Some old stories and their links:
Whose Wife is She?: http://www.author-me.com/fict05/whosewife.htm
Living Precariously: http://www.conteonline.net/issue0302/03-Living_Precariously-01.shtml
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Friday, November 20, 2009
Going to Work in Lagos
A short, light-hearted piece:
Going to Work in Lagos
By Cheluchi Onyemelukwe
“Aren’t you going to work today?” From the doorway, her aunt’s soft voice pierces its way into her sleepy consciousness. Nneka gets up and rubs her eyes vigorously. “Good morning, ma,” she says, and heaves her resisting body towards the door. She came to work in Lagos two months before, but waking up at five in the mornings to go to work has got no easier; the traffic is terrible in a city bursting with cars driven by impatient people on bad roads.
She peers up at the clock in the sitting room. It is past six o’clock. She rushes to the bathroom. She reminds herself to wipe the floor, wet with water that she has poured over herself carelessly in her hurry. She hurries into the room and looks at her watch; it is already twenty minutes to seven. She is certain she will be late to work today. By the time she dresses and powders her face, it is ten minutes to seven.
She rushes out, shouting goodbye to her aunt who has just finished having her bath and is going to her bedroom, her back all wet. She gets to the burglary-proofed door. No one has unlocked the two heavy padlocks. She moans. Where are the keys? She looks around the kitchen, she can't find them. Where are they? Chibuzor!!! she shouts. Where are the keys to the padlocks? Why do they lock them anyway, she asks herself. When the armed robbers come with their guns, people willingly open their doors, padlocks and all. She is flustered. It is broad daylight and she is still at home. Chibuzor walks sluggishly to the door with the keys in her hand. She could slap the girl. Instead she snatches away the keys.
At the bus stop, she is lucky to get a seat in a bus which is almost full. The passengers are shouting at the conductor. “We won’t pay 100 naira today. There is fuel in Lagos, why are you collecting more than the normal price?”
“Madam, get down if you won’t pay,” the conductor tells a particularly vocal woman, “You must pay 100 naira if you want to go with this bus.”
Nneka hands over her money when he holds his hand, smudged with dark grease, out to her. Fortunately she has the right amount; she doesn’t want to quarrel with any conductor over change. Lagos conductors like to collect money from people but they hate giving back money. She doesn’t care about the price, she had woken up too late today to afford the luxury of haggling.
No fuel queues, and it has not rained for some time, so the traffic jam is not too much; traffic is hell in Lagos when it rains. The driver, too, is a sharp driver, cutting into small spaces with dexterity. Today is definitely her lucky day.
She jumps out of the slowly moving bus in the usual traffic when they get to CMS. Passengers going to Victoria Island and God knows where, jump into the bus as it moves along in CMS. That is one trick she has had to learn since coming to live in Lagos, jumping into and out of moving buses. Patience is not a virtue in Lagos -- buses wait no one. She does not take the pedestrian bridge. Instead, she makes her way across the highway packed full of cars forced to move slowly because of the narrow openings at the end, meandering her way in between the cars. She turns to glare at a driver who drives too close, dangerously close.
He shouts at her, “Why not use the pedestrian bridge? Are you are looking for someone to kill you? Tell the evil spirits that sent you that you did not see me.”
Mad man, why was he shouting, speaking big grammar this early in the morning? Who ever uses the pedestrian bridge at CMS? She has heard it is not strong enough to carry the weight of pedestrians. Anything can happen in Lagos. And she is too young to die.
She hops on a motorbike; wearing trousers this morning was a good idea. The cyclist speeds to Broad Street, driving in the wrong direction on a one-way street. Other drivers shout at him. But he pays no attention. He is just the kind of cyclist she needs this morning. She thinks that she may have to go straight to the bathroom once she gets to work, to pat her ruffled weave-on in the mirror.
The driver swerves madly to avoid an oncoming car. He is not successful. Something tells Nneka that she is indeed going to be late for work. Her mind watches the horror unfold as if in a dream, one of those in which she is powerless and cannot wake up. Suddenly she feels her body flying in the air and then it is all darkness as the dirty, muddy, ground rushes up to meet her.
Going to Work in Lagos
By Cheluchi Onyemelukwe
“Aren’t you going to work today?” From the doorway, her aunt’s soft voice pierces its way into her sleepy consciousness. Nneka gets up and rubs her eyes vigorously. “Good morning, ma,” she says, and heaves her resisting body towards the door. She came to work in Lagos two months before, but waking up at five in the mornings to go to work has got no easier; the traffic is terrible in a city bursting with cars driven by impatient people on bad roads.
She peers up at the clock in the sitting room. It is past six o’clock. She rushes to the bathroom. She reminds herself to wipe the floor, wet with water that she has poured over herself carelessly in her hurry. She hurries into the room and looks at her watch; it is already twenty minutes to seven. She is certain she will be late to work today. By the time she dresses and powders her face, it is ten minutes to seven.
She rushes out, shouting goodbye to her aunt who has just finished having her bath and is going to her bedroom, her back all wet. She gets to the burglary-proofed door. No one has unlocked the two heavy padlocks. She moans. Where are the keys? She looks around the kitchen, she can't find them. Where are they? Chibuzor!!! she shouts. Where are the keys to the padlocks? Why do they lock them anyway, she asks herself. When the armed robbers come with their guns, people willingly open their doors, padlocks and all. She is flustered. It is broad daylight and she is still at home. Chibuzor walks sluggishly to the door with the keys in her hand. She could slap the girl. Instead she snatches away the keys.
At the bus stop, she is lucky to get a seat in a bus which is almost full. The passengers are shouting at the conductor. “We won’t pay 100 naira today. There is fuel in Lagos, why are you collecting more than the normal price?”
“Madam, get down if you won’t pay,” the conductor tells a particularly vocal woman, “You must pay 100 naira if you want to go with this bus.”
Nneka hands over her money when he holds his hand, smudged with dark grease, out to her. Fortunately she has the right amount; she doesn’t want to quarrel with any conductor over change. Lagos conductors like to collect money from people but they hate giving back money. She doesn’t care about the price, she had woken up too late today to afford the luxury of haggling.
No fuel queues, and it has not rained for some time, so the traffic jam is not too much; traffic is hell in Lagos when it rains. The driver, too, is a sharp driver, cutting into small spaces with dexterity. Today is definitely her lucky day.
She jumps out of the slowly moving bus in the usual traffic when they get to CMS. Passengers going to Victoria Island and God knows where, jump into the bus as it moves along in CMS. That is one trick she has had to learn since coming to live in Lagos, jumping into and out of moving buses. Patience is not a virtue in Lagos -- buses wait no one. She does not take the pedestrian bridge. Instead, she makes her way across the highway packed full of cars forced to move slowly because of the narrow openings at the end, meandering her way in between the cars. She turns to glare at a driver who drives too close, dangerously close.
He shouts at her, “Why not use the pedestrian bridge? Are you are looking for someone to kill you? Tell the evil spirits that sent you that you did not see me.”
Mad man, why was he shouting, speaking big grammar this early in the morning? Who ever uses the pedestrian bridge at CMS? She has heard it is not strong enough to carry the weight of pedestrians. Anything can happen in Lagos. And she is too young to die.
She hops on a motorbike; wearing trousers this morning was a good idea. The cyclist speeds to Broad Street, driving in the wrong direction on a one-way street. Other drivers shout at him. But he pays no attention. He is just the kind of cyclist she needs this morning. She thinks that she may have to go straight to the bathroom once she gets to work, to pat her ruffled weave-on in the mirror.
The driver swerves madly to avoid an oncoming car. He is not successful. Something tells Nneka that she is indeed going to be late for work. Her mind watches the horror unfold as if in a dream, one of those in which she is powerless and cannot wake up. Suddenly she feels her body flying in the air and then it is all darkness as the dirty, muddy, ground rushes up to meet her.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
I love blogs
I love blogs. I read all sorts of interesting things on blogs, short stories, news, opinions, anything really. I listen to music, music that takes me back to the safety, and carefree times of my childhood. Onyka Onwenu, Nelly Uchendu, Miriam Makeba. I get ideas about what books to read next. I read about interesting things happening all over the world, via links embedded in blogs. I love blogs I say. Or perhaps I should say I love the internet. What does this have to do with posting a new short story on here, you ask? Hmm, I have to think about that one.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Identity Theft
I have a new story out in the Spring Issue, volume 10, of SNReview: http://www.snreview.org/0109Onyemelukwe.pdf. It was also published last year in issue 5 of African Writing: http://www.african-writing.com/five/cheluchionyemelukwe.htm. Below is an excerpt:
Identity Theft
The day seemed to go by in a blur; it now hung in that dim zone that was neither night nor day. The ceremonies of the first day were almost over, but the smell of the burnt skin of the cows that had been killed the night before still lingered. The akwunechenyi music produced by rhythmic drums, beat by well-dressed drummers dancing to the sound of their own music, and the piping sound of the oja, the small wooden flute that praised the deserving and those who had come of age, got fainter as the musicians moved farther away from the ceremonies. Most of the guests – and there had been many – had gone home too. But a few people were still sitting out front, under the brightly coloured canopies, talking and smiling, asking to be served with food and drinks, as if this was a party. Some asked for the more expensive bottles of small stout and Guinness malt in place of the cheaper Coca Cola. Mrs Anoliefo could not see any of this from where she was sat on a small stool in front of what used to be the kitchen. But she could hear the noises and having attended, and even helped organise events like this, she saw the scene in her mind’s eye: young men lounging around, drinks in hand, showing off their youth as if they would never die, young women asking for food for their children who had eaten more than once, old women saying their soup lacked meat, all having a good time. As if they had come to a party.
Identity Theft
The day seemed to go by in a blur; it now hung in that dim zone that was neither night nor day. The ceremonies of the first day were almost over, but the smell of the burnt skin of the cows that had been killed the night before still lingered. The akwunechenyi music produced by rhythmic drums, beat by well-dressed drummers dancing to the sound of their own music, and the piping sound of the oja, the small wooden flute that praised the deserving and those who had come of age, got fainter as the musicians moved farther away from the ceremonies. Most of the guests – and there had been many – had gone home too. But a few people were still sitting out front, under the brightly coloured canopies, talking and smiling, asking to be served with food and drinks, as if this was a party. Some asked for the more expensive bottles of small stout and Guinness malt in place of the cheaper Coca Cola. Mrs Anoliefo could not see any of this from where she was sat on a small stool in front of what used to be the kitchen. But she could hear the noises and having attended, and even helped organise events like this, she saw the scene in her mind’s eye: young men lounging around, drinks in hand, showing off their youth as if they would never die, young women asking for food for their children who had eaten more than once, old women saying their soup lacked meat, all having a good time. As if they had come to a party.
Monday, March 24, 2008
A Son is Worth Everything
"A Son is Worth Everything," a short piece is out in Della Donna, http://delladonna.blogspot.com/2008/04/lit-by-chicks.html. Below is an excerpt.
That is not true. I give her money for food. Sometimes I am late with the school fees, but why pay school fees for girls? Tomorrow, some man will come and marry them. What kind of investment is that? Five daughters and no sons – too much for one man. I am, after all, a big, strong man. My strong muscles and thick, shiny, dark body tell me so. The pretty women I see on the road, driving my truck from Kano to Enugu and back, carrying supplies to and fro, tell me so. I have never left a woman unsatisfied; they tell me so in the bedroom and out of it, when I put money in their palms. I know I am able to sire sons, but my disobedient wife refuses to produce any.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Okamma n'ilo
I have a story now out at AfricanWriter.com. Here is the link: http://www.africanwriter.com/articles/266/1/Okamma-nilo--A-Short-Story-by-Cheluchi-Onyemelukwe/Page1.html. An excerpt:
I knew that I did not want to live permanently in another country, looking for all the tricky ways I could find to extend my visa and to stay until I became a permanent resident or a citizen, or ways to buy used cars or mobile phones or clothes on sale to send back home, hating my life all through the winter, the bare trees, the bitter cold winds and the early dark evenings, then loving the green, green leaves and the warm long hours of sunshine in the summer. To my surprise, I had missed the bustle of Nigeria, the noisiness of people speaking at the tops of their voices even when they were speaking to people right next to them, the food, the hot sun, the gusto with which life was lived and enjoyed like goatmeat peppersoup.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
The Excitement of a First Date
I have a new story out in The Danforth Review (Canada, Issue #22, March 2008). Here is an excerpt:
To read more, go to http://www.danforthreview.com/fiction/03_08/onyemelukwe.htm
Obiageli walked quickly to the car park, craning her head slightly and peering into the darkness which enveloped the parked cars. She did not see the navy blue Mercedes. Did Paul not say he was going to be here at half seven? As she waited impatiently, a mosquito bit her on the leg and she bent down and scratched furiously and then spit on her hand to wipe away the white scratches that she did not see in the darkness but which she knew from experience must have appeared on her dark legs.
To read more, go to http://www.danforthreview.com/fiction/03_08/onyemelukwe.htm
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