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The Prophesy (Fiction)
“A prophesy is not destined to occur,” Nané says. She stares out of one good eye at Mother and I.
“It is only one of the possibilities the spirit man sees.”
Mother is silent. She bends over and jabs a piece of wood into the fire underneath the pot bubbling with ewedu. I busy myself sieving the yam flour, shooing my baby sister from the powder every other minute.
Nané gestures with her cup of palm wine,”It is the choices we make that help those visions along. Even the spirit man knows this.”…
It is good Friday. Barabbas is in prison and is waiting execution after committing several crimes within the Province of Judea. He is a member of the Sicarii brotherhood- a fanatical religious sect which strongly oppose the occupation of the Roman empire in Jerusalem. Waiting in his dungeon, he is visited by his ghosts. The following is a fictional account of what occurred.
Mayokun drove slowly in the shade of the trees that lined the drive way. Upfront, there was a road block made up of three large cubes of grey concrete with chalked-in graffiti .
“Park here.” Flavian said. She pulled over on the side, a few feet from the blockade. Two uniformed men stood beside a small grey kiosk on the other side.
Their heels knocked and their hands went up in salute when they saw Flavian. “We walk from here.”He said as his hand shot up in response. …
Hospitals are not as frightening as people say, not unless you are going to the ICU. Mayokun took the stairs up to the fourth floor of St. Barth’s hospital. No matter how many times she visited, there was no getting accustomed to these cold, concrete slabs of stairs. She held on to the concrete stair-banister, panting, as she pulled herself to the landing.
“God”, She wheezed, “I hate this place.”
The air carried the smell of cheap antiseptic and freshly prepared pharmaceuticals. She could taste the bitterness of the chalky-white pills at the back of her tongue. She gagged, then took a deep breath.
“Ok, I can do this”, She muttered to herself.
She started down the hallway and kept to the right, following directions to the ICU. Nurses walked by in a hurry, technicians in white lab coats breezed by. Prospective patients and family members holding yellow slips of paper, looking frazzled and tired dotted the hallway. The hallway opened up into a small, sunny alcove with a desk pushed against its back wall.
It wasn’t Bimpe behind the desk.
The new receptionist eyed her…
The key to a friendly robbery is stealth. Mayokun watched as the bride, groom and their bridal party gyrated to a familiar tune from the 90s. Obesere—yes, that was the sound. The singer’s quick tempo had set the room on fire—bank notes flew like confetti, soft wisps of dry ice covered the floor, giving the dance floor an ethereal, celestial look. The bridesmaids had broken up into dancing pairs, throwing their shoulders forward and back, and leaping around, straining their restless legs against the shiny fabric of their dainty dresses. Mayokun pretended to take photos of the dancers from her seat; through her phone camera lenses, she scouted…
Entry 2 (Yawa)
“I still stand by it that Wiz Kid is not dating her!” Mayokun said, as Fali pulled over along the side of the unpainted outer wall of their apartment building. Mr. Kazeem, their landlord had started charging a parking fee within his walls and collected all keys to the gate— it was a flimsy black gate which hung nonchalantly between two unpainted posts, its weathered metal blistered orange with rust bubbles and wounds. Mayokun searched her purse for her keys to the pedestrian gate.
"He is!”Fali chuckled, “We can’t all be wrong. What’s the big deal if he is?”
“Publicity stunt aye. These celebrities have y’all on puppet strings,”Mayokun hissed, her keys jingled as she fetched it out…
Ishola can not be dead, they all whisper. I whisper it too. It can not be. I dig. I retie my wrapper across my breasts. My palms are damp. My strength wanes. I dig. It can not be. No one but a god could kill him. Ishola can not be dead, but I know he is because I killed him...
Foregone
Fiction
It is abominable, that which I do.
But I hurry to it anyway.
I follow the stream by the white light of the moon, stilling myself at every sound of crunching leaves or rustling bushes. I have wrapped myself in the darkest Ankara, on top of it, is my father’s hunting tunic, darker than night. I have smeared his tobacco and spice behind my ears to ward off any strangers or their dogs.
A traveling stranger is less interesting if she smells of tobacco and roots, than of hibiscus and lemons.
In my hand, is my shepherd’s crook. It whacks and chokes, whether it be sheep or person.
This is no man's land, distant from mother's watchful eye. Any assailant would be out of range of father’s arrow.
Now well into the forest, I hear the faint roar of the waters and my heart races. Quickly, I begin to climb the hill.
It is dark but I know where to place my feet, where to grip and brace, where to heave and lift. The darkness amplifies the thunder of the rushing waterfall of Arè. It surrounds, it terrifies. It is enough to fail a heart.
I remove my sandals and wade into the river, she welcomes me and draws me in along the current. I hold unto familiar stones, slippery and some tufty with growth, my feet find ground on the sandy bed. I feel for the rocks and climb out into a cave.
At last.
He is there waiting.
He rises to his feet. My heart thumps, my belly flutters.
Tórę..