FROM PARIS, WITH LOVE

FROM PARIS, WITH LOVE

A Short Story by Poet Razon-Anny Justin

Shaita sat there not daring to move. The devil himself must have been sitting few feet away- smiling, mockingly at the rivulet of tears that rode down her face unto the gloss of the Kodak she was staring at. Abdullai smiled back at her through the stains of her tears! She wiped the small teary ditch away from the picture. He smiled more handsomely now. The tear had formed a corrosive patch over part of his face and right shoulder. The picture will definitely start spoiling from there, she thought as she turned the back of the Kodak and read his scrawny handwriting.

From Paris, with love.

She turned the picture back again and stared blankly. Abdullai stood akimbo on a street curb, a telephone booth behind him to the right. The telephone's mouthpiece dangled carelessly from the dial slit. There were scribblings all over the glass of the booth. She couldn't read any probably because they were written in french- a language she neither spoke nor understood. He must have just finished using the phone before deciding to snap the picture. He must have used the booth to call home. It must have been one of those after work occasions when he had the chance to speak- not only with her, but with Alhaja and his two kids.
She sighed and wept for him again. Abdullai ran from death in Nigeria to meet death in a whiteman's land.
She wept even more- for herself; a freshly turned widow.

Her gaze kept fading. Her focus kept coming and going. She couldn't hold it for long, so she folded the picture in two neat halves and carefully slide it into her clutch. Instantly, she tugged at the corner of her Jalabia and wiped off the river of tears that rode down her checks. Most of her brown mascara came off too, turning the used part of the white Jalabia into a murky brown. She had cried enough. She stood up, stretched and smiled into the day's azure sky.

Shaita had to brace up. She had to stand up for Keila and Ahmed. She had to stand for her aged mother-in-law too. How will she do it? How will she raise her two kids now that their father was no more? How will she be able to console Alhaja over the loss of his first son. There were many tasks ahead.
First, she must sign- an acknowledgment- of receiving the package that contained her man from the French Consulate. She was so struck by the thought that Abdul, who used to walk with a nimble gait- her husband, who strode with a spring to his steps- was now coming home in a box; just like a common gift sent over courier. She will have to transport him from the MM Airport to Gombe; to his hometown in Kaltungo- where he had fled at the wake of the Boko Haram insurgency and bombings.
"I'll not wait to be blown to bits by these illiterate Boko boys", he had said tersely as she waited on him to board his flight out at the Murtala Mohammed's.
"In future, if you ever get as apprehensive as I've; I'll be on standby to ship you out- you and the kids", he concluded.
"No! thanks, darling. We will be safe here, Insh'Allah", she had told him.
That was three years ago.
Now, she had to arrange for his funeral.

Shaita's grief was interrupted by the loud shrills of her cell phone as it momentarily rang. It was Mukhtar, her husband's kid brother. He was calling from Jos where he worked and lived. Mukhtar was cryi

ng too- over the phone. He kept babbling like a child about the loss. She could only hear him partly. He was saying something about Allah's Will. Shaita couldn't listen anymore. She ended the dial and walked towards the rented SUV.

"You've got to smile and shame the devil; you've got to toughen up too", she told herself as she trotted on.
A thin smile curved at the corners of her swollen lips as the chauffeur greeted and opened the door for her. Alhaja was slumped on the SUV's back seat. Her face was swollen from grief.
"Ma'am, you are stronger than death", the chauffeur consoled.
She grinned back.
"I'm stronger than death, Insh'Allah" she answered in faith.
"It's just the thoughts. It beats me how he left death here to die abroad", she continued.
"How could Abdul run from here, from locally made Boko bombs to be killed by a bomb in Paris?" she asked, breaking into tears again.

"This is the part that zaps my strength"

ESTRANGED

 

Estranged.

Ripped, torn apart,

Unloved, abandoned,

Dissected from nature's womb.

Severed from the Land of Loam

Sequestered from nature's richness

Into a temporal abundance of means

Masking the real penury of feelings

In changing fads and revealing fashion

On these streets of sheer wantonness.

Estranged.

Broken from Religion- into hypocrisy

Pained over real love: dark and free

That sailed in streams of pure passions

Alienated from warm families

Cast into the winter of their cruel humanities

Hanging from a noose of deception

Of perpetually grinding groins and animated moans

Fueled by Ecstasy and powder-induced emotions

On these streets of wanton lust.

 Estranged.

Frustrated over the metallica

Exhausted over the eternal buzz of traffic

Loud decibels of raw, stranded emotions

Wishing on a sound: different

In the music of vast Safaris

And the silent melodies of Rain-forests

Hoping to sleep in this despair

And wake in the heart of black Africa

Far away from these white streets.

The Wait by Poet Razon-Anny Justin

 THE WAIT

I.)

Wait for me

Tarry, Mon Diamanté

For it's a long journey

Across jagged rocks of despair

To the oasis of sweats

I am on the roads

At the junction of hearts

I drive in haste

But love is a snail

Wait while I come to thee

II.)

You must wait- when I delay

You cannot walk alone

Through depths of old fallows

We must hold courage's hand

And hasten through the jungles

If we are together spent

At the pith of our essences

There I shall seek dreams

In the vale between your luscious breasts

While I come to thee

III.)

Wait underneath the shades

My boon stretched shadows 

Soak the tears from your other eye

Thy soul hangs over those cliffs

I drive in haste, yet come late

To quench desires of dampness

Of careless moans

And senseless songs

I shall hold thee through the gale

When I come to thee

IV.)

Wait a bit more

For love is a snail

I'm clearing the paths

Over shades of still streams

So we match pace

Sync rhythm and calm breathes

Dance to strokes of broken harpsicords

I implore thee to slow speed

For I drive in haste

And you must wait- though I come late.

V.)

Wait a season more

For I've driven over sandshales

Cuddling over purple sheets

And curled under pink blades

I see your pink blade

The scar of careless incisions

As I swim over streams

And dive into warm fountains

We shall find our harmony

When I eventually come to thee 

©Poet Razon-Anny Justin,

Thoughts from a Warped-mind,

MUSIC OF THE AFRICAN CHILD by POET Razon-Anny Justin

MUSIC OF THE AFRICAN CHILD

Beauty must be jagged- like Jos in rocks

Hair must be weeds- in Bantu farmlands

Cheeks puffy; puffs of the forest breeze

Blown all over innocence

Turgid, manioc induced beri-beri

With the air of freedom slung around necks

Of Innocence, the Child of Africa stood

In oblivion, lacking discernment

Tomorrow's disasters still hanging unknown

In thick blankets of hearts' darkness.

Our future must be rugged- sculpted in Harmattan gales

Xenophobic, Genocidal trickles- down Nile Rift Valley

Insurgent, resurgent bouts of Terror

Ephemeral! Murderer of innocence

The child of Africa bleeding bloody eyes

Plasmolized, in hunger and refugee camps

Uncertainty beginning to reveal in depths

Deepened acts of premeditated abominations

Blankets spread over the "Heart of Darkness".

Africa erupts with uncertainty- Volcanoes of Virunga

Reversal of circulations- the Nile through Victoria

Fouta d'Jalon pumped back from the Niger

Rivers fouled by bloods of Black brotherhood

Bloods smell of Racial Martyrdom

Slaughtered on the altars of irrelevance

By self-made slaves and masters

Yet stands, beat of the jungle slung on his neck

The child of Africa's uncertainty

Emanating a terrible heat in the darkness.

Our Continent must be on fire- burnt in Baltimore uprisings
AFRICANS are children of time, fleeting in names
Birthed: Tigrays, Pigmy-Bakas, Moors, Bantus
Migrated: Hamites, Pigmy-Bakas, Diops, Berbers
Shook hands: Xhosas, Onges, Nubians, Tutsis
Hand-shaking precededs the bloody gladiator-fights
Hutus against Tutsis, Hausas against Igbos
Tuaregs against Diffa; Zulus against the rest of Africa
Yet the Child of Africa stands, with zillion scars

Drumming: sounds of light to illuminate our dark hearts.

Slam induced Trip (Memiors of a poets journey to Ibadan)

Slam Induced Trip (Memiors of a Poet's Journey to Ibadan) part 2

PART TWO

Slam induced Trip (Memiors of a poets journey to Ibadan)

PART ONE

The Madman's Recompense, Part 2 (a short story submitted for the Commonwealth Prize)

THE MADMAN's RECOMPENSE, PART TWO

ODE TO IBESIKPO (A poem by Poet Razon-Anny Justin)

           ODE TO IBESIKPO

(By Poet Razon-Anny Justin)

Lo! I shall not count steps

If I do, may my left foot tread first

For how would we've known our fathers

If not from our mothers?

So, I lie calm and naked

At the tomb of my umblicus

And hail thee!

Ibesikpo! Nsim ayara- Ennang!

Goddesses of my left root

Oku! of priests and priestesses

Udoe! of pure oozing fountains

Afagha! where men live with spirits

And spirits take marriages, of men

Like the proverbial Bull's switch

Numerous flies lie dead when it turns

I can't hear their buzzings anymore

For it has been swallowed by the loud bellows

From the Bull which is my mothers'.

Ibesikpo! Nsim ayara- Ennang

People who attend ceremonies with gourds

Slung behind their strong backs

And mock others totting wood- stools

What fooly to care about seats

When wise men can stand a-drink

Wine couldn't inebriate my mother's fathers

Pot after pot; around, they dutifully gathered

My mother's- fathers, I greet

The Bull that trot to a ceremony

Only to be pushed home in a carriage

When an Ibesikpo man staggers

He laughs loudly like the warrior he is

Chants his name to the seventh generation

To the kins and thick palm groves

"Every hamlet has its song- bird

And every family, it's clown

Thick, rich slurry of the dry palms

I shall not be made clown for thee

While I was only testing the ground

Much rains these days, who knows

Maybe the loam has become quick

I'm not a man to be unceremonially buried

In a sinking drift of quicksand

It's not the drink, don't think so

No amount of booze can ever soak

This dryness in our caged souls?

Or wet the parch on our tongues?

Don't ask why I hang gourds

Or why these hordes gather around me

I was given to merriment- of wines

Unruly enchantment- of pretty maidens

I, wily and unrepentant Essien-Emana

God-child who delights in journeys

Dwelling not longer, hither or yonder

For great pilgrims alone can tell

Of the allure of sweet adventures

Till I heard mother bragging of wines

Of men as long as palm trees

And I trailed her along the path home

O! My mother's people

People of wines and pretty maidens

Most colorful carnival of masquerades

Hands that could rock fourteen drums

Music reaching the land of the dead

We heard the crazed drummings

Me and my kind- from the roads

And here ends our frequent journeys

For we landed, but couldn't go back

The goddesses of my mother's land

Now becomes the sun and the mirror

In whose light I see my silhouettes

I am not different from the shadows

Cast on the sands of my mothers

Ibesikpo! Nsim Ayara Ennang,

I salute thee!

©Poet Razon-Anny Justin,

March, 2015.

When Dogs Bark (the Diary of an Ailurophile) by Poet Razon-Anny Justin

DIARY OF AN AILUROPHILE: When Dogs Bark

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Corals of the Atlantic: The Best Rigger Wins (a post electioneering- day r...: THE BEST RIGGER WINS Eleven fifteen a.m. Three hours beyond the time scheduled for all vehicular movement to have stopped - and w...

The Best Rigger Wins (a post electioneering- day rambling) by Poet RazonAnny Justin

THE BEST RIGGER WINS

Eleven fifteen a.m.

Three hours beyond the time scheduled for all vehicular movement to have stopped - and we were still on the roads. The air was still not free from the dampness that permeates most coastal West Africa mornings. I had earlier completed the accreditation process in my Polling Unit -a simple process which had become rather tedious, encumbered by the malfunctioning of the Permanent Voter's Card Reader machines- and, but for meeting three other friends, would just have gone back home to wait till voting commenced.

Armed with a car- owned by one of my friends, our PVCs and an adventurous, daring-spirit; four of us headed out into the roads for a bit of Election-day adventure.

Before this, rumours of grab-and-run of electioneering materials in other units had filtered into our polling unit.

In nearby Afaha Ibesikpo, it had been a big fiasco as youths from the two big political sides were said to have clashed and fought over the box. Casualties were recorded. In Ikot Iko, the opposition had scored clean: stowing the voting box, electioneering materials, INEC ad-hoc staff and even corp- members into an awaiting bus and absconding with all of it. In such cases, the helpless voters would be left in a pitiful state, bleary-eyed and totally cheated out of their franchise rights.

We had driven out, the Toyota camry running almost noiselessly over the smooth tarmac. Inside, we were toying with so many ideas and defense mechanisms (in case we were accosted on our way). We could claim to be a monitoring team or claim we were returning after accreditation to where we lived. We could feign ignorance- about the restriction on movement after eight in the morning.

"Olboy, I hear say na AIG dem send come Uyo o!", one guy had said from the back seat, affirming the rumour that the Assistant-Inspector-General of police had been assigned to Uyo senatorial zone for election duties.

"Make we no meet am for road o!", the second guy at the back seat warned.

"Hum! Dem fit think say we be picking-box boy's o!", I had quipped from the front passenger seat, using our recent coinage to refer to the youths who engaged in the act of grabbing election materials and disenfranchising the voters. In our area as well as other parts of the state, stealing the election materials was the only surety at winning the polls. Some youths are usually unleashed on election days to steal electioneering materials for whoever employs them. Recently, we had coined a name for them: picking-box boys. It is rumoured that safe delivery of these electioneering materials to the political racketeers who needed them to rig elections, attracted a huge financial emolument, attractive enough to motivate these boys into a grab-the-box-and-run frenzy. It was a youth run business and our youths had embraced it totally. Just like the fulanis identified with flogging at betrothal ceremonies; it was a show of guts, a proof of manliness for the youths that engaged in the business.

We had not driven far when we met the first security blockade in front of Boeclar Memorial School. It was manned by the hated, shabby and near-powerless black uniformed policemen. We didn't have to convince them to let us pass, we just had to buy our way- and a crisp hundred naira note did the magic. Almost automatically, we were saluted and bid farewell.

For another five minutes we drove on a near deserted Aka-Obot-Idim dual carriage way, passing the prestigious Lutheran High School. The chitchat inside the car had climbed a crescendo; then came a hush.

The silence came as we saw a great population on the road ahead of us. We were being waved from both sides to slow down, which we momentarily heeded. On the middle of the road was a sizeable crowd of uniforms. The AIG and his entourage of policemen, Federal Road Safety Corps, few Army men and Highway marshals were gathered there as we were told. We quickly alighted and left the car at the roadside about hundred metres behind them.

We had barely alighted, than the case at hand was told to us. The APC "picking-box team" had hijacked election materials from the polling unit in Ikot Ambon and another from Ikot Oduot and where on their way out when they ran into the ATS squad. There was a brief exchange of shots and driving bravado for them to be able to escape. While some had spilled onto the road leaving the tarmac littered with papers, a huge portion of the election materials was still in their possession when they escaped. The AIG and his team had come along later.

On hearing this, I had advanced on foot, a bit ahead, to the spot where the supposed AIG was interviewing some members of the disenfranchised citizens of the area. I was not interested in hearing what he was asking as I was to ascertain if it was the AIG Adisa Bolanta, who was purportedly sent to Akwa Ibom State. It must have been him with all the rank-buttons, dangling medals, multi-colour breast patch, feathers-on-cap, aplomb and heavy stand-on-guards. On the other hand, it might have been any other such high ranking Policeman since I couldn't steal a glance at his name tag from the distance- obscured by the heavy police-guard presence around him. I blame my ever-failing sight for that. Ten minutes later, a canister of teargas was shot at the tire of a fleeing red Volkswagen Jetta. Someone in the crowd had pointed the occupants of the Jetta as some of the members of the picking-box team. The Jetta sped away unhindered. Though it is a strong car, it wouldn't have escaped if the police had shot a bullet directly through its tyre or at the driver. Since they didn't, I marveld at their professionalism and reverence for human life. This lent credence to the fact that it must have been the AIG team for real. Fifteen minutes later, the team had collated some information and headed away with scanty siren sounds. We allowed five minutes in-between us and them, and followed towards Nung Udoe.

At Nung Udoe, we encountered more combat ready ATS teams and had several close shaves. After we had parked near the Council headquarters and blended into the crowd, more drama began to unfold; and more stories too.

The APC picking-box-team came: shots were fired, the crowd "heltered", the PDP stand-down team fired back, the Police fired canisters of tear gas, we ran, INEC staff "skeltered", we came back moments later, a figure with a bullet wound to the head was writhing on the ground; one dead. The ballot box still sat where we left it.

The PDP picking-box-team came: same cycle- helter-skelter, more casualties. The ballot box still sat precariously. At some moment, while running along with the crowd, I ran into a stronghold held by the APC in one of the hamlets. I was laid on the mud and flogged thoroughly. Claiming I was a discreet election monitor sympathetic to their cause and having snapped some election related pictures with my blackberry cellphone- to give credence, became the only saving grace; I would have been lynched. I know others must have faced same or worse fates. At the end, the AIG came and it was decided the two political sides should join team and guard the electioneering materials. So, elections were held on ground, but most of the electorate who could not stand the whiffs of gunshots and apprehensions could not venture to vote. Stories filtered in from different quarters.

"Did, you hear APC stole everything in ward ten?"

"That is toy story, the PDP took all units in ward one, two and three".

"I think the PDP has rigged more than the APC".

"Someone fell from a bus which had stolen electioneering materials in ward five. The opposition fed on his body, lynching him to near death"

Some Corp-members were caught totting fake ballot papers with the originals folded into their mammoth khaki- trousers in ward seven".

"One of the thugs mishandled an AK-47 and shot himself dead in Asutan".

"The police shot an PDP thug in Mbierebe"

There were so many stories that I lost count of time and lost the friends I came with in the turmoils of the to and fro fleeing crowd. Collation had started and the violence had moved base from the polling units to the INEC offices. Opposing political parties had to way-lay their opponents as they came to return the boxes they took away. I didn't have the stamina to witness this phase of fracas anymore, so I quitted.

It was six twenty-five when I boarded a moped on my way home. The Keke- driver was feeding us his own post- electioneering gossips too. He was bragging of how many boxes he helped steal away in his ward. I sat there, silently taking in the events of the day, while the other passengers patronized the squawking keke-driver on his braggadocio.

So many had left their homes that morning and would never make it home again. So many had left with empty pockets and came home enriched. I knew that all sides had tried their best efforts at rigging; yet, the best rigger would win. In between the APC and the PDP, the winner will be the political party with the most efficient picking-box team. The other political parties didn't matter a bit.

In my country, rigging takes many forms. There are areas that rig in big rooms in big hotels under humming ACs. In some other areas, it is done in the field, where the opponents thug it out by who steals the most number of boxes. Others may collude with the Electoral commission through the Resident Electoral Commissioner,; the card readers may be hacked to accept even ATM and personal Identity cards; under-aged voters may be registered and accredited to vote; figures may be over-blown; fake materials maybe released to the electorate while original materials are being stashed in big hotels and thumb-printed on by a team of expert thumb-printers; electorate might be coerced to vote unilaterally by bringing in a mob of heavy-chested and weapon branding thugs or result sheets might be way-laid and unfavorable ones burnt.

It just depends on the style of your area for we are a million light years away from getting better or reforming our system. Change only comes if we pledge to accept it. If we are not ready, even the most rig-proof system, which works best in other countries would still produce catastrophic results when implemented here.

The Card-Reader system was borrowed from the Ghana Electoral system; it has failed woefully here.

So my advice: whatsoever the outcome of the elections, or whoever wins; let us not forget that peace and reconciliation should proceed after our typical violent elections. There is no need to make the enmity linger. I only hope, we could take a cue from President Jonathan- and call-to-congratulate the winner of the polls; for we all try our efforts on rigging and the best rigger usually wins. So if, we loose, it doesn't mean we lost a truly just cause- just that we rigged a bit below the rig-to-win benchmark.

And about the arrogant moped driver, when I alighted and paid him with a one thousand note; he confessed not to have any change since he hadn't gone out of his house since morning. He forgot he boasted about stealing voting boxes. Some people can lie.

Bye.

Madman's Recompense, Part One (a short story)

26th August, 2014.
Lagos, Western Nigeria.

It was early Tuesday morning in mad-traffic Lagos. Eneh was racing off the Third Mainland Bridge for Obalende in Lagos Island. Sprawled on the bridge ahead of him was a parade of cars caught in the traffic jam. An announcement on Rhythm 96.5 fm had earlier warned about that unending jam, which was paradoxically caused by LASTMA- the city's traffic monitoring agency tasked with preventing such gridlocks. It was senseless coming that close, knowing he could easily be consumed by the hold-up and that would be the end of a workday; but he had to, for Carter street- the shortcut he was heading towards lay at the foot of the bridge.
He momentarily gazed at the digital quartz piece on the dashboard of the 2005 model Honda Civic he was driving. It was a minute to eight. He would have been driving calmly to wherever he was going to, were it to be in other Nigerian cities, but this was Lagos. Here, you couldn't beat the traffic if you came out by seven in the morning; by eight, you were thoroughly done. He sighed as he negotiated a bend into Broad street and sped away. He had to reach Obalende High School, meet the management, settle whatever issue Toby might have been involved in this time and head back- before eight-thirty, if he was to arrive at work early that morning.
Work started by nine at the beverage processing plant where he worked. What would've been a thirty-five minute drive from his home in mainland Surulere to the plant in Victoria Island usually took him one to two hours as a result of the traffic jams. "Something must be done about this city and the traffic lock- downs", he thought as he honked ceaselessly to alert pedestrians darting across the street. As he negotiated the last bend by the prestigious King's College, Eneh wondered what could be the reason for his summon by the school authority. This was the third time in a semester, he had been invited  over concerning Toby; and he was not even his biological child.
His real name was Otobong Bassey. He had started calling him Toby from when they came to Lagos. Eneh could not deny the fact that he was the boy's legitimate guardian. He had been, for eight years since the boy's father died. Bassey Abang- the boy's father had suffered from a terminal psychosis, for many years before he eventually died. Nobody knew the whereabouts of the boy's mother. Monica Abang had left immediately after her husband lost his sanity. She couldn't bear to be called the wife of the village madman.
As Eneh approached the school gate, the gate man peeped out of the security post, scribbled something on a notepad- probably his car plate-number, before proceeding to open the gate for him. Eneh drove in, parked and strode towards the principal's office.
"I think your son deserves some place better than here, Mr Bassey", the principal had said as soon as Eneh had settled into a seat in her modestly furnished office.
She was a buxom woman, who wore a plaid jacket over a flowered gown. Her hair was done in neat plaits- in the manner of the Deeper Life Church born-agains and the rims of an ornate framed spectacle rested on her broad nose.
"We moved him up by two classes as we had recommended and you agreed to the last time we invited you here", she continued.
"And?" Eneh asked, impatiently.
"Not only are his cognitive skills very high and impressive, Mr Bassey; but recently we've discovered a shocking and dangerous edge to it", the principal said cocking her head sideways.
"Madam, I must be frank with you. I'm not Otobong's biological father, neither is my name Mr Bassey which you call me. I am Eneh Etteh. As it is, the boy is bereft of both parents and my taking responsibility of him is an act of charity. Moreover, I don't understand what you mean by a 'shocking and dangerous edge'. If he has done something bad, go ahead and tell. It is better to observe and correct a child while he is still young", Eneh had replied her. He was displeased by the principal's mode of address. Toby was a brilliant boy. He could be a scamp at times, but Eneh saw nothing wrong in the boy's character that would warrant dragging him out from Surulere to Obalende all the time. Obalende High School was a boarding school and that was the reason he sent the boy there in the first place. He kept a very demanding job and living in Lagos was equally stressful. He couldn't spare the time to cook and carter for the boy; neither was there time to drop him off nor pick him up from school. Boarding was the best option and he had chosen well.
"Yes sir, you've spoken well. It's quite a revelation about his paternity, though", she had said, shifting closer to the table and dropping her voice lower as if she wanted to say something no one else needed to hear.
"You see, we're actually saying the same thing. A child must be carefully observed and corrected". She moved even closer, leaning on her side of the table. Her voice had dropped to a mere whisper.
"At first, we thought it was just about his acute arithmetic quotient. His teacher accidentally found a Durer's Square composed on the back page of his assignment book; did I tell you about that, sir? I've got a PhD, but I cannot make a Durer's Square. Besides, he has taught the students in the whole section Sudoku- a kind of number game I didn't even know exists; but all of these, none as bone-chilling as our recent findings", she breathed out heavily, looking ruffled with all the gesticulation. Eneh had felt pride leap into his chest. His god-son was the talk of the school, and in a positive light. He had felt pity for the woman. Her generation had passed and living in today's computer age was enough to turned her into a paranoiac. Sudoku is a widely known number game. Durer's Square is a tricky thing, though. It is a mathematical square where the numbers are arranged in such a way that all the rows, columns and diagonals add up to the same thing. The sixteenth century German mathematician and painter Albrecht Durer was the first to complete it and embed such in his paintings. The American mathematician and mystic, Benjamin Franklin had completed a bigger 8 by 8 square. It was for genuises and they had already agreed that Toby was one. The woman had tapped on the table to draw his attention.
"Last weekend, we had scheduled football matches between the senior secondary graduating class and the class below them; same for their junior secondary counterparts and the class below them. At the end, both senior and junior graduating classes emerged winners with different score-lines. Instead of celebrating with the winners, the whole students were jubilating with Otobong carried high in the air", she had paused, looked around for a brief moment and continued.
"Do you believe that your boy had predicted the scores ahead of the matches correctly? He even went ahead to write them on each of the classroom blackboards that afternoon. Now, that is where the problem is Mr Etteh, for both staff and students have started saying funny things about that boy", she said, thumping the large table with her calloused knuckles when she got to the end of her narrative.

As Eneh drove away from the school toward his workplace that morning, he kept wondering about the revelations. He recalled that morning, eight years ago, when Toby was handed over to him. The boy was barely four years old then. They had moved to Lagos and lived together even before he secured a job as a quality control officer in the beverage processing plant he was presently rushing to. Since when Toby enrolled in school, his academic performance had always dwarfed those of his peers. He had taken the first school leaving certificate examinations while he was in primary four, passed with distinctions and proceeded to secondary school ahead of others. At Obanlede High school, he had become the leader of the school Mathematics and Quiz clubs, just within three years. There was more to it than ordinary brilliance. Toby was gradually becoming his late father- even unto the mystical aspects. Eneh couldn't piece it together, yet he knew he had to heed the principal's advice. The boy had to be withdrawn from Obalende High School, to a school safer for genuises like him.

*to be continued*

Poetry- Where You'll Find It

WHERE YOU'LL FIND IT

By Poet Razon-Anny Justin

You will find it in the morning dew that sprinkles,

Over budding flowers and waking tendrils.

It's in the onions of many scintillating groins.

The interlude of thousand melodious heart- songs.

In it, I revere over calm soul waters

Bless me! As I lie atop the expanse of lapping rhythmic rivers.

Sailing across islands of dream and hope- I am a believer

And rivers upon rivers; seas of songs on my poetic glitter

It's like a kaleidoscopic throng of flickering lights

Bytes by bytes of glare over my groping nights

My palates where conjoined, I sing them open

Now, my tongue is adorned by this poetic token

It's in the heart of babies and mouth of mothers

Where sweet lullabies lull sleep from dream- hunters

It's in the thin strings of the crooked lyre

Where embers of hope fan desire's fire

Upon this grace, the blessings of a bard blazes

Another veld of harmony where a blessed heart grazes

Bless me! Now, sweet anthems tumbling out loud

Unstoppered! The poetic blessings that were stuck in my mouth.

©Poet Razon-Anny Justin,

April, 2015