GIVE BABA A HIGH FIVE (A short story)

Hello, my name is Kunle Omope. Let me tell you a story.

The 75yr old man walked slowly through the gates of the bank premises. There was a very long queue at the ATM.

Many young people walked past him in a hurry to quickly join the queue. A lot of questions were flying all around,

"Abeg, are you the last person on the queue?"

" Is it dispensing?"

And then the complaints,

"Why is it only one point that is working?"

"Madam! You are not on the queue o"

"Which kind of life is this sef, this machine is rejecting my card"

And so, since the old man knew he couldn't be part of this craze, he made his way into the banking hall.

Just as he sat down and was fishing through his purse for his glasses, a loud quarreling voice jolted him. It was a young lady arguing with bank teller at the counter.

She spoke in an angry tone,

"I said the queue outside is too long and I need just two thousand naira. Why can't I just withdraw it from the counter?!"

The bank teller, a middle aged man, with a big nose and small eyes replied with that professional tone.

"I am sorry madam, we don't pay anything less than one hundred thousand naira at the counter. Anything less than that, please withdraw from the ATM outside. Thank you"

With this, the lady stormed out of the bank, muttering under her breath, how she was going to close her account with this bank.

Okay, back to our old man.

He walked gingerly to the counter, picked up a withdrawal slip and filled it. He passed it to the Bank Teller, the man with the fat nose.

Mr. Nose, scrutinised the slip and asked the old man,

"One hundred and five thousand naira?"

The old man nodded in the affirmative.

Next, with some punching of the computer keyboard, and the stomping of a stamp, the frrrrrrrrrrrr sound of machine counting money followed.

In less that two minutes, Mr. Nose handed one hundred and five thousand naira to the old man.

Now, let's quickly end this story.

Old man peeled out five thousand naira from the wad, put it in his purse and picked up a deposit slip, looked up at the confused Mr. Nose, and told him he wanted to pay in the one hundred thousand naira that was left back into his account.

After spending just five minutes in the coolness of the banking hall, the 75yr old man walked out and looked pitifully at the young people, shouting, cursing, sweating and suffering under the sun in front of the ATM.

The end.

THE DAY FIRE CRACKED HER - A short story. Enjoy.

My name is Kunle Omope...let me tell you a story.

It had been three years since Pelewura cheated death.

It had been three years since the 15yr old daughter of the cobbler jumped through the window, while clenching a broken piece of bottle as the only weapon to aid her escape from a man that murdered her whole family. It was a large family of 11 children.

In her head she could still count the gunshots that snuffed out the lives of every member of her family. 12 shots in all. One bullet per life.

Pelewura was thrown into a life of running...of trekking many miles... Of picking up very odd jobs to survive...of becoming hardened by the sweaty labour in the market sun and the mercilessly cold nights on dewy and ant infested fields. Sometimes she slept in goat stalls and was thankful for the incessant bleating that punctuated her recurring nightmares.

Tonight she crept into the town of her birth. It was Christmas day.

As she trudged along familiar paths, the tears in her eyes distorted the faces of the happy passers by, so that she couldn't recognise any face. And someone should have identified her, but her face was hidden by a hoodie from the friends and neighbours she once knew.

Then, she heard it go off, "pheeeeee....kpoah!" A firecracker exploded, but she heard a gunshot from her past.

Quickly, Pelewura fled, she felt the need to escape again. Then the second banger went off, and she saw her mum slump dead beside her bleeding dad. Two bangers, two gunshots, her parents. She ran so fast, her strong legs leaping over gutters and puddles. Then she tripped and went crashing to the ground, but before gravity could fold her in a crumple, the third banger went off.

Like a cat, she was up in a split second, running again to escape the sounds of the nightmare that ruined her life 3years ago.

By the time the tenth banger was going off, Pelewura had scaled over a tall fence, rolling on the ground to cushion her descent from such a height, she absentmindedly picked up a bottle of lager leaning by an electric pole, while its owner was staggering over his pool of urine.

Eyes bloodshot, teeth gritting noisily as she sped aimlessly, Pelewura had become a tortured monster of a wicked past.

Somewhere within the town, Chief Ebudola was entertaining a bunch of kids as he shook a long, and colourful cylindrical firework. The kids chanted in unison as a a small fireball shot out from the toy in his hand with a phew sound and a "kpoa" explosion.

The kids excitedly screamed "eleven!", as the fireball exploded.

Pelewura drew close...

As they chanted " twelve!", Pelewura was before Chief Ebudola. His mustache was unmistakable... He was the one that broke into her home on Christmas day 3years ago. He was the one who took her family from her. He was the one whom she escaped from with a broken piece of bottle. Now she was before him, holding a broken piece of bottle in her hand again...and he was shirtless with a potbelly and an overlapping neck.

It's been 12years now, and Pelewura has not stopped running...from the law.

The end.

NA BY POWER (A short story)

Hi. My name is Kunle Omope, let me tell you a story.

As the weathered luxury bus filled up at Oshodi and the driver revved the engine in readiness for take-off, the unusual pockets of noise here and there quietened.

Then, he rose up from the seat behind the driver, turned around and faced the commuters. He was a neat looking man in his forties. His hair had a sheen and the natural wavy curls that came from constant brushing.

Clearing his throat, he broke the silence.

"Those that don't know me will wonder who I am, but those that know me will say, Uncle Joe, the solution Master has come again o". Uncle Joe paused and flashed a bright toothy smile. He bent down and lifted a burnished leather bag and placed it on the head rest of the seat on which he was leaning and grasping on to as the bus swayed and swerved to escape potholes.

He spoke again,

"Good morning my brothers and sisters, your wahala will not kill me o, because it is because of you that I relocated from America so that you will not be sick again. What do I have for my people today, wait and see".

His hand went into the bag and produced a shiny packet, pried it open and pulled out a small nylon pouch containing some brownish powder.

"What you see in my hands my friends, is called the SUPER DISEASE DESTROYER. People that know it call it SDD".

As he spoke, he passed around an empty pack of SDD and urged the passengers to have a look and pass to their 'neighbours'.

Uncle Joe continued,

"Look at it very well, it has NAFDAC number. Now, what does SDD do?"

He paused at this junction to gauge the curiosity of his audience. He was making progress, so, he continued with his sales pitch.

“Whether it is Malaria, Typhoid, eye pain, ear ache, mouth odour, itching of the body, menstrual pain, SDD will clear it all, one time!”

There was an eruption of “ohhs”, “aahhs”, “ehen” and many more exclamations. This reaction from his audience encouraged Uncle Joe, so he went on…

“For Malaria, and Typhoid, just pour one spoon inside one bottle of 7up. If it is body pain, eye or ear pain, pour one spoon inside a glass of original ogogoro and squeeze lime inside. Drink it first thing in the morning, all the pain will disappear fiam!”

At this point Uncle Joe was becoming uncomfortable because nobody was asking for SDD. Almost half of the commuters were sleeping. He then decided to go for the kill.

And if you want to satisfy your woman very well every night…I mean if you want her to be singing your praise every morning…if you want to be a real man…with correct manpower, then just mix SDD with one tin of milk and drink it before action starts…I swear… you will perform like a piston…”

Immediately, sales picked up.

A bushy bearded man sitting at the back said,

“Give me 3 packets, malaria dey disturb me too much”

Another young man who all the while had headphones on quickly made his request,

“Shebi you said it works for ear pain, give me 2packs, let me treat this ear pain once and for all”.

Then, a tribal marked man seated by the window raised his squeaky voice above everyone else and asked,

“Abeg Uncle Joe, give me one pack, this menstrual pain no dey let me rest”.

The bus suddenly fell silent.

The End.

TWO STORIES-MY STORY AND YOUR STORY

Hi. My name is Kunle Omope, let me tell you a story…erm…actually, let me tell you two stories.

Tunde was hungry and jobless. After luckily finding ninety-five naira in the pocket of a pair of trousers he had not worn in a long time, the first thing that came into his mind was bread and beans.

And so, Tunde embarked on the small journey to Iya Sheri’s shop. He didn’t mind that the shop was by the express road, about one kilometre from his house.

So, he trudged on by the side of the road not minding the dust from the cars that sped by, he firmly clung to the plastic bowl wrapped in a nylon bag. He was deep in thought when he heard a gunshot.

Looking back in shock, he saw a saloon car in the distance, driving furiously and recklessly toward him. In his fear, he also noticed that the car was being chased by a security truck with gun-toting policemen.

Without wasting a second, Tunde ran into the nearby bush and lay down on the ground, praying for the Devil to gently pass by.

As his nose kissed the damp soil of the bush, his mouth moved with the rapid speed of prayers. The gunshots kept ringing in the air. Just as Tunde was almost fainting from fear, a large object landed on his head.

All he could do was imagine what this object was. It was not until the noise had stopped that Tunde raised his head and realised it was a heavy bag that fell on his head. He summoned courage and pulled down the zip of the bag…Dollars!!!

Tunde quickly zipped the bag closed, lifted the bag and put it atop his head. He ran home with what he felt was the loot of escaping robbers.

A few minutes later, Tunde was in his face-me-l-face-you one-room apartment. He had emptied the bag of dollars on his bed and was thinking up big dreams.

And that is how Tunde hammered.

Now, to the second story.

After a day of very hard labour, Festus sat down inside a bus stop shed at night. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it and puffed away the sorrows of a situation that threw a university graduate into a construction site to carry kpon-kpon for a living.

He was lost in thought, but his fingers travelled a familiar path to his lips and back, while puffing out smoke that floated clumsily into the air before being swept away by the evening breeze.

At first, he thought the ringing sound came from his mind, but as he listened a little more intently, he realised that a mobile phone was ringing nearby.

Well, after he picked the call, it turned out the owner of the phone was the soft spoken butter daughter of an oil magnate.

The next day, he was in the palatial home of the very wealthy oil magnate.

Favour shone on Festus, when the wealthy man showed him gratitude for returning his daughter’s lost phone by offering him the position of manager in one of his oil companies.

Now, my readers, can I ask you a question?

Have you ever been so broke that you imagined you were the one in any of these stories?

It is called MUMU IMAGINATION. I have been there. Have you?

The End.

Was I a pen

Was I a pen

I’d scribble peace

Upon the wincing face

Of Earth’s troubled waters

Was I a crayon

I’ll wax my colours

Upon patches

Bland with misery

Was I a chisel

I’ll file out excesses

That has left Man

Obese with evil intentions

Was I a keypad

I’ll be the type

Who punches the nose

That holds us breathless

But I can be all of these

If you give me your hand

So, together we can wrap our fist

And strangle life out of Hate

Happy World Poetry Day

BREAD, BUTTER AND BUKATA

Bread, Butter and Bukata
(Art on trial) Finger exercise.

All three chant, "he can't be him, when he has us", yes Art can't be Art because Art always has us at heart.

Order!
"Wag not your tongues in unison like unwilling kites dancing in the arms of the whirlwind", the Magistrate bellowed. "Speak not like the voice of a bend-down-select market on the day men get their wages. Let there be decorum. State your cases, one voicebox after another. Bread, you may rise"

Bread is all puffed up, and aldough he looks soft, he manages a stale joke.
"Even the Holy Book says, give us our daily bread. I only ask that Art seeks me daily. That will be all, my lord.

"Butter"!
"Slide into the dock, and remember, the truth only, no smearing, no slips"

Butter is all pale, wearing a stiff look in the cold courtroom.

"I only ask to make better every platter, and to get oil from every toil, so as to grease the elbows that bear aloft demanding hands".

Hearts melted and mouths became a-jar, as Butter put a lid on their previously hushed banter.

Bukata stepped forward, combat ready in khaki trousers with a dozen pockets.

" Art can't be Art, because, I am the bill to pay, the pill to heal. I am that music that plays only to the jingle of coins. I am the voice that calls...that says hello just to borrow to pay back on the morrow that never dawns. See, I am the fee that serves 3 terms every year in year out. Hear me out, I am the clothes that do no crimes but must be arra(i)nged and hung in a wardrobe. My other names are Credit the debit kidnapper.
Art can't be art, because he must forever play his many parts".

The Magistrate rules.
Art resigns and sighs.

Bread, Butter and Bukata wins.

UNTITLED POEMS

****** TRENDS *********
Like vapour, it comes and goes
forgotten like the pain of penile circumcision
more perishable than tomatoes
and short lived like a newspaper.

Untitled

I am the saint of Sodom
Stained by the righteousness of men
Steeped in the pool of sin

I am the naked crier
Waddling through a wardrobe of lies
Asking men to cover their shame

I am the hungry belly
Constipated with groaning utensils
Desiring a meal of your egos and pride

I jumped off from a corner of the earth
But my shadow caught me before I landed
He feared I would abandon him
To regale the world with my escapades
Stanzas scribbled before the sun
And verses uttered beneath the moon
He dragged me to narrate my story
To all, that I may bask in glory

Teach me to look down
When my head roofs the clouds 
That I may see that my feet
Hasn't left the earth, where it sprung