Dejected, I was thinking about the tragic ending of Chimamanda’s ‘Americanah’ that I had just finished reading, of how Obinze abandoned his wedded wife, Kosi, and reconciled with his ex, Ifemelu, who had been away in America for years. The way the novel ended got me so miffed I wished it had a sequel.

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I am Igbo, Not Ibo

The first letter I wrote, which was addressed to my elder brother who resided in Kaduna, was written in Igbo. I still remember. During my primary school days, I had always excelled in Igbo Language. Those days—in Primary 6, I still remember—whenever our class teacher, Mr Mba, wrote ‘Asụsụ Igbo’ on the blackboard, my friend and classmate, Obidimma, whom I shared the same desk with, would turn to me and say, “Your subject!” To Obidimma (and even a good number of others, like late Georgiana Iloanyionwu), so far Igbo Language was concerned, I had continued to remain undefeated. (This rating, perhaps, could be a fallacy.)

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“Outside, that talkative, elderly man, Atuegwu, was making our umunna laugh with his njakili (jokes). They were laughing boisterously. But, my brother shushed them immediately he started telling them what Nnamabia had said, the strange thing that had happened to Nnamabia. They were marveled.”

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Nnabuchi, my late sanguine friend, was very comical—a trait that had always trapped many girls for him. But he could be boastful, too. Especially to girls. He was the type that would tell a new girlfriend that his father owned mansions at Festac, Lagos, or at Aso Villa, Abuja.

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“Seated by my left were a girl and a boy, both of them teenagers, both of them with big Samsung Galaxy phones. The boy was ‘chiking’ the girl, his accent totally transformed as he voiced his carefully selected words, like someone born and brought up in America. Americah. I was watching them with the side of my left eye, my ears waxed, like that of a bad child eavesdropping on the sensual conversation between the parents. The girl’s ‘phonetic’ voice was angelic. Listening to her speak in a soft tone made me remember my secondary school days. It reminded me of Onyinye, a fellow student I loved very much those days. Onyinye. I wanted to start thinking about her, but the picture of the molested Hausa boy in the market came and blocked that thought. My face tightened. I became moody. I couldn’t hear the teenagers speak again, even though they were seated right beside me, still talking.”

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My NYSC in Hadejia, Jigawa State: November 5, 2013 – October 16, 2014.

It makes me laugh whenever I remember an incident that took place in our hostel, Block C. In our hostel, we had three hostel leaders, including myself. Our major duty was to make sure that our hostel was always in order. We made sure that everywhere (especially the toilets and bathrooms) was tidy. We monitored every strange movement in our hostel. Also, we made sure issues of theft didn’t arise. But something happened one day: someone messed up the toilet. 

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  “Sacrilege! Someone has urinated on the Holy Spirit. The Holy spirit is aggrieved…,” Prophet’s thunderous voice heralded, reverberating down the valleys. I would start by saying I am a Christian, a strong Catholic, even though some people would say I am no born again. I was born and raised as a Catholic. I was […]