Three writers – Fareeda Abdulkareem, Ayotemide Akin-Onitolo and Osaretin Tunde-oni – were evicted from the competition after the first week on our Eviction Show. The entries for Week 2 of The Writer Competition are up. The theme is Political Drama. Below are excerpts of all the 9 stories and you can read them all from…
Three writers – Fareeda Abdulkareem, Ayotemide Akin-Onitolo and Osaretin Tunde-oni – were evicted from the competition after the first week on our Eviction Show.
The entries for Week 2 of The Writer Competition are up. The theme is Political Drama. Below are excerpts of all the 9 stories and you can read them all from HERE.
His security detail did a brief check of the room. However, they did not find the microphone hidden under the table. She hoped Gregory was switching it on from the control room now.
When they were seated, he placed clasped hands on the table.
“What do you want?”
“For your silence, what’s your price?”
“With all due respect sir, I am doing my job, reporting the truth. The only reward I want is delivering justice to the people.”
She shrunk under his malignant look. He addressed his Head of Security though his eyes never left hers. “Leave the room.”
The man frowned. “Sir, if I may advise against-“
Before Pamela’s next blink the men were gone. Pamela felt a chill despite the warm temperature.
“Get in, go, go!” I scream, as the water climbs and climbs and strikes down Ikoyi’s towers, floats danfos. I point to the door of–is that the ark? It somehow has propellers too, and is getting ready to take off.
Noah stops her at the door. “Only space for one.”
She thrusts the carrier into his nose. “Take her! Take my baby!”
“Weli, what’re you doing? You must get in!”
“Only space for one,” Noah repeats in a robot-like manner.
Weli dumps the carrier in his hands and steps back. The water comes at us fast and sure, just as Noah gets in the–arklicopter?–and shuts the door.
(Politics Is Drama)
The two men were like bread and butter, singular and plural – two things that went together.
But, he was finding it difficult today to understand the fast–paced words escaping Ibrahim’s lips as he jiggled a magazine with a shiny cover up and down. “Honourable Chief, perhaps you could explain this to the House?”
Oduola first stared blankly at the magazine that meant nothing to him then slowly, slowly, his brain registered that splattered across the glossy cover was his own grim, unsmiling face and written above, in white block letters were the words – THE NEW FACE OF DECEPTION: CHIEF OF PARLIAMENT LIES TO THE NATION.
I brought out the hot water flask and the tea set and made him tea like I had done several times before. “I heard they offered you the vice presidency if you dissociate yourself from me,” he asked searching my face.
“I would never do that father,” I handed him the tea and he sipped it. “Betraying you would make me appear evil”. “So you will talk to your father in law?“ he asked. “I can’t do that either, I think I want to be the first female vice president of Nigeria,” he looked at me closely, the wide grin becoming a small frown.
”There are two choices here, and between you and I you know the one to pick”. “There’s a third choice father,”. “What third choice?”
Her name was Mildred. Mildred Ekeh whose mother was Lebanese. And because of her, I stood up to be class prefect, even though I saw Richard, the class bully, standing up too, and I did not sit back down. Then Sister Beatrice wrote both our names down and told our classmates that in six days, they would choose their prefect.
It was easy for Richard- he was a Big Boy and he was the biggest boy in the class. All he had to do, was buy hair clips for the girls and tell the boys that he would beat them up if they did not choose him.
By the time break ended on the first day, Richard had won the hearts of all the pupils in Class 3B. He came to me after school to tell me this.
“Everybody likes me, and I can break you with one hand” he said
“Just give up.”
But I had five more days to make them like me more than him.
It was at this point that Atakata, coming from his village, Mmịmị, was using a path near Mmirichiha and had to halt like a hunter does on sighting a leopard. He craned his neck and stretched his ear, and being the great medicine man that he was, he went the way of the noise without fear. When he arrived at the river, the skin around his eyes folded in awe. Children had taken on children. Boys had taken on boys. Girls had taken on girls. In the middle of these were Nwanyịdiya and Udumma, and he made straight for them. When he asked what the problem was and saw that his own voice was eaten up by the noise, he drew his voice deeper so that it clapped like thunder as he asked for silence. Mmirichiha itself fell silent.
Atakata reprimanded them on how such an assembly would disregard the sanctity of the river side and choose to raise a market in its centre. “What is the problem?” he asked.
A portly man stood up, readjusted his hat and spoke; “Mr President Sir, I suggest we pacify the people by offering a televised condolence because the media – international and local – is sympathetic towards them and supports the actions they took.”
“Is that so? Look at me, who am I?”
“You are the president of Nigeria, Sir”
“Alhamdulillah. Exactly! So don’t start telling me how to run my country, gagane kwo?”
“I am sorry, Mr President Sir.”
(Pol 101: The Science Of Treachery)
Senator Hanson Okoye returned his attention to the man opposite him. “You dared to insult me, Obinna? Me?”
“And why not?” Senator Obinna Ikeogu snarled. “Are you God? You can do nothing! Nothing!”
The last word was expelled so vehemently that it was escorted by drops of spittle which fell on the other man’s face. The man flinched as the wet flecks touched his skin, eyes growing round in shock.
“You dare to spit on me, Obinna? Are you mad?!”
Without waiting for a response, the enraged man charged headfirst. The ground seemed to shake as the two political behemoths plunged to the floor in a flurry of perfumed lace and meaty punches.
“Madam, please step back,” he said, gesturing with his hand, trying to sound stern and not as tired as he truly felt from policing this crazy place.
Unfazed, the tiny woman pressed on, “was Chairman Bai killed? Who is going to replace him?”
The second question stopped Inspector Sina in his tracks, taking away whatever comfort he had felt moments before. He hadn’t thought about it, the real implications of this death.
Dogoro Bai was dead, and this meant an election.
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