Chizzy Ndukwe N
I am a 24 year old writer from Abia, Nigeria. I've been writing for a good part of 9 years now. I curate my opinion blog (tukobos.com), run an opinion/news-trends podcast on soundcloud (The Bohemian Dilettante), regularly writes lifestyle articles for Yolar Magazine, short fiction pieces for InspireCrib, and blog tech for Switx Network. I'm kind of an all-rounder. I'm a literary entrepreneur too, founding a non-profit for African writers (Route Africa Writers Orrganization) in 2016, and I coordinate an ongoing writing campaign for African writers (The Ozinta Series) I also have a rather defunct wattpad profile. For fun, I sing, dance (a lot), read books, watch movies, and play the guitar.
Emeka was the only one in his family to remain with his father’s Catholic roots, even though he could not remember when last he stepped foot in a church building. Amara came first for him. Well, she used to, until GSW. His mother’s dogmatic attention to the words ‘bible-believing’ had never availed either of them the chance to really agree together
In the five years Sefullahi worked for Kazeem, he was awarded employee of the year for the last two, and everyone rejoiced with him, including Kazeem’s sons Rukayatu and Raheem, who from day one, accorded him with such venom that Sefullahi eventually decided to stay away from them to avoid being unknowingly done in. Rufiyat, on the other hand, begun with vile towards him, or he thought so, until the day she startled him with a kiss that he immediately reciprocated
Service lasted three hours and every time the Holy prophet raised his voice to shout a declaration of grace, the exact same sensation overwhelmed Amara. Her joy knew no bounds. Her story was changing indeed. At a point, she thought her body could not take it anymore, but she persevered. As benedictions began, the sensation took on a more lengthened stream, and along with it came a fast-rising sexual tension
At the market front, Rufiyat jumped a little when her name was called from a distance. All the way from her son back to the market had been a sluggish drift of aloofness. Emeka, her neighbour trader in onions at the market, who had become something of a second son slash friend to her was the one who called. She touched her face to ensure there weren’t any traces of tears on them. “It’s past three, Rufiyat. You missed our break. Where did you run off to? What did that woman say to you?
A young girl, very easy on the eyes, and fair as the sun, ran, with all her strength, pursued by someone who looked just like her, a much older man, fair too, handsome features – her father, one would very quickly note. She spoke rapid Hausa as she pulled away her hijab from her head layer after layer with all fervour, revealing the softest silkiest darkest hair Ngozi had ever laid eyes on.