Why didn’t You do It?

Stacy didn’t even remember to complain about her neighbors’ haphazard tossing of their dirty laundry so near the entrance to her flat.

She forgot to look away as she saw a little boy excreting into a black plastic bag, which no doubt, would later be tossed on top of the landfill accumulating steadily at one end of the street, making a bad smell worse.

She didn’t even bother to caution the young(ish) mother who watched idly by as her naked toddler sons and daughter played on the rocky ground. Her brother was home. Nothing else mattered.

Upon coming into the house, she checked to see that the food had been eaten sparingly. That was good, he still had some consideration for others. He needn’t have bothered, but it was good that he did.

Peeping into the other, unoccupied room in her self-contained, she let a shriek burst forth, starling him out of his music induced trance. Nwike looked lovingly at his big sister. Orphaned from a young age, he’d been under her ten-year older care for 9 years. She’d turned down at least two marriage proposals because the intendeds’ had refused to take him into their houses. She’d loved him, struggled to take care of him and when he’d decided to a medical doctor, she’d sold their parents’ house, which she’d been sole owner of, to finance it. He owed her a debt he could probably not repay.

After a second dinner, he responded to the eagerness that tensed up her body and related stories from the ward. He told her humorous stories; of the woman whose husband fainted when she delivered triplets, sad stories: of the patients who died, of patients with failing kidneys whose relatives could not afford dialysis and finally, because it had been weighing on his mind, he told her the story of the time a doctor misdiagnosed a patient who eventually died. He told her that he’d studied ahead and was completely certain that the patient had been misdiagnosed. He kept up a steady stream of chatter, trying not to notice the hurt, contemplative look on his sister’s face.

Stacy rose up a very short while later, abruptly ending the conversation. She would talk to her brother normally the next day. But right then, she needed space from him to forgive him the blood dripping down his fingers.


It has been a while since I wrote a fiction post. This is a stand alone, don’t go asking for sequels. There are none.

But I do want to know, what would motivate someone who knew a superior was wrong on a matter which could cause a fatal accident not to persuade the patient to seek a second opinion or at least take it up privately with the person in question? Do you know what could be the motivation? I’ll love to read your comments.




  • Storm and Silence- Rob Thier. This book made me laugh so incredibly much, I thought about doing an Instagram post on it. The beginning sentences seem awkward and not very interesting but keep on until the third paragraph. The laughter will come. I promise.


  • Playing by the Rules- Brandon Wong. A full course meal.  I really like this book. I’ve read it 3 times so far.

Have a Happy Saturday/Sunday/Weekday you guys!



My best friend’s Dad- And now, Ebube

Hi all! I’m sure this post is a surprise. I’ve been considering starting a new series but Ebube wouldn’t leave me alone. She wants her story told. And so, here she is.

The air in the house is scented and perfumed, the smell of vanilla and chocolate working its way up my nose. Due, of all things to scented candles. My mom hates candles! But she sits now, directly in front of one, holding hands and exchanging naughty looks with Mr. Aghoture. He told me to call him Frank but it sounds really weird to me. As does calling him Pabby. So when I refer to or talk to him, I refrain from using his name.
For some reason, I feel irrational today. I’ve chosen to blame it on the candles.
Next to my mom and her husband, sit Bunmi and Patrick. Another candle; peach- scented this time, flickers before them. They are engrossed in silent conversation. I can hear snippets of it if I concentrate and imagine.
Her: “I love your eyes in candlelight”
Him: “Your hair smells like mangoes and oranges”. I want to scream; ” it’s MY shampoo!” But I don’t scream. I roll my eyes instead.
To my left, not illuminated by any lighting at all, Amara and her husband are feverishly making out. She told me once that they don’t want to have children immediately. I once planned to stay with them for a couple of months but they would not stop with the touching. It was kissing each other like they were sucking oranges, touching each other in places it’s indecent to refer to. Every time they were together, the passion was tangible. I had to cut my visit short. I expect that any day, Amara will announce that she has gotten pregnant.
The most incongruous guest at this little get together, is my father. When my mom married Frank, she gave my father the property we used to live in. I haven’t plucked up the courage to ask her what she’s repaying him for. Her 3 daughters? Being an above average husband for 11 years?

He lives there now and I live with him. Every two weeks, his son, my half brother comes over to spend the weekend. I hadn’t been around him much but I quickly discovered that the way to his heart was his video games. So I stocked up on them and learned how to play each of them. Whenever he comes over now, he comes to my room first and we play a death round of Mortal Kombat. After the first round, which I almost inevitably win, we relax and start another round, leisurely this time and he fills me in on school and his home life. Then we go to the kitchen and I cook for him or he cooks for me or we both cook for Daddy. Bunmi lives with Amara and my mom. She has rooms in both their houses. My mom and Pabby live within a walking distance from her office but on the weekends, she likes to visit her fiancé and go for premarital counseling. Her fiancé lives next door to Amara.
However, every once in a while, she stays at my mom’s on the weekends or she comes to visit with dad. Whenever she does so, I search her face for hints of problems. She seems happy. Really, truly happy.
My dad stands up and in the dim lighting, he hits his leg on the table and lets out a loud yelp. Soon we’re all laughing at him. The overhead lighting is switched on and I breathe a sigh of relief. It does not last.
With brighter illumination, Amara who has become a serious jokester begins to tease me. Bunmi joins in and finally my mom stops them. Then she asks why I did not bring a date. I smiled and replied that I did bring a date; dad. There is utter silence for a moment. I see my mom and Pabby exchange stricken looks and I wonder what that’s all about. Soon I notice that everyone is done with their food. So I pack all the plates and go into the kitchen to do the dishes and escape from the atmosphere of romance that for some reason, saddens me and makes me long for something I cannot articulate.

Six Months Later


It is November, Christmas decorations are already up. I’ve been invited for 2 job interviews and they’re both in the same area. I’m done with the first and I suspect I’ll be given the position but my stomach is roiling as I wait for the elevator that will take me to the office where the 2nd interview is supposed to take place. This is the job that interests me. The job description suggests that it would be more work for me but I’d love to be a part of it. The opportunities are extremely attractive; I’d get to create jobs for other people, head the CSR operations of the company and even more importantly, at the interview stage, I noticed six other people like myself. They were definitely in my age group and they seemed friendly. If I got the other job, I’d work with people older than my dad. If I get this one, I’d have colleagues my own age. I’d left so many friends behind and I hadn’t had many chances to reconnect with the two close friends I left here. My dad has been dropping subtle hints that I need to go out more. And I finally realize that he was right. I’d love to make new friends. So as I entered the elevator, I closed my eyes and begged God to give me this job. When I opened them, the elevator was stopping at the 2nd floor to pick up more passengers. I shut my eyes again and repeated as in a litany, “Please Lord, you know what I need. Please let me dazzle them. Let them hire me”
When I opened my eyes, there was only one passenger left. I was about to close my eyes again when she bent down to adjust her shoelaces that had come loose. For a minute, I thought she was Bunmi, then I saw her face. I’d met her before, at the reception for Bunmi’s mom. Ebube. The same powerful thud was in my heart, the same breathlessness. However, before I could approach and alert her to my presence and hopefully remember to take her number this time, the elevator opened and she stepped out. I noticed that it stopped on the 22nd floor and I noticed that she stopped at an office with Rock Pension Managers emblazoned.
I started praying again, I had another reason to want to work here now.
Scene 2 will be up tomorrow.

My article recommendation for today is:
http://lifeinpagessite.wordpress.com/2016/02/16/i-didnt-mean-to-they-told-me-to-do-it/. It’s long but I like it. Hope you do too.

Until the last episode, I’ll be bringing a charity to your attention. You are not obliged to do anything, or donate anything. I’d appreciate you sharing and praying. But you’re not obliged. Today, it’s a girl (Dolapo Jasmine Igboin), a year away from becoming a medical doctor when she faced a loss of funding. The goal has been met but I guess with arrears in school fees and all it entails, there’s still a need for more donations. Just go to this link: http://www.gofundme.com/mun4wm78?utm_source=internal&utm_medium=email&utm_content=cta_button&utm_campaign=upd_n.


Cecilia and Deji

There is something about love, something that causes the most seasoned, intelligent individuals to behave like fools. In Cecilia’s case, it caused her to behave like a moron. The object/ subject of her pertinacious and almost crazed affections was a man- boy known as Deji.
Deji was an unreasonable, senseless joker of a person. Fools are generally to be tolerated for only a short while before they fall out of favour with those who could possibly intervene in their foolishness, stopping it before it degenerates into mental disability. But for Deji, Cecilia was not only his wife, she was also his enabler and after 3 years together, she’d enabled him into various addictions, the latest of which was a crazed fascination with prescription medication. Other notable addictions included; antiretroviral drugs (which were not even needed), glass shards (which explained Cecilia’s dress sense), and a fascination with toilets.
After 3 years, their lives settled into a routine. Cecilia went to work. Cecilia came back from work. Cecilia washed Deji’s clothes and cooked his food. Cecilia fell into a fitful sleep. Cecilia was woken up, almost inevitably, at 3:55am, by a manic Deji seeking more drugs. Cecilia found him his drugs, and then went to bed again. Rinse and repeat.
All this came to a climax on a very clear December morning. The harmattan had hit hard and everything, before considered reasonably neat was now coated with an extra layer of dust. Cecilia wearily lowered herself on to the toilet, sticking her toothpaste covered toothbrush in her mouth in unconcerned anticipation of brushing. Someone came into the bathroom. She did not even bother looking up. She heard a zipper being lowered and then she looked up, startled, just in time for the blast of urine to sail directly onto her face and stream into her mouth, clearing all remaining illusions she’d entertained about their relationship.

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