FOUL SHOTS

FOUL SHOTS

“They switch wings you know,” Derek educated the nurse.

“The cross carpeting bastards. You’d have thought someone would have mentioned it at some point in time, but nobody ever says anything about them switching wings,” he further lamented.  

WHATS IN A NAME?

WHAT’S IN A NAME

He was a coup-plotter manqué, and as is the case with all failed coup-plotters interred in Wundari Maximum Security Prison, La République Fédérale du Côte d'or noir, his liberty was under indefinite confiscation – pending execution by firing squad.

POST 5: Babaaláwo Of Our Times. Chapter 3 (part 2): Not a Tuesday.

 Chapter 3 (part 2): Not a Tuesday

Perhaps I meditated too deeply, as the cacophonous chorus became unbearable: hundreds of horns blaring away at varying pitches of anger and frustration; all persisting for lengthy durations and blasting out with irregular frequency; each and every single one so clear in its delivery that I could almost picture the intensity of each individual driver’s scowl from my bed. 

Certain things

Certain things

Ozinwa lived in the most impoverished of refugee camps bordering two warring countries, where all the men had absconded to celebrate their differences in a conflict of forgotten origins. It was a conflict seasoned with a particularly generous pinch of atrocity, resultantly, the women and children painfully endured slow deaths by disease and starvation... amongst many other ills. 

POST 4: Babaaláwo Of Our Times. Chapter 3 (part1): Not a Tuesday.

 Chapter 3 (part 1): Not a Tuesday

The sharp piercing pain in my head, which I had found so unbearable earlier, was replaced by a dull throbbing - a pulsating shallow thud which lasted for short periods in between lengthy pensive spells of pulsating-shallow-thud-anticipatory normality. No part of my body felt as bruised as before, except for my right shoulder, which still felt quite sore. But I thought that was because it had gone dead as I had been laying awkwardly on my side. 

POST 3: Babaaláwo Of Our Times. Chapter 2: Friday

Chapter 2: Friday

As I slept, I had a vague idea of what manner of confusion I wished to awaken to. I will not go into such visions of wanton debauchery, for lewdness is not the point of this story, but the note was very far from anything I had throbbing in mind. It read:

Donald,

      The bills have been paid.

      They will say the bills have not been paid because that is what they say.

Leave as soon as possible or there will DEFINITELY be bills to pay.

Regards,

Donald.

A verdict, he sought.

They sat in silence on the drive back to her flat. He drove slowly to lengthen the journey. He wasn't in a hurry. He felt she needed a bit more time to properly structure her apology after screaming at him in front of the waitress.

Earlier on, she'd been dillydallying:"...boiled or fried, boiled or fried..." she had repeated to herself for what to him seemed like a thousand times. Impatiently, he'd turned to the waitress and suggested "grilled" on her behalf. He knew she would hate that, but he hadn’t expected the tongue-lashing… especially not in front of the waitress.

“It’s not you, it’s me...” she started.