Archive for the ‘TalesMen’ Category

by David Coxson

1st Jan, 2015.

He remembers Kate. He gets his old diary, looks at the dates, and smiles. It had been rough, he thought to himself; quite rough. The new year will be different, he assures himself with the same sad smile upon his face.

April 15th.

He met Kate. It wasn’t the most romantic of ways. . .or perhaps it was. Kunfe had gone to Sweet Sensations to dig himself into some quick lunch, and Kate had been the girl at the counter. He’d thrown a jibes about phones hung around the breast region not ever having a good network reception afterwards. She had laughed coyly and somehow, he had got her number. It wasn’t a hard thing.

5th, May.

After a couple of dates and some breath-taking moments together with Kate, he had confided in Jane. Jane has been a very wonderful friend. She had told him to take it slow, and not to get hurt.
In her words; ”Guy meets girl. They overwhelm each other. Chat about everything and late into the night too. Gradually, chats become boring. Everything talk-able has been poured into the first few weeks. Then comes the late replies. Sometimes, there would be no replies. And the love starts, or appears to start dying. And someone gets hurt. So, Kunfe, don’t get hurt.”
He had promised he would not, and that Kate was different.

9th, July.

The first sign. Un-replied whatsapp messages. Last seen proved she kept coming online for two days. There should be no excuse for not replying him.

11th, July.

She replied. She had been very busy, and whenever she logged in; it was to check incoming messages. There was no time or chance to reply them. He had told her he understood.

20th, July.

Another un-replied message. She kept coming online but would not reply. Was he over-reacting or too sensitive? He had to calm down, he told himself. Message was replied 9hours later. A ”busy now” would have sufficed, he thought.

1st, August.

He intentionally didn’t send a happy new month message. By text, call or whatsapp. Why does she expect him to be the first to always do that? Disappointedly, she was too busy to do that too.

2nd, August.

”Happy new month, dear. Sorry it came late.” He had to do it.
She replied ‘Kk.’
It was unlike her. Until now, she had never abbreviated. He loathed it. The ‘ks’ and ‘kks.’ He sighed. It was coming.

4th, September.

For two months now, he had been the one calling her. She’d earlier beeped or sent a ”call me back”, and now, those have stopped. He was beginning to go crazy. He loved her. God knows he did.

22nd, September.

He had promised to never call or text her until she does. And he would stick to it. Good radiance to bad rubbish. Why is Kate never like Jane. Sweet Mary-jane; always understanding. Even the taunts and teases were soft on her. She could handle any joke in the world. But Kate? The slightest innocent word would be twisted to make him look like the devil. To allay his welled up anger and frustration, he whatsapped Mary-jane. As usual, they ended the chat with a laughing Kunfe.

October. . . November. . .

She’d simply whatsapped him for the important holidays, and family or friends’ events. He’d answered casually. End of chat. The love was gone. He was sure.

25th, December.

He waited till evening to wish her merry christmas. He knew she’d be waiting for him to do it first. That was always the problem. She always wanted him to do everything first. He hated it. He realised they haven’t seen or gone on a date with each other for two months now. She had been too busy.
She replied: ”Very early for you to do that. Merry Christmas anyway.”
They had a little chat. She had to do something.

1st January, 2015

Enough is enough. Never unearth what wishes to remain buried. He looks at his watch. It is 3:15pm and she still has not called or texted to wish him a happy new year. She will always claim she loves him. It is evident she doesn’t.
He tears out a sheet of paper. And begins to write:

1. Find a new love.

2. Take it slow with her.
Will not overwhelm her too soon.
Be mysterious as it fuels the love longer.

3. Would not open…

Phone rings. Hidden caller Id.
”Happy new year, Sweetheart. You mean the world to me and I’d never lose you for anything. I want you to know I really love you. I’ll be coming to see you tomorrow…”

He tears the paper before he realises it. He bit his lips tightly as he volleys the paper into the bin. He could never stop loving her, come what may.

Coxson David is an aspiring writer and a student of the Federal University of Agriculture, Abeokuta. A member of Talesmen literature, and Da’Sacred Poetry.

Lyriversity — Liberty of Creativity


by Moses Olarotimi Sheyznote


(At the palace, King Gbadegeshin; his wife; Iyalode and his council-chiefs are all seated in deliberation. In walks Dongari; a village warrior with some men and Ifedunni; the village harlot)

Dongari: (breathing heavily)
Your Highness we caught her with his manhood in her mouth.

Chiefs: (chorusly)

King Gbadegeshin: what possibly could his manhood be doing in her mouth?

Chief Otun: (stands)
we should ask the man himself why he allowed his manhood to be in her mouth.

(Chief Otun sits)

Dongari: the problem is that he is deaf and dumb.

Chiefs: (chorusly)

King Gbadegeshin: If that be the case, then she should be able to tell us what this is all about.
(turns to Ifedunni)

Ifedunni: Your Highness! The act is indescribable by me, I can only show you and then you can describe it

Chief Osi: you mean to say, your want the King to (coughs) emm in your mouth?

Ifedunni: (nods three times)
that’s the best way to explain the act.

Chiefs: (chorusly)

Iyalode: (in a mocking gesture)
perhaps, Chief Osi can volunteer to have his manhood in her mouth for us to know what this act is all about.

Chief Osi: (shaking his head)
and what face will I wear before your eyes? What will I tell my wife at home, that my manhood has find succour in another woman’s hole,
(spits on the ground)
ridiculously not the one between the legs but in the head.

(Ifedunni kneels before the king)

Ifedunni: Your Highness! If you allow me, you won’t regret it. There is nothing sweeter in experience than have your manhood in a woman’s mouth.

Chief Otun: (stands quickly)
shut up your mouth! That’s total rubbish, very immoral.
(pointing to the area where his manhood is)
Our manhood is meant for only the haven between our woman’s thigh and not the mouth.

(Chief Otun remains standing)

(Dongari comes closer to the throne)

Dongari: Your Highness! If permitted, I’ll volunteer mine to the experiment, to confirm the act of this wild woman.

King Gbadegesin: (pointing at Ifedunni)
Is this woman married to any man?

Iyalode: (shakes head)
She is an harlot, her body is for any man with cowries enough to pay for it.

Chiefs: (chorusly)

King Gbadegesin: (Nodding head and smiling)
as the ruler of this Kingdom, is it not my obligation to protect my people especially from unknown events?
(Stands up)
How is this any different, I’ll volunteer to confirm this act.

Chiefs: (chorusly)
(All falls flat to the ground including Chief Otun)
(Chief Otun stands up and sounding shocked)

Chief Otun:impossible Your highness, we don’t know what this act is all about and what this woman have in plan.
(at the other chiefs)
We cannot subject our King to an unknown fate.

(Silence…slowly the other chiefs find their seats)
(The Chief whisper among themselves in deliberation)
(Chief Osi clears throat)

Chief Osi: exactly! Appoint any of us to do it, or better still, let’s permit Dongari to perform the unknown act with her.

(A Long Silence…curtain falls)


(Night. At Chief Otun’s house. Chief Otun is on the bamboo bed with his wife)
(Chief Otun sits up on the bed and turn to his wife)

Chief Otun: Ashake, you won’t believe what happen at the palace today o

(Ashake throws the blanket over herself)

Ashake: Not again this night, whatever it was that happen is none of my business. Spare me the tale and let me rest.
(turn her back at him)

(Chief Otun reaches for her…and in a teasing tone)

Chief Otun: What do you think of it if I ask you to put my manhood in your mouth?

Ashake: (jump out of bed putting her hand over her mouth in fear)
Ah! What ridiculous thing is that?

Chief Otun: (points at his wife)
O ho! Thought you don’t want to hear my story, hmmm?

Ashake: (knots her wrapper tightly…and sits beside her husband)
who did such shameful thing happen to?

Chief Otun: Shameful?! Ehn! She was really so confident about the act o. She kept telling us she cannot describe it except someone volunteer his manhood for the experiment.

Ashake: (claps her hands several times)
I have never heard of such act before, not when we have men like you who don’t even cut the forest between their legs, many won’t even bath for days.
(squeeze face)

Chief Otun: (stands up and un-tie his wrapper exposing his manhood before his wife)
O ho! You can’t put it in your mouth but you can beg us to deep it into that eternal darkness, that slippery hole that falls all men?
(sits back on the bed)
Ehn! Women like Ifedunni should be applauded for going extra miles to please a man.

Ashake: Awu! You mean that harlot was the one who put your manhood in her mouth?
(Draw closer to him)

Chief Otun: (sounds angry)
watch your mouth woman! I never said I was the one who volunteered, it was a deaf and dumb man she was caught with, and when she cannot describe it, the King…

Ashake: (eyes wide open)
Ah, The King!

(pull her to himself and cover her mouth with his hand and in a low tone)

Chief Otun: You better not get yourself in trouble, did I said the King did anything?

(Ashake brushes his hand away from her mouth and in a low tone)

Ashake: Who then was the sacrificial lamb for her festival of shameful act?

Chief Otun: We heard deep groans and moans behind the veil, and then the terrifying moment of, ‘it’s coming! It’s coming’, and then-
He ran out naked unknowingly, sweating profusely, Iyalode could not stand the sight, she took off immediately.
(laugh sarcastically and falls on his wife but soon stop with caution).

(Ashake pushes him away)

Ashake: Since you’ve tactically refused to unveil the mystery man who volunteered, and I hope it was not you?
(raise brow)
Was he able to describe the act?

Chief Otun: (shaking his head)
That was the most sober part of it all, he could not describe the act, he was lost for words, he just sat there looking like a dead tree.
(stands up and stretched himself like a dead wood)
And this made me to make up my mind that I am going to perform same act with you.
(sits back on the bed and puts his arms around his wife)
I want to see how it feels to have a manhood in a woman’s mouth.

(Ashake pushes him off)

Ashake: Did I hear you well?
(Stands to her feet)

(Chief Otun stands up too)
Chief Otun: Yes! You clearly heard me.
(Holds his manhood in his hand)
As your husband, I am asking you to put my manhood in your mouth, I must confirm what this indescribable act is all about.

Ashake: (in a high tone)
You must be joking!

(A sudden shout from nearby, and then follow by a bang on their door)

Iya Pelumi: (out of breathe)
Chief! Chief!! Ashake! Help ooooo, my husband has gone mad tonight.
(Iya Pelumi continues to bang the door)

Chief Otun: that’s Iya Pelumi’s voice
(run to open the door, Ashake follows behind…Iya Pelumi runs inside)

Chief Otun: (startled)
Woman why the cry at this hour of the night, who or what is after you, And why speak of madness?

Iya Pelumi: (panting) Your friend has gone mad tonight!
(Fidgets about)

Chief Otun & Ashake: (chorus)

Iya Pelumi: Chief Osi; your friend insisted he want his manhood in my mouth just as we were about to sleep for the night.

(Ashake and Chief Otun look at each other in surprise. Chief Osi emerges from a corner out of breathe)

Ashake: (hands akimbo)
What in the gods name is wrong with all our men tonight? Why this sudden sick appetite of having their manhood in our mouth?

(Iya Pelumi was shock, look at Chief Otun)

Iya Pelumi: (Speaking to Ashake)
He asked you for same thing?

Chief Osi: (surprised…and speaking to Chief Otun)
Ah! Even you?

Chief Otun: What’s ah?
(Spreads his two hands)
Am I not better than a Chief who chase his wife down the road in the night crying for the indescribable act like a starved dog?

Chief Osi: And when did our wives also start refusing the words of their husbands, did we not pay their price to do our biddings?

Ashake: (at Chief Osi)
You should be ashame of yourself!

Iya Pelumi: (pointing at the area of Chief Osi manhood)
He does not shave, that place looks scary?

Ashake: (laugh..and points at her husband)
they are all the same.

Chief Osi: (looks at his wife with disdain)
That’s not the news of the moment. If you won’t allow me, I’ll go pay the harlot to do the indescribable with me

Chief Otun: As stupid as that suggestion can be, I concur
(move closer to his friend)

Ashake & Iya Pelumi: (chorus)

Iya Pelumi: Has it come to that?

Chief Otun: They say nothing is sweeter to a man compare to the act.
(At Chief Osi)
Since our wives won’t, then we have no choice than to go pay to satisfy our curiosity with whoever will

Chief Osi: We just want to know what this indescribable act is all about, that even after the act our King could not describe it.
(cover his own mouth in shock)

Iya Pelumi & Ashake: (chorus)
Ah! The King!

(Long Silence….they all stand there staring at each other)

…………………………THE END…………………

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Lyriversity — Liberty of Creativity

TALESMEN: Midnight Palaver

Posted: January 31, 2014 in PROSE, TalesMen

by Moses Olarotimi (Sheyzznote)

“Eriwoyaaaa!”, the deep voice of the native doctor pierced the heart of the silent night. A big calabash sat firmly upon a lad’s head, its content was a fresh Isi-Ewu (goat head) with blood still oozing from its neck. It was a slow rhythmic walk, the lad proceeded with caution some pace ahead of the native doctor, while he lagged behind peeping into the darkness as if he wasn’t sure if what he was doing was right.
“Stop there!” Came a voice from behind a mango tree. The vigilante put on his flash light, pointing towards the native doctor and the lad.

“Where una dey go for this kind time of night?” He asked moving towards them, his gun in one hand, and his flash light in the other.

“Me na herbalist for dis town. Many sabi me; Baba Fagbamila, mouth and ears of the Oracle. I wan give chop-chop to the three-path junction Orisa, please allow us proceed without delay.” Replied the native doctor.

The vigilante stood gallantly before them; looked straight into the lad’s face. Poor boy! He was already sleeping on his toes, but still carrying the burden of a dead goat’s head.

“Thunder fire that your smelly-smelly mouth. Na una dey dirty our environment with useless sacrifice abi? Which yeye three-paths junction juju you dey talk about? That junction don full wit una rubbish food wey una dead gods no dey ever chop. Imagine this better Isi-Ewu wey we for take do pepper soup, na him you wan go waste for that place.” Barked the vigilante.

He pointed his flash light inside the calabash to be sure of what he was making claims on.

“I go use you do scape-goat today, you mad man. People dey sleep, you dey make noise for road for here. I go show you pepper this night.” He continued.

He balanced his gun well in his hand, and aimed it at the native herbalist who was standing with jaws dropped in surprise. He was caught up in fear, but tried to put forth a courageous stance.

“Ha! You dis night crawler, don’t invoke the wrath of the gods upon yourself and your generation o.” The Native Doctor managed to say while trying to regain his composure.
“Na jeje I dey go o, wey you come wele me begin accuse me of my job. May Esu (Satan) not use you o’.

The Vigilante burst into laughter, and said; “Your job? You dey craze! Let me tell you all the offence wey you don commit with this your garrulous action, as per say you no sabi law. Offence number; loitarin. Number two; publical newsans. Number three; pikin abush. Number four; envarunmental pollusionalism. Number five; consti…constibution dabarunism. All this na crime against law, and you are under arrest.”

The native doctor was confused, but he would not give in so easily. He burst into a thunderous laugh that almost scared the hell out of the vigilante, who was not sure what it was that made him laugh so sarcastically. The herbalist knew his moment had finally come, he decided to put up with some challenge.
“Vigilante or Area watch dog or wetin dem dey even call you, don’t even try show law for me, I sabi my right pass wetin you dey fit dey think o. Make I tell you the offence wey you just gbagaun too. Number one; salandarous. Two; falls accunsetionalism. Three; infingaring of my religious right. Four; participation in unlawful job not consti…consti…mogbe o, dis na gramma o! Constibusionaly sabi sabi. Five; use of unregis…ta killing machine. Six; Arasmenti. Seven; disropton of juju sacrifice. Eight; mis…misrepu…posentasion. And I ready to charge you to court for all this vao…nasion of congitu-gbana goberment law.”

The Vigilante pushed back some steps, looked left and right to see if any one was listening or watching them.

“How herbalist like you take sabi goberment law? He finally said; “You dey show yourself abi? For your mind you don become oga barrister abi? Na here daybreak go meet me and you, you go come explain give people wetin you want take this small boy do. Na people like you dey take people do juju, God don catch you today.”
Pointing the gun at the native doctor, he continued; “If you move, I move you. Just respect yourself and maintain for there.”

The young lad dropped the calabash on his head at the native doctor’s feet, and lie down beside it, he was immediately heard snoring deep as the two men stood watching his strange act all the while.

“Which kind Vigilante you be sef? I go curse you o!” Shouted the native doctor. His patient was almost worn out.
“You be enemy of progress o.” He continued, but this time louder, “I dey do my religious work and you come dey here accusing me of nonsense. Abeg, free me before I Sangolo and Malango for you o, I get work to do, so…”
The mouth of the gun hit the native doctor on his chest before he could finish his sentence.
“You don dey mad abi? See me see wahala dey o?” Shouted the vigilante back at him; “I go fire you if you try move, useless juju man! Your secret don expose. Breeze don blow, and fowl yansh don dey public. Today na today.”

The native doctor began to make incantations in native dialect, waving the horsetail in his hand. He hit the ground thrice, and spat before the Vigilante. The Vigilante jumped back in fear, he had been watching the native doctor all the while performing his madness, but all of a sudden the cloud began to form, the wind began to blow, lightning flashed in the sky. The native doctor was surprised as much as the Vigilante; they both looked up to the sky, and knew it was time to run for shelter. Nature’s warning was too short to weigh their options, the rain poured out from the sky with great anger as if God was tired of their gibberish talk.

The Native man picked up the young lad in his arms, the Vigilante carried the calabash and it content without been told, and together the two men took to their heels heading in the opposite directions.


All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the written permission of the publishers.

Lyriversity — Liberty of Creativity

Written By: Samuel Oludipe
Story By: Moses Olarotimi

To read First episode click PART 1
To read Second episode click PART 2


Many women had run off very far away from the place where the shot rang off. In fact, some of the adire stall owners had taken swift precaution and locked their rolls up, themselves inside too.
A strange calmness covered the distance again. Total silence hung on the town side like night shadows. And when any other thing was to be heard, it was the slow frightened dragging of feet, tracing the spot from where the rifle-shot had shook the sky. The two hunters and three women who had thought out a plan soon had to drop their jaws wide apart in shock and puzzlement. The sight was an uncommon sight. More disturbing, it was a taboo.

There was a crowd gathering in front of the town clinic, the only town clinic. Few yards from the clinic front, two shaded struggling figures stood away from the wary town people.
A part of the crowd wailed at the two bodies of town-guards, lying lifeless on the nearby dump. Some men from the mob surged forward towards the covered figures but the slow appearance of a rifle mouth from the dark shade held them still. Everyone gave almost one gasp; they knew the two guards had fallen by the barrel of a gun––in fight or flight.
Like the voice of a roaming spirit, a depressed voice came from the dark too. It was impossible to place that voice, it was not heard too commonly but just those two words kept breaking the air- “my daughter, my daughter.”

Slowly, a strapped doctor moved out into view, but he was at the mercy of a rifle pointing down to the back of his head. At the end of the gun, another figure appeared––a farmer.
“My daughter!” his voice was heated.
“Please save me!” the white doctor begged the watching town…in tears.
The gun pressed against his neck.
“My daughter, you left her to die. Isn’t it, you white fowl?” the farmer raged visibly.
“Help me, he’s a lunatic” pleaded the doctor more passionately.
“SHUT UP NOW or I will rape your mouth with bullets like those Corper boys did to my precious girl.’’ his voice had become to soften with sobs.
Everyone was too hit to talk.

The doctor turned to make a fitting appeal but he was soon thrown to the ground. He groaned and pleaded for mercy with throaty sobs. He was still writhing in the mud when three hunters from the crowd pulled their own guns against the farmer. The confrontation was revealing, a symptom of bad fate but nothing more arose, only self-confession.

The farmer still held his rifle down. He seemed weak in the face but tears had begun to run down his cheeks. His following words were few:
“I killed two rapists today…I killed a partial judge who dresses as your priest…I killed your crafty guards who protect the white fowl under my knee.”

He faced the doctor and continued;
“So tell me then, you white fowl, since my daughter was too poor and black to get saved; do you think you are too rich and white to see tomorrow?” he stuttered in welling fury
“Ehen?! Answer me, you.”

The guns were ready to pull off their death but the farmer was quicker, he fired a straight shot into the back of his ‘fowl’ and finished him off.
“Ajoke, my daughter, I have not forgiven myself!” He dropped his rifle amid the clearing smoke and looked up to the night sky. The first shot met him frozen; it shoved him away from the corpse and battered his knee. He closed his tears-smeared eyes.
“I own nothing!” He said almost in a whisper, but other guns fired too– the shots of his ruin.

It never mattered that a murderer was killed, or that a loner was unveiled in that moment, or that a man with a black skin like theirs ended the life of a white man before their very eyes. No! In few thoughts, what gave precise meaning was that he died shedding his own tears. That night, he offered his tears in slow weary sacrifice and in blood and brine; he looked up to the sky.


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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the written permission of the publishers.

Lyriversity — Liberty of Creativity

Written By: Samuel Oludipe
Story By: Moses Olarotimi

To Read Previous Episode click PART 1


There was a shivering in his heart that afternoon. The marine brought, with its wave, a lone music and riding upon it a callous breeze of heat but the lagoon and his hut had only become a mirror of hurt and strand, mirroring his fear and anger to his very eye. He walked out of his stead and stormed into his barn. He knew his matchet would be lying on some marked yam seeds by the corner, so he went straight for it. He stormed back out and closed the dwarf-door behind him.
Outside his farm, a shotgun had burrowed into shallow earth. He picked it too and dug it by the rim of his sagging trousers.
A petty farmer of petty contentment, he could have simply relished strength in the little he could own as he always did but today was a different mark, a different loss and the shivering had to calm. He had jumped the Corpers’ fence and successfully eluded the Hausa mayguard that dealt his whiplash on the tall walls now and again. Somnambulist, he held the matchet with precise fury; he walked a few yards round the short buildings.
One or two Youth Corpers would inspect him walking, eyes to the grass and pass flattening suspicion but nobody stopped to study this man, they only ruminated on their own uncertainties and passed it to friends in reticent voices.
He had walked round a bush of brown wildflowers and reached an open field where few friends still loved to lie under the sun before an evening drill; but in the cold gaze of the farmer, the next few hours was to pass away into a pulling feast of tears.
He pulled his matchet now and narrowed his eye from the dark eaves of his hat. He must have picked his prey from the little crowd and, mechanically, the blade swung away from his fingers…like floating jelly, and crept closer to a group of three in mid-air until it ate into one. The matchet pierced through his left chest.
A blood-bath. A woken scream. Chaos.
The confusion was a brief shock. The screaming still swelled but he had quickly walked off to another edge of the next building and waited for another face. A scattered crowd surged towards the open field. Another rifle-shot pulled off from nowhere but it fell upon the shouting pack. Now, there was a different wail from within, spellbinding and sore. Some people had flown into nearest buildings and hedges; the little remainder shook up in trembling, and searched for the wail. Another scream encircled the path but this one was better hoarse and miserable. A young man was in the dust, his head split by a bullet and flowing blood scattered the mob like chickens.
He had done it so quickly, like an assassin. The youths were still scuttling like kites. Yet, no one stopped to look his way and so again, he walked away, leaving behind a stench of horror. He broke out too easily. His shivering was fading; it soon took him to the town church.
The church was a bamboo house with small windows, a white flag fluttered in the frontage. The street was silent but the priest’s prayer was the only sound piercing the ear. He moved nearer to one window and, for a minute, inspected the kneeling priest. ‘Fowl!’ he thought
Still fuming, he caught glimpse of a matchet nudged halfway into a cassava in the mud. His eyes drew on the kneeling priest again but now, with large intention.
He went for the matchet and stormed into the church. Before the priest could turn back and pick a word, the matchet fell on his left shoulder and spurted warm blood. His bible slipped off his already-shaking hand; he squirmed gently in drifting horror as he fixed ghostly gaze on his slayer. But he could not sustain a breath any longer; he simply dropped dead upon the altar, without a word, one side of his face buried in blood and cassava sap.
‘Die, you hypocrite––fowl’, he spat on the lying corpse and wiped the edge of his blade with its white robe.
He walked out with reframed ease and enjoyed the new feeling spreading through his body like soapy water, a shivering sinking and it was subtler than a moment ago. He held the matchet like a child of his and stared to the yellow sun but his heart knew no ease, a sudden thirst defeated his mind.
That evening, he was slow; his matchet swung lazily in his taut right hand. In the market, the roaring horde of angry women, he was just in his own sleeping world, minutes falling apart in the flap-flap-flap of wearied mud-spattered feet.


To read the next episode click PART 3

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the written permission of the publishers.

Lyriversity — Liberty of Creativity

Written by: Samuel Oludipe
Story by: Moses Olarotimi

He was slow. His matchet swung lazily in his taut right hand. In the market, the roaring horde of angry women, he was just in his own sleeping world, minutes falling apart in the flap-flap-flap of wearied mud-spattered feet. Every hour was the romance of the yellow sun but he seemed, in more technical terms, to live like a ghost would, to whisper to himself like a ghost would, to swing his matchet like a ghost would.
With him; no meaning, no verve, no start of something new, something fine; his constant unhurried walk around the market square had passed shrewdly into a drama of no sense, and no one knew why an adept farmer like him should waste hours under the warm clouds in aimless walk ––but the rest was a stillborn story, a rude joke in his past. Still, he walks.
The local rifle slashed to the back of his arm was still as it was in the last three passing days, firm and cold. But in these recent times, the rifle distended too boldly, clanged against his matchet too boldly; sometimes in the drifting dusk, it would be noticed of his right shoulder to hiss tiny streaks of stiff blood. His rifle mouth would have dealt a fresh smear of hot gunpowder on his cloth and on his skin. In the case of this wanderer-farmer, not too many indigenes could boast a fair amount of knowing and none particularly crossed his way or even thought to…time and motion moved too quickly. In fact, the most revealing and loquacious of market women had been cut short of reputation when something was asked of the ageing man. They would simply shrug in witlessness and go on to whisper to the next buyer.
 “What has become of this man?” one man had commented. He had watched like others before, stricken, but now he questioned rather placidly, “Does he not have a land and a hoe?”
“Even if he does have a hoe and a land but fears the heat, at least, that hat of his still bears good fibres” said the next woman. Short laughter. More questions than answers.
So a decision was made. A group of two hunters and three farmers would quietly shuffle by the back of this man one night and see to it that they concluded something about him; his pathway, his hut and perchance, his barn if he did built one. But the experience would be more intense than it would grow in words. That night, they waited to see the coming of his measured spirit, his first recoiling across their path but no such figure appeared now. Brusquely, their own anticipations only broke in a distant rifle-shot defeating the noise in anonymous peril.
In this season of plenty, it was a curious toil that made each man scurry like a restive hen but in the sudden strike of such deadly shot, riding sky-high in the dark, a different horror probed the air.


To Read Next Episode, Click PART 2

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Lyriversity — Liberty of Creativity


Posted: January 14, 2014 in PROSE, TalesMen

by Damilola Awotide

So what?
They say I’m proud and a big snob… who cares? I am not bothered so I don’t expect anyone to be bothered on my behalf.
I know that most people are only jealous of my qualification, financial status and my spotless beautiful self.
I turned twenty-seven last month and I have been promoted twice in the last five years of work. I am well educated and properly qualified for the two promotions as I came in with my master’s degree from a prestigious University in Spain and have done so many professional courses alongside.
Whatever! I am less concerned at what my colleagues, juniors, seniors and even neighbour’s say about me. I’m just protecting my prestige and dignity.
Ooops! It’s time.
I’m meeting Vincent tonight at the hang-out place of my dreams- Chinese restaurant!
I’m so excited. I’m even almost shy because it’s happening today. Damn! My life is going to change after tonight.
When I was telling him the other day that I would like to be proposed to in my dream hang-out place, I thought he was not listening. I kept on talking anyway-I wanted that place because I usually get pissed at the way Nigerians react when a man asks a woman to marry him in the public. But in the gathering of a majority of foreigners, it would be applauded better. I also told him I would like him to be dressed in white suit. It’s just my idea of a divine proposal. I want everything to be almost perfect.
A car honked outside my house, a very familiar sound. Vincent my future husband.
I went out to meet him all dressed up and looking fine (as always!). He came out to open the door for me, which he rarely did and then I saw him looking tall and handsome in his pure white suit. He even wore a white shoe to match, well I don’t mind that. He was all-white and divinely looking, way better than I imagined him to be..
He hugged me and held the door open for me as I went in. He joined me almost immediately on his side of the car.
He smiled at me as he started the car. He asked how my day was and I said it was fine, no need for unnecessary stories that might spoil the night. He asked what I had eaten and when last I ate.
“I ate last at work during lunch break. Don’t worry about food dear, excitement has filled me already”
We journeyed in silence for a while then I thought it wise to remind him of my preference in precious stones.
“Vincent dear?”
I smiled widely. “You know I like diamonds a lot, especially large ones”.
He looked at me puzzled. “Why would you bring that up now?” he asked.
What?! Hope it was not a gold or silver ring he got for me?
“I’m just saying”, I said, trying hard for my smile to look genuine enough.
We were both quiet for the rest of the drive. We got there and he gentlemanly came to open the door for me and we walked in hand in hand. I was a bit disappointed that he hadn’t made a special reservation for this special occasion, but all the same I liked the attention we got as we entered.
While waiting for our orders I began sipping the wine brought for us. I was not going to drink too much so I could really savour the moments and be able to remember them well.
Vincent looked at me – I could not read the expression his face carried and I was going to say something when he spoke.
“You did not even bother to ask how my day went, or how the burial went.”
With mouth agape and brain immediately searching about any burial information, I put the glass of wine on the table, buying time.
Gladly, our order came in then, but with all the bought time I still could not recall him telling me about any burial and I sure have a sharp memory.
The waiter muttered something and Vincent replied, smiling sincerely.
Oh dear! Does it by chance have anything to do with my ring? Mehn! I have to eat carefully so I don’t damage the ring if it’s in the food.
The waiter left, leaving me staring at the food as if looking for the ring.
“Don’t you want it?” Vincent asked.
“Oh I do!” I said rather too loud.
“Then eat.”
I took the chopsticks in my right hand and said, “I am so sorry my love. How was your day at work?”
He chuckled. “Work? I did not go to work darling. I told you.”
Did he really? Well I couldn’t remember. It had to be because of the burial he did not go. But who died?
“Yeah, my bad. So how was the burial?”
“It was like their typical burial, the body was already cremated and put in an urn.”
I lost my appetite then. It’s not like I was enjoying the food anyway, plus it did not seem like there was a ring in there.
“Cremated? Why?”, I asked.
“Sweetheart don’t you watch Bollywood? They cremate their dead in India.”
I was confused. “India?”
He smiled and said, “So you’ve forgotten I said my boss lost his wife? My boss- the Indian boss. The one you like.”
I was lost.
“I was telling you the other day but you were blabbing about how long its been that we both went out.”
What?! Indian? Burial? WHITE!!!
White was their mourning colour, wasn’t it?
“Sweetheart, you know I love you.” Vincent was saying.
Oh! Sweet relief!!
Finally the proposal. Enough with the dead.
He continued, “But you really have to change your attitude towards this relationship if you ever want us to work.”
What was he talking about? Work where? Were we not here on the “working” issue? He is proposing to me here in Chinese res…
I was cut short in my thoughts when I saw him tilt a bit to remove something from his trousers’ pocket.
The ring. That must be the ring. It had to be.
He brought his hand out of his pocket and-
Oh my gosh!!!
He handed the case over to me. It was a beautiful black case with ‘FOR HER’ written in glowing gold letters.
My heart was racing. I took it, waiting for him to say the magic word, but he did not.
Why was he not asking me the ultimate question? Yes he was a naturally shy fellow, but in this case? Come on!
Okay. Maybe I should help him. I knew he badly wanted to marry me, plus his mum was already pestering him to get married and give her grandchildren.
His smile was infectious and so was mine- especially so was mine.
So I squealed and shouted, “Yes!” as I opened the case.
“Yes what?” Vincent asked looking around to see if I had not called too much attention to our table.
Wha-! Earrings. Earrings?
My face grew hot and I’m sure it was red already. It was not even big. It was two tiny gold dots in the case.
I looked up from the case and saw that some people were looking at me. I could not help but smile, a very red-hot smile as I faced the comedian before me.
“What is this?” I tried speaking without shouting.
“Earrings my love.”
“What for?”
“You used to complain that you always have to put off your other big ones whenever you are in the house and you wished you had a small one.”
Obviously Vincent was a comedian- a very dry one at that. He brought me here of all places, wore a white suit and spent all that money just to give me this thing?
“Where is the ring?” I asked him. There was no point mincing words here.
He frowned now. “What ring?”
“Don’t play dumb with me young man,” my voice had risen, but I did not care. “Why are you wearing a white suit tonight?”
He looked about again and motioned for me to lower my voice. “I told you I went for an Indian burial today. White is their colour for mourning, unlike our black.”
“So why did you bring me here? In a white suit for that matter, why?”
“Since it’s been a while we went out together and I know how much you love this place…”
I did not let him finish his jargon tale before I interjected; “It’s not the place I love to come to after we have not gone out in a while. It’s a place I want to be proposed to. In a white suit!”
Now I was yelling and I really, really did not give a damn.
“I thought you were just describing how much you loved this place. I didn’t know you were serious about it.”
Aaaarghhh!!!!! I wanted to get out of my skin and jump into the cool bottle of wine before me and not come out till I saw a ring- a large diamond ring.
“You decided to bring me here and embarrass me, huh? Do you think I don’t have the money to come here on my own? I just wanted it to be my proposal place.”
Tears were welling up but no, I was not going to cry. No, not here- no.
He signed for the waiter to come and settled the bill. The waiter left, sensing the tense atmosphere.
Vincent sighed heavily. “My dear, you are the most ego-filled, unbearable, dictating woman I have ever met.”
Bang! That was in my head. Another one. Bang!
He did not even wait for me to recover. “I have been putting up with you and your bossy attitude, telling myself I needed to be more patient with you. You are so full of yourself dear. It’s always about you, what you like, what you don’t.”
He stood up. “Just so you know, I ordered for that earring from Dubai, so you think twice before throwing it away. I’ll be waiting for you in the car.” He said and left.
I just stared into the air. Was I that bad? Is it a crime to desire some things, like your proposal place and so on.
I wanted to come here and get hooked for life; instead I’m uncertain about my relationship status now.
I couldn’t hold back the tears as it streamed down freely.
Clutching my purse and the black case of earring, I stood up and walked to the door, head bowed.


Damilola Awotide is rounding up her first degree in Food Science and Technology at FUTA. A first of three children, she is motherly in words and deeds. She lives with each day as it comes and believes in the Sovereignty of God. She hopes to reach out to the world with her talents and is getting there too.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the written permission of the publishers.

Lyriversity — Liberty of Creativity


Posted: January 10, 2014 in PROSE, TalesMen

by Moses Olarotimi Sheyzznote (Talesmen Crew)

It was a windy and dusty evening. All the exciting and rigorous activities of the day drew closely to an end. Traders packed their merchandise, locking their stores, some humming graceful tones. Buyers and visitors hurried along, thoughts of the rush hour hastened the pace of their movements. Friends and customers exchanged farewell remarks to one another as they departed on a lonesome quest to leave the market. Horns blared from the nearby garage, beckoning invite for any who cared to take a ride in their paths. It was rowdy and noisy, many wore warm smiles; the culmination of a blissful trading day, while the unfriendly faces of some told tales of misfortune, and the rest bore a haggard expression of ‘tomorrow will be better’: hope of uncertainty.

The setting sun radiated ember light like a blushing virgin after hearing a suitor’s thrilling romantic poem. It was a beautiful-scene, but none seemed to care until a sudden bang jeered everyone to a startled shock. Baba Muniru lay lifeless in his own pool of blood, a fresh gore at the back of his head oozing out blood uncontrollably. Young Muniru sat close to the still body of his father, crying; “Why is daddy not moving again? Mummy will be waiting at home. I am hungry, daddy lets go home.”
Men and women were seen taking to their heels; running helter-skelter as if possessed by demons; so much pandemonium, the result of a sudden bang from an unknown source.

No one cared to discover what disaster had befallen Baba Muniru, except for little Muniru, wondering what could have happened to his Papa. Head gears and scarves danced about, tossed by the rhythm of the wind, flying shoes and goods were seen higgledy-piggledy all around. Everybody for themselves! Crying children everywhere, unattended to by running parents, the chaotic scene became a living hell as another thunderous bang echoed in the air making the day grow suddenly dark…


Today is 24th of March, 2006. Its two days since my first obligation as an Akonian. Let me tell you how it started.

‘Allah-hu-hakbar’, the cacophonous blare from the horn speaker of a nearby mosque jolted me back to consciousness. I found myself on my hostel apartment mattress, dressed as if I was ready for an outing. Still under the dizzy nature, I stole a glance at the wall clock and what I saw jeered me out of bed. My blur sight scanned the room, and my memory jogged back, ‘I never remembered returning to this room last night after the Akoni Conference’. I shook my head, slumped into a nearby chair to have a thorough replay of last night escapade. It’s been a fourteen hours sleep, and I have missed two lectures for today, poor me!

My head ached and I decided to go take a shower. Taking off my T-shirt revealed a startling shock; my shoulder bore the fresh symbol of an Akoni smeared into my skin. It hurt and burned so much. Now my memory played back to the events of last night. Still pondering while taking off my trouser, revealed another surprise. A note fell from my jean pocket as I pulled. “Mission 101- beneath the last seat on the left roll of lecture hall 002. Check by 6p.m”, was the content of the note.

I walked into the cafeteria like a zombie, all who saw me felt I was in dismay. I sat quietly at a corner, buried in deep thoughts of what great bizarre awaited me. Silence fell upon the hall as Moshood a.k.a Macho pranced into the scene, most of the student present began to stumble out in fear, ‘Macho don’t just walk about at day time, he is either after something, or something is going down’, goes the normal saying on everybody’s mind as they stared. He walked straight to me, bent over and whispered in my ear. None heard what was said, but the bewildered shock on my face as Macho trampled away wearing a devilish grin bore the message of doom, ‘Arinze don enta gbege with the Shivon’, muttered a voice in the hall,

‘Chai! Na Akoni number one hitman be dat o’.

The parcel was firmly plastered beneath the seat, and it took a careful moment to neatly get it off. ‘Whatever was in this parcel is definitely not going to be fun’, I remember thinking as I walked through the life-less hall, making a head way for the exit door. None of my roommates were home yet, and I felt a bit relieved for the first time that day. I switched on my rechargeable lamp once I managed to unlock the door and firmly shut the door behind me.

I sat at our reading table, and poured out the contents of the parcel; a gun and a piece of folded note. I scrambled to my feet, my hands locked together on my head, ‘I don die!’ It took some minutes of deep thinking to summon courage. I remembered what Macho told me earlier that day, and I picked up the note to read.

“Three bullets in the gun. One for the target, second for your escape, third for you if you are about to get caught. Make it a clean job, no failure allowed.

TARGET- Thunder; rivalry hitman of Da’capons fraternity, killer of our Shivon ten years ago.
LOCATION: Ajanlabe Central Market.
TIME: 6:30p.m (rush hour) tomorrow.
SPECIFICATION: Assassinate Baba Muniru alone.” – MACHO (SHIVON)


*Moses Olarotimi Sheyzznote is a writer and founder of Sacred Parchment Concepts. He is based in Lagos, Nigeria. And he believes that the world can be united through golden letters of words.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the written permission of the publishers.

Lyriversity — Liberty of Creativity