. It didn‘t remind you of your father – your origin.
You never for once told him how you felt about him; you didn‘t ask him how he felt about
you either. So you couldn‘t hate him, even when he told you about Nkem, the girl who
happened to be from his state. His eyes would light up each time he mentioned her name.
You knew he loved her.
You couldn‘t blame him the same way you couldn‘t bear it.
For months you would hide your pain and the hurt Uche‘s new love caused you better than
you were able to hide your tears whenever you stared at your frail body in the mirror. When
Uche told you of the night he got overwhelmed with passion and carelessly doused himself
in Nkem, it hurt you that he slept with Nkem and that he now reminded you of your father.
But you never recovered from the fact that he had made Nkem‘s womb the origin of his first
child, not yours. That day you would call your mom, the womb that bore you without
shame, and cry on the phone – apologizing for your father‘s mistake, for your petite stature,
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for the way you look, for never being able to love yourself and for not coming home since
your first year.
That would be the last time she hears your voice.
Your mom would hear Uche‘s voice for the first time on phone, telling her that you were
knocked down by a shuttle cab inside school. People who had witnessed the incident along
Pharmacy Block said you wandered into the road like you were absent-minded, others said
the driver exceeded the speed limit. It never really changed the fact that your father saw your
petite body, blood-drenched on the news and remembered the night when you took your
first breath and he named you Ekaette. He had asked the maid to leave the house after your
death, but it never really helped him grieve or change the fact that the maid‘s child now calls
him daddy. The maid‘s child who was now as old as the last time you left home for school
and never returned.
On October 5 2023, Nkem, Uche‘s girlfriend, would give birth to a girl. Uche would insist
that the child be named after you, Ekaette. You won‘t be there to see Nkem, the mother of
his child, frown at having to name her daughter after you. It wasn‘t really about the name but
its origin.
Though, this is not how the story begins.
No. We‘re far from the beginning, the origin.
***
1972.
―Doctor kú yad esit. Mbok aju anim aya adu uwé?‖ your grandmother asked the doctor. She
was asking the doctor to not be upset. She just wanted to know if you‘d live. Your
grandmother‘s womb has stomached more pain than the warmth of a foetus. The
humiliation she bore in the house where she worked as a maid, especially when she had to
tell the master‘s wife that it was her husband, the oga, that impregnated her.
―Ibaha na éki ne...‖ the doctor said. There was nothing they could do. She wept bitterly
knowing the choice she had to make – her life or the child‘s. The doctor‘s eyes became the
father she never had, offering her more comfort than she desired.
The second she‘d resolved to let the baby live, in lieu of her, she stopped crying.
The doctor understood.
***
February 26, 1972.
Your father was born. He was born to a maid who lost her life to have him. Still, you won‘t
know this part of your father‘s story. He won‘t tell you. The night your mother asked him to
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kick the maid out of the house or persuade her to abort the baby he was responsible for, he
would object. Not because he didn‘t love your mother, but because the maid reminded him
of his own mother – your grandmother.
You, the child unborn; it was about knowing who you are by knowing whose life, whose
voice or whose womb gave you your first breath.
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KHADIJAH ONIMOLE

Email address: khadijahonimole@gmail.com
Jawad and Kaheela
It was a fairly cold evening. No, that‘s not true. It was very cold. The kind that you feel in
your bones that causes you to shudder. The very kind that made you want to jump out of
your own skin. The kind that dried the already dry autumn leaves and caused them to break
into a thousand pieces, even at the slightest touch. Yes, it was on that of kind of night when
I waited and waited without a single word from you. I waited under the banana tree where
we had promised to meet one last time before your departure. I had staked everything to be
there with you and for you that night. As the wind blew harder, threatening me with the
impending doom that was to come, an unfamiliar feeling settled in my gut. I couldn‘t explain
it but decided to ignore it. You were on your way. And that‘s when I saw the unfamiliar
bony structure strutting my way. ‗Wait, could this be him?‘ I thought.
‗No, it can‘t be‘.
I was refusing to accept the clearest reality that there was no longer an ‗us‘, I stood up to
make my way to your house ignoring the coming figure. ‗‘Kaheela, wait!‖ Whoever could
that be?
―Wait it's me! It‘s me Talq!‖
―Oh, hi Talq. As salamu alaykum,‖ I said, smiling in recognition. ―I wasn‘t expecting you.‖
―Wa'alaikum salam warahmatullah wa barakatuh,‖ Talq said, responding to the greeting of
peace. ―Oh, that‘s okay I understand. I was on my way to your place because I have some
news for you. Let‘s sit over there.‖ He pointed to the banana tree Kaheela had just stood
up from.
―You know how in life,‖ he started ―everything happens for a reason even if we can‘t explain
it?‖
―What‘s the matter, Talq? You‘re scaring me.‖
―It is okay, Kaheela. Please just calm down. You know Allah is Al-Hakeem; the wisest and
he works in unexplainable ways that might not be understood by us humans. We can only
accept his decrees.‖
―Yes, I understand.‖ I affirmed even though she was visibly scared at this point.
―It‘s about Jawad.‖
―Is everything okay? Is he okay?‖ I pressed.
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―He‘s okay but uhm,‖ he hesitated.
―…I‘m not sure how to put this but…I‘m sorry to inform you but he has returned to Allah
(SWT)‘‘ Talq blurted all of that out in a rush. ―I understand the relationship you both shared
and that‘s why I felt it was necessary to inform you.‖
That was when I heard it. The ugliest scream one could ever imagine. It sounded like the
croak of a frog but the hiss of a snake at the same time. Why was this person screaming? It
was my Jawad Allah had just taken so what was this person‘s problem? Then it hit me. I was
the person. Is this what death felt like? It felt like something was being pulled out of my
body but I couldn‘t understand why. My head was light but heavy at the same time. I was sad
and stoic. I didn‘t even know. I couldn‘t believe my ears. Jawad, gone? No, I had to see it
with my own eyes.
―Let‘s go Talq. I need to see my Jawad. I need to see him with my own eyes.‖
―I‘m not sure that is a good idea, Kaheela.‖
―No one is stopping me, Talq. Not even you.‖ I knew I had said that with scary
determination because I could see it in Talq‘s eyes.
***
―It has been over a month since Jawad left us and Kaheela hasn‘t shed a single tear. I‘m
beginning to worry about her,‖ Mabruka said to Aabidah.
―In all honesty, I‘m not even sure what to say or do. All she ever wants is to go to the
waterfront to sit and stare all day,‖ Aabidah responded, equally frustrated.
―She‘s even getting ready right now as I speak to you.‖
―Are we ready, guys?‖ Kaheela said as she stepped out. Mabruka and Aabidah shared a
knowing look.
―Uhm, Kaheela-dear. We need to speak with you.‖
―Oh, that‘s okay. Is everything alright?‖ Kaheela asked.
―Uhm…I guess so,‖ Mabruka replied.
‗‘All right then. Out with it. What‘s the problem?‖ Kaheela said this time rolling her eyes.
―We are worried about you,‖ Aabidah started with a much calmer tone. ―You‘re going about
like nothing major has happened.‖
―Wait,‖ Kaheela cut off Aabidah. ―I‘m lost here. What major thing that has happened? Oh,
Jawad? I know Talq was just messing around with me. You know that‘s what he does best.
Let‘s forget about this please.‖ Kaheela said that standing up and dragging her friends along
with her, not giving them a chance to respond.
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***
―As salamu alaykum warahmatuLLah…As salamu alaykum warahmatuLLah,‘‘ Kaheela said,
completing her salah (prayer) rituals while looking right first and then left.
―Ya Allah!‖ She continued, raising her hands to the skies when all of a sudden, the wind
blew and the water works began. To say her friends were shocked would be the
understatement of the century.
―What is the problem, Kaheela?‘‘ They both screamed in a frenzy abruptly stopping their
adhkars (prayers).
―What‘s the matter? What‘s the matter! My Jawad is gone!‖ Kaheela was choking on her
tears. ―How could he leave me in this cold, harsh and wicked world? How could he leave me
when I needed him the most? This is so unfair!‖ She screamed. ―I can‘t believe it! I don‘t
want to believe it! I can‘t bring myself to. Is this a game? Please come back.‖ She had now
started to talk in whispers. She was beginning to look crazy to onlookers at the waterfront
who were shocked at her outburst.
***
―Please come back,‘‘ she said again in lower tones. ―I promise to smile more. I would laugh
more. I would be more understanding. I would be more patient, I promise. Please just come
back.‖
Kaheela hugged her knees closer to her chest and rocked herself back and forth on her
prayer mat, whispering to no one in particular. Her friends stood, watching helplessly. They
couldn‘t comprehend it. They had never seen this level of pain being expressed before. They
had merely heard about it or read about it in books.
―I need you here Jawad. I need you,‖ she continued to say even when her voice became
nothing but mere, faint whispers that were barely heard even by her friends.
***
―My Jawad is gone, my console is gone,‖ she whispered from her sleep faintly. Mabruka
couldn‘t really make out what Kaheela was saying but she was worried. She had been acting
rather strange recently.
―Kaheela. Kaheela. Kaheela!‖ Mabruka said then screamed, shaking Kaheela rather violently
to wake her from her sleep. She shot up like someone who had seen a monster in her sleep,
pulling her hairs with tears streaming down her face.
―He‘s gone! He‘s gone!‖ Kaheela screamed.
―Who‘s gone?‖ Mabruka asked, confused. ―Who‘s gone?‖
―Jawad,‖ she answered plainly like it was the most obvious thing in the world. ―My Jawad‖.
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―Come on, Kaheela,‖ Mabruka stated, rather exhausted from all the back and forth recently.
―Give yourself a break. You‘ve been having these strange dreams since you and Jawad broke
up. It‘s going to be okay. You just have to put your trust in Allah‘‘.
―Of course, it is going to be okay,‖ she said with renewed determination. ―After all, I am
Kaheela. I am the triumphant one.‖ She responded in a rather scary tone.
―Interesting!‖ Mabruka thought.
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APONMADE BOLUWATIFE
Email address: boladaleaponmade@gmail.com
Safe or Saved
I heard footsteps. I turned but saw no one. The hairs on my nape stood erect. I was sure I
had heard footsteps. However, I tried hard to push the thought to the back of my mind and
silently said a prayer. It‘s no news that a serial killer has been on the prowl for over three
months now. Could s/he have come for me now? No, it can‘t be. At least, I‘ve tried to be as
low-key as possible here. Maybe I was just being overly excited, I concluded.
I kept thinking even as I turned right into my street and began fumbling for my house keys.
If at all I was being followed, I could easily insert my keys in the door knob and safely ease
myself in. A thousand-and-one thoughts continued playing in my head even as I turned
around for the umpteenth time. I heard no footsteps, saw no shadows lurking around,
except a few people who were obviously just returning home from work like me. I felt safe.
The coast was clear, I thought thankfully.
I got to my apartment, opened the door with the keys that were already in my hands and
began to grope blindly for the switch. Split seconds before I found it, I thought I had seen
someone behind the curtain. Had I really seen someone? Was my fear playing tricks on me?
Maybe the shadow I thought I saw was from the lights streaking in from the street. Then I
froze again. Could the person following me on the street have found their way into my
apartment just before I could? That was not humanly possible, at least not that fast. I was
wrong.
I switched on the light and saw him. He was there- tall, lanky with brown hair and a clean
shaven face. He didn‘t look anything like a serial killer but the knife he held with blood
dripping unnerved me. I wanted to scream but my lungs failed me. My hypothalamus was
still working. The blood dripping was fresh, I could smell it! My cerebrum worked faster in
split seconds. I hadn‘t locked the door behind me! Run!
He was faster. He held me by the neck before my brain could process the message to my
legs. This-serial-killer-who-didn‘t-look-so-much-like-a-serial-killer was much stronger than
he looked; I was suffocating. I couldn‘t allow myself be killed by some psychic serial killer
without giving up a fight. I didn‘t want to die. I didn‘t know how to save myself but I knew I
had to. I raised my legs behind me and kicked him in the groin. He grunted and lost balance
as I escaped into the street. Later, I realized that he had slashed my thigh with his knife as I
ran out. He was that fast, calculative and brutal but adrenaline… I continued running as fast
as I could, blindly ignoring the sharp jibs the pain in my thigh was giving me.
I didn‘t stop running until I ran into a car. I didn‘t pass out immediately, I remember. I
remembered crawling on all fours with difficulty. As I raised my blood-stained hands to the
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windscreen, the occupants of the car who were already taken aback were now paralyzed with
fear.
―The serial killer is out. He‘s there, in my house. He is on the loose!‖ I passed out eventually.

BIANCA IHUA
Email address: ihuabianca6@gmail.com
Konji Wants to Kill Me
―Jane, you are too young,‖ Pastor Thomas said to me. He was the lead pastor of Abundant
Victory Ministry. A midget who was in his mid-fifties. Many people believed he was so
powerful when he spoke, but I didn‘t think so. I only liked the fact that he was concerned
about the welfare of his members, though he over-did it.
―You know you are young, too young,‖ he reminded me. I hated his guts. By the way who
said a twenty-year-old woman was too young to get married? Who made that decree? Or was
that the new law in our country or in the Bible?
―How old are you again?‖ he asked, not because he didn‘t know, but because he wanted me
to spell it out to him.
―Twenty, sir,‖ I said in the most polite way.
―Twenty? When did you become twenty? You‘re just nineteen!‖ he remarked.
―But sir, there is no difference, since I‘ll be twenty in September,‖ I told him.
‗That‘s in seven months, isn‘t it?‖ he intentionally asked. This was another question that
irritated me. Did he not have a calendar on his phone or what? A Power-Must-Change-
Hands calendar boldly stared at him in the face. It was so large on the wall, so glaring for
everyone to see.
―I think you should wait till you are...er... twenty-four. Then you can think of getting
married. Why are children of these days in haste to get married? Why the rush? I mean, you
should wait for a couple of years. Or have you found someone? I‘m sure it‘s only a crush or
what do you people call it? When you are more mature, you can get married,‖ he thought
that was a piece of advice.
―Sir, I want to get married,‖ I insisted. My stubborn self would never take no for an answer.
If my mum had not reported me to him, this discussion wouldn‘t have taken place.
―My daughter, you are too young. Wait for four years more.‖
―Sir, please, this is what I want. Marriage is what I want.‖
―Nineteen years is not permissible in this church!‖ he retorted. ―Look at you. You have a
very bright future. You don‘t need to marry this early. You should concentrate more on your
studies and get good grades. I know for sure that you are an A-student. I‘m glad you are still
on a first class,‖ he grinned. And then he continued, ―What exactly is the problem, Jane?

Why is marriage your priority now? I don‘t want to believe there‘s one boy wooing you. You
are too precious to waste your time with frivolity and youthful lust. The Bible says–
I didn‘t even wait for him to use the Bible to make excuses before I voiced, ―Konji wants to
kill me!‖
Pastor Thomas felt the bombshell. It hit him so much that speechlessness held him for
minutes. I didn‘t mind the look he gave; I decided to state why I had resorted to marriage.
―It‘s Konji, sir. I‘m tired of watching porn and masturbating. I want to get married. I need to
get married. You were the one that preached the other day that fornication was sinful. I have
decided to marry so I won‘t commit sin. I have sex-chatted many guys. I‘m tired, sir. I have
to get married. Please, sir, I don‘t want to go to hell. Let me marry, please.‖ Even with all I
explained, he only let out an ‗hmm‘ sound.

ADEBOWALE, OLUWAPELUMI
Jaga Jaga
I only understood the expression ‗headless chicken‘ when Papa Efe ran haphazardly as his
wife chased him. The woman was obviously bigger than him but his drunken self had found
trouble and now his skinny body needed saving. Their fights were funny at times, the only
‗but‘ in the situation is that they were my parents. I didn‘t call them ‗Papa‘ and ‗Maale‘ like
my other siblings did. Instead I called them ‗Papa Efe‘ and ‗Mama Efe‘ like the neighbours
did. It was as though I was trying to detach myself from their lineage. The lineage of fighters.
Yesterday, my eldest sister, Fema had fought with Zainabu, the neighbour‘s daughter,
because of a bleached skinny-legged male. Everyone knew Fema dated Kelechi. The boy – I
wouldn‘t call him a man – was fine, yes, however I‘ve always argued that women who
bleached their skin were unappealing but in the case of Kelechi… I digress. It was more
unappealing when it was a male; fair face with striped coloured neck and, boy, his legs. His
legs were worse than the colour of Iya Bukky‘s bole.
Apparently, Zainabu had ―snatched‖ Kelechi from Fema. To be honest, I didn‘t see what
was there to be snatched but my lovely sister had a differing opinion. So, alongside my
brother, Ebisinde and my youngest brother, Efe, she marched to Zainabu‘s house. Very
stupid, I tell you. Since the matter couldn‘t be solved with words of the mouth, they decided
to approach the situation woman to woman, brother to brother. In summary, a fight broke
out between my sister and Zainabu, my siblings and hers. The news flew to my parent‘s
house through Emeka, the gossip – I‘ve never seen one who gossips like this one.
Mama Efe swung into action, she was the mother hen. Papa Efe had also hastily picked his
ogogoro and coerced me into following them. With my mother flapping her wrapper in anger
and my father with his ogogoro tucked under his armpit, I knew this was going to be no peace
settling ceremony. I sighed as I saw the mad affair at Zainabu‘s house. Slaps flew recklessly
and I feared for their faces.
With reckless abandon, Mama Efe aimed for Iya Zainabu as she was about to attack Fema
with a slap from behind. She raved and screamed: How dare her, wasn‘t she without shame?
She couldn‘t blame her; after all, she knew her ways. That‘s why she couldn‘t borrow her
ordinary Maggi. The two women attacked each other pointedly until their wrappers fell off
and they too landed in the ‗chocolate‘ puddle that was in front of Mama Zainabu‘s house.
Abaranje was a swampy place after all.
I‘d lie if I say that deterred them because Papa Efe also jumped into the puddle in order to
save his wife from Iya Zainabu‘s claws. But what could a drunken man do other than be
immersed in the muddy water? I sighed when my eyes motioned on Ebisinde handling Baba
Zainabu. He landed chilly hot slaps on the man‘s cheeks until he reeled backwards. Fema

and Zainabu were inseparable: they tore, scratched and screamed insults at each other in-
between their physical attacks. Even my younger brother, Efe was whooping Moria,
Zainabu‘s sister.
A mad affair. That‘s what it was. I felt more self-conscious when I saw Chidinma stare at me
with pity. Pity that I didn‘t need, so I looked away and caught sight of Dare, my supposed
friend laughing and also slapping Chidi‘s back in the heat of his laughter. I was almost
tempted to pounce on Kelechi who was peeking at the scene – the imbecile. Instead, I strode
away and didn‘t look back.
***
Today, it was family versus family – a very interesting choice I‘d say. Papa Efe had said that
Mama Efe was a polythene bag wife. Not even a trophy wife because he was sure that would
have been better than a polythene bag wife.
―Wetin you call my maale? Talk am again.‖ Ebisinde challenged a staggering Papa Efe. I saw
it in his eyes, he was on the threshold of smacking his father.
Fema, forgetting Mama Efe‘s sacrifice for her yesterday stood in between Ebisinde and Papa
Efe. ―If he talk am wetin you wan do? You go beat am? You wan beat my Papa, Ebi?‖
I became restless at this point. I was tired; tired of my family being the object of the
neighbours‘ entertainment and ridicule. I was ashamed of these fighters. I was ashamed to
call them a part of me. So when Ebisinde took an intimidating step towards Fema I shouted,
―Una no dey tire? Fight today, fight tomorrow. They curse una?‖
Ebisinde‘s intimidating frame was in my face in seconds. ―Who be this one? Who you be?
Tell me who you be. You suppose dey support your family but no, it‘s to be eyeing
Chidinma up and down and forming better pass. Edewor, I ask you, who you be?‖
His breath stank of weed mixed with ogogoro. I faltered at his words but still stood my
ground. My eyes burned with rage at his audacity. At this point we were neck to neck and
the words that clouded my rage were: ―Your Papa. Your father‘s father.‖ I cursed and didn‘t
turn to look at my family‘s bewildered expressions.
Ebisinde laughed. He laughed maliciously. His laugh mocked me and I felt the blow when he
said, ―You‘re your father‘s son after all. I was beginning to think that you were a bastard.‖
I think he saw the sheen of tears in my eyes because he continued laughing. I ran. I ran with
his horror-like laughter trailing behind me. I should have left them like I always have. I
should have comforted myself with the fact that they hadn‘t seen the light.
You‟re your father‟s son after all.
Omofema. Ebisinde. Edewor. Efemena.
They say nothing good can come out of this family and I see through that lens now.

EJIOFOR, TOOCHI CYNTHIA

Email address: toochieji@gmail.com
The Escape
―Why did you stop?‖
The cool breeze flowed in making her shiver. It was yet another day in the hideout. The
leaves rattled.
―Didn‘t you hear the noise?‖ She listened but heard nothing, then stared into the darkness
for a minute before nudging him, ―Let‘s move, shall we?‖
They walked for hours passing deserted houses. Since it was a very quiet night with no
moonlight, only the chirping of crickets and distant croaks of frogs could be heard. They
both weren‘t sure where they were headed, but all the same walked on. The plan was to stop
by the camp and get some food before they continued their journey, but neither of them
knew where it was located. Most houses that were still in use were hidden in the bushes and
finding it seemed impossible. The only person that could have helped in locating the camp
had gone missing only a night before.
―Do you think she‘s still alive?‖ They both seemed to be thinking about the same thing; the
thought of never seeing her again left them devastated. ―Our sister is very smart, I‘m sure
she‘s fine wherever she is,‖ she thought aloud. They couldn‘t give in to fear at this time, it
would make all their efforts to be in vain. And being the older one, she somehow had to
convince him and herself that they would be safe.
It wasn‘t until dawn before they were completely exhausted. Wrapped with a blanket, they
camped under a large tree. She had to be on the lookout to avoid getting caught. Her eyes
darted around the area and when she got tired, she watched him sleep instead. His calm face
reminded her of life before the invasion of the vile men. No one had expected such a thing
to happen, what had begun as a party for some powerful men in the town turned to a
political scheme. Little by little, they started taking control of trade, then other things
followed. Most people weren‘t in support of their leadership, hence the need to gather
supporters and eliminate those who fought against them. A few lucky ones got recruited to
serve them. Few weeks of oppression turned to months and the most shocking part was
how help from outside never came.
The engine of a truck and the loud voices that accompanied it forced her out of her slumber.
The sun was already up and she was able to see where they were. ―They‘re here,‖ with a
shaky voice, he started as she stood up. ―I‘m very sure it‘s their truck. If we don‘t leave now,
we‘ll definitely get caught.‖ She saw the fear in his eyes and she felt it too, she was tired of

running, but she couldn‘t allow herself to get caught either, they had to act fast. They had
previously been captured as slaves in the beginning, but history mustn‘t repeat itself.
―There are a lot of bushes here; we‘ll hide around till they leave. If we get to the main road,
it‘ll be the end for us.‖ They squatted and hid behind the bushes, keeping their fingers
crossed. About two men came and stood close to the tree as they scanned the area. ―Told
you no one is here, let‘s move before we miss the others,‖ the taller one said as he moved
towards the truck to join the rest of the men. The second man waited for a short time before
joining them, and in a few minutes, the truck moved. They waited for what seemed like an
hour before coming out of the bushes.
―The chances of them returning again is very low,‖ he looked angrily at her because he knew
what she would say next, he wasn‘t ready to leave the only place he considered safe.
―I know what you‘re thinking, but we have to leave this town, we can‘t possibly be stuck
here forever,‖ she replied as she gave his hand a little squeeze.
After eating the only bread they had left, they resumed their journey under the scorching
heat. Once again, they checked all the houses they passed in the hope that they might get
help. The sun was setting when they got to the last house opposite the town‘s gate. They
couldn‘t leave the town yet because of the men guarding the gate. It was best to leave when
the guards would be asleep, hence the need to find a place to stay for the meantime.
―Is anyone here?‖ They called but no one answered. There was an empty cup and a small
bed by the corner. Someone was there. She‘d felt the warmth as she laid on the rumpled bed.
She looked out of the window and saw someone walk briskly into the bush. Her heart raced.
Could they have found them already?
She left him and ran outside immediately when she saw an old woman crouched on a
walking stick.
―Don‘t kill me please,‖ she said with a shaky voice.
―I‘ll do no such thing, we‘re also into hiding and need a place for the night, do you mind?‖
The old woman smiled and shook her head. Inside the room, they conversed in low tones to
avoid the old woman overhearing their plan. They would leave by midnight when the old
woman must have slept. All things being equal, they would leave the town without being
noticed. It was supposed to be a fool-proof plan without any hitches, until midnight came
and the old woman still hadn‘t slept. She‘d previously stepped out and returned late. Now
she wouldn‘t sleep, but instead kept looking outside the window and then at them. He was
already dozing off, but she dared not, something wasn‘t right and she could feel it.
―Wake up,‖ she tapped him. ―You‘ll have to go outside and wait for me. Do not enter here
again no matter what happens. Wait behind one of the bushes, I‘ll join you shortly.‖ It was

very quiet so she had to whisper. He stood up and left the room, the old woman‘s gaze
following him.
―He had to pee,‖ she said after a few minutes, ―I‘ll have to do the same too, will be right…‖
The first gunshot was fired, then another but before she could run away, a few men entered
the room and seized her.
―The boy is outside, must have escaped by now,‖ the old woman stood up and walked
across the room without the walking stick.
―Good work, Betty,‖ a man said from outside, ―But the boy isn‘t here, shouldn‘t have gone
far.‖
It was at that point that she realized that Betty didn‘t need a walking stick; that Betty had in
fact snitched on them. The realization of this made her so weak that she couldn‘t even
struggle. She felt hatred towards Betty for having deceived them. But she also felt scared for
her brother because he had no one else. Even if he somehow managed to leave the town, it
would be difficult locating another town and finding where to stay. There was no use
struggling, but she wouldn't let him get captured and so she screamed at the top of her lungs.
―Whatever you do, do not come back here. Run away now, leave this place. Get help for us
here if possible, but if it‘s not, start your life afresh and forget about me. Do not let these
wild dogs who are hungry for power ruin your life. I don‘t know how one can be so
shameless and vile in acquiring power. You will all regret what you‘ve done to this town, and
you shall die painful deaths…‖
He heard her voice as everywhere was quiet and ran towards the gate; luckily, no one was
guarding it. He still heard her screaming and just as he stepped outside, he heard the gunshot
and knew she was gone.

JOSEPH OYEBOADE
Email address: josekeyd89@gmail.com
Transitioned
I couldn‘t tell how I got here but all I knew was that I was glad to be here. I checked around
to see if I could recognize some faces but my friend‘s and his girlfriend‘s were the only
familiar faces I knew. Oh my! The cold breeze of loneliness started to weave through my
skin. I could feel it crawling up to my neck. I quickly searched for a quiet spot where I could
sit and enjoy my lonely time. It took me a while but I finally found one, and boy! Who did I
see?
It was my crush, looking as resplendent as ever in a gorgeous gown. I went red for a
moment and hesitated, ready to turn back until she called my name.
―Hi Paul,‖ and then our eyes met. I flushed again, stuttering.
I replied, ―Hi Felicia, hh-oo-ww ddo yyou do?"
She smiled and showed her stunning dimples. I went agog! Those were the most beautiful
set of dimples I had ever seen and it belonged to one of the most beautiful girls. I could feel
the moment getting cold and I was completely clueless on how to initiate a conversation. My
friend would have helped if he were here, he was great at philandering ladies.
I was still searching for a sentence or statement I could use to strike up a conversation when
she said,
―Wanna dance?‖
My head flew to paradise and back. I hesitated for a moment, then I replied in the
affirmative. She revealed those dimples once again.
We stepped on the dance floor and swayed to the rhythm of the music that was blasting out
of the speaker. I was a great dancer. Apparently, I had been practicing with my dummy and
it didn‘t take long for me and Felicia to gel. A sudden moment of bliss rushed through my
soul as the DJ switched the song to Paul Anka‘s Put Your Head on my Shoulder. I felt blessed as
Felicia obeyed the instruction of the artiste and placed her beautiful head on my shoulder. I
clasped my right hand into hers, and held her by the waist with my left hand. I wished for
this moment to continue. I spied my friend and his babe quickly, they were still having a
swell time – he was filling her in with one of his old jokes; he had told other ladies the same
jokes.
I couldn‘t have wished for a better moment than this. I closed my eyes and tried to enjoy
every moment of this reverie. I was still enjoying the moment of ecstasy when a sudden
gentle tap on the shoulder jolted me from my deep thought.

I opened my eyes to behold our four-eyed female lecturer as she smirked at me. I was actually
holding the air, with one of hands wrapped around the air as if I were holding someone. I
had also been whispering someone‘s name — Felicia‘s. Luckily, no one heard.
I could hear muffled laughter at different corners of the lecture room. I took a quick glance
at the other end of the room and saw Felicia who made a shy smile at me. Two seats away
from me was my friend. He smiled at me and mouthed ―lover boy‖.
Seemingly, I had been transitioned by my thoughts!

ALIM, BARAKAH ASAKE
Email address: barakahalim2@gmail.com
What Comes with Being Eighteen
The ear-splitting echoes of ‗happy birthday‘ woke me. I managed to see out of my eyes
bleary with moist, where the song came from. My friends stood there excitedly, with the
birthday song blurting from their lips. Behold, it was my birthday! I was really turning
eighteen. I sang the song together with them and appreciated their love. After the song, they
told me to get dressed as well-wishers and those whom they had invited had started to troop
in. It was going to be a loud celebration anyway, more than the ones I had been celebrating.
Today had to be different because I was turning into a full-fledged adult. I hurriedly had my
bath and dressed myself in a form-fitting, strapless, gold sequin dress, with a silver high-
heeled shoe. One of my friends made my face up and I wore a fancy hat to add to the
glamour.
‗We are about to call the celebrant.‘ I could hear it from the booming speaker. I was so
intoxicated with happiness. ‗Today is really for me,‘ I thought to myself. As I stood waiting
to be called t called out, I reminisced over the past years. Divine and Blessing, my childhood
friends, had played the role of elder sisters to me for the past eight years. My parents and
theirs had been best friends and partners in Dallas Furniture Company. Tragically, they all
died on the same day eight years ago in a car accident. They had been on their way to a
friend‘s party. Although it was a terribly life-altering event, Divine, Blessing and I began
living and doing things together. Since they were way older, they took to promoting our
parents‘ business and used it to fend for all three of us. Divine saw to the daily supervision
of the company as its director. She was already a graduate. Blessing, on the other hand, was
still studying Law at the University of Lagos and was in her fifth year. I, who just turned
eighteen today, was only in my second year at the university. Thinking about it, what really
gave me more joy was the fact that I would finally have access to many things. Now I could
legally drive a car, go to clubs, get into a relationship and drink alcohol. The exact sort of
things that come with being eighteen.
The thundering call of ‗Angela‘ summoned me from my thoughts to reality. I sashayed to the
party taking steps confidently. I swayed my hair that fell sideways down my neck with such
flair. I was the cynosure of all eyes, no doubt. The microphone was handed to me to give a
speech. After the speech, I called my friends to cut the cake with me. The cake was split into
two after the spelling of ‗Angela‘. Foods and drinks were served to well-wishers. It was now
time for people to present their gifts to me. I was surely excited but even the more stunned
when Divine and Blessing gifted me a Mercedes Benz! Someone also gave me half a million
naira and I got other gifts from other people. I was beyond grateful.

I, Angela, now owned a car. Now, I could learn to drive and go places without my friends
monitoring me. I was now free to go out and come back when I wanted to. Or isn‘t that is
the rule? Once you‘re eighteen, you are regarded as mature and now have the liberty to do
things. I mean, I could now watch the rated-18 movies and shows like the Big Brother Naija. I
could now drink alcohol and do the most pleasurable- sex! Since 18 was the consensual age
for sex, I could now have it with no one frowning at it.
***
At least that was my mentality. It remained my mentality for a long time until I found that I
had cervical cancer. I now get regular treatments with chemotherapy and radiation therapy to
help keep my cancer in check with heavy bills being paid. That was what really came with
being eighteen.

DRAMA

SAMUEL, TINNA ABISE
Email address: samuelabise@gmail.com
Never Too Late
Iremide: (Screaming out loud from her room while on the bed) Ahhh! My chest! Dad! Janet!
Somebody, help me!
(Iremide starts vomiting blood. Janet rushes in and sees her and she starts to panic.)
Janet: (Shouting) Dad! Dad! Dad! Iremide is vomiting blood. Dad please come, we need to do
something fast about this.
(Janet starts crying and looks confused. Dad rushes into the room.)
Dad: (Exclaims rhetorically) Ah! What is this? Blood? How come? When did this start? What
did you eat? Where did you go to before coming home? Who gave you food? Ah! They have
finally gotten me. This is the hand work of my political opponents. Ah!
Janet: Dad what do we do? (Looking at the clock) This is past 11 PM.
Dad: (Sharply) Hospital, let‘s rush her to the hospital now. Let me call our family doctor to
inform him we are on our way to the hospital now.
Janet: This issue is beyond what the doctors can handle, and besides, we might not meet up
on time. This is 11 PM. It might be too late for her by the time we arrive the hospital.
Dad: Shut up! Too late? What do you know? So, you want Iremide to die here? What has
come over you Janet? The only solution now is to take her to the hospital now!
Iremide: (Still vomiting blood) Please help me. Don‘t let me die like this. I‘m in pain, please do
something. I‘m losing it gradually.
Janet: Dad let‘s call on God. He is the Great Physician, the Great Healer and a reliable
Doctor for now. Going to the hospital might be too late Dad! The Bible says for the
weapons of our warfare are not carnal but they are mighty through God to pulling down of
strong holds.
Dad: (Slaps Janet twice) Are you mad? How dare you bring God into this matter? What did
God do when we called on him when your mother who served him all the days of her life
was on the sick bed for 3 weeks before she finally died? Now my daughter is almost dying
and you‘re still calling God. There‘s no sickness beyond medical control. Get the car key for
me, and let‘s carry her to the car and we drive down to the hospital.

Janet: (Crying) But dad, before getting to the hospital, it might be too late, but Jesus is never
late. He‘s right here now waiting for us to call on him, for the bible says that the name of the
Lord is a strong tower, the righteous run into it and they are saved.
Dad: (Slaps Janet again) I won‘t allow my opponent use you as an agent of delay. Meet me in
the car.
(He carries Iremide and rushes to the car parked outside. On getting to the car, Iremide collapses and faints.)
Nooo! Iremide! Iremide! Iremide! Wake up, wake up please. Janet! Janet!
(Janet hears her dad screaming and shouting her name. She rushes out to the car park and sees Iremide lying
lifeless on the floor.)
Janet: (Sobbing) Nooo! This can‘t be true. Dad I told you that going to the hospital might be
too late, but God is here and He is never late, but you wouldn‘t listen. Now it‘s too late.
Dad: (Crying) I was ignorant. Let‘s call on Jesus now; you said He‘s never late.
Janet: (Weeping and consoling her dad) It‘s okay dad, there is nothing we can do. She‘s gone, and
no tears shed or prayers can wake her up.
Dad: No Janet, stop it. You told me that Jesus is never late. He showed that in the lives of
Lazarus, Dorcas and even the son of the widow of Nain. They all died, but by the power of
Jesus, they were restored back to life.
(As the father keeps talking, Janet becomes charged, and she begins to speak in tongues.)
Dad: (Praying) Lord Jesus, I know you are here. Please show compassion on me. Iremide
needs your blood. You shed your blood on the cross of cavalry; your blood is life. Give
Iremide your blood, give her life.
(He continues praying in tongues. Five minutes later, Iremide starts sleep talking. They stop praying and
look at her in shock.)
Iremide: (Sleep talking) Thank you Great Physician. I would go and tell the world that the
Great Physician is never too late.
Dad: Ah! Thank you Jesus for showing me mercy. I rededicate my life to you Lord, and I
will keep serving you from now on lord.
Janet: Thank you Jesus, indeed you are never too late. I‘m sorry for doubting your power at
first, telling my dad that it‘s too late. Iremide, what happened?
Iremide: Dad, Janet, all I can remember is that I heard some people calling my name and I
started vomiting blood. The next minute, I saw myself in the hospital unable to talk and
stand, and no doctor was around to attend to me until a man came to me and gave me a life-
saving blood. He said my people have asked him to give me his blood and he is the only

Physician that‘s never late. He also said I should proclaim it to the world that he‘s never late
for any situation, even situations that look dead or irreparable.
THE END

OGUNBANWO, ADEDOLAMU ABRAHAM
Email address: ogunbanwoade02@gmail.com
The Homo’s Discussion
Act 1, Scene 1
(Femi and Korede are on their way to their hostel when they saw Yousef pass in front of them. They greet one
another and Yousef excused himself. Femi and Korede start discussing.)
Korede: (With a look of irritation, still looking at Yousef) Look at how Yousef is walking. Uhm,
I‘m sure he‘s gay.
Femi: (Surprised) Ah! Korede! This your mouth ehn… You better lower your voice make
Yousef no hear you. You know he hates it when you call him gay.
Korede: Abeg jhur, he just dey cap.
Femi: (Laughing) How do you know he is gay? Have you guys had sex before?
Korede: (Slightly pissed off) What do you mean by that na? Isn‘t it obvious? See the way he
walks, talks and even gesticulates like a girl.
Femi: (Sarcastically) So that makes him officially gay abi?
Korede: Yes naa, obviously. Guy, he has all the attributes.
Femi: (Sharply) Which are…?
Korede: He likes flashy colours, he rolls with girls, he is a sissy… I mean effeminate.
(Whispering) I‘m sure he‘s a bottom.
Femi: Korry, ewo tun ni bottom tori oloun?
Korede: (Exclaims) Oh dear lord! How are we friends again?! Bottom is a term in queer
dictionary. It‘s one of their roles. Bottom is the partner being…You know… (Demonstrates
with his hands)
Femi: Kinni kinni? Abeg talk jhur. Know what?
Korede: (In low tones) Bottom is the partner being penetrated.
Femi: (Walking ahead) Ah! Korry! How do you know all this stuff? Definitely you are one of
them. You are gay!
Korede: (Walks faster to catch up) Haba! FM, which kind level be that naa? Let‘s relax here a
bit before we continue. The angel in charge of today‘ sunlight is from Calabar.
(They both laugh as they sit under a roofed, long cemented bench. Korede continues.)

Korede: (Raising his eyebrows) So because I know some terminologies in LGBTQ, I‘m gay,
huh?
Femi: (Raising his eyebrows) So because Yousef is effeminate, he is gay, huh?
Korede: (Looking pissed off) Why are you supporting this Yousef guy?
Femi: I‘m neither supporting nor opposing anyone. I‘m just stating the fact.
Korede: That…?
Femi: That a book should not be judged by its cover. Just because someone is effeminate
doesn‘t mean the person is gay, just like knowing gay terminologies doesn‘t make you gay.
Korede: Ehn ehn. I know what you did there oh. Okay, see how he was behaving during
GCF 122 presentation, like a girl – even did it better than some girls.
Femi: (Cuts in) Korry for Christ‘s sake, why are you like this? You are a counsellor in
training and you are talking like this? Omo! You fall my hand. Those are probably just part
of his innate qualities.
Korede: (Laughing) Inna what? Innate qualities? (Sarcastically) Okay oh, oga counsellor, tell me
more.
Femi: (Ignoring the sarcasm) Innate qualities are like natural abilities or one‘s talent. To me, he
wasn‘t gesticulating like a female, he was just able to express himself more than us and it
gave him a higher grade than us. (Jokingly) Even his accent and articulation choke. People like
that will easily be able to relate with people and vice versa. No wonder he chose Guidance
and Counselling; it suits him.
(Seriously) Personally, I don‘t believe that there‘s a way guys should talk, sit or look. Face is
face, accent is accent and sitting posture is general to everybody. You just have to pick the
one you are complacent with.
(Korede checks his wristwatch and sees that it‟s almost four in the evening.)
Korede: Baba counsellor, it‘s almost four. Let‘s head to our hostel. We‘ll continue this
discussion in our room.
(Femi and Korede stand up from the cemented bench and head to their hostel.)
Act 1, Scene 2
(Femi and Korede get to their room and meet Shalom and MBK, their roommates, inside. Korede starts the
conversation.)
Korede: How far bosses?
(They shake hands)
MBK: (To Korede) Korry my guy, what‘s up na?

(To Femi) FM, wetin dey xup? Dis one wey your face dey one kind one kind, you don chop
breakfast?
(Everyone laughs)
Shalom: Breakfast ke? FM no fit chop breakfast unless he is the server. Probably, he‘s
hungry. You know FM doesn‘t play with his stomach.
(Before Shalom finishes the statement, FM is seen with coco pops he brought out from his locker. Shalom
continues)
(Pointing to Femi) See, he doesn‘t joke with food.
Femi: (With coco pops in his mouth, he muffles to Shalom) You gerrit shatta Shalom!
Shalom: (Frowning) Guy, no dey call me shatta Shalom again.
Femi: (Demonstrates with his hands) Then try to grow taller.
(Everyone laughs)
Korede: Anyways guys, I‘ve got a question oh.
(The room goes silent as everyone turns their attention to Korede. Korede continues)
If a guy is effeminate, does that make him gay or not?
Shalom: Omo, na correct gay be dat, confirm fag.
Femi: (Sighs) Oh dear lord, short people sha…
Shalom: (Sarcastically) Wetin do short people oh, Mount Everest?
Femi: You are too short to see things differently; you are too short to see the truth. BEING
EFFEMINATE DOESN‘T MAKE ONE GAY!
Shalom: Wetin Ngozi no go see for village? Bro, an effeminate guy is gay. Get that into your
thick skull.
(Shalom moves close to Femi to touch his brain. Femi tries to hit him but is stopped by Korede who tries to
placate him. MBK interferes)
MBK: I support FM on this. I mean, behaviours differ, that‘s part of our uniqueness and
attributes. Being effeminate doesn‘t make you gay, that‘s just his attribute. Some guys are
effeminate and not gay.
Korede: (Irritated) But wait sef, why would you be attracted to your fellow gender… eew,
yuck… How do they enjoy it?
Shalom: I think it‘s a mental illness.
(Everyone turns to Shalom)

Femi: Eh eh, won gbe de. Mental illness bawo? Later you go say I dey yab you. Guy, no dey
misyarn jare.
(Everyone laughs)
Shalom: Shut up jhur. A doctor in the U.S. said it. He said homosexuality is as a result of
mental illness. I‘ve forgotten the name of the part that causes it.
Femi: (Sarcastically) Na the hind brain… Doofus!
MBK: Bro, mental illness? I don‘t think so. Hope you know that homosexuality is accepted
over there? The doctor fit be gay sef. Homosexuality is by choice. Some individuals find
solace in their fellow gender.
Femi: Chop knuckle MBK, you gerrit.
Korede: Okay, okay, okay, whether mental illness or choice, it‘s not proper. How will you be
having erections for your fellow guys when there are a lot of girls out there?! C‘mon!
Shalom: But some are bisexual, like they penetrate both guys and girls.
Femi: See ehn bros, there are lots of gay guys out there who are afraid to come out because
it‘s illegal here. Some are practicing it secretly, some are showcasing it in a coded way, and
some are just waiting for Nigeria to legalize homosexuality. Na then you go know say all
these hot, handsome, athletic, and muscular guys wey girls dey trip for are queers or
bisexuals. (Beats his chest) Na me talk am.
MBK: Very true, FM. (He stands up to wear his shirt and continues) But you know there are levels
to this thing. Some guys are so effeminate to the extent that some girls question their gender
or feel inferior, and that‘s what I don‘t like. If you are gay, don't be an obvious one. Let me
be able to walk with you without people looking at me with disgust written on their face. Be
mature and masculine, even if it‘s just a little.
Femi: I agree to that sha. Some guys are so girly that their behaviour becomes disgusting.
Korede: (Cuts in) Especially the bottoms! Yousef for example.
Femi: Korry, that one still dey okay, honestly.
Shalom: Ehn those guys should try and adapt naa. If your partner loves your girly attitude,
you do that when you are with him or your fellow LGBTQ, but when you are with the
straight guys, try to fit in. When you are in Rome…
Shalom&Korede: (Laughing) Behave like a Roman!
THE END

NON-
FICTION
ESSAYS

SODIQ ADESOKAN
Email address: adesokansodiqspvibes@gmail.com
How Online Education is Subtly Replacing Traditional Classroom Teaching
Online education has proven to be effective as it gradually evolves to replace traditional

classroom teaching. This form of education has made education easily accessible to a diverse
number of students across the world. This essay aims to discuss to what extent online
courses can serve as a better replacement to traditional classroom teaching and also provide
information about online education and its potential impact on educational productivity; that
is, its effectiveness. There was a period when people sent letters through post offices to their
loved ones who lived far away from them. Many years later, mobile phones came into
existence and it was slowly adapted by all to reduce the stress of traveling far to send a
message to one's loved ones. This analogy is tantamount to that of education as people
evolved from writing on stones, walls, papers to using computers to type. This denotes the
emergence of technology, and the notion that the 21st Century is dubbed the Computer-Age
as a result of the advancement in technology.
The term ‗online education‘ simply means the use of technology to aid the teaching and
learning process. It is also known as electronic learning, and it is part of the mainstream in
learning, teaching, and assessing students, therefore, it is concerned with educational uses of
technology. Online education can also be said to be a wide range of programs that make use
of the internet to provide instructional materials and facilitate interactions between teachers
and students and in some cases among students as well (U.S. Department of Education,
2012). There are many rationales for offering and investing in online education, ranging from
access to improving the quality of learning to reduce costs, to preparing students better for a
knowledge-based society, to respond to market demand, to ‗lifelong‘ learning opportunity, to
collaborative learning across the world, to profit-making (Dolence and Norris, 1995; Katz
and Associates, 1999). Since its inception, online education has proven to be indispensable as
it offers productivity benefits compared to traditional classroom teaching, which is
considered inflexible by many people. Some scholars and educators acknowledged that the
physical classroom is starting to lose its monopoly as the place of learning and that the
internet has made online learning feasible, and many researchers and educators are interested
in online learning to enhance and improve student learning outcomes while battling the
reduction in resources, particularly in higher education (Farinella, Hobby, and Weeks, 2000;
Kim and Bonk; 2006; Pape, 2010). Many learners across the world also agitate for online
education as it provides them the opportunity to learn at their convenient time and pace.
Kulik (1989) also opines that online education would be more useful for those whose

working hours were inconsistent with the teacher‘s schedule or when there was an inquiry at
any time that could not be postponed.
One of the reasons why online education is much more effective is the opportunity it gives
to people in remote areas or far places to have access to education. For instance, someone in
Nigeria does not have to travel far to London to take a course on Shakespearean Literature.
The person can apply for the course and do it from the convenience of his or her home. As
observed by Bartley and Gokey (2004), online learning is an easy way to bring remote
lecturers into a course. Without considering the time and expense of travel, a professional
can address a class from any location, answering students‘ questions in real-time and
providing a more meaningful learning experience. Both the learner and the facilitator or
instructor is saved the stress of having to travel far. In order words, online education saves
time.
Apart from saving learners and teachers the stress of traveling far to have a physical class,
online education is more flexible compared to its counterpart. This flexibility allows both the
facilitators and the learners to choose a convenient time to work. Most people who engage
in online education have other commitments. For instance, a worker in a company can
combine his or her learning with working. Since the class will take place online, he or she can
decide to use his or her leisure time at work to study a course online. This opportunity may
not be available to those who must be present by all means when a physical lesson is fixed
for learners in a traditional classroom setting. According to Roblyerand and Ekhaml (2001),
―students perform better in online courses due to the flexibility and responsiveness
experienced in online education.‖ They also belied that students‘ satisfaction is impacted
positively when (a) the technology is transparent and functions both reliably and
conveniently, (b) the course is specifically designed to support learner-centred instructional
strategies, and (c) the instructor‘s role is that of a facilitator or coach.
Online education is less costly than the traditional form of education. When deciding to go
back to school, most students are faced with two crucial options: either to enrol in online
education or a traditional, campus-based institution. Without mincing words, college tuition
keeps rising. In an article titled The Cost of Online Education vs. Traditional Education, Sonya
Krakoff (2021) states that ―College tuition is rising rapidly across the board, and so it makes
sense that prospective students are usually looking for the best deal. One of the biggest
questions that come up when students start comparing traditional education to online
learning is whether one is less expensive than the other. The answer is positive: in general,
online learning is not costly and it is more affordable.‖ The cost of college tuition is rising
faster than inflation and the student loan debt is rapidly increasing. Finaid.org, in 2014,
declared that the total national student loan debt is over one trillion dollars. The high cost of
traditional education has made many students opt for online education instead. Students
who opt for traditional education will be required to pay for hostels in school. And those
who do not want to live on campus will have to board a bus to school any time they have

lectures. This is another way of spending more than necessary for some students. The costs
of materials for study and other compulsory fees also contribute to the reason many students
prefer online education to traditional education. Students get to spend less and learn the
same way, if not better than their other colleagues who engage in a face-to-face classroom.
Apart from students having to spend less, the school will also benefit from its online
learning program. In one of their studies, Bartley and Golek (2004) concluded that the
benefits of online learning are very real and one should be able to justify any additional cost
in terms of what the school will gain. Many scholars and educators believe that online
learning can be an effective tool in combating the rising cost of face-to-face, traditional
education.
Another effectiveness of online education could be seen during the outbreak of Covid-19.
So many people were caught unawares during this period. Many businesses were closed
down and moving from one place to another almost seemed impossible. The government
constantly declared curfews to stop the virus from spreading. Lots of people were home and
all schools were closed. Nigeria, just like every other country in Africa, was seriously
affected. Lecturers were seriously lamenting as their salaries were put on hold since the
government was not able to generate money due to the lockdown. After some months, some
schools decided to have online lectures, tests and examinations, pending the time the
pandemic would subside and the country would be safe again. The decision of some of these
school owners to gravitate towards online education paid off. While other schools were
waiting for the pandemic to die down, the students whose schools had switched to online
education were receiving lectures and writing tests and examinations, which made most of
them graduated when they ought to. More schools began to buy the idea of online education
when the pandemic stayed longer than expected. The outbreak of the pandemic was a wake-
up call to many school owners and the government who now made provisions for online
education. During the pandemic, all forms of face-to-face, traditional education were
suspended. Meetings and conferences took place online via Zoom, Google video, etc. Some
schools still engage their students in online education though the vaccine for the virus has
been discovered. According to a report, the COVID-19 pandemic resulted in the closing of
classrooms all over the world and compelled 1.5 billion students and 63 million instructors
to suddenly modify their face-to-face academic practices, wherever possible. This situation
revealed the strengths and weaknesses of education systems combating the challenge of
digitalization. The digital infringement is still a reality in our world today. To a great extent,
the cogency of online education cannot be overlooked in any developed country.
There is no doubt that many Africans or some other people from different countries are
always of the opinion that some professional courses will not only help to build their resume
but also help them to get the right jobs; thus, they try to do these professional courses from
well-known universities in the world. Due to the rigmarole process of getting a visa to travel
to another country to do a professional course, many of them opt for online courses and
choose their preferred course and school. They do this course online and get certified online
as well. There are so many masters‘ courses online these days. People do not have to attend
physical classes before obtaining master's degrees anymore. Slowly, but noticeably, online
education is replacing traditional learning classes.
In conclusion, it is important to stress the fact that online education proves to be much
more effective. Many scholars believe that students who engage in online education perform
better compared to their counterparts who engage in traditional education. A team of
researchers at Stanford Research Institute International conducted a systematic search of the
literature from 1996 to 2008 and identified more than a thousand empirical studies of online
learning (Means et al., 2010). They found out that students in an online format performed
modestly better than those in the traditional format. Besides this revelation, facilitators of
online education are also able to explore different and new methods in instructing learners.
REFERENCES
Bartley, S. J., & Golek, J. H. (2004). Evaluating the cost-effectiveness of online and face-to-
face instruction. Educational Journal and Technology, 7, 167-175.
Dolence, M., & Norris, D. (1995). Transforming higher education: A vision for learning in
the 21stcentury. Ann Arbor, MI: Society for College and University Planning.
Katz, R., & Associates. (1999). Dancing with the devil: Information technology and the new competition
in higher education. San Francisco, CA: Jossey Bass.
Kulik, J. A. (1983). Individualized systems of instruction. In H. E. Mitzel (Ed.), The
encyclopedia of educational research (5 th ed., pp. 851-858). New York: Macmillan.
Means, B., Toyama, Y., Murphy, R., Bakia, M., and Jones, K. (2010). Evaluation of
Evidence-Based Practices in Online Learning: A Meta-Analysis and Review of Online
Learning Studies. US Department of Education. Office of Planning, Evaluation, and Policy
Development. Policy and Program Studies Service. ED-04-CO-0040.
Roblyer, M.D. & Ekhaml, L. (2001). A Rubric for Assessing the Interactive Qualities of
Distance Learning Courses: Results from Faculty and Student Feedback.
U.S. Department of Education (2010) Evaluation of Evidence-Based Practices in Online
Learning: A Meta-Analysis and Review of Online Learning Studies, Washington, D.C.

NNAMDI, ISIDINMA WISDOM
Email address: isidinmannamdi@gmail.com
The Role of Technology in Ensuring Peace and Security
Technology, alongside its predecessor which is Science, has played a crucial role in the
natural order of the world for over many millennia. To understand its roles, one must first
acknowledge its meaning. According to the English Dictionary, technology is ―the
application of the knowledge and usage of tools to control one‘s environment or solve
practical problems.‖ Ever since the evolution of man, man has sought and found ways to
solve his predicament of survival. And to understand the science or workings of his
environment, he has created with his own hands, the tools for answering different questions
and solving his problems. This art of creation, then, is technology. Apart from the inherent
desire for food and clothing, man has always had the instinctive need for protecting himself
and securing his territory from any exterior invasion. Technology has played a vital part in
doing that. This can be seen throughout the different ages: the Prehistoric Era, the Middle
age, the Contemporary Era and the Modern Era. During the Prehistoric Era, in order to
ensure the early man‘s peace and security, technology played the role of the creation of
wooden tools or artilleries to fend off wild animals in the forests. What about the Middle
Ages? The generation of the Middle Ages saw the emergence of different nations in the
world, and so technology played the role of creating machineries and laws to keep countries
secure. The same translates to the Industrial Age. As seen above, it is evident that technology
has been a tool for maintaining peace and security in the past, as well as the present. It is also
evident that technology, being the product of man's ability, is dependent on man‘s evolution.
Therefore, as new generations of humans grow and replace the old, so do technological
innovations evolve.
Having looked at how technology has helped humans in the past, what do we say is its role
in today‘s world? How does technology help in ensuring peace and security in the world
today? And how can it be utilized to promote more peace in the future? One role that is
noticeable is the use of technological inventions as a means of assistance to a country‘s
defence. As noted earlier, survival is an instinctive need in man, and the growth of science
and technology has made it so that humans have grown beyond using sticks and cutlasses as
a defence mechanism to using machine guns and other artilleries. The navy of the nation
protects the country‘s waters; the air force protects its airlines, the police its people and the
military protects the borders of the nation. They all form a major arm of the government of
all nations, and without their manpower or war artilleries, a nation could be left vulnerable to
external attack or influence. This is why countries such as China, USA, France, etc., with
high-tech machinery and innovations are considered ―The World Power‖ nations because of

their effective nation-building strategies and utilization of quality technology. The
governments create and own first-class weaponry to protect their people against external
influence. Thus, technology is a prerequisite for obtaining optimum national security.
One thing that must be considered is the role that inefficient use of technology plays in
procuring nationwide unrest. For countries that are not well-developed or invested in
national growth due to the rate of corruption or exploitation, their borders and homes
become porous and vulnerable to terrorist invasion. Examples in West Africa include Boko
Haram Terrorism in Northern Nigeria and Chad. Equally relevant, in this regard, are the
unending wars in Syria. Investment in technology is the one effective way to ensure national
security.
In the times of global health crises, technology has played the important role of discovering
ways to curb or end the pandemics. This can be seen throughout history in the cases of the
Polio virus, the Influenza, Ebola Virus and even the recent global epidemic: Coronavirus.
During each of these epidemics, scientists around the world have come together to find ways
to curb the viruses with their medical expertise and equipment. While no absolute cure is
usually discovered for the viruses, vaccines are usually created to help keep the citizens safe.
Examples include the polio vaccine, coronavirus vaccine, etc. Technology has, time and
again, proven to be man‘s friend in times of global crises.
Another way in which technology ensures peace is through the Internet. The invention of
telecommunication devices brought about a revolutionary change in the world. The ancestral
act of town criers or messengers was replaced by telephones, televisions, telegrams,
computers and social media. Technology changed the communication sector, and will
continue to do so with forthcoming generations. Through news sections on television
programs, people around the world become conscious of on-going crises in different
nations. We get informed on current problems in our home countries and are informed on
how to keep ourselves and homes safe and better. Whereas technology was seen as a tool by
the government to preserve national security in the previous section, it is seen here as a tool
for ensuring peace and security on the parts of the citizens themselves. The social media,
specifically, is a means for people to air their views, feelings and experiences on different
issues happening in their society. It is a platform for people around the world to express
their need for happiness, peace and security in their lives. It has also been a bridge between
the government and the people wherein the former communicates with the latter, and the
latter is given the opportunity to lay down their complaints and needs through social
platforms such as Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook, among others. Sometimes, these
complaints could be against the government itself. It could be the cries of the people against
unjust policies meted out on them. An example is the ENDSARS campaign that occurred in
Nigeria in October, 2020. This protest was done by millions of Nigerian youths at home and
in the diaspora to protest against the unjust police brutality meted out on the youths. On a
particular night during the protest, the youths were shot at by Nigerian soldiers who later

declined performing the act. Unfortunately for them, the whole scene was live recorded and
forwarded to international news stations. This video footage was used as evidence against
the government. As seen above, the development of technology in the communication
sector facilitated a higher rate of peace and security.
Although the positive roles of technology in ensuring peace and security in the past and
present have been established, it is not so farfetched to examine the disadvantages or
negative roles technology also plays in the world. Everything in life has a balance, and when
overused, that balance can be toppled over and can become ―Imbalance‖. This also applies
to the advent of technology. Technological inventions have transformed the world positively
and redefined science as we know it, but when overly used in some circumstances, they
could transform the world negatively too.
We can examine this concept by looking at the complementary role it plays with the armed
forces of a nation to secure the country‘s boundaries. A ―first-world‖ or well-developed,
high-tech nation could be armed with enough artillery to fund a world war. The world has
already witnessed two catastrophic world wars, and as a result, some countries have begun
fortifying their boundaries and preparing nuclear weaponry in the supposed occasion of
another. Technology here works at a disadvantage to neighbouring countries in that, per
adventure an international conflict were to occur, the weapons in the possession of
technologically superior nations could cause unimagined chaos.
Another negative role technology plays is in the area of social media. More and more
information gets posted on the media nowadays, and as such, some have turned out to be
fake or untrue. Dissemination of untrue information can be quite disastrous because it
spreads within a small amount of time and can cause unrest in a nation. Failure on the part
of the parties concerned to rectify the mishap could lead to mistaken truths among the
audience and possibly other worse results as well.
Scientific experts have claimed that technological inventions will only grow bigger and better
with time. As mentioned earlier, technology evolves with the change of time and the
evolution of man‘s mind. One day, following future generations to come, technology as we
know it would have grown and evolved into something today‘s science might not yet
fathom. Its roles in world growth would have expanded as well. This is the way it was from
the Prehistoric times to the Modern Era (present day), and the way it will be in the future.
The one solution now for developing countries to ensure their national peace and security is
to make the right investment in technological advancement so as to catch up to the world‘s
changing times. Perhaps, this in itself might be the only feasible solution.

EGBO, PRISCILLA OZIOMA
Email address: priscillaegbo58@gmail.com
Discovering Better Ways of Solving the Menace of Illegal Migration amongst

Nigerian Youths
The search for greener pastures and an improved standard of living has caused an alarming
and illegal influx of Nigerian youths into other countries. Following the increased rate of
unemployment, economic downturn, and a heightened cost of living, many a Nigerian youth
envision migration through the Mediterranean Sea as the best way to escape from the
challenges of life presented in their home country. This erroneous belief, which has wreaked
havoc on many youngsters in Nigeria, is what this article seeks to address by proffering
pragmatic ways out of the recorded incessant illegal migration.
As research has it, Nigerian youths constitute the largest population in an increasing flow of
migration from countries in the Global South to Europe and other countries in the Global
North (Ikuteyijo, 2020). This trend has no doubt tainted the image of Nigeria in the global
space and generated diverse questions of pessimism on an average Nigerian. Nevertheless,
just as crying over spilt milk will not get the milk gathered back into the tin, so will also
dwelling and ruminating over the ills inflicted by the constant illegal migration of our young
people not take us any further.
Based on enquiry, in 2016, about 30,000 undocumented Nigerians crossed the

Mediterranean Sea to Europe. A lot of such young Nigerians are subjected to adverse
weather conditions both during the day and at night. From the account of some who
happened to be the friends or relatives of those embarking on this dangerous journey, it was
reported that during the day, en route the vast, long and hot desert with no oasis around,
many whose container of water gets exhausted resort to the drinking of their urine. How
horrible! At other times, it is not the shortage of food or water these young people have to
battle with, there‘s also the tussle of ferrying a multitude of them across that Great Sea in
little, counterfeit and tide draining sea boats and ‗ships.‘ It is no wonder we keep hearing of
recurring incidences of their make shift ‗ships‘ suffering shipwrecks (Momigliano, 2019).
Young and promising youths like ours are seen packed like sardines, with little or no space
for ventilation and stretching of the body. This demeaning posture is what young Nigerians
who migrate illegally are subjected to.
While addressing alternative options to the stoppage of the migration of young Nigerian
people through the Mediterranean Sea, Jan Philipp Scholz, in his scholarly web article
highlighted that fines charged on defaulters of the immigration regulation should be raised

from its previous rate of less than a Euro to 3,000 Euros (Scholz, 2017). This proposition
will in a way cause the defaulters to develop cold feet and have a rethink on their decision to
illegally leave the country. This notwithstanding, some of these immigrants who are not
financially bankrupt, might damn the monetary consequences and still proceed with their
plans to leave the country through unsolicited means. Therefore, increase in fines for the
trespassers of the immigration regulation as put forward by Jan Philip will not help to
remedy the anomaly. To make for an effective and long-lasting tackling of the situation at
hand, the root causes instigating young Nigerians to unlawfully leave the country have to be
dug out. From a survey conducted among a handful of young Nigerian students and
members of the working class, various reasons were advanced for the incessant migration of
our people through the Mediterranean Sea.
To start with, one can infer that majority of young Nigerians who resort to travelling via the
illegal route may not have the requisite education, survival skills and documents needed to
qualify them for legal entry. In such an instance, both the government and youngsters have a
part to play. On the part of the government, more standardized schools, universities and
professional vocational training centres should be established by the government. As regards
the improvement of the educational sector, the teaching technique adopted by most
Nigerian schools (specifically state and federal universities) is one that is stereotyped, out-
dated and boring. This has made many a young Nigerian develop an aversion for going to
home-based schools; most see the schooling environment as a confinement. So, if part of
the reasons for which the U.S embassy denies most of our young Nigerians visa into their
countries is the fact that many do not have relevant academic qualifications or skills, which
would only make them parasitic to the economy, then, a lot lies on raising youths who are
armed with employability skills that are sought after there. In tandem with this, sessions
should be incorporated into every school‘s curriculum to accommodate creativity, chances to
intern and get hands-on experience for every undergraduate student. Introducing the ―DO
IT‖ approach in lecture rooms rather than just the usual long and boring hours of
observation, listening, and writing would go a long way in making learning fun as is found
abroad. This notwithstanding, the youngsters have a role to play too if this aberration will be
stopped – they must be willing to learn and maximally harness the new provisions of the
government so that they can gain relevance and dispense value wherever they find
themselves.
Furthermore, one of my interviewees asserted and I quote: ―No one would cross the valley
of the shadows of death if they are in the greenest of pastures already.‖ This statement is full
of depth and heavy with meanings which pinpoint one of the main reasons behind the
unlawful migration of our young people. In a situation where the standard of living is high,
the demand for labour weighing lower than the supply of labour and where one‘s hard-
earned University certificate almost means nothing amongst other factors; then, we might
not express complete shock if the results of these deficiencies start to play out. Now, how
can this issue be addressed? Let me quickly say this, just as we cannot expect an uncultivated
land to yield fruit without the tillage of the land, so will the above listed ills remain if the
Nigerian government does not move from proposition to implementation (tillage). The high
rate of unemployment in the country can be addressed if the government can use the
revenue generated from the taxes deducted from the income of its citizens as well as loans
gotten from both internal and external sources to create more lucrative jobs. In the creation
of more job opportunities, the government should concentrate, this time, on establishing
Nigerian owned companies where about 80% of its positions are occupied by competent
young Nigerians. Nigerian youths have been found to be gifted and talented, with creativity
embedded in them. What most of such need is a handsome and reasonable financial
assistance to establish their business ideas? If young Nigerians attempting illegal migration
can be unfailingly assured that adequate funds will be given them if only they can find
something lucrative to do that will boost the nation‘s economy, then, the massive record of
young Nigerians hazarding their lives to secure a better future elsewhere will be a thing of
the past.
In conclusion, it is noteworthy that before any positive change can take place at the national
level, it must first start with the individual. How genuinely concerned will our government be
towards the multitude of young Nigerians losing their lives in the desert if the funds meant
for the betterment of the standard of living of its young populace are being continuously
embezzled by a selected few? If only the exorbitant salaries received every month by our
political leaders, including but not limited to ―wardrobe allowance‖ can be diverted to the
all-round development of our nation, chances are very minimal that illegal migration
amongst our young Nigerians would continue to record such a high number.

ADEKUNLE, ABRAHAM ADEJARE
Email address: adekunleabraham3@gmail.com
A Comparative Study of the Inflectional Morphemes of English and Latinate

Languages in Relation to Grammatical Functions: German and Latin as Case Studies
Morphemes are smallest units of meaning or grammatical functions. They are divided into
two main categories: free morphemes and bound morphemes. Free morphemes are further
divided into lexical and grammatical morphemes while bound morphemes are divided into
derivational and inflectional morphemes. Diagrammatically, the classification can be
represented thus:
Figure 1: Classification of Morphemes
Morpheme
Smallest unit of meaning or grammatical function.
Free Morpheme Bound Morpheme

Can stand alone. Cannot stand alone.
Grammatical/Function Derivational Inflectional

Lexical Morpheme
Morpheme Morpheme Morpheme
Meaning in isolation. No meaning in isolation. Changes word class. Doesn't change word class.
Inflectional morphemes constitute a sub-class of bound morphemes which do not change

word class but only show grammatical functions such as number, gender, case, aspect, tense,
etc. To inflect means to show grammatical aspects of a word such as its number in terms of
plural and singular; its different genders; its different cases (e.g., nominative, accusative,
dative etc.); its present and past tense; and more. Grammatical functions are different roles
that a word, phrase or any syntactic unit performs within the structure of natural language.
Some of these grammatical functions are examples that have been highlighted earlier.

In English, inflectional morphemes are only eight: the present tense marker (-s), the plural
marker (-s), the past tense marker (-ed), the past participle marker (-ed2 or -en), the present
participle marker (-ing), the comparative marker (-er), the superlative marker (-est) and the
possessive marker (-‘s). These are the inflections that are found in the English language
morpheme system. Grammatical functions other than these are marked by the order of each
constituent. Au contraire, in Latinate languages (such as German and Latin), the system of
inflections found are comprehensive and elaborate such that these languages do not rely on
word order in order to mark grammatical functions. This means that these languages have
more inflectional morphemes than English: they have inflections for number, case, gender,
tense, etc., many of which are non-existent in English.
For instance, in English, a sentence such as ―The student greeted the teacher‖ does not give
as much grammatical information as would be given if written or said in Latinate languages.
In German, for example, that statement will show the gender, the case and the number of
the nominal elements ―student‖ and ―teacher‖ used in the sentence. Of course, since the
language does not rely on word order to determine grammatical function, it takes only a
change to the case morphemes to make the sentence ―The teacher greeted the student‖.
Interlinear Morpheme-by-Morpheme Glosses
Having established that there are numerous inflectional morphemes in Latinate languages (of
which German and Latin will be case studies), sample data from these languages will be
presented and analysed morphologically. To do this in a systematic way, the method of
glossing known as ―interlinear morpheme-by-morpheme gloss‖ invented by Leipzig
University will be used.2 Two levels of glossing will be provided: the literal and logical
glossing. The literal gloss is the direct morpheme-by-morpheme translation of the sentence
in the object language. The logical gloss is the free translation of the sentence into English.
Inflectional Morphemes of German: Sample Data
As one of the inflectional languages of Latinate origin, German has its own peculiar pattern
of case endings which show different grammatical functions. However, while some
languages, such as Latin, will inflect the word (in this case, noun) ‗itself‘, German provides
different inflections for the definite and indefinite articles in the language. It should be noted
that definite articles in natural language have the feature of ―plus first mention‖; that is, it
refers to something that has been mentioned by the speaker initially. In English, there is only
one (―the‖). In German, there are different definite articles according to case, number and
gender. Likewise for indefinite articles; in natural language, it refers to nouns which have
not been mentioned before, that is, nouns that are just being mentioned by the speaker. In
English, there are two indefinite articles (―a‖ and ―an‖) which are phonologically conditioned
(―a‖ is used before a consonant sound while ―an‖ is used before a vowel sound). In German,
2
The article, in which are glossing rules used in this article, can be found at
https://www.eva.mpg.de/lingua/resources/glossing-rules.php.

however, there are different indefinite articles for different cases, numbers and genders.
Unlike in English, these articles are morphologically conditioned. There are four cases in
German: nominative (subject), accusative (direct object), genitive (possessive) and dative
(both indirect object and object of preposition).
Representing this information in tables, the definite and indefinite articles are shown thus:
Table 1: Definite Articles in German
GENDER NUMBER
Masculine Feminine Neuter Plural
Nominative Der Die das die
Accusative Den Die das die
Dative Dem Der dem den

CASE
Genitive Des Der des der
Table 2: Indefinite Articles in German
GENDER NUMBER
Masculine Feminine Neuter Plural
Nominative Ein Eine ein keine
Accusative Einen Eine ein keine
Dative Einem Einer einem keinen

CASE
Genitive Eines Einer eines keiner
The implication of the information presented above is that to change the case, number or
gender of a noun, all that needs to be changed is the inflection attached to the definite or
indefinite article assigned to it. For example, since word order is not relied upon, the case of
nouns can be changed even while they remain in their positions:
1. Der Schuler kann den Lehrer begruβen.
D-er Schuler Kann d-en Lehrer begruβen.

DEF.ART-NOM.M student FUT.PRS DEF.ART-ACC.M teacher Greet
―The student can greet the teacher.‖

Apparently, the German word for ―student‖ occurs before ―teacher,‖ but in order to swap
their case, the inflections are simply exchanged.
D-en Schuler Kann d-er Lehrer begruβen.

DEF.ART-ACC.M student FUT.PRS DEF.ART-NOM.M teacher Greet
―The teacher can greet the pupil.‖
Although the word order remains the same, the grammatical functions change because of
the case endings. This shows that in German, word order is flexible, unlike in English where
grammatical functions are determined by word order. Also, from the data, both the student
and the teacher are masculine as shown in table 1. This is information that English utterances
cannot show implicitly.
Here is another sample data showing more inflections including tense.
2. Der Mann magt das tasche des lehrers.

D-er Mann mag-t d-as Tasche d-es Lehrers.
DEF.ART- man like- DEF.ART- bag DEF.ART- teacher
NOM.M PRS.SG ACC.N GEN.N
―The man likes the bag of the teacher.‖ Or ―The man likes the teacher‘s bag.‖
Inflectional Morphemes of Latin: Sample Data
Latin is also one of the Latinate languages which use inflections to signal grammatical
functions. But unlike German, Latin assigns inflections to nouns themselves because there
are no articles in the language. Latin has one of the most elaborate case systems of the
Latinate languages. It has the nominative, the accusative, the dative, the genitive, the oblique,
the ablative and even the vocative. The data that will be presented below will show the noun
―master‖ in four of these cases.
3. Dominus vociferatus Rose.

Domin-us vociferat-us Rose.
master-NOM.SG shout-PST Rose
―The master shouted at Rose.‖
In the sentence above, dominus is used in the nominative case (subject).

4. Rose vociferatus dominum.
Rose vociferat-us domin-um
Rose shout-PST master-ACC.SG
―Rose shouted at the master.‖
5. Domine, Rose adest.

Domin-e, Rose adest.
Master-VOC.SG Rose AUX.PRS-here
―Master, Rose is here.‖
Here, the word is in the vocative case. This is the case used when someone is being
addressed directly with a word. For example, in English, we could have ―Sir, I have arrived.‖
The emboldened is in the vocative.
6. Domini cor fortis.

Domin-i cor Fortis
Master-GEN.SG heart Strong
―The master‘s heart is strong.‖ Or ―The heart of the master is strong.‖
Conclusion and Observations

Summarily, a study into the inflections of these languages produces two main observations.
The first is that English has a strict word order in order to determine grammatical functions
such as subject and object while Latinate languages such as German and Latin do not strictly
rely on it. In Latin, the positions of the nominal elements usually correspond to the word
order found in English but not without the corresponding inflectional morpheme attached
to each word. The second observation is that English has one of the fewest inflectional
morphemes in human languages (being only eight) while Latinate languages have a
comprehensive system of inflections and declensions. Inflectional morphemes of German
are usually attached to the article or the adjective preceding a noun or verb, but there are also
patterned changes which these words themselves go through in addition to these inflections,
known as declension. This is simply not found in English except the eight inflectional
morphemes which have been identified.

ABBREVIATIONS USED IN THE DATA
ACC Accusative
ART Article
AUX Auxiliary
DAT Dative
DEF Definite
F Feminine
FUT Future
GEN Genitive
INDF Indefinite
INF Infinitive
M Masculine
N Neuter
NOM Nominative
PL Plural
PRS Present tense
PST Past tense
SG Singular
VOC Vocative
*Other abbreviations frequently used by linguists are available at ―Convention for interlinear
morpheme-by-morpheme glosses‖
(https://www.eva.mpg.de/lingua/resources/glossing-rules.php).
SAMPLE ENGLISH DATA WITH LITERAL GLOSS
The student-s greet-ed The teacher-s.
DEF.ART student-PL greet-PST DEF.ART teacher-PL
*The above data shows that the inflections in the statement show nothing beyond the eight
inflections which are found in English

SAMUEL ADEDOYIN
Email address: sadedoyin72@gmail.com
Becoming Politically Aware: The Youths’ First Steps to Building a Better Nigeria
US Secretary of State, Antony Blinken, while addressing a high profile delegation of

government officials on his most recent State visit to Nigeria expressed optimism as regards
the level of ingenuity of our nation‘s youth population and how it could lead to a
transformation of her economic fortunes by 2025. Prophecies and predictions of this nature
have been a constant rhetoric used by foreign powers to show belief in Nigeria‘s capacity to
continue to deliver the finest of her manpower and mineral resources to the service and
advancement of more ‗developed‘ societies outside her shores. While this is clearly the case
as seen in the way and manner several young persons are fleeing the country in search of
greener pastures, one is forced to ask if Nigeria can become any better than it is now (as a
collective) in spite of our individual flashes of brilliance that has shot us into global
reckoning.
Data reveals that the median age of Nigeria‘s population is about 18 years. This is a strong
testament to the fact that young Nigerians matter a lot in the scheme of things as far as our
nationhood is concerned. If Nigeria must reach the peak of her potential as the giant of
Africa, her young citizens must be at the centre of major, epoch-making events that are
tailored towards the economic liberation of the vast majority. To bring all of our aspirations
for a better country into fruition, it is imperative that the eyes of our political understanding
(as young minds) be enlightened.
The trajectory of a nation‘s growth and development over a period of time is largely
influenced by a series of activities that has defined her political process. What do we say of
Nigeria‘s politics over the last six decades if her growth and development is to be assessed?
Your answer is as heart-breaking as mine. What we have known Nigeria to be all our lives is
not something to take pride in. As young minds, what are we doing differently to stem this
ugly tide? How are we making moves to make our society work and become a better place
for us in the next twenty years? Is the option of moving abroad an easy feat to achieve
compared to living life in our homeland? Are we going to continue to look the other way
when it is time to make certain political decisions that are tied to our future?
Our generation prides itself in its ability to advance the plethora of opportunities of the
times we are in. As young men and women of diverse skills and talents, it is not enough for
us to seat with arms akimbo and hope that our lots will become better by luck. By all means

necessary, we must begin to seek political power to take charge of our nation‘s affairs and
bring to life all that we imagine and wish for our dear nation.
Seeking political power is a long hurdle of many twists and turns. Not everyone will end up
as political office holders but all of us must play a part in changing the narrative. A superb
leadership of our own will only be as good as the rest of us subjects who are aware of what is
necessary to make our society sane. Read history books. Watch the news. Talk about political
events in your cell meetings. Start to exercise your rights to vote in whatever election you are
eligible to take part in. Follow after and be inspired by the impeccable leadership character
of some upright members of the older generation. See the need. Organise. Take the lead.
Above all, be politically aware.

AZUMA, ANASTACIA ONYINYECHI

Email address: azumaanastacia@gmail.com
A Review of Jesutofunmi Fekoya’s Mirror on the Wall
The writer is one who presents the social, political, economic and sometimes, the traditional
consciousness of the society in which the writer inhabits, and this is what is attainable in
Jesutofunmi Fekoya‘s debut novel, Mirror on the Wall. Fekoya becomes a writer who
explicates the ever present Nigerian reality of traditional spirituality expressed through the
eyes of a child and encompassed in the magical realism genre in which the novel takes its
root. This is similar to the expression found in Nnedi Okorafor‘s What Sunny Saw in the
Flames and Zahrah the Windseeker; as well as Tomi Adeyemi‘s Children of Blood and Bone. By
taking its title from the German fairy-tale of Snow White, Mirror on the Wall translates
snippets of the western ideology of magical fairy-tales into the traditional Nigerian reality by
placing emphasis on the use of spells, juju, idols and charms. In that vein, the novel has its
root deeply embedded in traditional spirituality and how young children can be victors and
victims of its complexities. Thus, it is in this context that Jesutofunmi Fekoya‘s Mirror on the
Wall will be reviewed.
Mirror on the Wall chronicles the journey of eleven year old Tami and her encounter inside a
hut that plunges her into the intricacies of African spirituality and dark juju. Therein, she has
to assert courage in order to save her younger sister, Wonu, and the girl who has been
missing for four years, Oyin. The characterisation of Tamilore is poignant to the central
notion the author explores in the novel which is bravery. Tami is portrayed to be brave
beyond reasonable doubts as is seen in the countless moves she takes to save the missing girl
and her sister, Wonu. Though unhappy about travelling to the village, Tami sees the effectual
possibility of presenting a good essay which will be based on her experiences in the village to
her teacher. Following this conceived idea, her curiosity is spurred and inadvertently leads to
the entrapment of her sister, Wonu, into an idol, just like Oyin who is trapped in a mirror.
Tami is taxed with the task of demystifying the riddle which holds the key to the freedom of
Wonu and Oyin. Tami also shows great bravery by choosing to release Oyin even after she
discovers Oyin to be the architect of Wonu‘s entrapment in the idol.
Fekoya underscores the concept of filial love and the height at which it can be expressed in
the text. Tami is the embodiment of this notion as is depicted in the care she shows towards
Wonu in her state of distress. Tami endures sleepless nights and regardless of this, she
ensures that Wonu is released from the idol. Similarly, the love expressed by Tami‘s
grandmother towards her sister – the dead chief priestess – and the reaction of Oyin‘s
parents at her return also expound filial love in the text. In essence, the novel accentuates the
need for a strong family unit, which is delineated in the close ties within the family members
in Tami‘s family, noting its importance in the raising of model citizens within the society. In

addition, there is a delving into retribution as the reward of an offender in the traditional
society. This is chiefly illuminated by the told actions of the dead chief priestess who
punished wrong doers in the village. She was chosen by the gods from birth to be the next
chief priestess, but at some point, turned towards dark juju through which she was able to
breed a plethora of happenings in the society. An instance is illumined through the
retributive justice she metes out on Oyin by imprisoning her in the mirror for her
disrespectfulness. Oyin had called the chief priestess a blind old witch for bumping into her
and this was one out of the many instances in which Oyin had related discourteously with
older individuals. One would have thought that retribution was meant only for older
offenders; however, the novel presents this in an entirely different perspective, such that
even children are liable to rewards – just like Tami receives – and punishments, as Oyin
receives.
Equally apparent is the novel‘s exploration of childhood curiosity which is the spurring force
of actions in the book. Illumined is Tamilore‘s curiosity to know the components of the
strange hut which leads to her discovery of the mirror on the wall and the girl trapped within
it. Even after being warned by her mother and grandmother to steer clear of the hut, her
desire to explore advance the complexities of the plot in the novel. Likewise, Wonu is
evinced to be a curious eight-year old who models the nature of her older sister. Following
closely, she watches as Tami enters into the hut and follows suit in her own time. She is seen
by the deceptive Oyin who propels her entrapment into an idol in the chief priestess‘ hut.
This further complicates the action of events as Tami is left to deal with the consequences of
her curiosity. Also, in spite of the story which Oyin tells the villagers concerning her
adventure after she is freed, Rachael – Tami‘s friend – shares her desire to sneak into the hut
(185). To avoid other curious activities of children around the hut, the Kabiyesi and his
chiefs make the decision to destroy the hut. The novel portrays the curious nature of the
child by explicating both its negative and positive aspects, echoing the saying that ―curiosity
killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back‖.
Pertinent to note in the novel is the mode of realism in which the story is told. Mirror on the
Wall is a blend of physical realism and magical realism, both of which are translated to
advance the notion of traditional spirituality evident in the novel. It is physical in that it
deploys physical entities such as the characters and the physical setting of the text. On the
other hand, it is magical in that there is a consciousness of another world in which Oyin and
Wonu are trapped. This is also reinforced by the inclusion of magical elements such as idols,
magical mirrors and spells. The presence of the village priest at the burning of the hut for
the fortification of the villagers against any repercussions from evil spirits equally buttresses
the reality of such magical occurrences within the society. In line with this, Mirror on the Wall
expounds the traditional spirituality of the belief in the efficacy of gods, charms and mostly,
in curses. It is on this basis that Tami would say thus: ―One of my classmates once told me
that breaking a mirror brought seven years of bad luck‖ (47). This belief in curses is also
revealed in Oyin‘s response to Tami‘s question about how she got trapped: ―Your great-aunt

cursed me and sent me into this mirror‖ (86). The setting of the hut and its components also
elevates the use of magic, an instance which is portrayed in Oyin‘s assertion about the hut
that ―Everything (t)here is magic‖ (99).
Orality, as an element of form, is profound in Fekoya‘s Mirror on the Wall. This is achieved
mainly through the riddle which serves as the key to the freedom of Wonu and Oyin. Oyin
recites the riddle thus:
In likeness they stand apart
As the sun goes down.
The spell is said,
The first words spoken.
The vessel is broken.
The curse is void.
Freedom is gained.
Fekoya deploys this riddle to advance the novel‘s roots in oral African culture wherein
riddles are asked to test the wit of the individual as is clearly depicted in the text. Tami shows
great wit in answering the riddle and by putting together the different parts, she frees her
sister and saves Oyin of what could have been a life imprisonment inside the mirror on the
wall. The language of the novel greatly reflect the workings of a child‘s mind and this is in
tandem with the first person narrative style the author employs in telling the story.
Incorporated within this child-like telling are instances of words and notions that accrue to
the Nigerian society; words such as abi, keke, jor, juju, and a plethora of others in the novel.
The use of these words and expressions reinforce the Nigerian setting of the text and the
happenings that reflect the realities of the Nigerian in terms of traditional spirituality and
magic.
However, Fekoya presents an inconsistency that would be quickly spotted by the reader and
this is revealed in how Tami is able to conceal the disappearance of Wonu from her
grandmother and the nosy Mama Jimoh for almost a week. Despite having had her glasses
hid, this is largely unreal since accounts from the book show that Tami‘s grandmother could
still see without her glasses, albeit with some strain. With this, it can be said that Fekoya
ignites a contradicting over-exaggeration of this occurrence in the work, wrongly portraying
Tami‘s grandmother to be blind such that she could not detect the physical absence of
Wonu.
In all, Mirror on the Wall is an interesting book that keeps one anticipating the next enthralling
move in the action of the plot. It is a suspense-filled expression that encapsulates the realities
of the Nigerian child as well as the traditional realities evident in the Nigerian society. It
holds an appealing stance in how it mirrors the adventurous nature of the minds of children

while at the same time teaching that there are punishments for vices and rewards for virtues.
It can thus be said that Fekoya does an excellent job in her debut novel, prominently for
how she is able to fulfil the function of the writer by illuminating the sensibilities of the
society while still presenting a mentally stimulating book and upholding the didactic nature
of literature.
WORKS CITED
Adeyemi, Tomi. Children of Blood and Bone. Henry Holt and Company, 2018.
Fekoya, Jesutofunmi. Mirror on the Wall. Quramo, 2020.
Okorafor, Nnedi. Zahrah the Windseeker. Houghton Mifflin, 2005.

Okorafor, Nnedi. What Sunny Saw in the Flames. Cassava, 2011.

ABOUT THE SHUTTLE
The Shuttle is a journal by students of the Department of English, University of Lagos. It is a

yearly publication that aims to make known the distinguished literary skills of students of the
department. The Shuttle is one of the few literary publications achieved by students in Nigeria;
thus, it sets the pace for others to follow especially with its seeming contribution to the
literary world. Also, being that literature is a mirror of the society, The Shuttle encompasses
literary expressions of different genres which reflect the consciousness of the Nigerian
society and the world at large. From drama to poetry, short stories and essays, The Shuttle is a
repository of enthralling literary pieces that enunciate the primary functions of literature
which are to educate and entertain.

The Shuttle 2022

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THE SHUTTLE

NASELS 2021/2022 EXECUTIVES ii

THE EDITORIAL BOARD iii

The Shuttle Page i

The Shuttle Page ii

ẸNÌTÀN Abdultawab Boluwatife tawabenitan@gmail.com

The Shuttle Page iii

The Shuttle Page iv

The Shuttle Page v

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Orange screams of life,

Orange is the fragrance in the air freshener.

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Oh, now you‘re smiling.

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When my head is numb

Same journey starts every day,

The Shuttle Page 5

They say if life was easy, it would be boring.

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I trample on it with love

With the dust clinging to my boots

I wear them with the pinkest of pride

With the grump-wrenching squeal upon squeal from me

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I‘ll light you up with my own soul

With the singe that comes with feeling

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Million miles away are we

Rampaging has its loneliness cries.

The Shuttle Page 9

Rampaging has its loneliness cries.

Comrade let‘s race home still.

Mother‘s soil awaits your light still

And at this dark sight,

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Oh yeah, education is for all.

A wife must know how to cook,

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She‘s wistful and wise;

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I don‘t hate you and I don‘t blame you:

The Shuttle Page 15

Oh, but not my head but my heart:

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After establishing a reason

If it was for bad,

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How did you not feel their pain?

I hope that karma is real …

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