Something might seem to be a weed in your field or a weed in your life….when you look closer and really have a chance to study on it…you may just find that “weed” serves a purpose you had never thought of.

The Chicken Grandma

IMG_5368

It has been a little wet around here lately. The old saying, “When it rains…it pours” is pretty true in this part of the country lately. After waiting…for what seemed like a long time and wishing for rain…it now seems easy to come by.

I wandered around the other morning with my camera in hand as I couldn’t get in my garden (due to rain) and I couldn’t mow (also due to rain). It seemed a logical choice to go and see if I could capture some of the beauty left by the rain.

IMG_5370

It was fun to try get a photo of the raindrops  dripping from the flowers and leaves.

To be very honest it was also a great opportunity for a blog post as the idea well seems a bit drier than the weather for this Chicken Grandma!

Later that afternoon my husband called for me to join him behind the…

View original post 262 more words

Advertisements
Uncategorized

Thistles and Rain

Gallery
Fiction, Uncategorized

Don Giulio

IMG_20160103_115938

Don Giulio’s favourite

 

Tell my son’ said the body lying on the bed. The words spilled out with all the force she could muster ‘tell my son if you can, that I have cancer. That I will like to know how he is before I die’

Don Giulio stepped out of the clinic gate, a new responsibility on his shoulders. He was the chaplain of a prison in the south of Italy; a prison that housed many members of the Italian mafia. Including a boy, a young man of twenty – three. Of him, Don Giulio knew only two facts. That he was like the other mafias whose goal was power and only power; And, that he had a mother who was on her deathbed in Rome.

‘Things will sort themselves out’ he mused to himself, his over-rational self as he liked to call it. How best to communicate the message to the boy was his worry. ‘Tell my son…’ the dying woman had said. ‘Dear Holy Spirit of God’ Don Giulio prayed ‘may this son listen!’

 

The boy was weeping inside his whitewashed cell. ‘I have no mother’ he had screamed, banging the door in Don Giulio’s face. Yet, he was weeping. Don Giulio remained standing outside, listening to it. It was saying for the umpteenth time that the thread that connects man to the Good has not and will never be lost, whatever happens.

Footsteps. Sounds not of weeping. A prison warden with his keys dangling from his hips. Don Giulio beckoned to him and pointed to the door screen.

Now Don Giulio could see him. The boy without a mother was still crying.

‘You do have a mother’ Don Giulio maintained ‘How fortunate you are! Without her, you will not be a man’.

‘Yes, a man’ he said, as the young man’s bowed head jerked up and back down again. ‘You won’t be a man and much less, a mafia’.

And he stepped out of this other door, one less responsibility off his broad shoulders.

‘Now let the young man cry’ it said to him. There will be time for conversation later.

Standard
Uncategorized

JAVA’S NEWS VERSION

IMG-20151025-WA0003

Emeka Okoro Jnr

All this commotion about Miss Universe. Miss Galaxy nko? The furor didn’t start today, nor will it end tomorrow. Zaire won’t stop being Zaire nor will her twin sister change her name to Pia.

Haba, why are you wearing that face? Ah, you haven’t met Zaire. She is my friend o jare from the very Philippines itself. While she was still yawning and stretching, and all the other things that the dear dear unborn babies do, in her mother’s womb, they decided to name the children. Shildren! Forgive me jo. I didn’t add that she was not alone like Jonah in the belly of the fish. Zaire was also fighting with her twin in the belly of her mama. Have I lost you? Not yet.

Okay, Zaire and Ziria. So there was ‘Miss Universe’ going on also during that time. Zaire is my friend not my grandmother, eh. So yes, there was Miss Universe going on before she was born. I don’t know if the presenters made errors as they did in 2015 or if the second runner up had to give up her beautiful crown. But let’s stick to what I know.

Miss Zaire was very promising in this edition before the birth of my friend Zaire. So promising that Zaire’s aunt decided to have a long lasting keepsake of her. A proposal to the young mother. A ‘Yes, I like the idea, the name’ and gbam! – the deed is done o. What about the twin sister? Very easy na. The name dictionaries are still in print. They come up with another Z-name. Ziria.

So deafor, I have a friend called Zaire and one day, I hope to meet Ziria.

And speaking of mothers and babies, one mama named Mary, wife of Joseph of the tribe of David, is going to put to bed soon. And they have a name for the expected baby boy. Jesus! You weren’t expecting ‘Pia’ or ‘Ariadna’, were you? Jesus! You won’t believe how the name came about. From the Divine Courts itself. They are going to name him Jesus as they do in my country. They give the pikins dem names with a mission.

Jesus! Which means ‘saviour’. He is born, we will celebrate his birth, for our salvation. Yes. You heard me right. My salvation and yours also. Guess what, I already have his friendship booked. You who are indeed wiser and better than me, won’t you do the same?

Happy Christmas!!!

Standard
Uncategorized

His name is Emma

Nijava's blog

I was terribly excited. Today I have an appointment with Him. He is madly in love with me. Sure, I had played hard to get. Finally, I have said yes to the date. It’s at 6pm. There, He has promised a display of love of the highest order.

Excitement or not, the day has been tiring. I feel deadbeat. Coupled with the toll of expectation, I find myself beside the bed. Next thing, I am on the bed, answering its call. The alarm is set for 5.30pm. I lie down fully clothed. Just a touch of makeup here and there when I get up and all will be well.

I can’t tell how long I have been in that position. A tiny sharp pain travels faster than lightning from my thigh to my brain. I am forced to sit up. I search for the errant insect that has stung me…

View original post 580 more words

Standard
Uncategorized

Indebted

She was her second; the third child to leave the house.

‘what does it matter if the fare is 70 0r 80NGN?’ her mum asked

It was as if she found solace, as if she hid in the tiny things. Along the road as they walked to the bus park, she had recounted stories from secondary school. Stories of borrowing money to classmates and not getting it back. Because she couldn’t ask them.

‘Now I’m wiser and I’ll ask my debtor mad’

She settled into the worn out seat of the 80NGN bus, her bags on her lap.

There was only one debtor now. Only one request too

‘Mama, please don ‘t cry!’

Standard