AMADIOHA - FICTION

The sky grumbled and suddenly, there was a cover of thick dark clouds; as if the heavenly pots had been brewing some broth of wrath of some sort.

I felt a stinging unease as my eyes fell from the thickening clouds to the lady who had her neck in a fast-tightening noose: The flesh of her neck was beginning to swell around the knot, and veins popped up on her forehead.

It was in the moment she screamed "may Amadioha have your heads" that the sky started roiling.

I looked up now, lightening had begun to sear the clouds that had gathered. Looked down again, to the woman, tears and mucus dripping down her lips to her chin to her half-bare chest. Her face, livid now, and swollen.

I heard she had been accused of practicing witchcraft - 'Hey! Amusu!' I heard a scraggy looking fellow scream.

'Gbuo nie!' - Kill her - one hunched-up, cane wielding old lady interjected.

Suddenly, there was raucous chanting: kill her! hang her! hang her!

I stood there, wanting to move, wanting to say something but the sheer size of the crowd halted any progress.

I couldn't fathom how a young lady this svelte and so pretty could be a witch. Unacceptable by me. I knew this was just prejudice at work, total ignorance.

Just as I was reeling through my thoughts, some boy beside me, who claimed he had been there when it all began started to narrate how the lady, who was a renowned herbalist, who was so revered because of her prowess in knowing the right herbal mix for whatever problem; how fellow herbalist in all of Ebununze kingdom were envious of her because her potions were preferred even by people from the neighboring kingdoms; how she had sold a potion to a peasant who had
promised to pay in installments.

He went on to say that the peasant had refused to pay what was remaining of the debt he owed and had ran out of his hut screaming "come and help me o! People of Ebununze kingdom, come to my rescue o, this witch is after my life. Shes an Amusu, she has killed many and now she has come for me."

The boy who told the story went on to state how all the mix-up had been a set up by the lady-herbalist's rivals who wanted her dead and buried for being so revered and powerful. He also said the herbalists had gone on to plant body parts of children they had kidnapped and killed in the lady-herbalist's hut after she had left to confront the peasant for the debt he owed.

They used it as evidence to prove that surely, she did practice the craft. They needed to convince the people. So, when the rantings from the peasant started, they were the first to drag the lady-herbalist to her hut, along with the crowd. They searched and found the body parts, and that nailed her - they thought - for good.

And, just like that, like a flash, within seconds, she had been surrounded, bundled and tied up in a noose, left to hang. Sweat dripping, noose fastening; the noose had been tied from the branch of an old iroko tree that had pieces of red, yellow and black garments tied around its trunk. Legend has it that the tree has been around for the past two hundred and fifty years, ancestors had conducted unsightly rituals at the foot of this great tree.

The log she stood on had been carefully placed on a portion of the earth which was quick sand, and the log was slowly sinking.

The sky grumbled again, lightening seared the thick cloud once more. I flinched. Everyone did in accordance.

I looked at the lady again, and moved in, tearing through the crowd and busted out right in front of them.

I was about to open my mouth in protest when the lightening which was usually tearing through the clouds, struck a zigzag blow on the ground, right behind me. I felt the heat. I squinted and crouched in fright, as did everyone. I thought I had been hit.

There was a gasp in unison as the crowd that had gathered to watch this execution rose from their haunches, gently, their eyes stayed fixed behind me, befuddled at something. I turned slowly to where their gaze was and could not believe my eyes.

I jolted and scurried straight back to where I had come from, stood right behind the crowd and watched on in amazement.

I heard murmurs: 'Nne, okwa amadioha' - mama, its amadioha, a young girl was talking to her mother.

There was brouhaha, scuttling here and scampering there: the crowd dispersed quicker than it had gathered. I stood there, empty, void of wit. Fear gripped me, my eyes opened wide, I was trembling.

The entity that seemed to have landed with the last lightening stood there, half naked, except for a ragged draping tied over his crotch. He stood, legs ajar, body flaming, hot red flame. Skin was a blood red and callous-looking. Its eye sockets were empty, an abyssal hollow, but flamed an even redder, fiery flame. A body well sculpted with finely cut muscles: thigh muscles the size of a full tuber of yam looked taut on his legs. Biceps, triceps, stomach and chest muscles looked turgid. He was a man mountain. And he kept a steady and a rather angry-looking grin to reveal a set of razor-sharp zigzag dentition.

In his hands were two small axes; the flame on the axes were different. It flamed white, the color of lightening.

He, or was it It, stood there, like a god of some sort, gaze fixed on me. Then it moved its head, eyes away from me, looking beside me; I had not noticed that every one had scampered, leaving just me and the peasant who had accused the lady of the practice of witchcraft.

In a swift move, the entity stretched both axes towards the peasant and a strike of lightening descended on the peasant, flinging him yards across the open space left by the fleeing crowd.

The man writhed a little bit and stopped. He lay there, still, empty of life; in that instant, I had no doubt, anymore, whatsoever, that Amadioha - the god of thunder, whom I only heard of in folk tales - had heard the lady-herbalist's cry and came alive, and descended upon us.

In the same swift motion, It sent a bolt to the noose around her neck and it broke free. The lady-herbalist fell, thud!, on the hard ground, barely dodging the portion of quick sand. She picked herself up and hurried away, screaming "THANK YOU AMADIOHA, THANK YOU!"

It turned on me, drove a hard, biting stare with its hollow eye sockets through my eyes, and said, "you're clean. You may go." His voice thundered, and the ground shook. "I shall seek out the rest of them. Justice has come." It said.

Suddenly, haze clouded my vision, the ground was moving, I could barely breathe. Then the ground was nearing my face. I swooned.

I cannot say, for sure, how long I had been asleep, but I was grateful I didn't wake up in Ebununze kingdom, where a series of event brought Amadioha to life.

I could deduce that from the empty bags of dextrose-saline drip that hung on the stand, and the one bag that still had content trickling into my vein, the fever had made me convulse and knocked me out for hours.

I opened my eyes to see a face that looked like the lady-herbalist in my dream - it was the nurse, and she asked how I was feeling.

She dabbed my forehead and let out a sigh before she said that my fever had finally broken.

Malaria is a bad thing.

MOONLIT SERENITY - A SHORT POETRY

The hours after the Sun faded has been long:

The strings are drawn, and the celestial frame holds the moons new crescent

in centrality among the stars, on a cold night sky.

The dense lush just beneath, at the foot of this hill, are rustling,

and their branches swaying, as the night breeze blows past them.


Swaying, as if dancing to the sound of Surugede - the drum beats of the forest spirits.

And as I sit here, slowly blinking, trying to resist the tempt of sleep afore me,

I know it is going to be another long night without you.

But let my heart ride the wind to find you,

And cloak you with my unyielding love.

GOLDEN RAYS AND SLEEPING BEAUTY

The birds chirp; they sing the sun to a rise.
Golden rays tearing through mist in the early morn; throwing off a spectrum from curvy prisms of Dew drops on flower petals.
Morning glory, white roses and red, and mosses that grow on tree backs:
The air is dense with the fragrance of vanilla.
Sweet scent of a damp morning warping my nostrils:
And I wondered; could this be how beauty blooms?
In the sun rise. Carried on scents of flowers. Sang by the birds.
Yes, this is how beauty blooms.

Fire flies light up the fields. The crickets squeak their mates to a welcome. They mate.
The breeze is light. The grasses sway, dancing to the silent drum beats the oceans bring.
The squirrels scamper.
The owls take flight.
The other animals don't know night:
They snore on.
And I wondered; could this be how beauty sleeps?
With ocean blowing her a lullaby.
The grasses swaying in worship to the ocean.
The fireflies bringing light to her fields of green,
and the moon taking the place of the sun.
Yes, this is how beauty sleeps.

BOYS TO MEN - A SHORT STORY

I scampered over puddles, walked to the road and stood by the wayside. The parasol I was holding could barely shield me from the downpour, but the sound from the rain's thumping on the umbrella was rhythmical, imitating drum-beats from a piece of soul music. It reminded me of the soothing tempo from the 'Boys II men' songs I once played on my radio-cassette player on a day like this; a day when the rain would be thundering
on the roof top of my single room, self-contained apartment, lightning tearing through the dark clouds that shrouded the sky. Ekaette, my girl, would coil her self up in a ball, by my side, in bed. I thought of the times when my hand would move gently and drop itself, as if by some form of sorcery, on her protruding buttocks. I'd squeeze the succulent mass, and her body would move in accordance, actuating closer to me as if to say: Take me! I'd fondle, kiss and suckle her until we'd lay naked together, breathing heavily, and a tad exhausted from the sweet sex that had ensued; Ekaette's chest heaving from a shortage of breath, breasts vibrating. Me: Sprawled, and bedraggled

I stood in the rain, hands quivering intermittently, but I was able to clasp tightly around the umbrella's handle. My shoes and khaki pants were soaked-up to my knees from the rushing water in which I stood. I had just picked up the items required for fixing my 1998 BMW five - series car from a vendor along Bedwell street, and stood there waiting for the next taxi cab to arrive.

After what seemed like an eternity, I finally spotted, from the corner of my eyes, an old Volkswagen Jetta car speeding towards me. I gestured and it skidded to a stop.

'You go carry me for drop?' I asked the driver in broken English.

'Where?'

'Marian road.'

'Enter make we go, Oga na five hundred naira.'

I could not possibly pit a bargaining conversation with this man: my clothes were half -soaked by the rain, the cold that came with it had started getting through my shirt and on to my skin, I was shivering. I threw the items in on the back seat and jumped in with it.

At first, I did not notice her. But it was the beige jacket with thin black lapels that caught my eyes. When I turned to look at her I noticed she wore a black skimpy skirt, a pair of beige-colored ballerina flats, and the stretch of her legs which were uncovered shimmered just like a gold bar beneath sunlight. I gulped saliva, finally raised my eyes to behold a face I thought was the description of Athena - one of those Greek goddesses mentioned in the old Greek myth books I used to read as a child. She was, ravishingly, a thing of utter words-can't-describe beauty.

'Hi!' I managed to say to my copassanger, and with a voice that sounded as if laced with honey, the girl replied, 'Hi'.

'A rainy day it is.' I was frantically searching for a conversation starter. It was as if my larynx had varnished at the sight of the bundle of gorgeousness heaped beside me in the taxi cab. Breathing became hard, my heart raced, and the quivering surged to great heights.

'Yes, it is,' she replied. My heart leaped. We both fell silent. It was deafening. The world shut out, I couldn't hear anything. I felt nothing except the aura of sheer beauty.

The driver changed gears and the car started moving. It came to an abrupt stop shortly afterwards. The driver had stepped on the brakes to avoid running over some school children who had rushed on to the street.
'See all these devil children' , the driver said, as he was forced to fiddle with his gear lever and the car started off, again.

'They always blame the devil for their carelessness,' I said in a whisper to the girl.
She turned and looked at me with a smirk on her face. I died a million deaths. I had just been thrown out from heaven and the gates shut, leaving me out in the cold. She turned to the driver and said 'driver please stop here,' forcing the car to another abrupt stop. 'This is my destination.'

She opened the door, winced, and shut it as soon as she did. The rain was pouring heavily and she couldn't disembark from the vehicle. I noticed and offered my umbrella. She shrugged, but took the umbrella anyway. She agreed to give me her phone number, and I assured that I would give her a call once the rain stopped.

'I'll come pick it up later,' I said. I watched her leave the taxi, her wide hips swaying as she walked across the street. I caught the driver's stare from his rear-view mirror, he looked away abruptly.

By the time I had dropped the parts I bought with the repairman and got home, I was heavily beaten by the rain. I stood drenched at the doorstep of my apartment, soaked and dripping, my clothes all but stuck to my skin. I fiddled with the bunch of keys in my hands and finally unlocked the door with the right key.
I was shivering. My temperature had dramatically risen too, and my head was now pounding from an all too familiar headache.
A certain fear gripped me. I know this fear, it knows me. This fear.
A fear that began years ago when Ekaette's fever didn't break after the birth of our son.

We hadn't been married, Ekaette and I, but she became pregnant with a child. My seed.
In the first month of her pregnancy, I was skeptical about her keeping the child. I did agree to it later on, after much contemplation. We did have our fights and quarrels, though, I manned-up and agreed to have it born.
Both of us were students, but I had a small business I oversaw; I was able to start and keep the business running from the little pocket money I got from my parents.

It was a small restaurant which was attached to an even smaller beverage store. I squeezed everything I could, leaving just about enough space for customers to sit, eat and drink. Ekaette was helpful, doing some of the cooking and often going to the local market, buying beverages at cheap rates to replace whatever had been sold in the store. That was the thing about Ekaette: beauty with a lot of energy for hard work.
Through it all, we managed to find a way to shuffle between running this small business empire and attending lectures in school.

My consenting to Ekaette having a child for me didn't come without consequences: My father, Ugogbuzue, was the Igwe - king - of our village(Ebunuland), a highly revered position. I was his first son, the crowned prince and heir to the throne. By custom and tradition, I was forbidden to marry any woman outside the sphere of our village.

When news broke that I lived with an Efik girl in my apartment - which was off campus -and had eventually gotten her pregnant, Ugogbuzue summoned me, demanded that I make the six-hour journey back to the village at once.
When I sat with him, he started out in parables, saying things like 'okirikiri ka ana gba ukwu ose, anaghi a ri ya enu,' - you pick pepper by going round the pepper shrub; you do not climb it.
I could already sense the heavy loathe sitting deep in my father's innards, blaming my mother, Aku, for being so shielding and overly protective of her children.

Ugogbuzue warned that I go back to see that Ekaette's pregnancy is aborted, and that I desist from ever seeing her. What I said next made him shudder, the creases that formed on his face when he frowned looked like lightening bolts on stormy days.

'I will never do that, Papa,' I said. He looked at me hard and scornfully, then rose and left me in his Obi. I was befuddled. A man renowned for his rigidity, an unyielding beholder of culture and tradition, and morals, had turned his back on me and went into his inner chambers. He left me without saying a word. Of course he knew what I was walking into and, just like Pontius Pilate, he had washed his hands off the situation. The brunt was mine to bear.

Later that evening, while I lay in bed, staring hard at the ceiling for answers, pondering, Ada, my sister, would come up to my room, tried to talk me into doing what Papa had told me to do. When I remained adamant, and told her that I had no intention of going back on my decision, she said I shouldn't bring shame to the family name, and most of all, to the throne.

Early the next morning, I set out for my journey back to school. On the long drive back, I kept thinking; I'm barely twenty one, still heavily depended on my parents for support, still lived in their house. The business didn't promise much; just churned up enough profit to pay for text books, and help in course registrations. How was I going to cope with the undulating, pothole-filled narrow dirt road I had set out to walk. Yet, I was unrelenting in my decision. Unyielding. I would later struggle with life, existence and living.

Three months into the pregnancy, Ekaette registered at the General Hospital for antenatal care. At the antenatal clinic, procedures included a laboratory test to be done on the mother. The result came, and revealed that Ekaette had HIV.

Ekaette blatantly rebuked the laboratory test result. Cussed the nurses and doctors, and absconded. She stopped visiting for her antenatal clinics. Then the fear. Fear that I, too, might be infected gripped me. Fear of stigma and mockery. A silly fear. I took a stance, supported Ekaette for scuttling away from the General hospital. Agreed with her that the test result was not hers, that the nurses might have miss marched the papers.

We arranged for a mid-wife who would care for Ekaette until the day of delivery. Later, Ekaette would give birth to a boy amidst her battles with an unceasing fever. I saw her give off a weak smile as I rocked the boy gently in my arms. She lay gaunt on the delivery table, life escaping her once thick frame. Ekaette died one week later leaving me to groom our son alone.

Ekaette was gone, but she left traces of her last days with me. The baby suffered a series of incessant illnesses. The condition forced me to rethink my earlier stance of not heeding to a laboratory test, or even going to the hospital to have my son treated.

One day, my son, whom I had christened Tyler, convulsed due to a high fever. It was my mother, who had come to see me from the village, that alerted me with loud, crackling shrieks. I ran in from the opposite room where I was studying to find Tyler fixated in his cot, eyes a clear white, he was gasping for breath, froth exuded from the corner of his lips. I picked him up in a flash, returned to the hospital where Ekaette had registered for antenatal clinics. I met with a doctor and with a constant flow of tears, I narrated what had happened. I had no option, I no longer feared stigma. I just wanted to save my son's life. She assured me that everything would be fine. 

I agreed to a test to be done on me, and my son, too. It turned out that the boy had become infected with HIV at birth but, I, magically, tested negative. I broke down into more sobs, heavily wailing as the doctor explained to me that it was possible I had a stronger immune system that could've prevented me from getting infected.

After the initial phase of treatments, anti retro-viral drugs were issued for Tyler, along with food supplements.
I, in a mix of bewilderment and despair, silently cursed the heavens, asking why they had not bestowed Ekaette or the child with the same immunity I possessed. While in a taxi, on our way home, MLTR's 'Someday' came up on the car stereo. The local FM station was running a special request program and the song was being played to fulfill a request from a widowed school teacher. Listening to the lyrics, my eyes teared heavily.

Now, standing in my apartment's foyer, pulling off my rain-soaked clothes with much difficulty, I thought of my son, Tyler, who was now ten years old now, and living with mama in Ebunuland. He has a face that bears much of Ekaette's features, or could it be that I saw more of her face on him.

My mind raced back; flashes of how Ekaette had struggled with breathing and finally gave up life appeared. I thought of the fear and grogginess that struck me as they rolled away her body, how I wanted to jump in with her casket as it was being lowered in the grave.

I'm thinking, now, of the girl who had been in the taxi with me earlier today, who had given her name as Aisha. I picked up my phone and dialed a number. The voice on the other end of the line was hoarse:

'Hello!' Dr. Stan said. 'Obi. How are you?'

'Its the fever again,' I replied. 'I'm coming over for my monthly check - up.'

I MADE LOVE TO MY MUSE - 18+

So, this one here is for adults, 18 years and above.

I wrote this on a cold day. Trust me, if you're not up to 18, desist from reading this one.

THE PEN-VAG EROTICA

Cuddly, my lady feels.
Cuddle her, I must.
I'm aroused, nipples stiffen, penis swelling:
My shaft begins to harden between her butt cleavage,
Thumping; the very heart beat of a swelling cock.
Her back, wide and arid, pressed against my chest.
But I squeeze, gently, the fullness of her chest, the mounts of luscious-ness, soft, succulent, I'm taken,
As I circle her areola with my index finger.
I Suckle her nipples. She heaves a whispered sigh.
I harden, even more, erect, stiff, waiting on her to moist-up that pit smeared with honey.
I can taste my breath
It's a blend of whiskey and tobacco.
I taste her saliva, I'm stung with the taste of vanilla, yes;
I'm reminded of the word's etymology: it's a modification of the Latin word, Vagina.
I kiss her lips and it's like a burst of mint;
My mouth is shrouded with her taste
I bite her nipples gently, she moans, sweetly so.
I lick her navel, her waist contorts.
My lips brush over her pubic hairs, short, neatly mowed strands prick my lips.
Her clitoris is like the sweet date fruits of Jordan, and tastes even more so;

sweet, sweet, sweet.

My tongue rolling over it
While I try to extract it's juice.
She squeezes my palms
I clasp her tight, guide her heaving.
Her moans; hindered, silent, only I can hear.
She calls for me, she wants me in her, all of me.
So I plunge, I douse, I dip, I thrust, this massive rod-cock of mine, Thumping, Thumping on the cervix wall:
She grabs my biceps in pain laden pleasure,
Makes to receive every inch
She can't control her moan now.
It seems she's going to give up or give in, I know not which.
But then she places her hands round my butt and pushes me inwards, pushes deeper.

I'm almost there now, she says to me. Hit me harder.
She moistens even more, she' s more viscous; more smooth; friction-less
She tugs on her nipples, screaming silence.
She implodes, a million electrons crackle and burst,
Her heart stops for a second.
I pound on, as if in defibrillation. Her eye lids can barely open:
A look of satisfaction - deep.
She's limp but I'm still hard,
She manages to wriggle
I sense my own tension, sweat pellets forming, dripping.
My thumping is faster now,
Almost at the tip.

Then I burst into a million balloons.
And I'm left wondering if this was how love starts:
not the selfless, unconditional one.
The love between a pair.
Love that makes you self-centered, making you alone want to know, to hoard this experience,
a selfish one
You want to take that feeling and shut it in a safe, guide it from prying beings.

So we lie there,
Motionless, in a cuddle.
We whisper things unheard to ourselves.
We snore together.

RANTINGS FROM A NOTE PAD

My first and last real feel of a zoo was in the late eighties. Rojeny Park, Ozubulu, I remember, gave me my first thrill at the sight of a pair of hyenas, a lioness, an alligator, and a very extravagant peacock. The only other time I would ever set eyes on a bevy of peacocks and peahens was on a very recent visit to the home of a wealthy company executive and Igwe(King) of Mbaukwu Kingdom, somewhere in the East of the country.

The man, notorious for his wielding of a colt pistol have these flamboyant birds in droves, and it was in his abode that I got to know that the birds could fly, or at least, try to do so.
They roamed the vast compound by day, picking whatever food they may. They retire by night by flying up, all the way to the top of the massive tank stand towards the west end of the compound. There, they had their night rest.

I'll talk about this dude and his pea-chickens some other time. For now, to other rantings.

Where are the zoos? I ask. A certain state boasts of its tourist attraction sites. I say lies. Who are they deceiving, actually? Why are we like this?

Tourism is a very lucrative venture. It can yield massive revenue for the country. Yet, menacingly, the funds meant to boost this very industry is shoved in coffers beyond access.

I'm sipping an industrially processed mix of fruits, herbs, and gin. Its called Orijin. I'm trying to mind my own business but the pain isn't letting me. I mean, how much will it cost to set up a zoo? Or a museum of African history? Or a research institute? Or revive industries in comatose? Hunh? How much? I guess there won't be any answers coming from our despots.

Talking of despots, the man, Bashir just escaped the snare of the ICC in South Africa. Accused of war crimes in his native Sudan, the very example of the trampling on human rights, I wonder why the SA government would let his abscond.

Why won't he, when, just like one analyst on BBC Africa tagged the AU a brotherhood. Yes, a brotherhood of despots - Mugabe, Jammeh, Biya, et alia.
I'm tempted to call our dear sweet agent of change a despot, too. A military coup in 1983, and now a converted democratic president? I say there's a fish, rotten, and smelling somewhere. Just thinking.

Its amazing the transformation that these African "rulers" (not leaders) undergo during their despotic reign. From "I had no shoes while growing up" to money laundering cases and big fat Swiss account. Or is it, now, accounts in the West indies, and the Caribbeans. A case of the rich getting ever richer, gaps between them and the poor never closing, and the poor plunging ever deeper into the abyss of poverty. And we have human rights lawyers and intellectuals?

Any way, today is one of those days I'd pick up a book and just read away. Let me see, Helon Habila's "Waiting for an Angel"? Or, Richard Wright's "Black Boy"? I think Wright will do for me.

Do have yourselves a blissful day.

A RAT-RACE AND A PAIR OF NEW BALANCE.

Running shoes is a pair of New Balance. A sleeveless top, and a pair of combat shorts. I'm donned, prepared to take on the stretch of tarmac. Wait, I forgot my Phillip's earpiece - I got that at Isreal's Ben Gurion international airport when I traveled with a group of pilgrims from Anambra state. Twenty dollars, it had cost me. I also bought three books there: 'Twelve years a slave'; 'A game of thrones' - both from the duty free; and 'Letters from the Shoah' from the Holocaust museum in Jerusalem. That was last year. I saved for the books. So, while the over one hundred and eighty pilgrims were climbing over each other's heads to buy cheap, locally-produced, overpriced souvenirs, I bought three books.

I scurry through the pedestrian gate to get the earpiece, slot the piece's male jack into my phone's female jack - you know how this slotting-in thing works, abi?; these dirty minds, all of you.
Enhe! I go straight to music player to make my selection.

Running has become a sort of personal, three-days-in-a-week ritual for me. But it's not private; just about any one can join in. Ever heard that saying that when you do good things, don't stop because you never know who you're inspiring? Well, there's this one morning I had set out on my run. I had gone sixteen minutes way into the road when I turned, by some sort of instinct, to find a lad behind me, jogging, following closely. Wow! Just wow. At that point, even if my legs had started becoming weary, I found renewed strength.

So, like I said, this run-jog stuff is just a personal thing. Healthy living as some may call it. I select Eminem's 'Till I collapse' from the list of tracks on my phone's music player. He's going to be my companion through the session. My ear drums are disturbed by the beats that blare through the plug-ins, but they pound along, eventually.
Beautiful morning, sun is up but covered by clouds, cool breeze sweeps the morning mist, smears my face with Dew. It had just been raining. I smell the air(dense with the scent of wet sand), the greenness of the trees, the grass, no flowers in sight.

I tear through the breeze, leaving invisible imprints on the tar - forming bad guy; a few paces now before the sweat pellets start to form on my forehead. Trickles.

I whiz past tanker trucks parked with one side of the wheels on the pavement, waiting. They've come to collect petroleum; they've been doing so for months now. The NNPC depot is close by. I wave good morning to some mouth-washing, prayer-saying drivers, along with their ever clueless-looking conductors. I don't know if they respond, I'm running, and with my ears plugged, I can't hear a thing but the music.

Cars drive by carrying passengers with glares that interpret: what in the blue f&*k does he think he's doing?
I'm f@$king running, b*^ch! My mind's voice yells back. Shey dem talk say na so craze dey start.
These people look at me like I'm an alien, strange. I know why, it's 8:34 am. I had just dropped my boys off at school. I'm not part of the so-called working class, yet, so I can afford to do this, my time.

Though, I usually do this by 6 am, early, away from peering inquisitive gazes, today I couldn't. I was unable to wake that early enough. The night before, I had set out to battle - make una no laff o.
I dug my trench, laid in wait with a big stick in hand. A bush rat had found its way into the house two nights ago. While I was asleep it nibbled on a toe on my left leg and cut my skin open. I screamed myself to an annoying wake. Damn! I rushed out to the bathroom, washed of the skin where it had bitten, thoughts of ebola patients in Liberia and Guinea flashed across my mind. Hmm! No way, not even curable Lassa. I rebuke.
I returned to room. No light as usual. Thank goodness for phones with touch/flash light. I see the carnivorous rodent scamper out of the window, sneaky bastard. So, I waited it out last night. No, I didn't succeed in killing it, but like I predicted, it returned. Swift, it jumped out the window as soon as my phone light came on. God surely did not create these things.

So, not enough sleep, but I had to jog this morning. Jogged thirty minutes, now fast walking. I go by an open bar and there are young men seated there, beer bottles -some half filled, some fresh from the chillers - scattered on the table in front of them. Seriously? This early? Na wa o. This is why the government eats our cake while we drink toxic bullshit, swallowing (hook, line and sinker) all their 'yeyerity'.
Better to find your self running by 8:34 am than drinking, I thought to myself. I suddenly feel a pain around my toes. A blister I suppose. I don't wear these shoes with socks; my size is UK 13.5 or 14[not easy to find], these are 13. So, to free up space, I leave out the socks. There's a problem, however, with this: the shoes have started to smell from a build of germs and soaking sweat. You don't want to come close when I take them off. Pungent. Your skin will crawl.

One day, about two weeks ago, I ran my way into a hotel's gym. It had rained that day and my shoes had trapped some of the rain water, making it ooze pungence even more. A lady was by the corner, doing sit ups on a bench. I took the bench close to her and immediately noticed she abandoned her exercise and spaced away from me. Weytin consign me. Na work out I come for, no be to look face. I finished up, strode out - Weda I smell or I no smell, na exercise I come do.
But I dey go find new pair to buy, later; bigger size, and with a pair of socks. My feet deserve their comfort, and fresher air, biko.

So, I'm back home, all bathed. Had my glasses of water to replenish. But I'm going to the market today. I must buy rat poison o.