"The Madman Who Sits on the Bridge"

The man sat close to the end of the end of the bridge as usual, staring idly at the passing vehicles. His short dreadlocks were matted with dust, grease and any other thing his head came in contact with. His lips were chapped and pale, his face was black with grime and a lone fly danced undisturbed around his bulbous nose. His clothing was a combination of several rags acquired with discovery so that he looked heavy. A light drizzle began and as if on cue, he lay on the concrete mumbling to himself.
His name was unknown, he was simply called “the madman who sits on the bridge” and everyone kept their distance from him. Some mentally ill people are friendly; they entertain the people around them, dancing and singing or teasing them and they are in turn rewarded with food or money. Others chase people of the opposite sex in an awkwardly flirtatious manner. Others are almost imbecilic and morose keeping to themselves, these ones usually suffer physically assault from people who thus express their disgust with them. And then some are hostile, openly attacking anyone who confronts them or approaches them unsolicited. “The madman who sits on the bridge” was in this category, he had been known to attack children and women barging at them with his cane. So people had grown indifferent to him and even now as he lay in the rain they felt no sympathy for him, the demons that plagued him had probably placed an invisible tarpaulin over him for all they knew.

Desperation

The store was almost inconspicuous, but it was popular amongst those who patronized it. It was one of the four pharmacy stores on the road, and as it is with most businesses referral was key to patronage. The store was painted white and had been fitted haphazardly with shelves on which were several bottles and packets of antibiotics, antacids, pain relievers, antimalarial drugs, anti-fungal creams, allergy treatment drugs, birth control pills, sachets of condoms, cough medicines, anti-inflammatory drugs and creams, food supplements, and abortion inducers. A naked bulb hung from the ceiling and an old calendar swayed in the afternoon breeze. A wooden table on which were scattered old newspapers and fliers was placed in the center of the store with a black plastic chair behind it. In a corner near the door were empty bottles of beer.

Chiseled!

The car pulled up and the man and his wife alighted from it. They surveyed their bushy surroundings and walked gingerly to avoid steeping on thorns. From what they could see, the land was precisely what they wanted; a large plane of good soil in a quiet location. Houses had been built all around and the road network showed evidence of good planning. They were going to buy this land, whatever it took.
“So what do you think?” the man asked his wife.
“Nice, very nice. It’s almost as if the surveyor read our minds.” She replied.
“My thoughts exactly! So we’re buying right?” he asked with a smile.
“Oh yes, and quickly too before someone else buys it!” She answered just as they got to the surveyor who was conversing with a fair complexioned elderly man with three horizontally cut tribal marks.
“Good afternoon.” The surveyor said to them.

The Travails of a Lagos Commuter

I hate it when it rains in the morning, even more I hate it when it rains in Lagos. I probably would feel different if I had my own car but presently I’m restricted to the nimbleness of my feet and public transportation. This morning is no different and I climb into the bus grateful to be out of the drizzle. I always prefer the window seat, it is my only recourse against smelly passengers. I check my wallet for change, these bus conductors get aggressive when a passenger has only big denominations. Passengers fill the bus gradually as the rain slowly stops and the bus is surrounded by hawkers of cold drinks, recharge cards, snacks, books, beggars and ‘bus station evangelists’. I check my watch, it’s a quarter past seven and I can already see that there’s a traffic jam ahead. I’m going to be late and there’s nothing I can do about it.

The Blue House S01 E15

Dear reader this is the last episode of the first season of The Blue House. I know that some of the issues raised in this series have reminded some readers of painful life experiences and can I just say that I didn’t mean to cause anyone grief but to curse the darkness is never enough, we must at least light a candle and this is my way of doing that. The date for the beginning of the next season will be communicated as soon as possible.
Enjoy the last episode of this season and don’t forget to share!

“I’ve made a mistake! I should have just done it. How will I face the world, what will I tell Max and Sharon when they’re older? How do I look my boss in the face heavy with his child? Where do I start from? Who will marry me again knowing I cheated on my husband? What if Effiong gets full custody of the children and I never get to see them?” These were some of the thoughts that occupied Olayinka’s mind as she drove back towards her office. Her phone rang, it was Solape.
“Hello?”
“Olayinka, the doctor just called me now to tell me that you ran out of the hospital. Have you lost your mind?”
“S…Solape it’s…”
“It’s what? So you want to totally mess up an already bad situation? What are you going to tell Effiong, ehn? And what about your Mother, how will she take it?”