The Dream (Short Story) By Emeka Ubesie

Two years ago, after the untimely death of Mona Lisa’s parents, which was as a result of the injury they sustained in a car crash that occurred along Enugu Onitsha express way, the future of little Mona Lisa was left for the gods to decide. Like every young Nigerian girl, Mona Lisa had big dreams; I mean her dreams to be great in this most populous black nation in the world were as gigantic as the Iroko trees that littered on the farmland of my grandfather Aganamba.

Mr and Mrs Ngene wouldn’t have died if we had a functional rapid response mobile hospital in Enugu State. Of a truth, the health system of this state is in a sorry condition, just like its counterparts in the other parts of the country.

The victims of the car crash were left in the pool of their blood for hours, after the accident occurred and each passerby that drove closer to the scene only peeped through the window of their car, shouted aloud ‘Jesus’ and off they went in their various ways without assisting these helpless victims that lay half dead on the ground. A pastor, an Imam and a traditional leader were guilty of this inhuman act.

After the pick and drop taxi that Mr and Mrs Ngene boarded collided with a big lorry, as they were on their way to visit their only daughter during her school’s visiting day, Mona Lisa who was 15years old became an orphan automatically and many things began to change in her young life. This sad news hadn’t left the minds of the teachers and students of Annunciation Secondary School and its memory stuck in their minds like a tattoo.

The taxi driver had broken limbs, while the other four passengers that were packed like sardine at the back seat of the Peugeot 504 sustained serious bruises. Mr and Mrs Ngene were seriously wounded because, both of them sat in the front seat of the vehicle. The spot where they were seated was the exact place where the lorry smacked. The driver swerved leftwards immediately he saw the lorry exiting from its lane with a full velocity as fast as he could, but he wasn’t lucky enough to escape from the lorry and gbosa! They pecked one another.

After five hours, a big medical ambulance that had about four medical personnel onboard arrived at the scene of the accident and the victims were hurriedly rushed to the hospital. Mona Lisa’s parents gave up the ghost as they were on their way to the hospital; due to the excessive blood they had loss.

Mr and Mrs Ngene were farmers. Mr Ngene was not educated, not that he never wanted to go to school when he was younger but his father wasn’t financially capable to pay his fees from the little money they made from the sales of their farm produce. His only sister Ifunanya who was as beautiful as a mermaid found her way into the heart of a big motor part importer Mazi Onuoha, aka Eze Gburugburu, who was based in Lagos. Mr Gburugburu was a highly respected business tycoon; even the Oba of Lagos State knows that such a man does exist in his territory. Despite the amount of wealth Gburugburu and his wife clinched to, Mr Ngene the only brother of Ifunanya was never remembered – not even by her only sister. He ended up as a farmer in the village, but Ngene still had passion for education and he wished to give her only daughter the best education he could afford.

Mona Lisa had ever wanted to become a doctor. She had passion for taking care of people and animals. The chicken in her father’s compound would always tell whenever she had returned from school because; she would share her food with them, while sitting under an orange tree that was in their compound. She would also clean their coop regularly and in one occasion, her mother had caught her bathing one.

Few weeks after the car crash, Mona Lisa’s parents’ dead bodies that were deposited in the mortuary were brought home in a convoy of an ambulance and some other cars that tagged along and cries ensued in the compound of late Mr and Mrs Ngene. Their compound housed a small thatched hut, which sat in the middle. Rafters and short shrubs were used to fence it.

Ifunanya, the sister of Mr Ngene gave her brother and the wife a befitting burial ceremony, which later became a topic in the whole village. Everywhere was filled with friends and family members that came from Ogbe ato village and beyond. Foods, drinks and dancers littered everywhere. Their coffins were beautiful and very expensive. Ifunanya read an outstanding tribute to the audience and many people applauded her for an excellent delivery of her write-up. In fact, Mr and Mrs Ngene got the best burial ever when they died. It was so sad that they fed from hand to mouth, when they were alive, but they got one of the best burial ceremonies – what an irony of life.

Mona Lisa relocated to Lagos with the wife of the business tycoon after the burial of her parents because; she had nobody to cater for her in the village. A lot of promises were made to her by her aunty. She was promised that she would be sent to the United State to further her education, where the sons and daughters of her aunty were before they left Ogbe ato village, but everything suddenly became story for the gods, immediately they arrived Lasgidi.

Gburugburu was a nice man, no doubt about that but he was a busy man chasing after money. Issues that have to do with the house and other domestic things were left for Ify to handle. Today he is Japan, tomorrow Turkey and next tomorrow United State. He was a principled man, so he dares not interfere in the affairs of his wife. He made sure that Ifunanya who was a house wife never lacked anything.

Sooner than Mona Lisa expected, everything changed. Her education was stopped by her aunty. Automatically, she was converted to a house girl who mobs and cleans a duplex that had ten rooms on daily basis. Every house help that ever came to that house never stayed up to one week, due to the type of wickedness and ill treatment they got from the madam of the house. Now, the little Mona Lisa was stuck in a house where she feels nothing than pains and the agony of been an orphan at a very tender age. She was starved many times without reasons and her back and face now had stripes of lines, which she sustained from the constant flogging she got from her madam. Her dreams of becoming a doctor quickly disappeared into the thin air.

One fateful afternoon, Mona Lisa had the best dream ever in her life while she was sleeping and she wished not to wake up from that the sleep. Here comes her dream;

Mona Lisa cuddled her pillow tightly in her arm and her consciousness to the world around her died. Her spirit joggled down in an unfamiliar alleyway, as sparkles of light and darkness hovered in her vision and her head spin round and round. Astonishingly, she realised that she had just arrived in a world that was different from where she had rested.

‘Where am I?’ she shrieked audibly, with mixed feelings of ecstasy and fury and a deep scary voice ricocheted; ‘you just experienced a soul travel.’

‘No!’ She yelled back at the strange voice, ‘I guess I’m dreaming, yeah!’ She paused.

Perambulating in this new wonderland where she found herself, everything seemed possible there. Life was sweeter, longer and love wasn’t faked. She could glimpse at her future through a broad mirror that hung up there and she could synchronise her plans to fit in. Success was easier to come by in this new world where she found herself. Mona Lisa wanted to be great and eventually, she found greatness on this path. Her little effort yielded huge results there. She had a white mansion, a white Porsche car and a white Limo parked at her garage and there was neither war nor betrayal in this her new eccentric world. She never had any close friend there, but the entire passer-by cheered her up and wished her well, as they tagged along their dreams to achieve it. Peace, love and hard work was their slogan, in fact, everything was perfect in her new world.

Still in her sweet dream exploring her adventure and wishing that it would never come to an end. Suddenly, she heard a koi-koi sound that came from a creeping foot and the foot walked slowly towards her bed. Out of the blue, the light that was in her vision disappeared and darkness resurfaced from an alien tiny hole that was in her heart and her joy began to evaporate gradually. Things began to change. Feelings of hatred, malice, selfishness and wickedness began to dominate her mind. Echoes of war, cries of starved children and youths, filled her thought and she reached out for help and consolation, but her fist couldn’t get hold of any.

Immediately, a huge spank bounced on her thighs twice pam-pam and a harsh voice that she was familiar with bawled; wake up Mona Lisa! Her eyelid flicked open and there was aunty Ifunanya standing in front of her. Bitterly, she realised that she was dreaming and she sobbed and wished she could go back to her dreams because; she finally made it big over there, but she couldn’t.

From that moment, Mona Lisa kept nurturing the fear of not been able to make her dreams a reality, in this depraved world where she belongs and this thought kept chasing her and she couldn’t stop fighting with it.

(Emeka is a young Nigerian writer who is endowed in a special way with storytelling knack, just   like his ancestors. His short fiction stories and poems have emerged as Guest Post on ‘A Loco Viva Voce,’ and host of other literary blogs. {Email: emekaubesie@yahoo.com, Twitter: @emeka_ubesie})

The Unprepared Fantasy Paradise Called Biafra; An Eye Opener For Igbo Youths By Emeka Ubesie

The euphoria of the actualization of the Sovereign State of Biafra has become an outlandish symphony, that most young Igbos have decided to dance to under a shimmering hot sun in this 21^st century, without a proper assessment of the benefits and upshot of dancing to such a fatal song of this tempo, at the wrong time.

I’m an Igbo man, whose ancestors had played a vital role in preserving the heritage of the Igbo culture and values, in the little way they could and I’m proud to say here that most of my fallen ancestors that had gone to the world beyond, participated actively in the Biafra Civil War, which was led by Ojukwu in 1967-1970. I wasn’t in existence at that time, but rather, I was privileged to cohabit with some intelligent homo sapiens that fought the war for years and the experiences they garnered, were bequeathed in my consciousness. I’m one of those million lucky young Igbos that were fortunate to hear the Biafra War story from the orifice of some of our ancestors that pulled the trigger, right in the battle field and even participated in the building of the so called  ‘’Ogbunigwe,’’ the local bomb.

My father told me his own version of the Biafra War story when I was younger, of how he fought the war, alongside his brothers at a very tender age. Tony Ubesie, one of my ancestors of a blessed memory, who later became a Captain in the Biafra Army at the age of eighteen, also had his own account of the war. Tony was among the few individuals that were opportune to pass through the four walls of the University of Nigeria, Nsukka after the war, where he studied Igbo linguistics from 1976-1980 and I’m so pleased to have navigated through the same walls and also partook from the same ‘’Lions Heritage,’’ just as he did. He was later nicknamed Bullet, a.k.a Ukpaka Gbagburu Enyi, during the war. Tony dropped an Igbo novel that was titled ‘’Juo Obinna,’’ after the Civil War and this wasn’t his only novel anyway. Through this novel, he was able to decipher gently, his experience during the Biafra War and this well narrated, explicit and articulated master piece was published by Oxford University Press in 1977, if my memory still serves me right. I believe that most of these young Igbos that are busy clamouring for the State of Biafra at this virgin period have not read a single book that told the story of our Civil War. Most of them cannot even speak our native language (Igbo), let alone reading it - what a shame.

I never wanted to embark on this writing escapade, but my instinct revealed to me that some young Igbos really need to hear my honest position on this subject matter. I have, but a few questions to ask my fellow Igbo youths that are flocking the internet with various pictures and written journals about the Biafra War that they never witnessed and my questions go this way;

What infrastructure or frame work have you built for your Biafra to stand upon? Don’t you know that for a state, like the one you all are canvassing for to stand, it needs a strong economic, political and social frame work that will stand a test of time? Don’t you also think that what you should be talking about at this juncture is to sort for the most effective and long lasting ways, of uniting these Eastern States, which have fallen apart like pieces of Ukpaka seeds? Think about this; why can’t the Eastern Governors pull resources together and build your region? Who are those that will manage the affairs of your Biafran State? Is it these same Eastern (Igbo) Governors that have wrecked and stolen all the money that were meant for the development of the Eastern Region? I’m not against your determination in actualizing your Biafra dreams, or either am I an anti Biafra, but the truth must be told, no matter if it taste as bitter as an Onigbu leaf. I believe strongly that the Igbos are not ready and matured yet to possess this their daydreaming state. Brood over on these questions for a minute, while I fill up my ‘who send you glass cup’, with some fresh palm wine that my good friend bought along Epe axis of Lagos State.

 Do you have any wharf in the Eastern Region? How many functional industries do you have in your region? What have these individuals who are busy brainwashing you and telling you to get ready for war done for an average Igbo youth? What is the shape of all the Universities that are located in the Eastern Region like? Do you have an efficient Dam that will power the whole region if you go home now? What is the condition of the Eastern roads like? What are the Eastern Governors doing with their respective federal allocations? Just to ask, but a few.

Take your time as an Igbo youth to assess and analyze the wretched condition of Abia State and other states that are in the Eastern Region and write a report to that effect, without compromising your findings. Are these states not managed by the Igbos (Governors)? Are these Governors from the Northern or Western part of Nigeria? Is this the type of Biafra that you need? The Igbos are busy developing other states and allowing grasses to take over their lands. When was the last time you visited your village as a patriotic son or daughter of the soil, of the Igboland? Of a truth, almost all the elders that fought during the Civil War regretted why they embarked on such an unprepared expensive mission, which almost sent the entire Igbo race into extinction.

Some youths of the Igboland need complete metamorphosis of their psychology because, most of them have decided to compromise rationality for mediocrity. Let’s become more realistic in our judgement for a while, and stop following the band wagon of the jonses. If you really want your quest to transmute into a reality, it is of a greater importance that the Igbos should first build a foundation for their home and stop chasing after shadows. I foresee major ethnic wars and crisis amongst the Igbos in less than ten years, if the youths choose this unprepared means to achieve their Biafra dreams.

I was opportune to have conversation with some old men that fought the Civil War and I can boldly say here that most of them never liked it because; the Igbos were never ready for it at that time. Do you want history to repeat itself? Where you privileged to see your grandfathers? I didn’t see mine either because, he died out of accumulated stress that was bequeathed on him by the Biafra War. The stories of my ancestors ended the same way, after my thorough inquiries and I believe that all these young Igbos, who are busy clamouring for Biafra now have not witnessed a real bloody fight, let alone a war. How many of you can pull a trigger and whisked away the brain of a man right from his skull, just in a single target?

My honest advice and opinion here is that, the Igbo youths should tell those people that are in their various hidden bulletproof cars to develop their home first, before forcing you (the youths) to embark on an unplanned journey home. The aftermaths of an unprepared war is always more deadly and gravely than HIV and the tomorrow of an average Igbo youth is more realistic and sure to an extent, in this present Nigeria that is still looking for her bearing, than this your unprepared fantasy paradise called Biafra.

(Emeka is a young Nigerian writer. He is a member of Nigerian Institute of Management (NIM), Institute of Public Diplomacy and Management (IPDM), Chartered Institute of Purchasing & Supply Management of Nigeria (CIPSMN) and The Royal Life Saving Society of Nigeria)

 

 

Hip Hop Is Not For Children (Poem) By Emeka Ubesie

Some men believe Hip hop is for children,

But I haven’t seen a child who is a gangster.

 

Hip hop is life; it’s food, lovelier than a wife,

The best motivator,

The language that illuminates the truth about life to humans,

The fighter for human equality, the killer of racism,

Hip hop thinks like a wise woman and acts like an old man.

 

I call her my drugs, my saviour, my inner sorcerer,

My companion, the language of the black gods.

 

Hip hop is Africa, it is black in colour,

The medium that Negros use to pass message(s) to the White Aliens,

Hip hop is so hard, harder than a man’s erection,

More explosive than come shot, so wired than bitches,

Hip hop was born by an African mother,

She puckers brows when things are done the wrong way.

 

Hip hop is revolutionary; it’s a secret fighter,

A culture, a cult and a deity,

Hip hop is a gospel, the comforter of the street.

 

It is a ritual that the gods speak along with an instrumental or synthesized beat,

Life without Hip hop is like living in a world without a motivator,

I die, when Hip hop dies.

(Emeka is a young Nigerian writer who is endowed in a special way with storytelling knack, just   like his ancestors. His short fiction stories and poems have emerged as Guest Post on ‘A Loco Viva Voce,’ and host of other literary blogs)

{Email: emekaubesie@yahoo.com, Twitter: @emeka_ubesie}

 

 

The Lost African Goddess (Short Fiction) - By Emeka Ubesie

One Saturday afternoon at exactly 1:00pm, I lay on my bed, reminiscing on how I had spent seven years, reading a course of five years in one of these miserable Universities in Nigeria and the panorama of all my activities in the institution within these years were flashing one after the other in my memory just like the big round-headed torchlight of my village palm wine tapper, Mazi Okigwe. The nook and cranny of my Odenigwe lodge arena was covered with an absolute tranquility, as most international and indigenous students had transmuted to their various countries and homes after the first semester examination.

Standing in front of me was my long tiny neck fan, which sat on its round leg on the floor for hours, moping at me like a figurine without blowing a single air towards my direction because, we hadn’t had power for about five days now. The weather was hot; I mean very hot, that my black skin almost baked like an Agege bread. Incessantly, I rolled like an Avu ani snake, from one edge of my bed to the other searching for solace and panting profusely, but the heat’s intensity doubled as the hands of my wall clock moved, ticktock, ‘I have cooked.’ I bawled, staggered, as I climbed down from my long bed. At the same time, I reached out my hands to split the pieces of curtain that covered my window, so as to allow the free flow of air in and out of my self-contain apartment.

Suddenly, my eyes caught a figure that stood outside through a miniature space on my window, and I needed no prophet to reveal to me who owned that figure eight shaped body that was standing out there. I shrieked almost immediately, ‘the African goddess.’ She turned, smiled back at me while relaxing on the minuscule handrail that was affixed on a long balcony in front of our bungalow lodge and gradually, she moved in reverse, cracked open the handle of my wooden door, walked majestically into my room and sat in front of me with her legs widely open. She was wearing a tight skinny blue jean that reminded me of Baba Fela’s pants in his Lagos shrine, way back in the early ninety’s.

Straight away, as a sharp guy, I initiated a discussion that had to do with Africa and her enormous literary works and culture, which the gods bequeathed on her as a continent. I presumed in my own little mind and thought that she was going to enjoy my rollercoaster; riding and colliding with me at every juncture in this our literary adventure. After all, her name had Africa attached to it. But I fell a bit disappointed and embarrassed as she sighed snappily, pulled a face and looked at me like; ‘Huh! What did you just say?’ Quietly, I swallowed a pool of saliva that had already secreted in my mouth, as the guy man in me was busy writing a crazy script, on the amount of Akpako that she was going to receive from me this hot afternoon. Hastily, I took a deep breath, inhaled and exhaled spontaneously, as I tried to refine my Igbotic intonation a bit and gradually, I repeated myself.

‘No! I totally disagree with you,’ she yelled at me. Overwhelmingly, I pulled myself up, sat on the bed and moped at her like an effigy.

As we sat on my bed analyzing some recent Nollywood movies, she was of the opinion that Africans have no story to tell the world through their literary works, movies, music and culture. We digressed a bit in our discussion, while I glimpsed at her beautiful face with a shock, as if I was hit by a missile that journeyed from one of these Boko Haram camps, which is located somewhere in the Northern part of Nigeria – confuse ga duma, slipped from my maw uncontrollably, as my eyeballs focused on her face.

‘What?’ I queried her uneasily, as my heart battered like one of those Oloko, with crazy engines that I spotted along Yaba Market in Lagos State. The last time I spotted the Oloko was two weeks ago, when I visited Lagos. I was inside a commercial Danfo bus on my way to Surulere and it was gradually rolling on its feeble wrecked rails.

I couldn’t fathom this grave blasphemy that hopped out from the orifice of an African young lady of about 25 years old in this 21st century and I wept bitterly on her behalf because, I realised that Africa just lost another daughter to folly.

‘Chai!’ I screamed and wished she had existed during the days of my ancestors when the gods were still very much thirsty for the blood of individuals that committed such a big taboo with their tiny round mouth. Yes, she had a tiny mouth, the type that every active young man wouldn’t stop kissing for hours. Of a truth, she was cursed by the gods with such an evil beauty hence the nickname ‘the African goddess’. Her hip was perfectly weighed, baked and carved by the gods and it was fixed in a perfect position on her waistline. Meanwhile, her breasts stood conspicuous and pointed inside a transparent Versace top in front of her chest, like the early morning erection of a potent African man. The truth was, at that point, I had already lost my appetite to have a taste of her honey pot, because I had been tutored by my instinct on how to escape triumphantly from such enticement and my black Agbogidi in between my legs conformed and lay low like a sleeping child.

The argument was heated up for hours and she remained so adamant to accept my explicitly convincing facts, which I poured out with my last energy. After trying unsuccessfully to make her understand the marks that Africans had made on the world map of Art and Literature, I said to myself calmly ‘don’t bother’. ‘Why are you wasting your precious time arguing with a lady who hadn’t gone to her village since she was born, a lady who didn’t know how to speak her native dialect, nor had ever cooked any of her native soup. A lady who had never heard names like; Chinua Achebe, Aaron Mike Oquaye, Tony Ubesie, Akosua Busia, Albert Kwesi Ocran, Cyprian Ekwensi and so on.

Then, I quickly reminisced over some sweet African tales and stories that I was told by my father when I was four years old and I smiled and enquired from her surprisingly saying; ‘Have you ever heard or read any of these novels; The seasons of Beento Blackbird, Omenuko, Politics of the sword, Juo Obinna, Things fall apart, African night of entertainment, A myth is broken, Mmiri oku eji egbu mbe, Ojadele and his escapade to the world of the dead?’ and she howled ‘Hell No! Why should I?’ Abruptly, I quit arguing with this assumed African goddess who was lost and also ignorant of tracing her roots. I realised that she lacked the prerequisite to discuss the sacred African literary works, movies, music and culture with a young African man like moi. In response to her ignorance, I simply lay back on my bed, adjusted the pillow beneath my head, faced the wall and slept off. 

(Emeka is a young Nigerian writer who is endowed in a special way with storytelling knack, just   like his ancestors. His short fiction stories and poems have emerged as Guest Post on ‘A Loco Viva Voce,’ and host of other literary blogs)

{Email: emekaubesie@yahoo.com, Twitter: @emeka_ubesie}

 

The Biography of a Living THIRTIETH RDH (C.L.U.E. XXX RDH), the Oke Mmanwu Ndi Igbo and the Njikoka of Njikoka (1989 - 2015). By Emeka Ubesie

In 1989, I was in the company of my ancestors, perambulating and searching for the perfect panacea to the mysteries of this world. As we undulated, passed the ancestral boundary that separated the wonderful people of Enugu State and Anambra State, a thunder bellowed from the heavens and we heard a voice that echoed ‘The humanity must help herself,’ I paused and looked into the eyes of the gray headed fellow that was in our company and he yelled uncontrollably ‘The Oke Mmanwu Ndi Igbo has come to help humanity!’ and I laughed and spoke in a foreign tongue, ‘In’shallah,’ with my eyes spinning round, like Okekparikpari, the great deity of my community.

After the Oke Mmanwu Ndi Igbo was dropped from the space, he grew up somewhere in Anambra State where the gods chose for him. The Njikoka of Njikoka was enrolled in Ozalla Primary School Ifitedunu, Anambra State (1993 - 1999), by his caretakers. He attended Saint Charles Special Science School Onitsha from 1999 - 2005, where he was tutored by the best teachers (according to him). He later gained admission into University of Nigeria, Nsukka in 2006, where he became a desperado, in search of more knowledge that would help him to solve some problems of humanity, but his life turned stranded like ‘Onyeka Nwelue’s Nollywood Stranded’ in the University. When he found his virgin ass in one of the most ‘Akpo’ faculty in the University, his life became an episode, in fact, confuse ga duma. C.L.U.E. XXX RDH, began asking too many questions about life, his future and destiny, of a truth, ‘THE GRAY MESSAGE’ could not explain these things to his satisfaction, as he transmuted as a FE, without the LLOW.

In 2009 - 2010, the revolutionary spirit came fully open him like a baptism of fire in the shrine and hunted him, and at that point, he had no option than to surrender like Ebola, when it visited 9ja. After that encounter, his directionless life bought a bearing from the University market, Nsukka, and he started giving the idea of migrating from Computer Science to International Relations and Diplomacy a second thought. He played the school politics anyway, when he was still in a bizarre state of mind, way back in University of Nigeria, Nsukka.  

Oke Mmanwu Ndi Igbo graduated in 2010 and went to serve his ‘Papa land’ in Lagos (2011 – 2012).  During this period, his debut book was published by Sir Victor Uwaifo's museum I'm Benin City, and presented at Bogobiri, Ikoyi, Lagos.

In 2012 - 2014, he was involved in the Community Development Work, ICT Practices, Writing (Writing of the 1,000 paged Nigerian Centenary Compendium: The Metamorphoses of Nigeria 1914 - 2014), Journalism and Activism.

Presently, he is doing his Masters in Regional Development and International Studies in East Africa (Nairobi) and he is an intern in Pakistan High Commission, Abuja, Nigeria.

Oke Mmanwu Ndi Igbo is a Secular Humanist and he does not pray or disturb any god for anything. He is a GULDER and CIGARETTE brethren.  

Mind you, JUDAS PRIESTJUDAS PRIEST got some Money now, after he finished selling his novel MALCOLM in Nigeria, not in Nairobi.

 

Happy Birthday Oke Mmanwu Ndi Igbo,

 (C.L.U.E. XXX RDH).