short story

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Deji stared at his phone, respect and hints of envy shining in his eyes. He was staring at a Facebook post made by one of his university coursemates. “125 reactions in 30 minutes,” he muttered. When he and the coursemate were in the university they both planned to write – novels, poems, short stories, everything else. Deji was a mentor of sorts to the coursemate, who was two years younger. Four years after graduation, Deji was unemployed. He had written poems, stories and so on, and everything he wrote, he shared online and sent out to literary magazines. They always rejected his applications, the replies to his mails always including “We regret to inform you…”. Online, he would post a story he thought was amazing, and he would get two likes, three. Meanwhile, that his coursemate who had looked at him with childish awe in the university and gushed over any…

Leaving

The day Dad left, I was in school. There was a quiz competition and I was representing my school. I was in Primary 5. Buses belonging to the competing schools were parked in the school car park, emblazoned with names like Apex Comprehensive School, Fountain of Knowledge Comprehensive Nursery and Primary School, Excellence Nursery and Primary School… names like that. At the final stage, it was me and one other child. I can no longer remember if it was a girl or boy. I just know that the child had on huge glasses and looked like a genius. We had gone ten rounds, and facts and trivia I had learned for the quiz was almost exhausted. I was almost shivering in trepidation. Not this child though. This child still had a confident, almost smug grin on its face. Until the child got a question wrong. The grin was replaced with…

IN THE END, EVERYONE GETS ON WITH THEIR LIVES

Sally, here!I’m introducing Precious Oluwatobi Emmanuel, who would be contributing occasionally here. Here’s his first short piece. Please, leave some feedback in the comment section. Thank you! The four girls at the back of the taxi are in a swell mood. They laugh and joke, and talk about the Valentine’s party they are just returning from. The taxi driver is silent, his mouth set in a tight line. His eyes occasionally flit disapprovingly to the girls in the rear view mirror. He will gossip to his wife when he returns home of four young girls he picked up who had on too much make-up and were returning from a party looking wasted and talking about boys, and he and his wife will shake their heads and cluck and tsk-tsk self-righteously at ‘shidren of nowadays’, mouths curled downwards judgementally. The taxi’s speed reduces from its brisk cruise to a slow glide.…

Couch Potato

On a sad note, there will be no Novocaine Knights for now. I am taking a break to work on so many projects. Emphasis on so many; I need my mind and time uncluttered. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone for but Fish Brain Vows continues because it’s already been written down. So, this is one of my short stories. I didn’t know what to call it. I chose Couch Potato in the end. It is a heartfelt love letter from a she to a he. Enjoy Dear Friday, Yes, i can call you Friday because i have lost respect for you. I will call you by your name and there’ll be nothing you’ll do to me because i will be dead by the time you’re reading this, burnt to ashes at the backyard. And you will cry, Friday. Yes you’ll cry like the useless baby…

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