BETWEEN EARNING SHEKELS AND BEING WEDDED

Their words: I can't marry a man who earns 200,00 or less.
This is the topic trending hot on social networks all over the web. It has caused a mayhem, which rocks Facebook, Twitter and elsewhere.
I met this one girl and after few flings we settled into the same argument.
**********

"Hey Bae!", I spoke up.
"See, I do not earn 200K a month, though some months I do earn a whole lot more. I do not own that job security that is pension- able".
She ignored me and paced the room 'upandan'.
I ignored her fore-closure stance and proceeded.
"I am a hustler, miss. A damn straight- headed, hopeful hustler".
"You should've told me", she jumped.
I stood up from the creaking wooden- bed and advanced towards her with a plea shading my eyes.

But you didn't ask, sweetheart.
My arms were stretched as if to fondle, even as I spoke in a deeper baritone- my idea of 'romantic'.
"Now that we've spoken about, am I still marry-able? Can I still touch your face as I did; I mean, kiss your lips and hold on for an unblinking moment as we did before we had this stupid conversation?"
I was sounding sarcastic but she didn't look like she noticed it.
"I can't marry a man that earns 200K or less", Maria snapped and shrugged her shoulders as if to avoid my outstretched arm.
"Why? How do you mean, you can't marry anyone below the 200K-a- month earning margin?", I asked keeping up with my front.
Her tone was lined with stiff. A seriousness that made it feel like the 200K was a gaiter fastened atop her belly.

You cannot raise a family on just a hundred K?
"I do not even earn up to that. I earn like 40 or 50K. Do you still mind?". I waited for her to explode.
She slapped my arm away as she angrily spoke. "What don't you understand about what I said? I can't marry you.

Her composure was non- flinching.
I understood her message: that though she might not mind loosening her belt for a quick penetration, she is thorough when it comes to marriage. Marriage is the problem. The idea of permanence is what scares her. A permanence with little beginnings. She hated that idea of starting little or knowing she'll start little
"Then we shouldn't have had this conversation, cos you went to bed with me without even asking", I spoke hurriedly, feigning anger.
She was furious.
"A fling is a fling and marriage is different from that. Don't you know one has to be objective about these things?" she pursued.

"You are approaching this as if it's a business", I intoned hoping to bait her.
"Yea! It is a business," she answered, falling for it.
"I swept my cell-phones off the lamp-stand and walked back to the bed.
"So, it's a business now", I cajoled.
"A lady has to be sure where she is going and what is in it for her", she answered trying to fine tune the conversation.

What is in it for you!
"What of me? What's in it for me, Maria?", I questioned back.

My mind raved. What is in it for both parties? How sure could one be that it's a good venture to marry someone else?. What is the value of a marriage? Is it in marrying someone who does not see the other apart from his/ her wallet?
I drove the sarcasms home.
While I bring 200K back monthly, how much will you be contributing to the table?"
Her gaze shifted to avoid mine.
What if I loose my job in future? What are the sureties that you'll stay, being you married me above the 200K mark?"

Her fierce looks were softening out. The frown on her brows, the twitched lips, they were all loosening out.
She shook her head and I strummed her pains more.
"Yes! Business is business, and since marriage is a business now, let's discuss it", I said as I dragged her towards me
"Did Bill Gates and Melinda discuss this?" I queried.
She shook her head.
"Did they sit across the table from each other and sign an MoU on these terms of family financing before their marriage? Was Unoma assured by Godswill Akpabio that 'I-am-above-the-200K-mark' before she submitted to him in matrimony? Is that why they are successful?

"Maybe. Dunno", she mumbled and sighed defeatedly.

Hey! Maria, Calm it down", I said, still holding her wrist. She struggled a bit more but eventually sat by the foot of the bed.
"Your dad is still married to your mum now; and they both earn less than 200K in pension-able moneys. There's an only reason why the older generation earned less, trained us all and still stay married while our own generation earns so much, yet fill the court rooms with numerous divorce suits. Have you thought about that?" I questioned proudly seeing that she was catching on my logic.
My arms were stretched over her shoulder and she didn't shove it down this time. I continued.
"Have you thought of love? What of providence?"
I saw her composure melt and I fired even more.
"Yea! We've replaced love with affluence and fads. Money is a criteria for family now. We have so much money- enough to pay the alimony our father's couldn't pay".

She saw it
I could see that the emotional factors caught on her she momentarily shuffled about on the mattress.
She was subdued and I felt the triumph pumping down my veins as I cuddled her sideways and drove my win home.
"Yet, since you say you can't marry me, I won't force it on you. I only wish you were able to see that money cannot buy happiness and that creating that 200K benchmark is a restriction on family resourcefulness", I said with a mark of finality, stood from the bed and straightened the rumples on my shirts.

It's a penny- wise, pound- foolish sentiment, and I'm happy it came out this early. Have a good time", I said as I strode towards the door, opened and fled the room before she could say her apologies.
***

©Poet Anny-Razon Justin,
September, 2016

A Country of Cannibals

Just last week; I saw some very mouth- watering UNESCO Food Intervention jobs in Maiduguri,
Yobe, Kano and other core Northern locations. Needless remind you that I’m a Food Technologist. An “Oliver Twist” type- food technologist who is always roaming the veld seeking for greener foliage to forage.

Yet, I let this one pass me by.
Let it pass- for I understand what religious localization and religion- incited genocides and pogroms mean.

It means that if I venture to Kano or Maiduguri for bread, I’m indirectly signing off my life- to be spared or wasted on the sacrificial altars of Northern Religious fanaticism. But if I stay here, in Uyo, I will have given myself some right to freedom of worship and expression.

It simply means that here in the South, though I might be arrested and arraigned for some inciteful speech or royal “pet-naming”, I still have a chance to appear in court and beg “not guilty” for my preposterous crimes; than I would’ve found myself beaten into pulp and burnt beyond recognition for either eating “my own Ewa” on a fast-day or reading my Bible along the streets or “blaspheming a holy name” in Northern Nigeria. In those parts there are no mercies for US infidels and no voice from the government against THEM. It then becomes them against us.

So, wisdom spells- for a common- Southern- Christian- Ibibio- man like me to stay confined to this liberal and highly oppressed Southern parts of our vast “one Nigeria”.

This preposition of mine cannot stay alight- as a flailing flame ignited under the winds of the social media philosophers and “obomo-nkukus” that abound here. My shadowy ramblings cannot stand under the shades of their strong reason and logic.
It truly does not make sense; but whatever other thing does makes sense, especially in Our Nigeria of today?
Nothing!

So my fools wisdom remains the only wisdom I would prescribe for any Southerner who is still out there.

“Come home, to where you are safe, before this bloodied contraption of a country finally implodes.

Amen

The Nigerians That Defy Stereotypical Definitions

THE NIGERIANS THAT DEFY STEREOTYPICAL DEFINITIONS

If anybody knows me- and wishes to know more- such person will agree that I am always at odds with a character consistency that could spell me in Black and White.

I am bubbly, talkative and aloof today; I am quiet, calculative and humble tomorrow.

I love classy things at one time and I'm pulled to the totems that lie stripped of all glamour, the next minute.

But in all, I am down to earth- whatsoever that means.

I am a Nigerian...
and if any earthling exists, that has never heard of my beloved country or met my beloved people; if such person(s) could see me walk, hear me talk or feel me swag- about, he would instantly be informed in the ways and customs of being Nigerian.

I love to travel a lot too- for we, as Nigerians have been stricken with a perpetual itch, so as not to be caught sitting in one place for too long. Infact, our country together with us are loaded into one psychological ship that is sailing down, southerly towards the tumultuous seas of Dementia.
I do not take it kindly with anyone that calls us "mad", no matter how true it might be, that we are actually "very mad".

Now, here is a story...
By this same time last year, the "traveling- itch" had plagued me so strongly that I was pedaling hard in a BMW 3 Series, 2008 Model from Uyo- in the cool of morning, to Ijebu-Jesha- in the pitch of night.
My purpose: I was going to Holiday with a bosom friend who hails from Ijebu in Osun but lives with me in Uyo, Akwa Ibom State. It was in the eve of Sallah and I had already been told he came from a very devout Moslem family.
As a travel- addicted Nigerian, I couldn't let my guards down. Infact suspicion was up and prowling, round and about me.
Alas, I was very disappointed and ashamed for putting up such a discernible front of cautiousness after I was duly introduced to his big family.

There in Ijebu, true as it were that my friend was from a core Moslem family; I was received and treated so warmly that I became a member of the family without even knowing.

We ate and drank together. I even slept in the same bed with one of his many brothers.
Whenever Alhaja- his aged mother- came to wake us up in the morning; I will be allowed to pray to my Christian God and the Jesus- which I didn't know, but was taught by my parents to pray to- while the other members of the family went out to perform their ablutions and observe a holy Juma't to Allah.
They were a peaceful and lovable family. We visited and bathed at the high waterfalls in Erin-jesha together, drank up-wine from calabashs and laughed at the fallout of culture that accompanied each other's wake, more especially mine which came from a different cultural strata from theirs.
Three weeks had passed by. Their hospitality and warmth had made me loose the count of time. By the time we packed up again and I zoomed off towards Uyo, I had established a great confederate of Muslim friends who could call me at anytime of the day, confide in me and gist over the phone till date.

I had also learnt one other thing; that some Nigerians are not really like Nigerians. Most Nigerians cannot be defined by the religious fanaticism and aparthy that has become a quack- mire stricking our collective sensibilities and shapening us into a cannibalistic bunch of religious fools.

The Ijebu- Moslem family I spent my holiday with were not Nigerian like that. They knew what religious and cultural tolerance meant without being preached to. They accepted me, understanding that their own brother felt comfortable with me accompanying him. They knew that their brother lived in my own parts and that I owed him same hospitality.

These are the kinds of Nigerians that cannot be told by stereotypical stories or whose characters cannot not be defined by collective religious or cultural idiosyncrasies. They know that we are all the same beneath the cloak of tribe and other persuasions. They know that when our coloured skins and cultured mind's fall apart, that what is left of us is an indistinguishable toll of white bones that tell neither tribe nor religion.

These are a different breed of Nigerians. They cannot be spotted for being Yoruba or Moslem. To them, Allah was a prophet who sent love to humanity in the form of Godly worship. They know that other prophets- like the Christ I was indoctrinated to pray to- existed and had equal followers and demanded equal worship. They know that the pride of being Nigerian exceeds the lure to be fanatical.

This Ijebu family spoke Yoruba and taught me few of it. But they also spoke the universal language that was understood across all tribes and tongues: the language of Love, Brotherliness and Service to Humanity.
These are the kinds of Nigerians we do not easily come by in the Maiduguri, Kano and Zamfara areas of the North today; the ones that we really need but who are paradoxically very scarce to meet.

These are the Nigerians I'll commute a thousand Kilometers across numerous seas to be with.

These ones make the Nigeria of my dreams.

©Poet Anny Razon-Justin,
August, 2016

EVEN ZUKERBERG KNOWS NIGERIANS ARE HAPPY PEOPLE

You'll have to adopt my imagination to see the image painted to the world in this picture.
"Nigerians are a bunch of talented, ambitious and lovable people".
O Yes!, we are happy and the world should know that.

Right now, Mark Zuckerberg is feeling that and also when he flies across the Atlantic on his way home, he will look down at the green landscape and say "what a nice set of complex people.

But we are even more complicated than that.
Let me engage your imaginations. Imagine the funny Basketmouth heard just last night, while hanging out with some classy dudes in a bar at Lekki- that Mr Zukerville is in town. So he calls RMD- who has been in Lagos since the weekend, and is still around cos he couldn't fly back to Delta since Aero Contractors are packing and his flight has been grounded- to ask if he'll do the red-carpet at Mark's presence today. RMD  obliges and 'whatsapps' Rita Dominic; Rita sends a facebook message to Yemi Alade and Yemi pings Toolz. Next thing you know, half the celebrities in Lagos gather for a picture session with Mark. Yes, we peddle rumours like that.
Thank God nobody told Funke Akindele otherwise the whole of Lagos would have been on the footage, together with her self- owned 'accent'.

So before Mark could sweat-out from his morning jog; cameras are clicking, smiles are being torn out of closets with tux and jackets, conversations are being thrown- like boxing jabs at each other and shakes are offered and taken with manicured hand- wringing. Yes we are hospitable like that.

***
But wait, where are all the #BringBackOurGirls, #Buhari'sChange's_ChangingUs, #Pet_naming, #freeNnamdi_Kanu, #IPOB, #NDA, #stop_FulaniHerdsmen and all other hashtags that we haggle about?
It seems like our pains are habiliments easily forgotten in moments of celebration.
Even the feminists that come here to rant on a lopsided feminism- not that I have any problem with feminism, just that I hate it lopsided- all bundle their lots into their vats and bins and hit the road for a shot with Zukerberg.

At the end, Zukerberg will finish his business, hit some tush places in Lagos, shake more hands and then head home with the notion that 'Nigerians are very happy people'.

Then the celebrities will hurry back to their businesses; Yemi will land a fresh club-banger, BasketMouth will learn a few new tricks at comedy and the rest of the 'wailing- wailers' will tear of their pretentious wide smiles, go back into their rustic closets and spread their cloaks of mysery and whinings everywhere.

Back to project 'hashtag' on facebook and twitter, Buhari's saga, Fulani herdsmen and the blame game.
***
Why do we not mobilize a good protest with placards and mass presence to tell the world our problems through the ever expanding and influential social presence of Zukerberg.

Maybe it's because it's only in Nigeria that adages like 'you shouldn't wash your dirty linen in public' is sung.
Or maybe we are stricken with a surface cheerfulness that vaporize as soon as our visitors and guests hit the road.

Or what do I know.

We are Nigerians just like that

©Poet Anny-Razon Justin,
August, 2016.

THE 13 VERSES OF JULY (A Poetic Memior for Wole Soyinka)

I.)
Tell us who he is not
For who he is- we already know:
Of plays and letters
The Poet, the laureate;
The great Chief Baroka
Ake and the Black Orpheus.
*

II.)
Tell not of confinements nor trials
Of brother Jero:
Lagos '67 or Kaduna '79
We are prisoners too- in our homes
Prisoners of Conscience-
In the confines of our hearts.
**

III.)
We bear tales of his olden deeds
So, tell of what he will do next
A dog at sea;
The master of a sail
A dogged sea-master with full sail
Tell of new chants for the "ahoy!" is old.
***

IV.)
We've read of the fracas of '72
So speak of fresh fights
Of unsung hymns forever stuck
In sallies, yhoos and brew- sessions.
Of strands of wisdom on his pate
The wool of age and grace.
****

V.)
Are there neo-cultural transitions?
Tell it to us now
Africanism or "nostalgic Negritude"
Even Idanre on the roads
"A tiger doesn't proclaim its tigritude"
An Abiku is known by its many scar-marks
*****

VI.)
Tell of our Royal Bard
Accursed by Mother's fleeting masters.
The crooks inside Khakis or
Thieves wallowing in agbadas
Speak of endemic battles and penance
For a broadcast of the real thing.
******

VII.)
A story for trips and decisions
To own or not, to claim or never;
To stand up and fight or
Sit still in chains,
A cozy flight in space or
Atop bikes via the NADECO route.
*******

VIII.)

There is reason beyond reasons

To preserve the voice- in war

That says of tomorrow, today.

That chides Mother before she implodes.

This story of trips and reasons

Must be told to us all now.
******

IX.)
Say of names and titles
Even the ones we mayn't know
Wande, Oloye, Kongi.
Cap'n Blood of Tortuga.
And names he shall be called
When we're no more here.
*****

X.)
A tale of love and family
Oluwole! The seasonal lover.
Husband of Barbara, Olaide and Folake
A husband, one too many; yet...
Husband of none
A mentor to many- even the unknowns.
****

XI.)
We are familiar with his life trials
So tell of what he'll become
Haunter of death
Martyr of no religion
Eternal bard, whose wings await sanctification at the crack of dawn.
***

XII.)
It's a story of fools wisdom
To observe memorials with canons
Of those we once persecuted.
Our Christs keep coming in cycles
To be made saint in their absence.
So too, does our Abikus.
**

XIII.)
So, let's forget tunes of the dirges
And suspend elegies for tomorrow
Tell us of Wole while he's waiting
Roaming free, speaking jargons
Sing his warrior songs to my ear
So I can teach them to my heirs.
*

©Poet Razon-Anny,
July, 2016

The Valentin's Day Cycle

***

http://southernibid.wordpress.com

THE VALENTINE’S DAY CYCLE

First thing on 14th February, every year – on Whatsapp, BBM, facebook and Twitter – guys will post display pictures of ladies different from the ones they posted on the same date, the previous year and which they do not intend to post next year.
Later in the day, the real versions of these photo-shopped display pictures – ladies with real pimples and creases – will be taken out to where there is much fun fare. They will be made to drink a little too much. The aim is to get them drunk.

The music must be loud; sex must ooze carelessly. It may be shrouded in subtlety, in the red blotches of colour splashed here and there. It may be more pronounced: drooling over chitchat with the liquor cascading down tall wine glasses. The ladies will warm to the couquettry. They came prepared and ready. They had carefully chosen their dresses. Short and flimsy gowns, long bare legs mounted on glossy and mountainous heels. It must look all perfect.

Lost in the deep sonorous rhythm of romantic music, the guys will utter sweet nonsense and coo in their ladies ears. Smiles, laughter, winks.

In the end, the staggering ladies will be taken home. They will be bonked. They will be banged hard.

Between February 14th and a few months – depending on how dexterous temperaments are – hearts will have been broken. In between these dates, abortions will be contemplated and conducted in secrecy. Abortion doctors will smile to the bank. The price of butchered and mangled fetuses will be used to show some love and care. It could even be used to repair homes; let’s say these doctors use these monies to buy new cars for their wives. Would sour relationships not be warmed?
Or they could be used to foster faith and improve man's search for God. Let's assume doctor tucks neat wads into an envelope and drops them in the church tithe box. Is this not an act towards piety?
I’ve always respected abortion doctors. They enjoy a contorted ride with conscience. A very bucky and wild one at that
***
Back to the ladies!
Those with feeble hearts and aching backs; whose minds cannot stand some bloodied forceps or whose backs can not lie still for ten minutes on operating tables or whose quaking legs cannot spread open further for the currete to make an entry will have to endure a nine-months adventure of nauseas, melancholy and such omens. By mid November, or first week of December – for those that would have had extended pregnancies – beautiful babies will have been birthed. Babies whose fathers aren’t responsible enough to give thoughts over their parenting.
November must have the highest number of birthdays. Check it out.

The lover- babe’s turned mother’s experience a closed chapter; afterall, few will ever be able to pick up the pieces of their lives and assemble them together. It’s a tough thing to do, especially when you’ve got a baby on your back. To them, St. Valentine left a sour after-taste in their mouths. Pine mouth, teeth sensitivities; something akin to eating too much unripe pineapples, sour-soup or pine nuts. These feelings are regurgitated when they look at these babies.
Some may get lucky. God and man could lure the men of St. Valentines’ Day into the stables of a shabbily planned marriage. Pray it works, or you might bear the name ‘My Baby Mamma’ forever.
***
Back to the Ladies!
The lucky ones are those who had courage, money and timing to seek for an abortion. Timing matters, for it makes the difference between taking a pill or lying on the cold steel table. If you confuse the timing- and let the second trimester roll by; your fate is relegated to coffin sellers and grave diggers. They shall decide where you’ll be buried, at the backyard or a commercial cemetery.
***
Back to the Lucky ones!
Those who had courage, money and timing to seek for an abortion. They are very lucky that their complains about heartbreaks from March to December do not faze them. It is apparent that they are heartbroken. It will even be spelt on their profile messages over facebook, twitter, BBM and whatsapp; after all that’s where it all started.
These things will persist from March to December. That’s a short while for mourning, since they shall find love again by January and get ready to celebrate Valentine by 14th February, the next year.
The cycle circles till those that are lucky this year- becomes too feeble minded or too terrified of repeating abortions and concede to the ways of the unlucky. Birthing father-less babies. Not that these babies were conceived by the holy spirit. Just that these men run wild with the free spirit.
February 14th remains a fresh beginning for these cycles.
We cannot stop it. Love must be celebrated, on Valentine’s Day.

©Anny Justin,
Valentine’s Day, 2016

The Miracle Peddler

******************************
2:30 p.m, tuesday and the expected call just came through. Being the last week of the month, Pastor Kay was coming into Uyo from Port Harcourt and that was good news. Here was another chance to hustle him, have fun and rake some cool dough in at the end of the week; a chance Valentine wouldn't miss for anything in the world.

These dealings are not supposed to be expressly discussed over the phone, so whenever pastor's PA, the burly Matt calls, painstakingly elucidating what the pastor's visit to Uyo meant- as if he had not always been the contact man- and what he needed to do, Valentine usually felt a surge of anger course through him. He was not a numskull and hated being treated like one. He knew his schedules.

First, he had to book for accommodation in a hotel different from the one used the last time. Pastor Kay is a materialist. The accommodation had to be a first class suite. The two girls the pastor would spend thursday night with had been pre-arranged. Recently, it has not been as tough for Valentine to get girls for him as it used to be at the start. Pastor is always generous with his money and very suave with his fun; the university being a small community, these girls go back and spread the gossips.

"Valentine is a procurer for some rich and extravagant pastor with excellent bed skills. The pay is as good as the fun and 'good-ol' Val charges no commissions", they would tell others.

The result of this: fresh ones with swaying hips stalked him to lonely corners and begged for a chance- to be carried along- nowadays. For this particular racket, he choose to deal only with students of the prestigious University of Uyo. These ones are a- wee more sophisticated than their Polytechnic and College of Education counterparts. They needed the dough alright, yet they knew how to spread the fun. The tingly-diggly type of fun that made Pastor Kay erupt into elongated bellows of laughter. The type that made him ask for more.

Then, he'll have to call Nkasi, his lines-man from the Polytechnic, in Ikot Osurua and give directives. Nkasi will have pre-arranged between ten and fifteen students from the Polytechnic for the programme. They had to be different from the ones used the last time. Miracles need not be repeated. He will hire a bus and commute them to Angler's Hotels, where they will be lodged- thursday night- against the friday morning trip to PH.

***
5:30 p.m, thursday evening and Pastor was already in town. By 6:00 p.m he was sufficiently lodged in an exquisite hotel along F- Line in Ewet Housing Estate.
The two girls were ushered in by Val and as they flirted and giggled seductively, Pastor sitting on one side of the giant twin- bed, sized them up. He was the lion; they were his prey. Signals were sent and understood, looks were exchanged, hush-hush talk and Valentine was out of the suite in no time.

***
5:30 p.m, thursday evening and the sixteen-sitter Hiace bus was sufficiently boarded from Ikot Osurua to Uyo main town. By 6:00 p.m, the twelve students had been lodged- in pairs- at Angler's Hotels. 6:15 p.m and Valentine was driven into Angler's by pastor's driver. Valentine and Nkasi met, hush-hush talk and Valentine addressed the pack.
"Welcome, fellow Nigerian students. We are here on a purpose; while you eat free, drink free and make as much merry as you deem fit, remember that by tomorrow morning we shall be on our way to a church programme at Port Harcourt. There, we shall be told how to help our benefactor, all towards the success of his programme. If we shall do as we shall be directed- which I have no doubt, we will- then we should be smiling home on Sunday morning with good monies in our pockets. Enjoy your stay".

***

Dusk was fast approaching and preparations were in earnest. The students had arrived Port Harcourt in the early afternoon hours. They were taken to the church camping ground: a large warehouse-type building along Trans Amadi. Loud prayers were heard as they were being herded towards a hall behind the main building. There, Valentine had addressed them. He was not surprised when none of them expressed any sort of astonishment after he told them the secret behind their trip and explained what they had to do and how to do it well. He smiled to himself. Nkasi had done his job well. He had systematically told them of what business brought them there long before they set their feet on the church camping ground.

The big Pastor came in next, dressed in black suede pants, an exotic body- fitting leather jacket over a green paisley shirt. His tie was noosed in the half- Windsor style with a dimple at the bridge. His Italian shoes accentuated the looks more. He was a generous dresser. As he strode gingerly towards them, he began to mutter in strange tongues- the language of miracles- swaying this way and that. He hissed and suddenly screamed "receive it", whooping the air instantaneously towards the students pack. All but one fell down uncontrollably. The only one just stood there, his attention on the cell phone he had in his hands, as he typed away.

"O! Ye of little faith", Pastor Kay shouted as he pointed towards him. Then he walked briskly out.

Anointing oil was brought by someone- probably an assisting pastor- and rubbed on each of the fallen students forehead. They rose like zombies. It felt weird to observe the unnerving calm that came over them afterwards. The magic had already worked.

As the students regained vigor, they were divided into two groups of six each. A team of miracle tutors attended to one while make-up coaches attended to the others.

The miracle tutors told the one team how to receive healing for minor ailments like stomach ulcers, pile, non- ceasing migraines, movement around the body etc. and how to render great testimonies.

The coaches taught the other team how to limb as cripples, totter like the blind and whimper like the dumb. Roles where assigned, wheel-chairs, crutches, black googles and other such gadgets where brought; they were all dressed in disguise, with make ups- balms and caulk rubbed on supposedly blind eye-lids, dust rubbed on pretentious lame legs. The students filed out into the bus; they bus headed out towards the church- venue for the miracles that will transform them to their normal forms again.

***

It was 7:45 p.m and the massive church auditorium was already packed to capacity. Large crowds had occupied the whole church area. Buses loaded with miracle seekers turned in their numbers into the venue. Traffic gridlocks had no end as the only access road was on a lock down. One could hear passersby- in taxis and on feet- chattering about Pastor Kay's 'Night of a Thousand Miracles'. This was the last friday of the month. Tonight was the night.

The students alighted one after the other, each with their gadget, burdened with the diseases assigned to them.

By 8:30 p.m, the air was already tense and the people ready for miracles. Totems of devotion were sold by the walk ways. Holy water, anointing oil, crosses, handkerchiefs, good luck stickers, hand bands, Tee shirts dorned with 'Night of a Thousand Miracles' insignia, even special protection perfumes.

By the time the pastor started speaking in strange tongues- words that sounded like 'robo la robo, o' sala mala tu! Robo o! Jesu; teknon mele mele shaback tani'- the church had erupted into fierce prayers. This was really an atmosphere for miracles. Pastor Kay momentarily dipped his right hand into his coat pocket and produced a white handkerchief. With his left hand firmly clutching the microphone to his mouth, he booed deeply in eerie baritones, the effect booming over loudly over the speakers. Each boom was accompanied by a fling of the handkerchief and the resultant falling over of most members of the crowd. It looked like a strong wind, a tsunami worked through the crowd pushing down people as it swooshed pass. Miracles started happening.

The students waited turns, each screaming out loud over his healing. From different locations, each was taken to the altar to give his testimony and show the world what power of healing abounded in Pastor Kay's works. Other members of the crowd joined in. The lame walked; blind eyes were opened. Tithe and offering boxes were perpetually emptied and replaced as they quickly filled up again. 

The congregation praised and praised. Shouts rented the air in bits. The lone student stood away at a corner with his cell phone recording the events of the night. It was all so unbelievable how Pastor Kay could use twelve students to rent such a huge crowd.

***

7:00 a.m in the morning and the students were ready to commute back to Uyo. Wide smiles were perpetually plastered on the lips of most as they reeled in the events of the past night. Each had an experience in miracle peddling. The twenty thousand naira wads in their individual bags and pockets were proof that they partook of the miracle of healing. But one student stood out different from the others. He had been taking pictures before settling into the front seat of the bus. He was sober. He didn't engage in any conversation.

Before the bus rolled out of the camp ground, the big Pastor had sent for Valentine and Nkasi. In his small office, a fifty thousand naira bundle was given to each of them. Pastor Kay expressed his appreciation for the manner both procurers always stood by him to make his programme a success. Then, he had told them of some detractors; very wicked enemies who wanted to bring him down. At the end, he had warned them sternly not to board the bus. His driver would convey them back with one of his numerous SUVs.

When they emerged from the office, the pastor had walked to the bus. He stood by the rolling door, scanning faces.

"O! Ye of little faith. The son of man shall not be put to shame", he had exclaimed.
The bus drove out. One of Pastor Kay's SUV'S drove behind. The students were in the bus, Val and Nkasi were in the SUV.

***

"There was a mishap along East- West road this morning. Nobody knew exactly how it happened, but a bus filled with student coming back from a church programme in Port Harcourt skidded off the tarmac and ran into a tree in the nearby bushes. One student died on the spot, the others have been rushed to a nearby hospital. It is suspected that the driver must have dozed from exhaustion".

This was the news broadcast over the car stereo even as the driver drove the SUV into the hospital's parking lot that afternoon. Valentine and Nkasi rushed into the crowded OPD. They were led to the two wards holding the students. Few of them had sustained very minor injuries. Others were just suffering from shock.

Valentine had asked to see the dead student. He was taken to a separate section- a morgue. There he saw him- the same student that was typing away on his cell phone, the one that didn't fall when the Pastor wielded his powers- he lay there without physical injury. But he was dead.

***

It was about 3:00 p.m and the driver was racing the SUV back towards Port Harcourt. They had to reach the site of the accident and access it. Moreover, Valentine hoped to recover the personal effects of the victims. The sun was still hot when they located the bus in the bushes. The damage was not severe as told on the radio. Apart from the wind-screen which was shattered by an over hanging tree trunk, there were just few scratches on the body. They opened the doors and started searching for belongings. Bags and shoes lay tossed. Valentine went to the front passenger side and opened the door. There was a phone tugged at the fold between the seat and the back rest. Valentine took the phone and started scrolling through. He went to the picture folder and saw pictures of the Pastor in different poses of healing. There were also those of the other students being made-up for the programme.

Valentine was confused. He scrolled to the message folder and was shocked to read a string of smses sent to a certain number all about the pastor's pretentious healing.

Just then, revelations hit him. The one student sat on the front seat. He was the enemy pastor was referring to. He was the mole- the reason why Pastor Kay asked him and Nkasi not to board the bus back. Maybe he was a student- journalist who came on to expose the pastor's hyprocrisy.

Somehow, Pastor Kay knew about his real intentions...and killed him.

****************END****************

Things That Leave Scars

******************
Evelyn had her first experience yesterday. So today, when Besse visited- her smallish form propped up on a St. Luke's bed- she had peered into her mother's face- worry creases splayed up on her tender brows- and asked that same question Besse had asked her own mother, Evelyn's grand-mother, when she was barely eight, twenty-three years ago;
"Mommy, will it heal? Will there be a scar?".

Evelyn is almost four and her skin is still soft and supple; Besse is thirty one now and as she looked back at her daughter, gazing intently at the blistered part of her left cheek and neck, a scald caused by the hot water she accidentally splashed on herself, the mother began to doubt whether the daughter's face will truly heal without leaving a scar behind. The doctor had said it was a superficial second degree burn and assured her that Evelyn will heal within few weeks and that the scald will leave no permanent scar. The mother could only hope he was right and though she entertained doubts, she heard herself say:
"It will heal, dear and I'm sure you'll be as smooth and beautiful as you were before".

Usually, wounds do not heal out all smoothly, but her daughter's fears had to be allayed. Her hopes had to be affirmed. She needed to be told that a scald will not leave any scar on her. There are more responsibilities attached to these affirmation of hopes. Besse had to ensure that a second degree burn left no scar on her beautiful daughter's face, no matter the cost.

***

As Besse sat at the edge of her daughter's hospital bed, recollections and reminiscence washed over her like a shower of cold water. Goose- bumps followed on its wake as she remembered a story told to her by an acquaintance about a friend's daughter- a teenager- whose face was bathed with concentrated sulphuric acid as a result of hand-wrenchings and boy-friend struggles. Her assailant as well as the boyfriend she got maimed for had taken to flight immediately after. The story-teller had taken pains to describe the contorted amoebic boll that became the girl's face when she was eventually discharged from the hospice she had been rushed to. Her poor parents couldn't afford reconstructive surgery; so, thus went her beauty and ambitions. Acids too burn and leave scars; but all scars do not come from physical burns and scalds alone. Scars come from various other things.

Besse had scars too and it came neither from fire, water nor such things. Below her waist lay an orifice scar that came with an awakening at age eight, from the maiden circumcision- blade. She is one of the lucky ones who came out from the fattening rooms with a mere sore and ask her mother- Evelyn's grand-mother if it will heal and whether a scar will be left behind. She came out with an ever present obesity. Some others never came out to live normal lives. Their sores turned fistulas and thus, their womanhood ruined, they've been left to waste away in VVF hospitals- passing water and feaces from one big mutilated hole. From their generation, Besse and some few others are the ones that bear the scars of the incision. The unlucky ones have no scars- for their wounds never healed. So, she promised herself that Evelyn will never be scarified in such manner.

"If my daughter came with a full bouquet of roses, none of her petals shall be clipped. She shall come out to the world, proud of her fullness", Besse had sworn to herself. She also promised to absolve her daughter of other scars; more especially, the ones she could tell.

 ***

One cannot tell of all things that leave scars- the broken heart or the bullet wound- but Besse knew that memories leave scars too. Fond Memories are a blessing. Painful memories leave thick scars. In this again, She is a victim.

Before Evelyn came to be- a child who has never met her father- Besse had a man, a bed, sex, a couple of months in-between and a bulging tummy. In between these months, challenges popped up: nausea, a near- expired rent and ante-natals.

Then things started vanishing in reverse order- first, the sex, then the bed and finally the man. The man had to be found. Providing the bed or sex-as the doctor prescribed- to widen up the fetus' birth passage- was not paramount on her mind; Catering for her protruding tummy was. Eventually the son-of-a-bitch was traced to a home, at home with a wife and four kids. Besse packed in immediately. The wife had threatened fire and brimstone and on the seventh month of the pregnancy- a week before Evelyn was born- she had driven her threats home by beating the heavily pregnant Besse senseless. When Besse woke up on a bed in the labour ward of same St. Luke's with induced labour pains and no man besides her, she had resolved there was no point making her daughter meet a father who didn't care about her. She doesn't need to share the memories that scarifies her mother's heart- even when it involves the very delicate issue of concealing her paternity. Abandonment leaves scars. The memory of being abandoned- together with her daughter- by a man who was supposed to be there is the wound that left the biggest scar in her. These are Besse's memories- so she keeps them to herself. There are her scars, not her daughter's.

***

Scars come from painful memories. While Besse has been lucky not to wear the markings of abuse, the memories of rape or the cuts of child labour; she still imagines and knows how it would feel.

Scars are the coats spread over deep and painful emotional and psychological blisters. Some are mere coverings over wounds that will never really heal. Beneath them, lies festering sores which oozes beyond redemption. Deep oozing sores.

"The deeper the cut, the bigger the scar", it is often said.

Yet, humanity must learn to brush over and dust its scars. Let these scars be seen as beauty marks that make humans who they are- distinct individuals that have learned from various bitter experiences.

Be it those from hot water- like Evelyn's or acid-bathes; though it be in the hearts or on bosoms; let the pains that these scars bring be transformed into life lessons that can be taught to the world.

Let the stories told of them show the strengths that humans possess to heal the festering wounds that are hid beneath the scars.

N/B:

The deeper the cut, the bigger the scars.

Let's show the magnitude of our hurts by the sizes of our rebounds. Let's commit to make something beautiful out of ugly situations; so our wounds will heal us and the world we live in.

***************END***************

©Anny Justin,

January, 2016.

A Different Kind Of Heartbreak

**********
9:30 a.m, Saturday,
December, 19th, 2015.

St. Polycarp's Cathedral,
Lagos-Island.
*********

Rivulets of tears, in hot streaming gushes. These tears occasionally run loose-whenever Kendy hears the priest pronounce those words.

"What God has joined together, suffer none to put asunder"

Kendy's hot tears. They came again yesterday as he watched Pete exchange marital vows with his newly betrothed. They had finished reciting their vows, so they hugged briefly. The hug lasted longer than necessary and when they broke it off, it left diverse countenance behind. Pete's, as well as his spouse-to-be's glowered like an angel's while Kendy's face twitched like a fiery ball. The hugged more, she, literally melting into his chest. Her milky laced- satin gown clung to her body and drew every contour in picturesque forms. She must have looked beautiful, even glamorous to the eyes of those that saw beauty in women. She must have even been desirous- by Pete's new standards. Their eyes twinkled- her's and Pete's- the fire of desire burning brightly in their sockets. Kendy could tell the passion steaming between them. He was close- sitting on the front pews of the church- and he could swear he saw the heat waves radiating off them.

Their hug was compulsive too. Impulsive at first- till the yearning in Pete's frame beckoned and transformed his emotional needs to a dire compulsive instinct, to reach out- though they waited for the priest's command: a signal, a kind of whistle to be blown by the umpire of nuptial matters- and kiss.
***

Kendy recalled the day Pete told him he had kissed a woman and was getting married. It was hard to comprehend. It was even harder to believe. Kendy had never kissed a woman before. He didn't have the chance to. He had loved Pete- only him- from the boarding house of their boys secondary college through the university. They had shared hostel bunks and later, beds. The beds had been shared literally and in the deep sense of the word. Kendy had learnt to loved him completely- even now he was getting ready to kiss his bride.
***

The priest gave them go ahead and Kendy's heart jumped over a cliff. He wanted to look away. He wanted to break gaze, but couldn't. He looked on believing that seeing Pete kiss her might finally set him straight. Set him free from the love he felt for Pete.
He sighed briefly as they locked unto each other. Pete kissed her so passionately, his lips completely enveloping hers. Those lips had kissed mine too, Kendy thought. The kiss didn't last for a day or two; it spanned almost a decade. Those lips where no more mine to kiss. Kendy's tears flourished in their thickening rivulets till the lady, who sat beside him- the nicely smelling one that wore big dangling trinkets and loud coloured heels- whose attempts at couquettry had not caught his fancy till that moment, reached out, took his hand, squeezing his palm lightly and muttered between sobs: "Don't cry, baby. Your time will come. Soon". Kendy looked at her, shook his head and smiled slightly. She didn't understand. There was his man- his lover of many years- kissing a woman and here he was longing for him. Here he was wishing he could stop the matrimonial service and remind Pete of what a waste of affection women were. He wanted to remind him of all the times they spent together. All the persecutions and stigma they suffered through college and university. He wanted to remind him of the joy they had felt when the US pronounced the LGBT law- and the hope they had that Nigeria might soon follow. Yet, he couldn't- even then, some moments back, when the priest had asked anybody who had anything against the union to say now, or remain silent forever. Kendy had remained silent.
***

He momentarily looked back at the lady by his side and asked coyly after her name. "Call me Betty", she had answered effeminately, hoping to please me. She was trendy by any fashion standard, yet Kendy was repulsed. Female couquettry didn't appeal to him; But, he had to pretend. It was clear she hoped to warm his heart into craving that brief moment, even beyond the wedding service.
***

Maybe he had to warmed up to a woman, for Pete was no more his. Pete had changed; he was very comfortable kissing a woman, even infront of him.

Kendy wiped the tears away. He had to effect a change too, for homosexuality had lost its taste in him. He had to get married soon, he thought as he squeezed back on the lady's palms and dragged her out.

**************END*********

©Poet Razon-Anny Justin.