THUNDER AND ANANSI

THERE had been a long and severe famine in the land where Anansi lived. He had been quite unable to obtain food for his poor wife and family. One day, gazing desperately out to sea, he saw, rising from the midst of the water, a tiny island with a tall palm-tree upon it. He determined to reach this tree—if any means proved possible—and climb it, in the hope of finding a few nuts to reward him. How to get there was the difficulty.
This, however, solved itself when he reached the beach, for there lay the means to his hand, in the shape of an old broken boat. It certainly did not look very strong, but Anansi decided to try it.
His first six attempts were unsuccessful—a great wave dashed him back on the beach each time he tried to put off. He was persevering, however, and at the seventh trial was successful in getting away. He steered the battered old boat as best he could, and at length reached the palm-tree of his desire. Having tied the boat to the trunk of the tree—which grew almost straight out of the water—he climbed toward the nuts. Plucking all he could reach, he dropped them, one by one, down to the boat. To his dismay, every one missed the boat and fell, instead, into the water until only the last one remained. This he aimed even more carefully than the others, but it also fell into the water and disappeared from his hungry eyes. He had not tasted even one and now all were gone. He could not bear the thought of going home empty-handed, so, in his despair, he threw himself into the water, too. To his complete astonishment, instead of being drowned, he found himself standing on the sea-bottom in front of a pretty little cottage. From the latter came an old man, who asked Anansi what he wanted so badly that he had come to Thunder’s cottage to seek it. Anansi told his tale of woe, and Thunder showed himself most sympathetic.

He went into the cottage and fetched a fine cooking-pot, which he presented to Anansi—telling him that he need never be hungry again. The pot would always supply enough food for himself and his family. Anansi was most grateful, and left Thunder with many thanks.
Being anxious to test the pot at once, Anansi only waited till he was again seated in the old boat to say, “Pot, pot, what you used to do for your master do now for me.” Immediately good food of all sorts appeared. Anansi ate a hearty meal, which he very much enjoyed.
On reaching land again, his first thought was to run home and give all his family a good meal from his wonderful pot. A selfish, greedy fear prevented him. “What if I should use up all the magic of the pot on them, and have nothing more left for myself! Better keep the pot a secret—then I can enjoy a meal when I want one.” So, his mind full of this thought, he hid the pot.
He reached home, pretending to be utterly worn out with fatigue and hunger. There was not a grain of food to be had anywhere. His wife and poor children were weak with want of it, but selfish Anansi took no notice of that. He congratulated himself at the thought of his magic pot, now safely hidden in his room. There he retired from time to time when he felt hungry, and enjoyed a good meal. His family got thinner and thinner, but he grew plumper and plumper. They began to suspect some secret, and determined to find it out. His eldest son, Kweku Tsin, had the power of changing himself into any shape he chose; so he took the form of a tiny fly, and accompanied his father everywhere. At last, Anansi, feeling hungry, entered his room and closed the door. Next he took the pot, and had a fine meal. Having replaced the pot in its hiding-place, he went out, on the pretence of looking for food. As soon as he was safely out of sight, Kweku Tsin fetched out the pot and called all his hungry family to come at once. They had as good a meal as their father had had. When they had finished, Mrs. Anansi—to punish her husband—said she would take the pot down to the village and give everybody a meal. This she did—but alas! in working to prepare so much food at one time, the pot grew too hot and melted away. What was to be done now? Anansi would be so angry! His wife forbade every one to mention the pot. Anansi returned, ready for his supper, and, as usual, went into his room, carefully shutting the door. He went to the hiding-place—it was empty. He looked around in consternation. No pot was to be seen any-where. Some one must have discovered it. His family must be the culprits; he would find a means to punish them. Saying nothing to any one about the matter, he waited till morning. As soon as it was light he started off towards the shore, where the old boat lay. Getting into the boat, it started of its own accord and glided swiftly over the water—straight for the palm-tree. Ar-rived there, Anansi attached the boat as before and climbed the tree. This time, unlike the last, the nuts almost fell into his hands. When he aimed them at the boat they fell easily into it—not one, as before, drop-ping into the water. He deliberately took them and threw them over-board, immediately jumping after them. As before, he found himself in front of Thunder’s cottage, with Thunder waiting to hear his tale. This he told, the old man showing the same sympathy as he had previously done.
This time, however, he presented Anansi with a fine stick and bade him good-bye. Anansi could scarcely wait till he got into the boat so anxious was he to try the magic properties of his new gift. “Stick, stick,” he said, “what you used to do for your master do for me also.” The stick began to beat him so severely that, in a few minutes, he was obliged to jump into the water and swim ashore, leaving boat and stick to drift away where they pleased. Then he returned sorrowfully homeward, bemoaning his many bruises and wishing he had acted more wisely from the beginning.

HOW WISDOM BECAME THE PROPERTY OF THE HUMAN RACE [folktale]

THERE once lived, in Fanti-land, a man named Father Anansi. He possessed all the wisdom in the world. People came to him daily for advice and help.
One day the men of the country were unfortunate enough to offend Father Anansi, who immediately resolved to punish them. After much thought he decided that the severest penalty he could inflict would be to hide all his wisdom from them. He set to work at once to gather again all that he had already given. When he had succeeded, as he thought, in collecting it, he placed all in one great pot. This he carefully sealed, and determined to put it in a spot where no human being could reach it.
Now, Father Anansi had a son, whose name was Kweku Tsin. This boy began to suspect his father of some secret design, so he made up his mind to watch carefully. Next day he saw his father quietly slip out of the house, with his precious pot hung round his neck. Kweku Tsin followed. Father Anansi went through the forest till he had left the village far behind. Then, selecting the highest and most inaccessible- looking tree, he began to climb. The heavy pot, hanging in front of him, made his ascent almost impossible. Again and again he tried to reach the top of the tree, where he intended to hang the pot. There, he thought, Wisdom would indeed be beyond the reach of every one but himself. He was unable, however, to carry out his desire. At each trial the pot swung in his way.
For some time Kweku Tsin watched his father’s vain attempts. At last, unable to contain himself any longer, he cried out: “Father, why do you not hang the pot on your back? Then you could easily climb the tree.”
Father Anansi turned and said: “I thought I had the entire world’s wisdom in this pot. But I find you possess more than I do. All my wisdom was insufficient to show me what to do, yet you have been able to tell me.” In his anger he threw the pot down. It struck on a great rock and broke. The wisdom contained in it escaped and spread throughout the world.

Pic: Reading takes ignorance away

ANANSI AND NOTHING [West African Folktale]

NEAR Anansi’s miserable little hut there was a fine pal-ace where lived a very rich man called Nothing. Nothing and Anansi proposed, one day, to go to the neighbouring town to get some wives. Accordingly, they set off together.
Nothing, being a rich man, wore a very fine velvet cloth, while Anansi had a ragged cotton one. While they were on their way Anansi persuaded Nothing to change clothes for a little while, promising to give back the fine velvet before they reached the town. He delayed doing this, however, first on one pretext, then on another—till they arrived at their destination.
Anansi, being dressed in such a fine garment, found no difficulty in getting as many wives as he wished. Poor Nothing, with his ragged and miserable cloth, was treated with great contempt. At first he could not get even one wife. At last, however, a woman took pity on him and gave him her daughter. The poor girl was laughed at very heartily by Anansi’s wives for choosing such a beggar as Nothing appeared to be. She wisely took no notice of their scorn. The party set off for home. When they reached the cross-roads leading to their respective houses the women were astonished
The road leading to Anansi’s house was only half cleared. The one which led to Nothing’s palace was, of course, wide and well made. Not only so, but his servants had strewn it with beautiful skins and carpets, in preparation for his return. Servants were there, awaiting him, with fine clothes for himself and his wife. No one was waiting for Anansi.
Nothing’s wife was queen over the whole district and had everything her heart could desire. Anansi’s wives could not even get proper food; they had to live on unripe bananas with peppers. The wife of Nothing heard of her friends’ miserable state and invited them to a great feast in her palace. They came, and were so pleased with all they saw that they agreed to stay there. Accordingly, they refused to come back to Anansi’s hut.
He was very angry, and tried in many ways to kill Nothing, but without success. Finally, however, he persuaded some rat friends to dig a deep tunnel in front of Nothing’s door. When the hole was finished Anansi lined it with knives and broken bottles. He then smeared the steps of the palace with okro to make them very slippery, and withdrew to a little distance.
When he thought Nothing’s household was safely in bed and asleep, he called to Nothing to come out to the courtyard and see something. Nothing’s wife, however, dissuaded him from going. Anansi tried again and again, and each time she bade her husband not to listen. At last Nothing determined to go and see this thing. As he placed his foot on the first step, of course he slipped, and down he fell into the hole. The noise alarmed the household. Lights were fetched and Nothing was found in the ditch, so much wounded by the knives that he soon died. His wife was terribly grieved at his untimely death. She boiled many yams, mashed them, and took a great dishful of them round the district. To every child she met she gave some, so that the child might help her to cry for her husband. This is why, if you find a child crying and ask the cause, you will often be told he is “crying for nothing.”

HOW WE GOT THE NAME “SPIDER TALES” [West African Folktale]

IN the olden days all the stories which men told were stories of Nyankupon, the chief of the gods. Spider, who was very conceited, wanted the stories to be told about him. Accordingly, one day he went to Nyankupon and asked that, in future, all tales told by men might be Anansi stories, instead of Nyankupon stories. Nyanku-pon agreed, on one condition. He told Spider (or An-ansi) that he must bring him three things: the first was a jar full of live bees; the second was a boa-constrictor, and the third a tiger. Spider gave his promise.
He took an earthen vessel and set out for a place where he knew were numbers of bees. When he came in sight of the bees he began saying to himself, “They will not be able to fill this jar”— “Yes, they will be able”—“No, they will not be able,” until the bees came up to him and said, “What are you talking about, Mr. Anansi?” He thereupon explained to them that Nyankupon and he had had a great dispute. Nyanku-pon had said the bees could not fly into the jar— Anansi had said they could. The bees immediately declared that of course they could fly into the jar—which they at once did. As soon as they were safely inside, Anansi sealed up the jar and sent it off to Nyankupon.
Next day he took a long stick and set out in search of a boa-constrictor. When he arrived at the place where one lived he began speaking to himself again. “He will just be as long as this stick”— “No, he will not be so long as this”—“Yes, he will be as long as this.” These words he repeated several times, till the boa came out and asked him what was the matter. “Oh, we have been having a dispute in Nyankupon’s town about you. Nyankupon’s people say you are not as long as this stick. I say you are. Please let me measure you by it.” The boa innocently laid himself out straight, and Spider lost no time in tying him on to the stick from end to end. He then sent him to Nyanku-pon.
The third day he took a needle and thread and sewed up his eye. He then set out for a den where he knew a tiger lived. As he approached the place he began to shout and sing so loudly that the tiger came out to see what was the matter. “Can you not see?” said Spider. “My eye is sewn up and now I can see such wonderful things that I must sing about them.” “Sew up my eyes,” said the tiger, “then I too can see these surprising sights.” Spider immediately did so. Having thus made the tiger helpless, he led him straight to Nyankupon’s house. Nyankupon was amazed at Spider’s cleverness in fulfilling the three conditions. He immediately gave him permission for the future to call all the old tales Anansi tales.

JEWISH MAN AND RABBI [fable]

Once there was a poor Jewish man. The poor Jewish man went to speak with his rabbi. “Rabbi,” the man said, “you must help me. My life is terrible. I live with my wife, our five children, and my mother-in-law. There is only one room for the eight of us. The children, they cry and fight. My wife, she screams a lot. My mother-in-law, she kvetches about everything. It is crowded and noisy and horrible, I tell you.
Honestly, Rabbi, I don’t think it could be any worse!”
The rabbi rubbed his chin as he pondered the man’s situation.
“My son,” he said, “If you will promise to do as I tell you, your life will get better. Will you promise?”
“Yes, yes!” said the man. “I promise.”
“Tell me,” said the rabbi, “do you own any animals?”
“Yes,” said the man, “I have a goat—”
“Good!” said the rabbi. “Go home and take the goat into your house. Let it eat and sleep with you for a few days.”

Taking the goat in the house
The man was stunned. Take the goat into the house? The rabbi’s advice sounded like a crazy idea. But everyone knew the rabbi was a wise man, and so the poor man agreed to do what he said. He went home and led the goat into his house.
Two days later, the man went back to the rabbi.
“Oy vey!” he said. “I did as you said. I brought my goat into the house, but things are worse than before.”

Goat on the table
“The children, they cry and fight. My wife, she screams a lot.
My mother-in-law, she kvetches about everything. The goat, she butts us with her head and knocks the dishes off the shelves. Help me, Rabbi. I don’t think it could be any worse!”
The rabbi sat quietly for a moment. Then he asked the man, “Do you have any other animals?”
“Yes,” said the man. “I have a cow—”
“Good!” said the rabbi. “Go home and take the cow into your house. Let it eat and sleep with you for a few days.”
Again, the man did as he was told. He went home and led the cow into his house.
Two days later, the man went back to see the rabbi.

Cow in the living room
“Oy vey!” he moaned. “I did as you said. I brought the cow into the house, and things are even worse than before. The children, they cry and fight. My wife, she screams a lot. My mother-in-law, she kvetches about everything. The goat, she butts us with her head and knocks the dishes off the shelves. The cow, she eats our clothing. The house is like a barn! We can’t sleep for all of the bleating and mooing! Help me, Rabbi. I don’t think it could be any worse!”
The rabbi was silent for a long time. Then he asked, “Do you have any other animals?”
“Well,” said the man, pausing. “I have a goose.”
“Perfect!” said the rabbi. “Go home and take the goose into your house. Let it eat and sleep with you.”
Two days later, the man went back to the rabbi.

Goose on the carpet
“Oy vey!” he groaned. “Things are worse than ever! The children, they cry and fight. My wife, she screams a lot. My mother-in-law, she kvetches about everything. The goat, she butts us with her head and knocks the dishes off the shelves. The cow, she eats our clothing. The goose, he honks and poops on the floor. I tell you, Rabbi, it is wrong for a man to eat and sleep with animals. I don’t think it could be any worse!”
“My son,” said the rabbi in a gentle voice, “You are right. Go home and take the animals out of your house. You will find the answer
Quiet, empty house
The next day the man came running to the rabbi.
“Rabbi!” he cried, his face beaming, “you have made life sweet for me. Now that all the animals are outside, the house is so quiet, so roomy, and so clean! How wonderful!”

THE LITTLE HALF-CHICK (Medio Pollito): The Spanish tale

Once there was a hen who had a large brood of little chicks. They were all fine, plump little birds, except the youngest. He was quite unlike his brothers and sisters. He looked as if he had been cut right in half. All of his brothers and sisters had two wings and two legs and two eyes, but he had only one wing, one leg, and one eye. And he had only half a head and half a beak. His mother shook her head sadly as she looked at him. “Poor thing!” she said.
“He is only a half-chick.”
The mother hen called her youngest chick Medio Pollito [MEHdee-oh poh-YEE-toh], which is Spanish for “half-chick.” She thought that he would never be able to take care of himself. She decided that she would have to keep him at home and look after him.
But Medio Pollito had a different idea. Medio Pollito turned out to be a very stubborn and independent little chick. Even though his brothers and sisters did just what they were told to do, Medio Pollito did not. When his mother called for him to come back to the chicken house, he hid in the cornfield. Sometimes he pretended that he could not hear her (because, of course, he had only one ear). The older he became, the more willful he became. He would not listen to his mother and he was often rude to his brothers and sisters, even though they were always extra nice to him.

Medio Pollito Leaves for Madrid
One day Medio Pollito strutted up to his mother and made an announcement: “I am tired of life in this dull barnyard. I am going to Madrid to dine with the king.”
“Madrid!” exclaimed his mother. “Why, that is a long journey, even for a grown-up. You aren’t old enough to go to Madrid yet. Wait a bit.
When you are a little older, we will go to the city together.”
But Medio Pollito had made up his mind. He would not listen to his mother, or to his brothers and sisters, all of whom pleaded with him to stay. “I am going to Madrid to dine with the king,” he declared. “And when I get there I will make my fortune and live in a big house. Perhaps I will even invite the rest of you to pay me a short visit sometime.” With that, he turned and hopped off on his one leg.
His mother ran after him and called out, “Be sure to be kind to everyone you meet!” But Medio Pollito did not listen. He was in a hurry and, as usual, was thinking only of himself.

Medio Pollito At The Stream
Medio Pollito hopped on until he came to a little stream of water that was almost choked with weeds. “Oh, Medio Pollito,” the stream called out, “please help me by pulling some of these weeds so I can flow freely!”
“Help you?” exclaimed Medio Pollito, tossing his head and shaking the few feathers in his tail. “Do you think I have time to waste to do that sort of thing? Help yourself, and don’t bother busy travelers like me. I am off to Madrid to dine with the king.”
And away he hopped.

Medio Pollito At The Fire
A little later, Medio Pollito came to an abandoned fire that some campers left burning in the woods. “Oh, Medio Pollito,” the fire said, “please toss some sticks on me so I won’t burn out!”
“Poo!” said Medio Pollito. “Do you think I have time to waste to do that sort of thing? I am off to Madrid to dine with the king.” And away he hopped.

Medio Pollito at the tree blowing in the wind
The next morning, as he was nearing Madrid, Medio Pollito came upon a large chestnut tree in which the wind had gotten tangled up. “Oh, Medio Pollito,” said the wind, “won’t you climb up here and help me get myself untangled?”
“It’s your own fault for going so high up there,” said Medio
Pollito. “And besides, I don’t have time to waste to do that sort of thing. I am off to Madrid to dine with the king.” And away he hopped.
When he entered the city, Medio Pollito saw the beautiful royal palace. He was so excited to meet the king; he hopped right into the courtyard without hesitation. The king’s cook spotted him and yelled, “You will make a nice addition to the king’s dinner.”
The cook scooped up Medio Pollito in his hand. He took him back to the kitchen, and tossed him into a pot of water! Then he set the pot on the stove.

Medio Pollito in the kitchen
Medio Pollito was getting very wet. “Oh, water!” he cried, “don’t soak me like this!” But the water replied, “You would not help me when I was a little stream choking with weeds, so why should I help you now?” 18
Then the fi re on the stove began to heat the water. Medio Pollito felt very hot. “Oh, fire!” he cried, “don’t cook me like this!” But the fire replied, “You would not help me when I was about to burn out, so why should I help you now?”
The fire got hotter and hotter. The heat was so unbearable that Medio Pollito grew more and more desperate to escape. Just then, the cook raised the lid of the pot to see if the soup was ready.
“What’s this?” said the cook. “I have overcooked the chicken.
He is all blackened and burnt to a crisp. I can’t serve this to the king
The cook tossing Medio Pollito out the window
The cook grabbed Medio Pollito and threw him out the kitchen window. With a gust, the wind caught him and carried him away so fast he could hardly breathe.
“Oh, wind,” Medio Pollito cried, “don’t push me around like this. Please, set me down!” But the wind replied, “You would not help me when I was caught in the tree, so why should I help you now?” And with that the wind lifted Medio Pollito up in the air to the top of a building and left him stuck atop the cupola.
Weathervane over Madrid
And that is where you can find Medio Pollito, to this very day. If you go to Madrid and look for the tallest church in town, you will see a black weather vane in the shape of half a chicken, turning in the wind. That is Medio Pollito, the chick who would not help others. Now he stays there and helps everyone by showing them which way the wind is blowing—forever.

FOX AND THE GRAPES [fable]

One hot summer day, a fox was strolling along when he noticed a bunch of juicy grapes just turning ripe, hanging on a vine high above. “Mmm, that’s just the thing to take care of my thirst,” said the fox. He trotted back a few steps, then ran forward and jumped, just missing the grapes. He turned around and tried again. “One, two, three, go,” he said, and he lunged at the grapes with all his might. But again, he missed.
Again and again he tried to pluck the grapes from the vine, but at last he gave up. He walked away with his nose in the air, saying,
“I didn’t want those old grapes anyway. I’m sure they are sour.”

Moral: You shouldn’t speak badly about something that you once wanted, just because you can’t have it.

FOX AND THE GRAPES [fable]

One hot summer day, a fox was strolling along when he noticed a bunch of juicy grapes just turning ripe, hanging on a vine high above. “Mmm, that’s just the thing to take care of my thirst,” said the fox. He trotted back a few steps, then ran forward and jumped, just missing the grapes. He turned around and tried again. “One, two, three, go,” he said, and he lunged at the grapes with all his might. But again, he missed.
Again and again he tried to pluck the grapes from the vine, but at last he gave up. He walked away with his nose in the air, saying,
“I didn’t want those old grapes anyway. I’m sure they are sour.”

Moral: You shouldn’t speak badly about something that you once wanted, just because you can’t have it.

THE FARMER AND THE GOOSE [fable]

Once a farmer went to the nest of his goose and found there an egg, all yellow and shiny. When he picked it up, it was heavy as a rock. He was about to throw it away because he thought that someone was playing a trick on him. But on second thought, he took it home, and discovered to his delight that it was an egg of pure gold!
He sold the egg for a handsome sum of money. Every morning the goose laid another golden egg, and the farmer soon became rich by selling the eggs.
As he grew rich, he also grew greedy. “Why should I have to wait to get only one egg a day?” he thought. “I will cut open the goose and take all the eggs out of her at once.”
When the goose heard the farmer’s plan, she flew away to a nearby farm. So when the farmer came out the next day, do you know what he found in the goose’s nest? Nothing.

Moral: He who wants more often loses all. When you want something, be patient. If you are greedy, you might lose what you already have.

THE MILKMAID [fable]

Peggy the milkmaid was going to market. There she planned to sell the fresh, sweet milk in the pail that she had learned to carry balanced on her head.
As she went along, she began thinking about what she would do with the money she would get for the milk. “I’ll buy the plumpest chickens from Farmer Brown,” she said, “and they will lay eggs each morning. When those eggs hatch, I’ll have more chickens. Then I’ll sell some of the chickens and some of the eggs, and that will get me enough money to buy the blue dress
I’ve wanted, and some blue ribbon to match. Oh, I’ll look so lovely that all the boys will want to dance with me at the fair, and all the girls will be jealous. But I don’t care; I’ll just toss my head at them, like this!”
She tossed back her head.
The pail flew off, and the milk spilled all over the road. So Peggy had to return home and tell her mother what had happened.
Ah, my child,” said her mother. “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.”

Moral: Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched; or don’t count on having everything turn out exactly as you plan, because you may be disappointed.

THE BOY WHO CRIED WOLF [fable]

There was once a young shepherd boy who tended his sheep at the foot of a mountain near a dark forest. It was lonely for him watching the sheep all day. No one was near; except for three farmers he could sometimes see working in the fields in the valley below.
One day the boy thought of a plan that would help him get a little company and have some fun. He ran down toward the valley crying, “Wolf! Wolf!”
The men ran to meet him, and after they found out there was no wolf after all, one man remained to talk with the boy awhile.
The boy enjoyed the company so much that a few days later he tried the same prank again, and again the men ran to help him.
A few days later, a real wolf came from the forest and began to steal the sheep. The startled boy ran toward the valley, and more loudly than ever he cried, “Wolf! Wolf!”
But the men, who had been fooled twice before, thought that the boy was tricking them again. So no one came to help the boy save his sheep.

WRITTEN BY B.G. Hennessy

The Ethical Lecturer

On Friday morning we had yet another unpleasant interaction as a result of me reporting an honours-year student for academic dishonesty. I had already caught Kevin Yu cheating once. Then, marking his most recent assignment, I had recognised a sentence from another student’s work of three years earlier.

Some investigation established that the past student was now Kevin’s private tutor, and had written at least part of his essay for him. This had all happened some weeks ago. I had reported the matter and expected the disciplinary process to take its course. Apparently it was more complicated than this.

‘The situation with Kevin is a little awkward,’ said the Dean. We were in her corporate-style office and she was wearing her corporate-style costume of matching dark-blue skirt and jacket, which, according to Gene, is intended to make her appear more powerful. She is a short, slim person, aged approximately fifty, and it is possible that the costume makes her appear bigger, but I cannot see the relevance of physical dominance in an academic environment.

‘This is Kevin’s third offence, and university policy requires that he be expelled,’ she said.

The facts seemed to be clear and the necessary action straightforward. I tried to identify the awkwardness that the Dean referred to. ‘Is the evidence insufficient? Is he making a legal challenge?’

‘No, that’s all perfectly clear. But the first offence was very naive. He cut and pasted from the internet, and was picked up by the plagiarism software. He was in his first year and his English wasn’t very good. And there are cultural differences.’

I had not known about this first offence.

‘The second time, you reported him because he’d borrowed from an obscure paper that you were somehow familiar with.’

‘Correct.’

‘Don, none of the other lecturers are as … vigilant … as you.’

It was unusual for the Dean to compliment me on my wide reading and dedication.

‘These kids pay a lot of money to study here. We rely on their fees. We don’t want them stealing blatantly from the internet. But we have to recognise that they need assistance, and … Kevin has only a semester to go. We can’t send him home after three and a half years without a qualification. It’s not a good look.’

‘What if he was a medical student? What if you went to the hospital and the doctor who operated on you had cheated in their exams?’

‘Kevin’s not a medical student. And he didn’t cheat on his exams, he just got some help with an assignment.’

It seemed that the Dean had been flattering me only in order to procure unethical behaviour. But the solution to her dilemma was obvious. If she did not want to break the rules, then she should change the rules. I pointed this out.

I am not good at interpreting expressions, and was not familiar with the one that appeared on the Dean’s face. ‘We can’t be seen to allow cheating.’

‘Even though we do?’

The meeting left me confused and angry. There were serious matters at stake. What if our research was not accepted because we had a reputation for low academic standards? People could die while cures for diseases were delayed. What if a genetics laboratory hired a person whose qualification had been achieved through cheating, and that person made major errors? The Dean seemed more concerned with perceptions than with these crucial matters.

Extracted from The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion

Monkey Business

There were two men who lived together in one hut; one was blind and the other was lame. It was a time of famine and all the people suffered hunger. These two were hungry also. As they sat in their hut, Lame Man saw a troop of monkeys in their yard. He thought of monkey stew and smacked his lips. Then he groaned.
'What is it with you, friend? Are you not well?' asked Blind Man.
Lame Man answered, 'Oh, I am well enough, but hungry. If I could only walk, I would shoot a monkey and cook a fine stew to eat.'
Blind Man laughed. 'I laugh so that I will not cry. My belly is empty, too, and the bush is empty of game. The hunters in our village go out each day and find nothing to shoot. Where would you find monkey?'
'Right in the yard of our hut,' said Lame Man. 'Because you cannot see the there, don't think I am blind, too. There are monkeys outside!'
This convinced Blind Man and he said, 'Climb on to my shoulders and tell me where to walk and where to stop. I will carry you and the gun to shoot the game.'
Lame Man got on Blind Man's shoulders and directed his steps. They came outside where the monkeys were in the pawpaw trees.
'Boom!'
Lame fired the gun and a monkey fell. The others fled speedily out of range.
They carried the game inside and Lame Man built the fire up and began to prepare the stew. As he stirred the pot, Blind Man asked, 'Is it ready?'
'Not yet.'
All the while he was cooking the stew, and because he was so hungry, Lame Man kept tasting it for flavour. And each time Blind Man asked, 'Is it ready?' Lame Man had just taken a large mouthful of hot stew and had to swallow it hastily to answer his companion. Before long there was nothing left in the pot but bones and a weak soup.
This time when Blind Man asked, 'Is it ready?' the answer was, 'Yes, it is ready', and he was given a bowlful of bones and soup.
'What is this? Bones? Ah, you wretched fellow! You have taken advantage of my blindness and eaten all the meat. Did I not share equally with you in its capture? Should I not have an equal share to eat? Without my legs you would not have shot anything at all.'
Lame Man answered, 'I saw the game, I shot it. I cooked it. This is the large portion of the work, and hence I should get the larger portion of the food.  You used only your physical strength. I used my eyes, my skill as a hunter, and talent as a cook. This is certainly more! If I had not first seen the monkeys there would be nothing in the pot at all.'
Thus they disputed and grew very vexed with each other. Blind Man went from the house and a stood on the road, stopping all the people to listen to his account and beseeching them to judge and punish Lame Man. From the Hut, Lame Man shouted his arguments and begged people to judge him right.
The people were not able to judge. Can you tell which, of the two, was tight?

Extracted from An Anthology of African Folklore.

The Woeful Date

Gene and Claudia tried for a while to assist me with the Wife Problem. Unfortunately, their approach was based on the traditional dating paradigm, which I had previously abandoned on the basis that the probability of success did not justify the effort and negative experiences. I am thirty-nine years old, tall, fit and intelligent, with a relatively high status and above-average income as an associate professor. Logically, I should be attractive to a wide range of women. In the animal kingdom, I would succeed in reproducing.

However, there is something about me that women find unappealing. I have never found it easy to make friends, and it seems that the deficiencies that caused this problem have also affected my attempts at romantic relationships. The Apricot Ice-cream Disaster is a good example.

Claudia had introduced me to one of her many friends. Elizabeth was a highly intelligent computer scientist, with a vision problem that had been corrected with glasses. I mention the glasses because Claudia showed me a photograph, and asked me if I was okay with them. An incredible question!

From a psychologist! In evaluating Elizabeth’s suitability as a potential partner – someone to provide intellectual stimulation, to share activities with, perhaps even to breed with – Claudia’s first concern was my reaction to her choice of glasses frames, which was probably not even her own but the result of advice from an optometrist. This is the world I have to live in. Then Claudia told me, as though it was a problem: ‘She has very firm ideas.’

‘Are they evidence-based?’

‘I guess so,’ Claudia said.

Perfect. She could have been describing me.

We met at a Thai restaurant. Restaurants are minefields for the socially inept, and I was nervous as always in these situations. But we got off to an excellent start when we both arrived at exactly 7.00 p.m. as arranged. Poor synchronisation is a huge waste of time.

We survived the meal without her criticising me for any social errors. It is difficult to conduct a conversation while wondering whether you are looking at the correct body part but I locked on to her bespectacled eyes, as recommended by Gene. This resulted in some inaccuracy in the eating process, which she did not seem to notice. On the contrary, we had a highly productive discussion about simulation algorithms. She was so interesting! I could already see the possibility of a permanent relationship.

The waiter brought the dessert menus and Elizabeth said, ‘I don’t like Asian desserts.’

This was almost certainly an unsound generalisation, based on limited experience, and perhaps I should have recognised it as a warning sign. But it provided me with an opportunity for a creative suggestion.

‘We could get an ice-cream across the road.’

‘Great idea. As long as they’ve got apricot.’

I assessed that I was progressing well at this point, and did not think the apricot preference be a problem. I was wrong. The ice-cream parlour had a vast selection of flavours, but they had exhausted their supply of apricot. I ordered a chocolate chilli and liquorice double cone for myself and asked Elizabeth to nominate her second preference.

‘If they haven’t got apricot, I’ll pass.’

I couldn’t believe it. All ice-cream tastes essentially the same, due to chilling of the tastebuds. This is especially true of fruit flavours. I suggested mango.

‘No thanks, I’m fine.’

I explained the physiology of tastebud chilling in some detail. I predicted that if I purchased a mango and a peach ice-cream she would be incapable of differentiating. And, by extension, either would be equivalent to apricot.

‘They’re completely different,’ she said. ‘If you can’t tell mango from peach, that’s your problem.’

Now we had a simple objective disagreement that could readily be resolved experimentally. I ordered a minimum-size ice-cream in each of the two flavours. But by the time the serving person had prepared them, and I turned to ask Elizabeth to close her eyes for the experiment, she had gone. So much for ‘evidence-based’. And for computer ‘scientist’.

Afterwards, Claudia advised me that I should have abandoned the experiment prior to Elizabeth leaving. Obviously. But at what point? Where was the signal? These are the subtleties I fail to see. But I also fail to see why heightened sensitivity to obscure cues about ice-cream flavours should be a prerequisite for being someone’s partner. It seems reasonable to assume that some women do not require this. Unfortunately, the process of finding them is impossibly inefficient. The Apricot Ice cream Disaster had cost a whole evening of my life, compensated for only by the information about simulation algorithms.

Extracted from The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion

Tomorrow's Burden

The door was locked.

The students gathered outside the lecture hall, waiting for Mr. Ajayi to arrive. Mr. Ajayi, a disciplinarian to the core, was the one with the keys. He preferred it that way, said it made him feel in control. Now the students were worried: What could have held him?

But in this crowd of students was a troubled boy. Not troubled by Mr. Ajayi’s absence, but by her absence. He scanned the crowd but she was nowhere. The boy hoped Mr. Ajayi wouldn’t make it. Of what good would his presence be, if she wasn’t here? He…and then, he saw her.

The girl saw the boy quickly look away. Was he glad to see her? Because she was glad to see him.

The boy felt his heart begin to pound. She is here! She is here! Maybe he should go and say hi to her. Em…no, that wouldn’t do. Oh, maybe he should ask her if she understood the lecture Mr. Ajayi gave in his previous class. Yes, that’s it! But the saliva dried in his mouth as quickly as the thought crossed his mind. He swallowed hard. He knew he would only make a fool of himself.

The girl stood, clutching her handbag; watching him. She wondered what was going on in his mind; whether he, too, felt the pleasant thud that resonated in her heart. Or whether he was just…indifferent?
Go! No, I can’t. Why? Well…because...because… Words failed him. They always did.

The girl thought of going over to the boy to say hi. She thought of starting with something like I like your shirt, I like your haircut; but that feeling held her back, the feeling that had always forced itself to the fore of her heart: Did he like her as much as she did him? Did he even like her at all?

Finally, the boy summoned up courage and began to play in his mind the conversation he and the girl would have:

Him: Hello.

Her: Hi.

Him: How’re you doing?

Her: I’m fine.

Him: Well…

The boy could see himself stuttering, searching for the right words; which would never come.

He gave up.

And then to his dismay, he saw another boy—cool and suave, a ladies’ man—walks up to the girl and strike up a conversation with her. The boy looked on. The conversation seemed to drag on for too long. He felt something gnaw at his heart. Something that made him want to hurl a big stone at ladies’ man’s head.

The girl was conscious of the boy’s ever-lingering gaze. She couldn’t wait for the guy to go on his way. Perhaps buoyed by the progress he thought he was making, the guy tried to wrap his hand round her waist, but she drew back, shaking her head. He got the message. He soon left her and went away—but not before he whipped out his phone. She shook her head again, while his thumb hovered above the screen.

The boy’s heart glowed. Now was his time. He began taking tentative steps towards the girl.

“Hey guy, where you dey go?” Tunji, his friend, grabbed his arm.

“Nowhere”

Tunji eyed him. “Nowhere?”

“Yes. Leave—” Just then, Mr. Ajayi appeared; sweat-faced. He mumbled an apology, something about traffic. But the students didn’t take things lightly: they chanted a noisy protest, about how he had locked them out in the sun, about what they could do to him—beat him up, knock his teeth out.

Mr. Ajayi ignored them, fumbling with the bunch of keys. He soon found the right one and a great mass of jostling bodies pushed towards the door once he unlocked it.

The boy sighed.

The girl too, sighed.

Tomorrow, the boy said to himself. Tomorrow. With one last glance at each other, they joined the crowd, their hearts heavy.

Written by Uzoma Ihejirika - Nigeria

Homecoming!

Unlike mailboats, which docked at the Lagos wharf on fixed days of the week, cargo boats were most predictable. So when MV Sasa arrived, there were no friends waiting at the Atlantic Terminal for her passengers. On mailboats days the beautiful and airy waiting-room would be full of gaily dressed friends and relations waiting for the arrival of the boat and drinking iced beer and Coca-Cola or eating buns. Sometimes you found a little group waiting sadly and silently. In such cases you could bet that their son had married a white woman in England.
There was no such crowd for the MV Sasa, and it was quite clear that Mr Stephen Udom was deeply disappointed. As soon as Lagos had been sighted he had returned to his cabin, to emerge half an hour later in a black suit, bowler hat and rolled umbrella, even though it was a hot October day.
Customs formalities here took thrice as long as at Liverpool and five times as many officials. A young man, almost a boy in fact, was dealing with Obi's cabin. He told him that his radiogram would be five pounds.
'Right,' said Obi, feeling his hip pockets.
Write a receipt for me.'
The boy did not write. He looked at Obi for a few seconds and then said: 'I can be able to reduce it to two pounds for you,'
'How?' asked Obi.
'I fit do it, but you no go get Government receipt.'
For a few seconds Obi was speechless. Then he merely said,  'Don't be silly. If there was policeman here I would hand you over to him.' The boy fled from his cabin without another word. Obi found him attending other passengers.
'Dear old Nigeria,' he said to himself, as he waited for another official to come to his cabin. In the end one came when all the other passengers had been attended to.

Extracted from Chinua Achebe's book, No Longer at Ease.

Letter From the Robbers

When Chief Obinwa read the note and absorbed its terse content, he nearly collapsed. For minutes, he stared at it in utter disbelief. But much as he wished otherwise, the message was clear: the robbers indicated that they would visit him soon; and that 'no force in the world' would stop them from carting away all he had. The note ended by warning him in his 'own interest' not to be funny by informing the police or other law-enforcement agents.
As a wealthy businessman, Chief Obinwa had seen enough of life to know that the gang meant business. He could recall at least half a dozen men who had got such sinister notes in the past, and who had been robbed as planned. One of them had contacted the police who then guarded his house for weeks. But the robbers struck all the same, they attacked him in his expensive car on his way to another town, trashed him thoroughly, and relieved him of the car.
So, contacting the police was out of it, he decided. But what could he do? He confided in his closest friend. The latter advised him to vacate his house for as long as it was necessary and seek refuge in a hotel. After giving this much thought, Chief Obinwa checked into Exclusive Hotel. But he stayed only for a night. He reasoned that leaving his retinue of wives, children, servants and relatives behind was not the best solution. So, emptying the water in an overhead tank, Chief Obinwa turned the tank into his refuge every night. His powerful double-barrelled rifle in hand, he hid in the tank late in the night, waiting.
Then, one night, the robbers came in a lorry. They were about a dozen. As they were forcing their way in, Obinwa aimed at their leader, and brought him down with a loud report. Another shot and a second man fell. Surprised, the others fled, with Chief Obinwa's shots seeing them off. By daybreak, the news spread fast; the body of Chief Obinwa's friend and business associate was found in a pool of blood at the entrance to the Chief's house. He was the leader of the gang!

Extracted from WASSCE June, 1992.

Oliha's Embarrassment

Years after he had left home for the capital, first as a student and later as a struggling businessman, Oliha returned to his village, having been informed of his father's failing health. He was amazed that not much had changed since he left home as a youth.
Every experience shocked him; the coloured water with a strong taste, the eyesore of a dung-hill on which everyone excreted, the absence of electricity and so on.
As he went to bed late in the evening, after a meeting with his younger brothers on how he would pay his own share of their father's medical expenses, he prayed for the early arrival of the morning. He decided to leave early and put the trying experience behind him.
But morning brought him the greatest shock of his life. Informed by his niece that there was a bucket of water for him in the bathroom, he hurried there, half dressed, holding a towel. He used his clothes and large towel to cover some openings in the enclosure and started bathing. Then it happened. With every inch of his body thoroughly covered with soap lather, hardly able to open his eyes, he heard someone removing his clothes and towel. Hardly giving the matter a thought, naked except for the covering of soap lather, he ran out and gave the thief a hot chase.
As he ran after the thief, he heard everyone shouting, 'the lunatic has broken loose again!' But as soon as the people saw him, everyone shouted, 'Ah another madman has broken loose!' Men, women, children all ran away, seeking refuge in their homes, slamming their doors. By the time he realised what was happening, daring men were after him. Just as Oliha was about to beat a retreat, he was held by strong, muscular men who overpowered him and carried him to the quarters of the village's foremost occult healer who alone knew how to cure lunatics.

Extracted from WASSCE, May/June, 1995

The Strange Dream

It was on a Friday morning. Baba was getting ready for a prayer meeting twenty miles from the village when Li rushed into his hut
'Baba,' she called.
'Yes, Li. What is it?' he asked
'Baba, do not go to prayer meeting today. Please do not go!' she pleaded. He stopped fastening his bag and turned towards her.
'What do you mean?' he asked, a little puzzled.
'Something bad is going to happen, really bad,' she said breathlessly.
'Child of the devil,' Baba thought. Then aloud with undisguised irritation, 'What is going to happen?'
'I don't know,' she wavered, embarrassed by his intent gaze, 'but I had a dream last night, a frightening dream,' she began. He burst out laughing. Li stopped short, cowed. 'Go on, prophetess. What doom did you see?' he said mockingly.
'I was in a strange compound,' she began again, but now unsure of herself, 'in a strange village. There were many people sitting in the dust with their backs to the wall. I walked towards them and peered into their faces, but could not recognise a single person. Their faces were long and sad, and nobody spoke to me. Nobody moved or smiled at me. I noticed some had dust in their hair and on their faces. It was strangely quiet - as if I was in the graveyard. I panicked and tried to run, but tripped over outstretched legs. I screamed and bolted away from the courtyard. Outside, in front of the compound, I had to stop because there was an obstacle in my way. I took a closer look and discovered fresh, brown mounds all over the place, ten, twenty, thirty. I screamed and woke up.' Li was trembling at the memory of her dream.
Baba was now quiet now and listening to her.
'Baba. I have a strange feeling something bad is going to happen. I had this feeling during the dream, and I still have it now.'
There were tears in her large round eyes.
Baba looked at her for a long time, wondering what kind of child she was. He didn't know how to tackle a child with such strong inclinations towards evil. 'I must discourage her,'  he thought.
By now Li was thoroughly embarrassed under his silent gaze.
'Yes, what a strange dream for a child of your age,' he said finally. 'Look, Li, you are imagining things. This is the work of the devil.'
'Yes, Father,' the poor child replied foolishly.
'Stop thinking about bad things. Your dreams at night are simply what you think about during the day. There is nothing in this dream. Forget it, child.
He made to put his hand on Li's head, but she dodged. Wiping the tears that had started steaming down her face, she left her father's presence. Somehow, she felt cheapened in his eyes. Li had always hung on her father's words as the ultimate truth but, somehow, what he had said about dreams being a reflections of earlier thought did not sound right to her. She knew there wasn't a streak of evil in her and she never thought of bad things during the day. If her daydreams were anything to go by, she should be dreaming about paradise. One thing was clear to her. Something bad was going to happen, whether or not dreams were a figment of her imagination. She had had such dreams before and whenever they were accompanied by a certain weird sensation, something always happened. She kept quite for the rest of the day, unable to confide in anyone for fear of being ridiculed.
***
It was late afternoon, and the shadow had started to lengthen when a procession of three lorries arrived at the Memorial Hospital. Nobody seemed to have taken much notice of the vehicles, until a bell rang twelve times. It was the death signal of the missionaries. At almost the same time, a woman came running from from the direction of the hospital, wailing at the top of her voice. Panic broke loose in the village. People started running in all directions, but mostly towards the wailing woman.
Amidst the barking of the dogs, women in a state of confusion could be heard calling or cursing their children.
Everyone was asking everyone else what had happened. The woman was surrounded immediately by a group of people, but she was too shaken and breathless to speak coherently. She simply pointed in the direction of the hospital.
'Accident!' she gasped 'Terrible, ghastly accident from... a.. neighbouring village. Go and see for yourselves. God... what a sight!'

Extracted from The Stillborn by Zaynab Alkali.

The Village

As Ntanya looked down upon the village, his heart seemed to melt inside him. The trees seemed taller and darker in their mystery as they  strained to assert themselves before the fading sun, and the smoke of evening supper coyly caressed the receding light on the hillsides. The middle of the bowl was now dark, and the orange colour offered itself warily only to the eastern corners of the village.
Ntanya breathed hard to fill his strong lungs with the cool village air which smelled, at least in memory, of mashed bananas in groundnut gravy. His heart was beating hard like a man driven to ecstasy by the beauty of a strange woman whom he is not sure whether to approach or not.
Even from where he stood, the village started to come to life; for the village was really alive only during the evening when everyone prepared for the death-life of the night. Cattle getting back to the village were starting to moo for their calves, and herdboys were yelling goodbye to each other, to keep away the fear of the night. Mothers would be busy with their pots trying to fill the bellies of their men, and specks of fire could be seen scattered all across the village.
Here and there an owl cried, bringing death to the unfortunate; Ntanya could hear in his mind's ear the subdued sob of the recipient of the message.

Written by Peter Palangyo-Tanzania.

Lagos Doesn't Care

Rashidat had just completed her secondary school education and was waiting on life to give her new directions. She’d been hanging around Seun since the day he moved into the neighbourhood. Her breasts were big and her hips round, and this did not escape Seun’s notice. She always sat in front of Seun’s room with a smile. She was dark, and Seun loved dark girls. He’d been ignoring her for some time, but when you see temptation every time, you start thinking about how a little tasting won’t do an awful amount of harm.

“How was work, brother Seun?”

“Very stressful. I beg, come massage me.”

She laughed at the idea of massaging him. It sounded foreign. She followed him to his room anyway. He removed his shirt. He could sense her robotic movements.

“Na only massage. You dey fear?”

“Fear? No o. I will massage well.”

He lay on his back. Her fingers dug into his skin with a feminine force. Her breasts grazed his shoulder and right at that minute he wanted to have her.

“Oya, my turn to massage you.”

She giggled, but when his hands stroked her inner thighs, and his lips brushed against hers, she moaned. He snapped back to his senses and asked her to leave his room. What was he doing? Rashidat was confused. The landlady walked in just in time to see Rashidat leave Seun’s room.

“Good afternoon ma,” Rashidat greeted.

Silence. The landlady looked her over before walking away
***
There were two sounds inside Seun’s room — the orchestra of mosquitoes and the occasional slapping of hand against hand, hand against ear, hand against cheek. Besides the light from the candle flame, there was a burning glow from a mosquito coil. The Lagos heat had him drenched in his own saltiness. He hated Lagos. But wetin man go do? Man must chop.
Lagos had turned everyone into an animal. He often thought that George Orwell’s Animal Farm would have come out much better had it been set in Lagos. Lagos killed your humanity and left you with just one instinct: to survive. Seun hissed. The heat. The roads. The traffic. The police. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
It had been a few years since Seun finished law school. When he turned twenty-five, he’d left home for Lagos and never returned. His new environment was made up of people, politics, smells and noises. He often found himself listening to the loud arguments of Baba Bola and Baba Sikiru, arguing who was a better vice president candidate between Fashola and Osibanjo.
Then there were the noises of the children in the compound chasing away goats, spitting at them and kicking them, a chicken with a bare pink neck scratching for food with three of its chicks, and a pig grunting somewhere. He woke up to the same sights and sounds every morning; and then he went to work, came home and battled mosquitoes at night.
He endured the acrid smell from the dirty water that flowed between his house and the church, and listened to the humming sounds of generators till they died out one by one. Then he listened to the silence of the night, before the muezzin’s call sounded and Lagos woke up again. And then there was the ringing bell of a white garment-wearing woman who chanted prayers and Bible verses like an incensed spirit, the call of repentance from another voice over a megaphone and the crowing of a cock. Lagos was a city that needed repentance. Seun had been caught in its snare
He had planned to stay for only two weeks, but the temptation Lagos had, which most people called opportunities, could not be overlooked. He’d ended up staying for five years.
***
"We don't know how he died o,” Rashidat was saying when Seun came out of his room in the morning. Rashidat and her family of five lived in one room. They were part of the over thirty tenants who occupied the building that had ten rooms overall.

“It is brother Mukaila that died in an ashawo place,” she went on.

There was a brothel a few metres away, about a five-minute walk away from where Seun lived.

“Mukaila has died?” Seun asked, though he didn’t know who Mukaila was.

"Not my brother o. Yes o. In an ashawo place.”

Rashidat kept emphasizing ashawo as if prostitutes were a disease. Death had become too normal. Boko Haram killed people — who cared? If a man died in a brothel, who would care? Seun had come to learn that if you wanted to survive you had to act like you didn’t care. Talk tough. Act rough. If you were new to Lagos, it could be sniffed from miles away.
There were dead giveaways. The slowness or quickness of your steps. Your gait. You had to show urgency in everything you did to fit in. Lagos’ survival mantra was I no be gentleman. It was this mantra that was about to get him into trouble.
***
The landlady was a widow in her forties, a little attractive. She liked Seun. When Seun failed to pay his rent one time she asked him if he had a girlfriend. Later, Seun was in her room.

"Just twice a week and you won’t be paying rent again.”

“What? I can’t do that.”

“Pay your rent tomorrow then.”

“But madam, be reasonable. The government has not paid our salaries for two months.”

“I am being reasonable. Twice a week. You might enjoy it you know?”

Seun had no girlfriend. But then again, he’d be saving money. He sighed. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea.

As for Rashidat, she had become more emboldened after the first encounter. She was about eighteen. He never had to invite her to his room again. She came on her own.

“Seun, I need a massage.”

She lay on the mattress, and Seun came to her, licking her ears with his warm breath, igniting her cells till they burned with every single touch of his fingers, and when he slid into her, she held his buttocks and urged him on, until they fell apart.
The candle flickered, and the flame danced from side to side. That flame got so low at times you started thinking it was going out and leaving the room completely dark. It never did go out. It stood up again, the orange flame, and burnt evenly before bending again to the side and eating down the wax that surrounded it.
It was just the way Seun danced with the landlady on her bed. Sometimes he would go low on her, sucking out moans from her, and when she thought it was enough, he would come up again and roll his tongue around her areola till she squirmed gently. He burnt pleasure into her, her mouth gasping out at times, her hands pressing his head deeper into her soft mound. Until she danced like the flame moving up and down, bending and burning out more pleasure.

"I know you fuck Rashidat.”

“You better stop or I will start charging rent again. I don’t share!”
***

One morning, the noise was in front of his door. The voices of Baba Bola and Baba Sikiru, and this time it was not an argument about Fashola or Osibanjo.

“Who is the father of the baby?”

It was the voice of Baba Sikiru.

“I don’t know.” Seun overheard the timid reply of Rashidat followed by the sound of a thundering slap.

“You must confess who the father is!” Baba Bola injected.

Seun stood up, packed his bag and threw it out of the window, before walking out with his boxer and vest, as if he was going to urinate in the toilet behind the house.
A crowd had gathered in front of Baba Sikiru’s house to pick up bits of gossip.

“I know who the father is.” the landlady’s voice was clear. “I must collect my rent from him today!”

He quickened his steps, picked his bag and left.

Written by Socrates Mbamalu - Nigeria

One Chance

"Enter make we dey go, na one chance remain" The driver with the yellow stained teeth said to me.
Our eyes met when I asked the driver how much for the bus fare. You were the lone passenger in the front seat, and as I quickly dashed to join you in front, an unusual feeling of joy enveloped me. You refused to move inside towards the driver's side; but the smile on your face disarmed me and I would have sat on the open roof just for that smile.

"Oga driver I go start this motor and leave without you o" I shouted out of the bus after sitting for a while.
You laughed heartily, snorting loudly at my driving joke, and the white impeccable sets of teeth that you flaunted, were white as cloud.

"Abi nao, person dey roast here like overripe boli" I said, pressing to score another laugh from you. You laughed again, punctuating each laugh with a sweet tap of my shoulder.
Then with an angelic sweet voice you replied me "Don't mind all these drivers my dear, that's how they do; I just pray he has not gone to take alcohol".

Did you really call me your dear? Is my brain processing this correctly? Did you just use a word of endearment for me, a total Stranger? 
My aura must be strong.

"My name is Benson" I said without any thought. Beaming with smile like a bride before her groom
"Mine is Elizabeth" you said tapping my arm again. The volt of current passing through me with each touch could power the whole of Oshodi.

Wow did I just get a jackpot? I am going to ask for your number before this trip elapse. I have always fantasized and imagined many scenario about meeting a sweet girl on a bus, but this is the universe providing the perfect scenario for me.

I paid for your bus fare, hoping it will give me a soft landing when I ask for your phone number. You were very grateful and more grateful when I bought you a bottle of fanta as I thought you were thirsty; Or why would you be staring at the girl selling the drinks? Anyway, I needed you to know I am man enough to take care of you when I eventually pop the question.

You are such an angel, laughing and contributing to every jab I landed on the driver about the state of his rickety bus. A bus that I nonetheless will be grateful to for being our chariot of love and bringing you to me.

As our bus approach the final bus stop, I prepared mentally to ask for the number; that will ensure that this sweet relationship and understanding continues.

With every step I made to retrieve my luggage from the bus boot, I rehearsed my speech for the umpteenth time and walked towards you, my Queen Elizabeth.

"Mummy Mummy" a little boy screamed and dashed right past me straight into your arms; a huge guy also gave you a full hug and pecked your soft cheeks. Oh the world became dark that moment and no man was ever confused as I was in that instance.
As I turned my back I heard you saying something like "Baby I miss you and Junior so much"

The sun hit me hard as if telling me I was a fool for using my bike fare to buy Fanta and pay bus fare for another man's wife. I backed my backpack and continued my trekking down the dusty 3 kilometers to my father's house.

Written by Sẹ́gun Nomolos Lóngẹ - Nigeria

Once upon a time

Once upon a time, son
they used to laugh with their hearts
and laugh with their eyes;
but now they only laugh with their teeth,
while their ice-cold eyes
search behind my shadow.

There was a time indeed
they used to shake hands with their hearts;
but that's gone, son.
Now they shake hands without hearts
while their left hands search
my empty pockets.

'Feel at home', 'Come again',
they say, and when I come
again and feel
at home, once, twice,
there will be no thrice -
for then I find doors shut on me.

So I have learned many things, son.
I have learned to wear many faces
like dresses -  home face,
office face, street face,  host face
cocktail face, with all their conforming smiles like a
fixed portrait smile.

And I have learned, too
to laugh with only my teeth
and shake hand without my heart.
I have also learned to say "Goodbye"
When I mean "Good riddance";
to say "Glad to meet you",
without being glad; and to say 'It's been
nice talking to you', after being bored.

But believe me, son.
I want to be what I used to be
when I was like you. I want
to unlearn all these muting things.
Most of all, I want to relearn
how to laugh, for my laugh  in the mirror
shows only my teeth like a snake's bare fangs!
So show me, son,
how to laugh; show me how
I used to laugh and smile
Once upon a time when I was like you.

Written by Gabriel Okara

Once upon a time

Once upon a time, son
they used to laugh with their hearts
and laugh with their eyes;
but now they only laugh with their teeth,
while their ice-cold eyes
search behind my shadow.

There was a time indeed
they used to shake hands with their hearts;
but that's gone, son.
Now they shake hands without hearts
while their left hands search
my empty pockets.

'Feel at home', 'Come again',
they say, and when I come
again and feel
at home, once, twice,
there will be no thrice -
for then I find doors shut on me.

So I have learned many things, son.
I have learned to wear many faces
like dresses -  home face,
office face, street face,  host face
cocktail face, with all their conforming smiles like a
fixed portrait smile.

And I have learned, too
to laugh with only my teeth
and shake hand without my heart.
I have also learned to say "Goodbye"
When I mean "Good riddance";
to say "Glad to meet you",
without being glad; and to say 'It's been
nice talking to you', after being bored.

But believe me, son.
I want to be what I used to be
when I was like you. I want
to unlearn all these muting things.
Most of all, I want to relearn
how to laugh, for my laugh  in the mirror
shows only my teeth like a snake's bare fangs!
So show me, son,
how to laugh; show me how
I used to laugh and smile
Once upon a time when I was like you.

Written by Gabriel Okara

The Fish Racket

My father always gave his share of the catch to me to guard while he went to help another group. At first, I sat there, patiently and proudly guarding the pile of fish.
But then a group of my friends came by, laughing and playing. They called to me and I left my post to play with them for a few minutes, but always with frequent glances at my pile of fish, and with one eye on the figure of my father. If anyone came too near my fish, or if my father turned in my direction, I hurried back to my post. But the morning was long and hot, and I was only five years old. I became tired, hungry and thirsty. Food sellers went to and from among the fishermen, with trays of tempting cakes, fruits and sweets upon their heads. I looked longingly at the food, but I had no money to buy things with. Then one day, I made a discovery which was to lead me into such a tangled web of deception that I was in the end unable to extract myself from it. I discovered that the food sellers would accept fish in payment for their wares.
I began by exchanging the smallest fish in my charge for an orange, or a piece of sugarcane. Then, with a larger fish, I bought cakes and sweets and shared them with my friends. At last, the day came when, in a reckless burst of goodwill, or bid for popularity, I exchanged my whole pile of fish for food, and distributed it among all the children who came crowding round me.
During the next half hour, while I waited for my father, I was in agony. At last, I saw him coming. "Where are my fish?" he asked at once.
"I sent them to grandmother".
My father was content with this answer. He took my hand and we walked to my grandmother's compound. Here he spoke for a few minutes with his mother and then asked her,  "Where are my fish?"
My grandmother assumed that he was speaking about that part of the catch that was always put aside for him as a son of the house. She fetched a tray of fish and gave them to me to carry. My father assumed that the fish which I bartered away were among those which his mother gave me. He was quite satisfied. He took my hand again and led me home. I could hardly believe my good fortune. I breathed easily again, and I began to think I was clever.
The next Saturday, I did the same thing. I bartered away all my father's fish, I told him that I had given them to my grandmother to be put with the those which she had for us, and I was not found. I did it again the following Saturday, and again and again. But my luck was too good to last . . .

Extracted from Francis Selormey's autobiographical novel The Narrow Path