7:44 AM (55 minutes ago)
to me
Hey T.N
Need a bit of favour :)
Can you drum up some votes for me (Yemi Odunfa) via your blogger friends.
It's a long shot, (as i've already got 10marks deductions for late submission) but for what it's worth....
Here's a quick link, which literally takes 3 seconds to vote for a worthwhile short story.
Vote Yemi Odunfa@
http://thenakedconvos.com/thewriter/?page_id=761
Thanks...Voting ends friday.
Here's my short story Entry:
Immigrant
One day, the black woman’s children will tell a story and the world will listen.
She calls out to them from their distant sojourns, to return home and meet her at the birthplace of their dreams, under an ancient iroko tree. Her message traverses quickly, like the distant rumble of the Sakara drum across an interlocking lattice of villages and metropolis, bearing significance to those who once cradled in the old woman’s arms. The sight is astounding as they come running with the swiftness of the gazelle. Even the moon peeps from behind the night clouds as the travelling multitudes troop in and settle down on bare clay grounds, tucking their knees under their chests like yesterday’s children.
She has waited for this day since she bid the last one goodbye, to chase after dreams she had whispered into their infant hearts.
Go! Ride the oceans, and bring back new stories for me in your pockets.
That is why on this night, she is not the one narrating the moonlight tales. Instead, she motions to Ifedayo and inquires with a twinkle,
"Tell us about the Queen’s land.”
Ifedayo is briefly quiet, reluctant to spoil the magic of the night, but she is encouraged by the older woman’s smile and finally speaks up.
“It isn’t anything like your stories Mama. There are no magnificent kingdoms or imperial palaces, only small confined spaces, allocated to each person in proportion to his tax band. Everywhere smells of cigarettes and my blood curls every time someone damages my name in pronunciation.”
There is a brief hush as her blatant confession teases the façade of the group. Keshi, the village drunkard staggers in, heaving two calabashes of freshly brewed palm wine and as always he misses a step and trips, spilling some of the fizzy beverage. A merry laughter breaks the awkward silence as a cheer erupts from the group in unison, “Keshi Ologogoro!”
“How difficult is it to pronounce Ifedayo?! It’s not fair, I pronounce their names right in a language that is not even my own mother tongue!”
Kadijat accepts a gourd from the frolicking Keshi and chips in her experience to the budding tapestry.
“Wind in the willows, Treasure Island, James and the giant peach…I went with grand expectations of wonder, to dance with white pixies in magic faraway trees. The immigration officer welcomed me with disdain and a stern warning that if I dared abscond, the police will hunt me down like a rabid animal. Why would I ever want to abscond?! My passport back home is my dearest possession when I am far from home. It is only here that I can enjoy a non judgemental wine with Keshi.
I dare say you sent me off on a wild goose chase Mama. There were certainly no magic forests or cheeky fairies, only stern faced folks who either ignored my cheerful greetings or at best reply with a disinterested grunt. I have lived in my flat for five years and still ponder at the mystery of what my neighbour looks like”
Keshi drops his calabashes to take Kadijat’s hands in a giddy twirl, coercing a laugh out of the young woman whilst spilling her own wine all over the lot. “Oh Kadijat, has your memory grown so dim that you blame Mama for your flight? Mama sent you off with a cheerful dream in your heart, but was it not the horrors that crept into our land that sent your little feet scurrying?”
The drunkard’s careless words induce an abrupt change in Kadijat’s countenance. She suddenly appears genuinely petrified and hurries to crouch next to the older woman, who accepts her in an embrace. Rocking in place, Mama starts to hum a familiar tune, which the others quickly pick up in a rowdy chorus, “Rain rain, go away, come again another day, little Kadijat want to play!”
Chidi pitches in. “I never knew I was black until I left home, never had reason to feel uncomfortable in my own skin. I took no thought for stereotypes or ethnic prejudice until my first high school year in Sydney where I realized that the other children would not play with me.
I had a childish crush, a beautiful Aussie girl with long pigtails and the voice of an angel – just like in the movies. One day I finally summoned the courage to speak with her. That little devil turned up her nose and told me that I smell like the jungle and need to go back to my country.”
“Ishoooo!!!!” A mocked banter resounds from the group with laughter.
Chidi’s fiancée, Fisayo, leans in close to him and quells the jest with loving affirmation. “I love my baby’s dark chocolate skin just the way it is. His colour is a survivor of a pulsating history of slavery and racial segregation. So he is strong and unyielding, like a phoenix that rises from the ashes, defining himself for himself, not by how the world chooses to identify him. He is connected with nature, his family and a unique brotherhood that looks out for the well being of each other, like a fierce pack of tribal wolves.”
“Ile Oba to jo, kerosine ati ishana lo fa!” Keshi quips in. “You are the cause of your own unrest. Foolish black boys immigrate to another man’s land and gang up in hooded groups with switch blades in their socks. It is only inevitable that the police and politicians will not give you rest.”
A murmur of disagreement rises, and the older woman leans back with a smile. The land had been silent for too long. The new generation is not like these ones. They are too impatient to learn the games of old times, or listen to an old woman’s opinions on life.
“Come now dear ones. An old adage reminds us that, we are not here to curse the darkness, but to light a candle that can guide us through that darkness to a safe future. For the world is changing. The old era is ending; old ways will not do. So, let us return to where we first begun and I will ask my question again. Ifedayo, tell me about the fine wonders in the Queen’s land.”
This time, the younger woman’s face lights up and she narrates with a giddy chuckle.
“Everybody becomes a child again on the first night of winter. Two things amaze me when the snowflakes begin to colour the land for the first time. First I marvel at the wonder of nature then I look across the street and realize that everybody is doing just the same. Imagine if it snowed in Nigeria, Mama!”
Hauwa jumps in. “I relish when you call me on the phone and I speak to you in our local language. I feel different in a beautiful sort of way that I cannot feel when I am home. It’s a warm feeling to know that I have Katsina to return to when my wandering legs tire. But ooh Mama, I also love the PastaPaPa Italian restaurant off avenue des Champs-Elysées."
Mama throws back her head in laughter, and motions to Folakemi.
“Come on Folakemi, your turn. Tell us about the northern lights!”
Their stories carry on into the night…
END
For the ones who have wandered far from home…and the dreamers amongst us.
By Yemi O.
