Flexibility, swiftness, stern look, sharp tongue; these are the requisites for making it through Iwo road untouched. And by untouched, I mean uninjured, not robbed. Your legs must move faster than you blink to avoid being pushed, or hit by a crazy driver (note ‘crazy’, not ‘drunk’. These people are crazy liquor or no liquor).

You need to bend, twist; the hawker doesn’t care if the edge of her tray makes straight for your face. If eventually there is a collision – perhaps, your legs moved faster than your optic nerves travelled and you hadn’t mastered flexing your muscles enough to swerve as she hurried towards you; she will call you blind and grab your collar.

Just pay her and leave. Please.

Who is the most uncouth person you have met?

You remember indices, don’t you? Now, uncouthness of the most uncouth person you have met is variable a, a^10 = uncouthness of Iwo road folks, which is to say everyone who is in that sphere because they belong there.

It is easier for you to walk through Iwo road without nail imprints on your wrists; you are a man. But you will be held and pulled. Those boys selling Akube shoes and menswear, conductors shouting one more passenger” when the bus is only half filled will. The stern look and sharp tongue step in here, to ward them off.

Fatima, Bose, Mariam, Sade. I’ve been called these names. I’ve been held against my will till I fought off their grips. The miscreants found me attractive and force is their mother tongue.

Yes, the harassment is utterly infuriating but there’s nothing to do. Recently, I almost slapped a rascal but stopped short because hitting him would depict my level of reasoning parallels with his and his clutching my wrist in the first instance would be submerged by a deluge of rancid mouths justifying the reciprocating beating I got. Because, “why would you hit an area boy!”

You know what I want? A renowned feminist trekking through Iwo road, held, butt-smacked (the scoundrels wouldn’t know her anyway). She might have to figure out how to stop this.

Sensitize Taxi drivers, conductors, and area boys on equal rights and penalty for molestation under law. That would be her solution (or she could surprise me), which is no more useful than threatening to castrate them.

“What do I suggest?”

Leave them be. If there are people you can’t change, it is these rascals. These are men who own their wives, grew up believing that all moving in skirts are for the sole purpose of sex. And you want to wipe that from their brains? Well, good luck with that!

Sometimes it is not people who must be changed, it is one who should understand that life is a crone who won’t grant one all requests. One has to adjust, be more tolerating. As much as this is a guide for you, it is also a self-talk for me. I have wanted a sermonette on this subject since the day I almost slapped that guy.

And oh, add the Niger kids who beg for alms too. You will have to give them money because they seem not to understand that you have a choice in this matter. They will tug at your pant till you give in. The other option is: stern look, sharp tongue. You might need to push them off, but gently. See, just give them Twenty naira and save yourself the drama.

I was at the market today to get a new shirt but bought a pair of shoes after I had entered and exited too many stores to not see my dream shirt. In the bus back home, I sat with three older women; two were obese and refused to stop talking. The third woman couldn’t have been a little older than forty. We made faces with each other, the third woman and I. In that moment, our eyes chatted.

Hers said: Ibadan women sha!

Mine replied: Yeah right.

Then we smiled.

This birthed our short messages: The conductor gave one of the obese women her change, short of ten naira. She complained that he’s so stingy he wouldn’t even buy her a bottle of Pepsi if she asked for one.

Ibadan women sha!

Yeah right.

Yesterday, I got the mail that you will be here next week. The IMs still don’t meet your standard of what genuine communication ought to be? It is okay. This forewarn was only necessary.

So dear (youve always wanted me to call you this, I know) master the skills, practice them every morning till you leave Abuja and you’ll be surprised at the good it will do.

It is raining here now. I must go out to read what message the drops have left in the clouds.



Give my love to your sister, Zahra (oh how I love that name!)

Till we see (which the mere thought of is as exciting as the event itself (should be?).)




The wet scent of greens and cold air fills my nose (my olfactory cells must have undergone some mutation; you know, the type that people who smile at birds would go through ) as the bus recovers from the grip of potholes to run undisturbed on a road fenced by poplars. This bus is heaven! I’ve never traveled to Ogbomoso in a bus with such badass shock absorbers. Two kids are tugging at a goat’s nipples. I remember my mom. Pulling her nerves must be with similar energy. I grin as the bus moves farther from the sight. I feel eyes on my skin. I turn to lock gaze with the bespectacled guy beside me the instant before he looks away. There are tribal marks on his face; you wouldn’t know he is an ‘I fought tiger’ till you were at a handshake from him. He used not to be here. There are three passengers on each seat, he was sitting at the other end, beside a window before the sick dude in the middle puked. On the floor. Sick dude would have puked outside if I had been nice and allowed him to sit beside the other window, where I am.

     The regurgitated something-that-looks-like-curdled milk-or-garri-or-tuwo that I’m avoiding to step on like it’s hot coal is proof that the bespectacled guy was not interested in being beside me(as I had presumed ) when he suggested that I switch places with sick dude about an hour ago after sick dude raised an ‘I think I’m gonna vomit’ alarm. When I asked him to trade places with sick dude instead, ” the screen here can’t be moved past where it is and you know he might want to put his head out to vomit.” was his excuse. Sick dude is sitting there now anyway, and oh he just pushed the screen backwards so he could pour water on his head like a passenger advised.

Nausea. That’s all I feel right now. This trip was supposed to be pleasant!

The bespectacled guy is really nice. He is asking sick dude how he feels for the umpeenth time. He made sure to buy balm and a bottle of water for sick dude at the park. He’s what Nigeria needs. A darling bespectacled president.


On his Facebook timeline, Tomiwa sees an ad of a new therapeutic technology that aids glaucoma patients in recuperating. Expectation wells up in his stomach as he clicks on the link to check the price, hoping to find swell figures. Then he sees it.

#15, 500.

For a split second, he doesn’t blink. He reads the price again, scrolls down the page to see additional charges (which he must have overlooked, since he had been goaded by the ad thing.)



The phone slips off his hand onto the bed as he is swamped by a feeling he can’t quite put his finger on.

Could fifteen thousand five hundred naira have restored his mother’s vision, kept the trailer from running her over when she crossed the expressway?

If only… If only he had seen this four months ago, maybe she’ll still…

He wishes that he never saw the ad, didn’t open his Facebook page this night, that he had played chicken invaders on his phone instead.

Now he will live wondering if, by using almost all the money in his bank account, he could have been the help that his mother prayed for when her poor eyesight worsened, and just before she took her last breath on a road far from home(he is so sure that she prayed while that trailer broke her bones.)

No, the new technology must be a sham. Has to be.



You hear a knock on your door and ignore it. A rhythm of knocks follow. You make no attempt to answer the door but mouth a prayer instead- that whoever it is leaves; Your hands are caught up in the cleansing of your dirty tunic and you are in no mood for a chatter right now. The angel in charge of placing your request before God seems to have left his duty post as your ears are now being battered by the succeeding reverberations diffusing through the house as the sound of the knocks reach a crescendo; the person seems to have lost their cool and makes your wooden door pay for your refusal to unlatch it. So you take your hands off the cloth you are washing and rinse them with clean water whilst fuming. Your hands greet the smooth texture of your garment as you dry them while walking towards the door. Who could want to see you so bad that they have refused to let your door rest for the past few minutes? You wonder if it’s the landlord again and his face pops up on the template of your mind. A chill runs through your spine; you are engulfed by shame as you remember how you lured him to bed the last time he came threatening to throw you out of his house. You had to, there was no way you could have gotten enough coins to pay your rent and you had no where to go. You are broke. You have nothing left; You have spent all your savings trying to get yourself fixed. You sold the land your mother left when she died, You even sold your late husband’s farmland and gave the  money to the  priest who assured you that his would be the last place you’d come for help; that once you make the sacrifice to Aphrodite- the goddess of love- the flow will cease. You wanted to believe him, you didn’t but you paid for the sacrifice anyway. That was five years ago and you haven’t for one second ceased being a fountain of blood.
If only God would take your life already, you can’t go on like this. A sigh finds it’s way out from somewhere near your rib cage.
“who is it? ” you howl as you approach the door- you are mad at whoever it is.
“Berenice ” a voice answers. You frown. So she’s the one hitting your door like her knuckles were crafted out of bronze. You are not surprised; she has the build of a man.
Berenice is an old friend who’s been with you through thick and thin, she was the one you had walked into the day you had finally decided to breathe life into your suicidal thoughts by hanging yourself on the tree downstream. Berenice had noticed your swollen eyes and pressed on till you gave in and told her about your death wish. She had walked you home that hot afternoon and had given you no chance to breathe the air free of her assuring words; she had told you everything will be alright, that very soon you’ll be healed. You hadn’t believe her but you had given her no reason to believe you hadn’t. That was two years ago and your affliction still has you in it’s grasp.
“Dear, I wasn’t expecting you ” you hug her and close the door as she enters.
“Is that why you want the skin of my hand peeled off upon knocking before you open the door? ” she shoots with annoyance, anger burning in her eyes.
“I’m really sorry, I thought it was my landlord ” You plead, hoping that would be enough to douse the blazing fire in her eyes.

“It’s okay. But I thought you settled things with him already ?” her eyes seem to seek the answer from your face – the anger in her eyes slough slowly- she gives you no chance to reply and continues  ” Do you remember I promised to let you know when Yeshua visits our province? ”
“Yay, I do” you nod
“well he is now” she smiles
Your heart does three somersaults and a mix of conflicting emotions rush through your body: happiness; fear; excitement and shame.
” he’s in Gerasenes right now? ” You want to be sure you  heard her right; You can’t believe your silent prayers have finally been considered by God.
You’ve heard a lot about this messenger of God, You’ve heard people talk about how he turned water to wine at Cana, the blind men he healed  and how he raised Lazarus who had been dead for complete four days. You  believe in him and you have anticipated this moment for a long time.
“Yes my friend, he is here. Do you remember that mad man down the lake?” she asks as though unsure about your ability to notice what’s going on around.
“Alpheus the craze ?” you offer
“yes him. Yeshua  healed him yesterday, in fact if you see him now, you won’t even recognize him again ” she says, matter-of-factly
You give thanks to God in your heart and start thinking of how to get to see Yeshua. All you need to do is touch his robe; you believe strongly that that would do.
“where exactly is Yeshua now?” you ask Berenice
“He’s at the shore, I really don’t know how you’ll get him to notice you because the crowds there are much.  Do you have a plan or something? ” she inquires, concern emanating from her face.
“I’ll think something up, let’s get going ” you reply as you start closing the windows.
“You won’t even change this garment ? ” she scowls at your raiment.
“Berenice,  I’ve waited for this moment for more than ten years now, I really don’t care about what I’m putting on” You reply rigidly while wearing your sandals.
“Okay, If you say so” she gives up.

  • *          * *         *   *      *   *    *    *    *    *    *    *    * *
    You see him from a distance, you can’t really see his face but you can hear his voice clearly.  You see a man kneel before him, you see the man’s face- it’s Jarius, the man who leads the synagogue- you cannot hear what he’s saying but you know he needs something important from Yeshua. He holds onto Yeshua’s feet and you wonder if this is about his twelve years old daughter who took ill two weeks ago. Yeshua  pats his back and holds him up, he says something to Jarius and they start moving away from the crowd, Yeshua’s disciples following closely behind like chickens strolling behind a mother on the quest for grains.
    “Are you just going to stand there like a figurine ?  can’t you see he’s leaving? come on make your move now” Berenice pushes you forward. What would you do without her?
    You tell yourself that you can do it, that all you need do is touch his robe. You start to walk towards him, increasing your pace as you see him move farther. You elbow your way through the crowd, you are pushed but you keep moving. You are pressed by people both behind and beside but you do not give up; You keep going till you get closer to him.  You see his long dark hair now, his green robe is in view too- he’s before you now.
    “Just touch his robe and be made whole ” a solemn voice whispers in your head.
    “You fool yourself a lot, what makes you think touching his robe will heal you?” another voice says. You recognize that voice; it’s the same voice you listened to when you slapped that old woman who angered you. You are in this crowd today because of the curse she placed on you twelve years ago.
    You will not repeat the same mistake, so you listen to the first voice. You reach for and touch Yeshua’s robe. It stopped; You can’t feel the flow anymore and you feel like a faulty tap that was fixed just few seconds ago.
    You know you have been healed, he knows too because suddenly he turns around and his fixes his brown eyes on one person in the crowd; You.


  • *   * *  *  *   *  *  *  *  *

Hey guys…  yeah the story is an adaptation of the story of the woman with the issue of blood in Mark 5.
I hope you like it, drop your comments, okay?  Can’t wait to hear from you!


The hallway fills up with students as they march in singing ‘the day is bright’ though it looks like the sun is still splayed across her bed and isn’t going to wake up from her sleep any time soon.

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How do you feel when you enter into your Aunty’s room and meet her entangled with your dad, doing that  which most girls your age speak of quite a number of times during their sleep over while their faces shone with pride and the eyes of the ones who haven’t yet done ‘it’ preached hope and their hearts crowded with expectations?
Well that was exactly how I felt and a little more the week before Christmas when I left mom’s restaurant few blocks from home to convey her message to aunty Titi, her younger sister who had refused to pick her calls and guess what I discovered had kept her fingers numb from picking the damn phone?
Her fingers were all over my dad and their bodies were glued like an algae stuck onto  fungi! I ransaged my brain for the exact word that describes what was going on, my biology teacher had used it quite a number of times during our classes on reproduction, I tried so hard to remember the word but my brain would not just do me the honor. Whatever it is they were doing, I know it’s definitely something bad, really bad, something that would make mom cry more than she did when she lost my granny, something that might make me be the next kid with divorced parents in school if she ever got to know.
Stifling a cry with almost all the strength I’ve got, I closed my eyes, opened it, closed, opened it again till I was assured I wasn’t having another one of those so a real nightmares that have made my bed my greatest fear. I pinched my self and felt the pain transmitted by my nerves. Oh no, I’m actually alive and this is happening right before my eyes! I deliberated on stepping backwards quietly till I could close the door behind me without them noticing but my feet felt chained to the floor; I couldn’t even move.
Aunty Titi and my dad were so devoted that neither of them noticed when I opened the door and that I was still in the doorway till I gave out a loud cry, surprised at how intense it was and mad at my self at the same time for doing a stupid thing as such. But I couldn’t just hold in anymore, I screamed and screamed again till I lost my voice; my head felt like it was spinning and would fall off very soon. When I finally got their attention, with shock and shame written all over their faces, my dad gropped for his clothes, wearing them wrong all the way when he finally got hold of them and my can’t-keep-her-legs-closed aunty was shaking uncontrollably and chanting
“Omolayo jo pamisile ma pami sita,  please it’s the devil , it’s the devil , esu ma ni …”
she didn’t stop until my dad shot her an angry  ‘shut up’ look, he then shifted his gaze downwards at his cupped hands like they suddenly became leprous. For few seconds, his mouth refused to produce any sound and the expression on his face looked like he was contemplating speaking or not. All of a sudden, like a man possessed by the spirit of tyranny he stood up and whatever shame I saw in his eyes seconds ago had vanished completely, rage took it’s place now and like I was the one caught in the verboten act , he  started shouting at me, calling me names he’d never called me before, he even called me a bastard  though I know we don’t need a  DNA test  to prove who my real father is, he made for me with full rage and hit me so hard, I heard a loud thump which I later realized was the sound of my body kissing the ground, he didn’t stop right there, he sent a slap across my face and it was so hot and blinding that I could have sworn I saw two golden stars winking at me.
Admist my soft moans, I kept wondering why he turned on me out of the blue, when it seemed the blows were not going to stop anytime soon, I started pleading because the way he was kicking and hitting me, I might end up spending the Christmas in ICU if he doesn’t come back to his senses in time.
Aunty Titi too joined in the plea   ”Kunle please, don’t do this to her, you’re hurting her, please it’s enough ” she tried to take his hands off me and in the process a good blow greeted her face as a response from my turned-psycho father, a part of me definitely was glad she got what she deserved but I was too hurt and weak to stick out my tongue at her, she gave out a cry that spoke of pain and like her voice was the cure for my dad’s mental ailment, he let go of me and left to tend to her, without even deliberating, I gathered the remaining strength left in me, staggered almost losing composure at first and I ran like a mad man who finally broke out of mental institution.
When I was sure of being more than a stone throw from home, I reduced my pace, ignoring the concerned look on people’s faces because of my ruined clothes and probably face too, I sat under a mango tree that had no evidence of being a parent. I rested my head on its trunk, conserving my strength and ignoring the yearnings of my throat and tongue for water.
I have no idea where to go but I’m definately not going to my mom’s,  I’m not going to be the sort of child who ruins her parent’s marriage. I know my dad beat me to scare me from mouthing a word about what I saw to my mom, well he succeeded and there’s no way I’m going let myself go through that again, there’s no way I’m going back to that house before Christmas,  I’m sure he would have come back to his senses after I’ve gone missing for a more than a week. I can imagine the pain and guilt he would go through when he realizes his infidelity has cost him his second child, he’ll probably be the one to break the news of his forbidden act to her but I doubt it, my father would do anything to save face which is why I’m confused and surprised and  I keep asking myself why? why was he sleeping with her? if anyone told me my aunty was caught sleeping with someone else’s husband I wouldn’t even consider starting a fight to prove it’s a lie because she has a reputation of having a difficulty with staying faithful to a man, out of my grandmother’s daughters, she’s the only who’s had more than two failed marriages which is why she ended up living at her parents’ when her last husband kicked her out for sleeping with his friend, she got to our place three days ago for the Christmas holiday and I know for sure now that Christmas isn’t all  that’s brought her to our home, she’d probably ran out of men she hadn’t yet done the dirty with.
I swear, all my life I’ve never met anyone whose life is as  wrecked  as my mom’s sister,  which is why I try as much as possible to avoid her whenever she comes visiting, I never really liked her and with what I’ve seen today, not even a miracle can change that.
I feel sorry for my mom,  she doesn’t deserve this, their marriage seemed so perfect, in fact it  is one of the best in town, people respect my family so much for  the peace and love and for the fact there’s been no reason for a visit in order to settle any form of dispute, unlike most families in the vicinity.
I thought about where to lay low for a while, I considered my options and decided it’s time to honor an invitation for I’ve put on hold for a while, an invitation from the girl who lives down the street, no one would even consider asking her about my whereabouts because to everyone, she’s a psycho and an outcast .
Just the perfect place to hibernate for few weeks. Maybe it’s time my siblings learnt how to finalize Christmas plans without me, oh I forgot, there’ll be no need for that, they’ll all be on the hunt for a lost child. There won’t be a Christmas like last year or the year before that.
I pray the girl isn’t really a psycho, because most times when I see her she is always  shouting at someone she said lives in the wall and is owing her a substantial amount of money. Maybe she’s mad after all, though she doesn’t wear tattered clothes or eat dust, I just really hope I don’t end up looking like a chicken to her on  Christmas day.

Do you like the story? What do you think? Kindly drop your comments, I’m dying to read them.

Merry Christmas beautiful readers!!!



“Tejuade, has I write these letter to you my luv, I am very sleepi but your beautifl face will ……” Adelani read the inked words and saw no need to inform her that he had sleep-write the message, that would turn her off, he noticed the errors and without giving it any thought, shriveled the paper, again.

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As I lay in the bathtub, soaping and scrubbing every visible part of my body harder than I would on a day I had less adrenaline running through my veins. Soaked in the tepid water reeking of the orange flavoured shampoo used in washing what now looks like the ghost of what my hair used to be, a wild grin crept onto my cheeks.

I have been here for hours now, not like I still have a grip on time anymore so I really don’t know if I have spent longer in the bath than a normal human should. Wait a minute! Did I just say normal? Humour me, but I’m a couple of miles behind ‘normal’; whatever that is anyways.

Each time I feel this urge to get off and give a shot at undoing that which would take more than a few bottles of Hennessey to get me to spit, a greater surge of power pulls me back down, whispering fiercely yet seductively that it’s not yet time. Then coercing my hands making the scrub a bit fiercer and tainted with a tinge of pain and regret because each harsh movement over my dark skin, shiny under the dim light is made in a way that mimics a deed done in order to atone for atrocities.

I should have called the police or an ambulance, perhaps my nurse friend would have saved his life-or maybe not. What really frightened me was my fear of the cold metal hanging right across my wrists and being put away to rot behind those strong bars, with the tasteless and burnt meals to complement the misery, the horror of waking up one day with what is left of my hair chopped off by the one I would refer to as my roommate or is it prison mate ?

Though I had so many times wished him dead, I never really let myself imagine what it would be like to live with him off earth and in fear of police cars parked right across my lawn, with the blaring of sirens cutting sharply through the air.

Though the abuse was killing and I couldn’t see a way out, I still never saw myself shutting him out in a way, permanently . I loved him, made him my breath, esteemed him than I ever did any man, and that was why even when the bruises and black eyes were noticed and caused questions to be raised, I quickly smile and cook up lies to protect him and keep whatever it is we had from being disconnected from the breathing tube.
“Oh, don’t mind me, I wasn’t watching my way last night, so I fell into a ditch, blame my heels”
“Ahh, it was the old car. It hit a pole on the drive back home” those were the common ones, at least those i remember.

And now as his body lay rigid in the pit dug below the workshop, I prepare myself for life ahead and wiped every remnant memory off so I wouldn’t wish for the past life, the one he designed for me. I prepare myself towards a sole life, towards a life of freedom, a life void of the intense beatings, the sudden slaps, the too often arguments over even stupid and mundane things, the late night cries with my belly hurting and my head aching, the intense massage sometimes more of a punishment than relief, his unexpected kisses, the flower delivery the morning after every night of fight, the good sex, I prepare myself towards widowhood.


So, my first post in this year, you like it ? I want to know what you guys think. Please don’t go without dropping your comments, they keep me going.
Oh, by the way HAPPY NEW YEAR TO MY READERS!!!!!!

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Part 1
Author: Emitomo Oluwatobiloba.

Early May……………

When Eva angrily left her mum seething in the kitchen for the choir rehearsal after their long heating argument which has never ceased to come up daily, she had no clue it would be the very last time she would ever see her mum, hear her voice, feel her pain and see her house.
Maybe if she had known, she might have told her mum soothingly that those words she said, all of them, she never meant them, maybe she might’ve have held her in a close embrace, pat her back, kiss her temple and tell her for the last time that everything would be soon be fine, maybe she would have given her a long lecture on a what a prick her father- the man her mother fell in love with was and is, maybe she might have told her that she did steal that money for her boyfriend’s chemotherapy; he needed it so bad, maybe her mother would have seen a reason to stay off being mad at her, maybe, just maybe Eva would not have stepped out of her grandfather’s cottage.

She had been walking just along the path she had forever known around six in the evening, when the crescent of the sun already had fully kissed the foot of the dark blue canopy covering the face of the earth, humming ‘hark the herald’, her toe hit a hard object- a bad omen, she looked down to check out the damage done, her eyes caught no sight of blood but the sharp pain in her toe was so acute that she had to limp for a while, fighting hard not to go back home to nurse her injury, “that would be like a rat running out of a cat’s way, going back to sneak up on him” she said to herself, so she continued her course.

  When she got to the alley which links her street to the church's, a surge of fear raced through her body and she could feel the goose-pimples come alive; it was too quiet, too cold, just like it has always been there, "mucles of a cementary" her naughty highschool mates call it.

She repositioned her almost-fallen backpack containing her books, few clothes, hidden food and money-essentials for independence, well she’s used to staying in church whenever she and her mother had a major fight, and “major” would be nothing but an understatement for the fight they had today, it was hell brought to earth.
Chris’ parents are with him at the hospital and as she was told, her presence only would breed more damage; don’t they blame her for his cancer? As long as they are concerned, their ‘boy’ never would have been in his present state if he wasn’t seeing her.
“Crazy illiterates” Eva cursed into the freezing air, she remembered how she started dating Chris, the cute and most popular guy in school- well known for his bravery- his saving her life.
Suddenly, Eva’s array of thought was interrupted when out of nowhere two muscular arms grabbed her from behind and she staggered a little bit, keeping her stand not to fall, before she could get a grip on the nerve of the situation, she felt a black cloth cover her eyes and was carried by (she was so sure) two men to God knows where.

Eva felt being thrown into the back of(she thinks) a truck, she heared it’s engine brought to life and tires screeching. She wanted to shout, she really had wanted to from the moment she started to feel something sinister about the alley’s ultra coldness, the girdle-like strip of cloth tied across her mouth served the purpose her abductors wanted it to; it prevented her from being able to make any sound that could even scare a fly away. She ignored the sour taste of the cloth as it mixed with her salty sweat, she twisted her body to reposition herself in the truck’s hind with the amount of energy left from the last meal she ate(which she actually did not finish) before her mum picked up a fight with her, she actually was unable two use her arms, like her mouth, they had been trussed up too but with a strong cord this time. The sensitivity of sharp pain across her lips and the burning sensation as the implication of the binds was interrupted when a putrid smell evolved out of nowhere.

She heared what seemed like pants and silent mourn, she curiously elongated her legs and they hit a hairy head, someone let out a whisper-like squeal and Eva at that moment realized that she was not alone in the rear of the truck; those men kidnapped not just her alone, she is sure there are more and she is bent on finding out where they are being taken to and what they want with them.
Eva remembered her mother’s chat with Miriam’s mother few weeks back about the recent incidents in their town, about young girls walking out of thier homes never to return, first was Margaret, the storekeeper’s only daughter; and her mother, almost self-slaughtered but she has gotten over it now, or hasn’t she? The last time Eva saw her, she was with a child, a replacement for the missing one?
Next was Gabriella, the fruit seller’s third child, a twelve year old, her mother had told her to go get some polythene right around the Church and she never was seen again, isn’t her mother the crazy woman who sleeps not far from the stall beside her house now?
Theresa, the third girl was Eva’s arithmetic teacher’s one and only daughter, ten year old, she after bidding her mother goodbye, left for school and has not been seen since then. Her father no longer teaches arithmetic now, he is the man buried at the back of the school’s latrine.
Rebecca, Eva’s best friend had gone to get some pencils and crayons for her drawing the last time Eva saw her; that was the last time everyone, atleast, those in town ever saw her.
Fifteen girls have been reported missing since the past three months and when Eva did her calculations very well, she discovered that five girls were taken each month, girls of ages between ten and eighteen. When Rebecca was discovered missing, Eva cried herself to sleep every night and when the police had told the girl’s parents that they have tried their best, all to avail, Eva silently one evening while it was raining and she needed her friend so bad, swore in her heart to in her own way find those girls and help them. How would she do this? She’s not even in the force! She disposed the idea into an imaginary bin.
Every day, Eva sees the street littered with posters of missing girls and their town now is known for being grief-stricken.
Now, Eva knew her time has come, she has been taken too, she doesn’t feel weak or sad or angry, instead, there’s a bit of flow of joy through her vein, maybe this is it! Maybe her chance to save the girls is here, but how? She doesn’t even know how to fight! She couldn’t stand her mum killing the hen last Christmas! She never learnt karate! So how?
Eva stopped rolling the ball of ‘whys’ and thought remembered her mum, she felt bad for being bad to her,she wondered how she would feel when Eva doesn’t return in a few days time. Eva thought about Benson; her dog, her mum never liked her, who’s going to take care of her? Maybe, she’ll just, after a while wander away when are cry for Eva refuse to conjure her. Eva pictured how Chris would feel if he found out his girlfriend was missing, the image was so ugly so she shut her eyes so tight, Chris would be sad, sure but his parents are definitely going to dish meals of lies about her for him to consume, they already did, didn’t they cause thier first break up before Chris later saw the truth around their bitterly-delivered lie.
Eva thought about school, well no one would miss her, she is the crazy short girl whom the cool guy of every girl’s dream fell in love with, she hated school anyway.
While riding through the lane of
mysterious disappearances and thought about home, she fell asleep.

Eva felt a cold metal hit her temple and it hurt so bad. The girdle across her mouth was taken off and so was the cord too.
When the blindfold was off, Eva felt like her eyes had taken in too much light than it could accommodate so she shut them immediately, slowly loosening the muscles eventually.
She looked around and saw a beautiful storey building before her, a very big one with a bright blue color, she saw the other girls in the truck, and the men who took them ordered them in a strong voice to get off the truck, Eva and the other victims, all female did as they were told and followed right after the man leading in the front, from behind, she saw that he had a canon in hand, before she entered into the building, she took a detective-look at the surrounding, the environment and registered that it is like a close or less an estate.

When they got in, they were taken through a passage and Eva saw young girls sleeping on the beds, arranged in bunks, it was night already and the place looks like an hostel’s dormitory.
The ma opened a room and motioned for them to enter, they did and the first person Eva saw was Theresa, then Miriam, then surprisingly, Rebecca, she was happy, the girls pretended to be sleeping but she knew so well that they are not. The girls looked weak and Eva caught a glimpse of hurt even in thier tightly shut eyes.
“You take a bed, eaashh, you hear wetin I talk? I no wan hear any kin talk or baby baby cry or mumureth oh? You hear whata dey yan you so?” The man roared in pidgin and the girls nodded in response, he left the room and shut the door, locking it from the outside.

 Eva moved to where Rebecca was and when she was about to talk, the girl let out a "shhh...." Placing a finger right across her lips. 

“Just sleep for now, you really don’t wanna get caught talking”
Eva nodded and found a bunk empty, she went up and laid down gently, tired as a result of the long drive.
Before she slept off, she vowed in her heart to ask Rebecca about it all and get a grip on the situation.

“I’m not here to stay, I’m here to save”

She told herself silently, eyes closed, sure that it was audible for no one.

Title: TAKEN
AUTHOR: Emitomo Oluwatobiloba Nimisire.

Author’s Note:

Firstly, please forgive every error you saw up there, I did not do much of editing………

I really never knew when I started this story that it’s gonna end like this…..
This story was bred by my curiosity and pain about those girls taken in Nigeria, the recent terrorist’s abduction of so many girl’s (bokoharam’s).
I kind of tried to imagine what they go through every single second, minute, hour, day, week, month, the picture damn is grotesque.
Anyways, I know that Eva sure would not give up till she’s gotten herself and those girls out, she’ll give up even her last blood, saving them, but will she be able to do this? How is she going to?
Well, you may have to read the second part then to feed that snoopy mind of yours!

Thank you for reading!!!
Love you guys so much!

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