Tag Archives: fiction


Do you know how it is when you really, really love someone who doesn’t love you in return?

Someone who doesn’t care?

Let me try to explain it to you. It’s something terrible. They hurt you, but it really doesn’t matter, because it’s them.

Its like gripping a sharp knife, and it’s cutting you to the bone, and you can see it, feel it, feel the blood trickling down your wrist, your arm. But you cannot let go, because losing them is a fate worse than death.

When I met Anu for the first time, it wasn’t really the best of first impressions. I was driving past the red light district a few blocks from my house- a necessary evil, the only other alternative being to take the long, arduous road that trailed the back of the estate, an extra 35 minutes of driving, not to mention the fuel consumed.

Some of us who owned property in the estate had picked offence at prostitution taking up residence at our front door and time and time again, we petitioned the government to have them do something about it.

We kept getting the same answer

“We’re working on it.”

But then, the girls weren’t too forward about what they did, they didn’t call out to customers or build brothels nearby.

They just stood outside, striking seductive poses in skimpy clothes, waiting patiently for business. When someone interested came by, he’d pull up to his pick, they’d bargain through a lowered window and when a deal is struck, she would get in and drive off.

Being a busy person, I often return home by 7 or 8 in the evening, just in time to witness the start of the skin business. 

On that day as always, I drove slowly past, careful to dodge the people milling about and picking girls up when I saw a girl sitting on her own in a corner. Unlike the others, she wasn’t up and about. For some reason, that drew me like light draws a moth.

I pulled up and killed the engine. 

“Hi. Why are you on your own?”

“Nothing. I just like it here. Do you want a girl for the night?”

“No. Not really.”

“Oh.” She sounded so disappointed, I felt I had to make it up to her someway. So I checked the glove compartment and gave her a small bundle of cash. She collected it and counted it then turned to me with a big smile

“Ten thousand naira? That’s a lot! Thank you.” Then she turned coy, eyeing me from under lowered lashes as she hid the money in her bra

“Are you sure you don’t want some company? I can make it worth your while you know. I’m really good. Everyone says that.”

I smiled and handed her a business card and a pen.

“How about you write your number here and I’ll call you if I need you.”

She gladly took the pen and scribbled her number across the back of the card. From somewhere, she produced a stick of gum and started chewing it.

“Call me.”

“I will.”

Over the space of two years, I got to know Anu as more than a walking fleshlight. We talked a lot over the phone, and she often confided in me. Busy as I am, I always have a listening ear for people I call friends. Anu’s case was no different.

Gradually we became close. And one day, I asked her out on a date. She agreed. By 5pm that evening, she alighted from an okada (a commercial motorcyclist) in front of the eatery I invited her to.

She was dressed in a very, very, short dress. So short in fact, it covered almost nothing. Quickly I gave her my suit to wear. She gave me a dubious look and I coughed softly

“It’s cold inside.”

“Oh. Okay. Thank for the suit then.”

It indeed was cold inside, but it wasn’t the real reason for me giving her the suit. As she followed me to our table, men turned to stare at her. They were almost drooling.

But we had a quiet uneventful dinner. Time, as it is wont to do, flew from us. Before you could say Jack, it was late and she had to go.

I offered to drop her off. When she got into my car, she took off my suit and started to unzip her gown and loosen the clips binding her hair.

“What are you doing, Anu?”

“I’m getting ready. Aren’t you planning to have sex with me? I’ve done it in cars before, you don’t have to worry about me. Just adjust the seat so you can-”

My hand wrapped around hers shut her up. Leaning forward to look directly into her eyes, I said slowly

“Anu, I’m not planning to sleep with you. I mean it.”

“Why are you so nice to me then?”

The question hit me like a runaway train. Different thoughts and emotions swam in my head and I stuttered.

“I, I think I’m in love with you.”

“Harold. You’re a business mogul, a respectable person. What would you want with me?” Her voice broke.

“I’m just a common whore.”

That night I took her home and we talked for a long, long period. She finally admitted to loving me but quashing it, because she felt nothing productive would come out of such. I assured her that she was worth a lot to me.

Anu is a person. A beautiful person. She has been through so much, and she’s a bit jaded and distrusting of people but deep inside, she’s sweet and caring and in her own way, better than a lot of the girls that walk around with their heads up in the clouds like they’re not as human as the rest of us.

Gradually we started dating. We eventually got married. A small quiet court wedding. My friends raised hell over my decision, some honestly thought I had gone mad. Even now they think it was insane of me to have done what I did. But I’ll do it all again if I had the chance.

Anu moved into my house and became my wife. I changed her wardrobe and got rid of the skimpy clothes, remainders of a past that no longer bound her. I bought her jewellery and dinner gowns. I bought shoes and sandals from Italy and Paris.

Nothing was too expensive. Then one day she told me she was pregnant. I almost died of joy. When she put to bed, it was the most beautiful baby ever. A chubby little angel. I named him Oluwagbemileke. or as we called him around the house, Leke.

Four years after Leke, Anu got pregnant again. When she announced it, I was so ecstatic I kissed her right there on the kitchen counter. 

“Daddy, why are you using your mouth to touch mummy’s mouth?”

That brought us back to earth real quick.  I ‘discovered’ a box of biscuits and soon distracted the boy. A few months later, Oluwafunmilomotodarabi was born.

It was all nice and dandy, a picture perfect family. Anu had a thriving business as a makeup artist and my business was going good and strong.

Then one day I got back from home and met a note on the bed.


Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. But I can’t continue this life we’re living. 

I need excitement. Thus marriage is nice, but its boring. I need to feel like a woman again. I’m leaving. I’m not right for you.

There are a lot of other women out there, respectable women. Go after one of them and settle down.

Please don’t try to find me.”



Remi has a simple, easily predictable lifestyle. 

As a working class woman, the  official closing time from work is 5pm. So once it’s 5 on the dot, she’s done for the day, and thats it.

  With about 15 minutes needed to pack her things together and get to the parking lot, she’s always out of the company building by 5:15pm.

She immediately turns right, and driving at a constant speed of 50kph, it takes her 20 minutes to get home. Exactly 20 minutes.


And then she pulls into the driveway, gets her house keys and walks up to the porch, house keys in her left hand. By 5:37pm on workdays, she’s to be found in front of her house, unlocking the door and slipping inside.

She doesn’t go anywhere on weekends, except when she has to replenish her store of foodstuff and that occurs every third weekend, during the market days.

You see, Remi’s life is quite nice and cozy, comforting in it’s consistency. So today, like every other workday, she’s at the door by 5:37pm, just turning the lock when she hears a rustle. She doesn’t pay it much attention, infact she doesn’t pay it any attention. She knows the neighbours have a pet of some sort, and it’s most likely the animal was slinking about in the decorative shrubbery. Nothing to bother about. How much damage could it do?

It’s at that precise moment that she feels the touch of something cold and heavy in her side. Involuntarily, she is rooted to the spot, quaking with fear. Her eyes travel slowly downwards and she finds a gun pressed nicely to her waist. Like it wants to give her a big hug. Muzzle-first.

Shielded between her lithe frame and the stranger holding it, the gun isn’t obvious to anyone nearby, and besides, she hadn’t gone to any trouble trying to establish any level of camaraderie with her neighbors.

They wouldn’t even notice if she went missing. The thought hits her like a brick between the eyes. Unbidden, a hot tear makes it’s way out and trickles down her cheek.

The stranger holding a gun to her side orders her with a rough voice:

“Lock the door and come with me, no funny business now. I don’t want to have to do anything stupid.”

Docile, fearful, she obeys, twisting the key in the lock and hearing the sharp ‘click’ as the tumblers slip back into place, the door once again, locked.

With that sound, all hope abandons her.

She’s walking quietly towards her car, destination unknown when she sees her new neighbor wave to her. He’s a handsome, muscular young man, about the same grade with her. Sometimes he waved to her when he saw her over the shrubbery. Often he’d shout a greeting. But she’s​ never replied a greeting before, and not replying one now wouldn’t be anything new. She prays fervently in her heart that he notices something out of the ordinary. That he calls her back. Anything.

But nothing happens. She’s in front of her car now. When suddenly she hears

“Hello sir, do I know you?” She turns quickly. It’s her neighbor and he’s talking to the stranger.

“No sir, you don’t. I’m Remi’s brother, and I need to take her back home.”

“Back home? She lives here.”

“I mean ‘home’ home. Our mum is sick and she’s been wanting to see Remi for so long. It’s been a while since they’ve spoken. So I’m taking her home to see mummy.”

Time passes as her neighbor considers this tale. Meanwhile Remi is firmly chanting in her head- Please don’t believe him, please don’t believe him, please don’t believe him, please don’t believe-

The neighbor nods, apparently satisfied. So the stranger steers her away from safety. Her eyes widen.

Suddenly, like a cat, he pounces at the stranger and knocks him down, slamming his hand once, twice to the ground. He loses his hold of the weapon. Then his head follows, with one heavy hit against the pavement, the stranger is unconscious.

“Call 911. Do it quick woman, before he comes around.” Even as he talks, he’s producing something shiny from his pocket. It’s a pair of handcuffs. He snaps them around the strangers wrist.

Task complete, he turns to give Remi a long hard look. 

“I’m Chibuzor by the way, your new neighbor. It would do you a fair bit of good to be more friendly to people in the future.”

Soon the police men arrive and bundle the suspect. Chibuzor exchanges a few words with the officers, they salute him and come for her. A few questions and then it’s all over.

Later that week, she gets the details. The stranger was interrogated and the police are able to get his house address. They get a warrant and go in for a search. His house is covered with photos. Photos of Remi. Leaving her car. Entering her car. Eating at a restaurant. Talking to a guy. The guy’s face is peppered with holes, holes made by something being jabbed into the picture repeatedly. There’s a pencil nearby. The photos are all tagged with time slots. 4pm. 3:13pm. 12pm.

When she sees the picture evidence, she confirms that yes, at that precise time, she was doing just that.

But that’s not even the most disturbing thing. Far from it.

In the bedroom, there’s a full wardrobe of clothes, all her exact size. Shoes too. And underwear. Fancy, lace stuff. The windows are  covered with thick red drapes. There’s scented candles at every point in the room. Small heart-shaped pillows litter the place.

There’s a sheer nightgown laid on the thick king-size bed in the center of the room. It’s almost transparent, doesn’t really cover anything.

In one of the locked drawers, they​ find a wrap of cocaine and several packs of condoms and lubricant. Several ‘toys’ are there too. Things would have gone real bad for her if she had been taken back there. But she got lucky.

Thanks to a neighbor who just wouldn’t mind his own business.


“Mr. Andrews. Where were you on Wednesday, 12th of October, 2016?”
It was common police knowledge. Crimes of passion are often committed by people close to the deceased. In this case, it was a hasty rape and a brutal murder. Obviously the person involved had a very personal stake in the matter. And who else would have a stake as big as the husband?

Mr Andrews was Inspector Kowoje’s favorite for the murderer. But there was nothing to pin him with. He had a clean record, no previous convictions and several people were willing to testify to his peace-loving nature.
The only chance he had was to try to place him at the scene of the murder. But of course, he had an alibi. Perhaps more shouting would make him slip up and say something incriminating?

“Where were you at the time of the victim’s death?!” Inspector Kowoje bellowed.

“My client has answered that question. We are done here.” His lawyer, a slim petite creature in a smart suit and skirt stepped forward and hit her palm on the desk, staring Inspector Kowoje in the eye all the while. The message was clear- back off or we see in court.

Inspector Kowoje wisely backpedaled.
“Just doing my job ma.”
The suspect stood up, sniffling and his lawyer conjured a handkerchief from somewhere. Mr Andrews dabbed at his red, wet eyes. The lawyer pulled him down to a hug, shooting the Inspector a look that would totally roast yam.

They maintained the posture a bit longer than was necessary, a fact that Inspector Kowoje noted with amusement. Mr Andrews was not going to stay a widower for long, if he didn’t manage to get him locked up quick. Kowoje adjusted his trousers, fiddled with his belt.
Damn belt again.

As they left, he turned in his chair to stare at the picture of the president hanging on the wall. Just he begun to contemplate whether he would eat a king-size plate of food for brunch or two normal plates, the door flew open.
“Damn you Shehu don’t you know how to knock?”
“Sir. I’m sorry sir. The forensic expert just got to us sir!” Remembering where he was, he gave a crisp but hasty salute. Then shut his mouth, though he obviously couldn’t wait to spill the beans.
“Alright man, go ahead. Say what you have to say and get out.”

“Sir. I think you’d better read it sir.” He slammed a sheet of A4 paper on the desk. On it were the text messages received by the victim.

You see, it wasn’t easy. She had a password, and also encrypted her phone with the latest software. But then, phones are a great source of information for any case in this modern era, and as such, Inspector Kowoje had okayed the contracting of a forensic expert with top-notch technical skills. Seemed his gamble had yielded result.
He scanned the messages with his eyes until he got to the part outlined in red ink. This was what had caused the great excitement leading to Shehu’s brief lapse in protocol.
It read as follows;

U knw u should hv stayed wit me. I luv u. I hv alwys. He cnt compare wit me. Why liv me for him? U belong wit me, & if I can’t hv u, no 1 else will. I’ll nvr share. Ur mine!!!

Inspector Kowoje scratched his head again. This was puzzling. A third party? She must have been seeing someone behind Mr Andrews back. As such the marriage was not as happy as it seemed.

Obviously this person was passionate about the victim, and terrible diction and abbreviations apart, this person fit the profile. But the question remained.

Who exactly was +23481907897712?




Rushing through the mad traffic that is part and parcel of Lagos, Inspector Kowoje was able to make it to the office an hour and thirty minutes after the phone call made to the police station soliciting for help had ended.

Truth be told, he would rather not have come at all. But sadly there was no subordinate officer to push the work on. Those yeye subordinates. When you wanted some peace and quiet, they were everywhere. Like flies.

Harassing the inmates. Hailing you and asking if there was anything for the boys. But the moment there was some real work to do, they vanished- it was almost like they had some sixth sense regarding such matters.

Kowoje adjusted his belt, fitting the belt through the last loop on his plain black trousers. Problem was, it was sure to come out again, seeing as the belt was ill-fitting, and then the stiff leather would stick out like some sort of prehensile tail.
The sheer madness!

Somewhere at the back of his mind, he made a simple note to harass belt sellers more. They had to feel some of this pain of course. But back to the present. He cleared his throat loudly and knocked.

Kpam! Kpam!!

“Yes, come in.” Answered a soft feminine voice from the other side of the door. A woman! That alone made it worth the time he spent getting to the nonsense office. With a wide grin, he opened the door and stepped in, fingering the huge baton attached to his trousers by the simple expedient of tying the stupid thing to a belt loop.

“Inspector Kowoje of the Nigerian Police For…” His voice trailed off as his brain practically shut down on all other activities, to take its sweet time in observing the vision of loveliness, seated cross-legged on a chair before him.

He didn’t know his mouth was wide open. It was so wide in fact, you could have comfortably put your fist in it.
Could, not should. If you did, Kowoje would most likely clamp down with his teeth. He’d bite you. He was that kind of person.

One enterprising housefly flew in through the open door, hovered briefly around the open mouth, changed its mind and flew off to find somewhere else to perch on.

“Excuse me?” The bespectacled goddess in pink and white said. And just like that, Inspector Kowoje got his marbles back. He drew himself up smartly, saluted a woman with no official authority whatsoever and said in his deepest baritone
“Inspector Kowoje of the Nigerian Police Force madam. We got a distress call from this address. Something about a suspected suicide ma. Reporting for duty ma.”

Tsk tsk tsk. Men can be so silly sometimes. The power of a pretty woman. But I digress. Back to our dear friend Kowoje.

The four-eyed beauty (counting the lenses, of course) gave a soft sigh. She shook her head briefly from side to side as though trying to clear it of an unnecessary burden and pointed to a door on the far right.

“Take that sir, follow the stairs to the fourth floor.  Then the first door by your left. The manager is waiting for you there.”

Nothing hurt half as bad as having to walk away from her, but Kowoje was nothing if not a man of action who put duty above all others.
With a silent solemn oath to spend no more than five minutes with the manager upstairs so he could come back here to know the delicious slice of humanity seated at the front desk better, he marched off in the direction he was given.

He barged into the described office. True to her words, there was a small pudgy fellow waiting for him.
Men like Kowoje hated men like the manager. They envied them because they were everything they weren’t. Rich. Pampered. Powerful.
Kowoje was sure the secretary downstairs was not a cold fish around this man.  She was probably chatty and overly friendly whenever she was chanced to see him. Cursing the dumb luck that cursed him with such a hard life bereft of fawning beauties, Kowoje barked out a harsh “Yes? What is it?”

“Good day officer, glad you could make it.” His voice contained a hint of sarcasm. But there was nothing Kowoje could do about it. This man held the knife and the yam. He was rich and probably watched football with several of his ogas at the top. Recognizing the danger of letting his contempt show, he drew himself up and tried again

“Inspector Kowoje of the Nigerian Police Force. We got a distress call from this address. Something about a suspected suicide sir. Reporting for duty sir.”

Then the man nodded, like a master finally satisfied with the efforts of a particularly promising, but lazy apprentice. Then he spoke.

“Apparently we’ve had a suicide. One of the members of our staff. Of course this doesn’t bode well for the company, especially now that we’re vying for a particularly juicy government contract. So here’s what we want you to do…”



You know how they say when your life is about to end, you can see it flash before your eyes? Don’t believe it. It’s a lie. What often comes to mind, when you’re waiting on your back in an abandoned alley by 3 o’clock, anticipating the bite of a machete swung downward in the arms of a psychotic doctor is a totally random thought like “what’s that light behind him?” followed by wondering if you have any money in your account and who gets it after your death. Or second death, as my case was.

Even as the machete seemed to suspend midair, savouring it’s journey to parting me with choice body parts, the light behind D.L brightened even further and I heard a dull thud. The machete dropped and clattered to the ground. Sir Madman was flung through the air like a child’s discarded rag doll and crumpled to a heap a short distance away.

Shielding my eyes feebly with my palm, I was finally able to make out the outline of two headlamps. Some sort of vehicle.
A door opened, shut and footsteps came in my general direction
Frozen in the intense glare of the headlights, like our mutual friend Monsieur Bunny Rabbit, I was still trembling (manfully) when someone got in front of me and said the words I wanted to hear since I started running.
“Come with me if you want to not die.”
The voice was soft and feminine, and totally begging for my trust.

I did the reasonable thing of course, by standing up and running like the hounds of hell itself were after me.
The person jumped into the car and drove after me in pursuit- but this was easier- as all I had to do was to get to a place small enough to make it impossible to drive, but big enough for me to run in.

Sadly, the world doesn’t really care for your needs and as such I was unable to find what I required. All the while the lady kept honking and asking me to get in the car in a voice so nice it made me want to just do what she said like a good boy but I kept running. Then we got out and found ourselves on a wide street. She drove close enough and ambled along beside me driving smoothly while I huffed and puffed and tried to outrun an automobile.

Finally the abject insanity of my situation dawned on me and I stopped to catch my breath.

“Come on,” that sweet voice again “get in the car, your chances of survival are higher if you do.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You’d probably die.” The way she said it made it sound like it wasn’t such a bad thing to do, this dying. But no thank you, already tried it, didn’t like it. It’s obviously not for me.

“Who are you?”

“Nonya” what?!

“Nonya who?”

“Nonya business. I’m here to help. Get in the car.”
I took two steps back. Two more for good measure. It’s quite healthy to put a little distance between yourself and someone who keeps insisting you get in their car. You know, just in case they turn out to be another murderous sociopath. Not that I’m calling anyone that, being honest and polite and all that.

“You know, we are not entirely sure you would recover again if you die again. It wouldn’t be fair if you let all that research go to waste.”
My jaw practically hit the muddy ground.

What did she just say?

“What research?”

“Why don’t you come in and then you’d find out?”
At this point… I woke up.


Once while we were watching a Nollywood movie, about a particularly wicked yet successful man who derived pleasure from torturing his family and seemed to have no one to confront him, a question came up in my mind.

Sixteen years of age and as inquisitive as they come, I squirmed and shuffled in my seat until I got my Grandpa’s attention.

Dropping the newspaper he was reading into his lap, he adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat and asked.

“What’s bothering you Ahmed?”

“Well grandpa, I have a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Why do evil people get away with everything?”

“Get away?” He sounded amused. 

“Yes. They just keep being bad and they’re always rich and nobody can tell them anything and-”

“Oh Ahmed, they don’t. They always get what they deserve in the end.”


“Yes. You see, if you’re wicked, you might think you are not going to ever be made to Pat for your wickedness. But you will. Because every evil man must pay the price of evil.”

“Hmmmmmm. Grandpa, what is the price of evil?”

“Truly child, what is the price of evil? It varies, depending on the crime. Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time, there was a man who had a beautiful daughter. I say he had a beautiful daughter because that was all he had in terms of family. His wife, her mother, died several years ago in the course of childbirth, trying to bring a little sibling into the world for her daughter to play with. Complications arose during the delivery and both mother and child were lost.”

“Eeya. That’s sad.”

“I know. Life isn’t always fair. But back to our story. The man was a business man who always have to travel for his business trips. At first, he tried taking her along. But she was too young.

Then he tried getting nannies. But he didn’t trust them. He felt what she needed was a stable, sweet family. So he married a widow in that town who already had a son. To him it was the lottery in marriage. A wife for him, a mother for his daughter, and a son who would also be her playmate.

At first things were nice and cheerful. But after a few years, things changed. The step-mother became cruel to the girl. She got it into her head that one day the man would die and will off all the inheritance to his daughter. This was compounded by the fact that she was unable to bear the man a child of his own. She had become sterile.

Desperate to not be kicked out with nothing, she sought for means to ensure that her son got the lion’s share of the man’s property, but how was she to go about it? Now listen carefully child, wicked people often have a ‘good reason’ for behaving the way they do. But that’s no excuse.”

“Okay sir.”

“Her first idea was to be cruel to the girl, hoping she wouldn’t be able to take it anymore and she would run away. That way she would be rid of her and her son’s future would be ‘secure’ so anytime the man travelled, she would beat her, order her around and generally make life uncomfortable for her.

But the girl, sweet and mild mannered, persevered. She took the beatings and harshness without complaint. If course when her father returned from his trips, her step-mother was automatically nice to her again. There was no way her father would believe if she reported the true state of things to him, so content in the belief that ‘nothing lasts forever’ she kept quiet and endured it all.
Her only respite was school, and the church.

Time passed and the girl grew into an exceedingly beautiful lady. Then her father decided it was time to partition his property. He had always been away on one trip or the other, he knew the risks and wanted to ensure that if perchance he did not return from any of them, his family would be well-catered for. He told his idea to his wife and after warning her to tell no one, went on another trip. When he returned, he would share his property and settle down. He was wealthy enough, he reasoned and it was finally time to spend some quality time with his family.

As soon as he left, the step-mother became frantic. Despite all her efforts, she was about to lose out on everything!
She thought and thought and thought and lost sleep and weight over the issue.

Finally she made up her mind. She would poison the girl. If she was not alive she couldn’t inherit, could she?

Fixed on this, early the next morning, after breakfast, she sent both kids out to the next street to visit with their friends. Then she made a sumptuous meal and served it out. First she served a big plate of food and put a sizeable chunk of meat on it. She then sprinkled the powdered poison liberally on it, mixed it till there was no sign, and covering it, put it on the dining table with the girl’s name on a little tag beside it. The poison was odorless, tasteless and virtually untraceable. It was to be the perfect crime.

Then she served her son’s food and her food too. Just as she prepared to call the children back for their lunch, she got a phone call from her friend who was heading of to another state, but decided to drop in and check on her briefly before going.

He gave her the details of his hotel, the room he was staying in and warned her that he had only an hour to spend before leavin his journey was still long and he intended to get there before nightfall.
Wanting to see him, she rushed off, trusting that her plan would work even in her absence.

Tired of playing, it was hot and dry, and they wanted to be back home in time for a particular program, the children left their friends to return home.

Meanwhile, the business deal had closed early, so the father rushed off. He had missed his family and didn’t want to miss another hour he could otherwise spend with them. He started driving home. With a little luck, who knows? He could be home in time for lunch! His stomach rumbled and he chuckled to himself.

The children soon got home. When they saw the meals, they were surprised. Normally the girl was to be given the smaller meal. The boy, who had grown arrogant and fat declared it to be a mistake, and decided the meal with her name on it was actually his.

She protested but being physically stronger, he wrestled the plate from her before she could even have a spoon and wolfed it all down.

Since there was another meal, and it wasn’t little to begin with, she took it and ate it. Then they settled to watch their favorite TV show.

Meanwhile the step-mother was detained unduly where she went. She had liked her friend a lot and alone with him in a hotel room, one thing led to another and she slept with him. Severally. Because of this, she was unable to get home on time.

With an exchange of contact info and a promise to keep in touch, she left, three hours later.

The father got home and met the kids watching TV. He found some food left in the pot and helped himself to it.

Then he joined them in the parlor to watch TV.
When she got home, she was shocked to find her husband around. She asked the children if they had eaten their meals and they replied in the affirmative. She then asked if they are their own meals, and just as the girl was about to reply that they hadn’t, the boy pinched her on the bottom. She yelped and he quickly said that they had.
Content that it had gone smoothly, she went to her room and flushed the antidote to the poison down the drain. Then she threw the bottles away. She didn’t want any thing to link her to what had happened.

Later that night, she heard one of the children moaning softly. Thinking it was the girl, she smiled to herself in the darkness. Come daylight, she would have left the world for her and her son. The path would be clear! Finally!
The next morning, a loud wail woke wife and husband. They rushed to the children’s room and found the girl crying and trying to wake her stepbrother. He was not responding. She cried even harder, screaming his name over and over again.

Shocked at what happened, the step-mother asked the girl again

“Did you eat your own meal yesterday? I mean the meal with your name on it?”

Admist bitter tears, the girl managed to choke out no, that she had been bullied by-

The wicked step-mother put things together in her head- her sin had eaten the poisoned meal!

She made a mad dash for the room before remembering she had flushed the antidote away. From there to the drain to see if there was anything to be salvaged but alas. There was nothing.

Like a zombie she made her way to the children’s room. Her husband who had been watching her with suspicion asked what was wrong. Without thinking, she mumbled.

“He ate the poison. Her poison.”

Shocked, he sent hee ouvof the house and made arrangements to have the body disposed of. He then called the police. The policemen arrived at the same rine the ambulance came in to carry the corpse. She offered no resistance, numb and still in shock. As the medics carried her son out on a stretcher however, with a sheet covering his face it dawned on her that he was dead. Dead and gone. Something in her snapped and she slumped.

Later that day, she gave up the ghost. You see Ahmed, she paid evil’s price.”

Sooner or later, everyone who does evil, pays the price.”

Content with that explanation, I turned to watch the movie with satisfaction. And truly before the movie on the television was over, the wicked man also paid evil’s price.


​Most people I know have a very annoying habit.

People often pretend they have some sort of premonition when they have a particularly wonderful day, or something terrible happens. “I knew there was a problem when the black cat showed up outside my window and refused to leave” “from the way the sky darkened you could tell all was not well with the day” “Oh I woke up to the sound of running water and I knew it was going to be perfect.” And so on. The list is endless.

Arrant superstitious nonsense if you ask me. Everyday starts just like the day before it, subject to time and season, and the whims and caprices of mother nature like you, me, anything else. But I wish life had a sort of warning system. I wish bad days started with some celestial warning like hail or tremors or something. I’m not picky. Even a message scrawled in the sky in burning letters saying something specific like

“If you go to school today, you’re going to lose a limb” or “the love of your life is the girl in the green dress you come across in the park today” would do just fine. But of course the world isn’t fair so things like that don’t happen.

But there truly was something odd about that day…

I was woken by the sonorous call to prayer of my Muslim brethren in the neighborhood. It’s not a bad way to start a day- in fact I prefer it to the shrill ring of the alarm clock on my bedside table. Quickly I got up from the bed and shuffled my way to the bathroom. Turning on the tap, I splashed two handfuls of water on my face and I was human again. I picked my toothbrush and stared at it for a while. It’s a loyal, compact pink toothbrush (don’t even dream of telling people I own a pink toothbrush) and I’m really fond of it. Even though it had passed the required three months for a change (it’s now five months old) I was not about to replace such a faithful servant.

I brought it close to my nose. It smelled fine. I ran my thumb through its bristles. Still firm. So I put some toothpaste on it and went to town.

One hour thirty minutes later I was perfectly groomed and ready to start my day.

Whistling, I picked my briefcase from its hiding place behind the sofa and got out of my house.

With a spring in my step, I made my way to my Mercedes-Benz in the garage and got in. Slid it in and started the car. Then I was on my jolly way. After the morning ritual of jumping lanes, cursing at idiot drivers and flagrantly disregarding traffic rules I made it to the office in good time. Only took me forty-five minutes!

It was in such high spirits that I walked to my place in the office complex and my good mood managed to last for most of the morning.

Then I came down to the cafeteria during my lunch break. After the meal, they didn’t have my preferred brand of soft drink so I crossed the road to the other side to purchase it from a shop, or at least I intended to. For that was when I got hit by the most attractive woman on God’s green earth.

And she was riding a motorcycle.