Dream wars

I am fighting –

My demons –


I have no reprieve;

Even in sleep

They find me

Hound me

Wound me

With my own thoughts,

No symbolism needed

Nor Freudian neologisms.

When my torment becomes too much

I awake,

To relive

My hell.

Fighting temptations

The bedside clock read 4:30am. It was always at the same time, every day for the last two weeks, the same dream. She was trembling, from restrained emotions, and the sheer force of will it took to stop herself from dwelling on thoughts of him. It was a feat that was impossible. She could see him even in the darkness, lying by her side, exuding warmth and masculinity. She could feel his breath on her neck and his legs intertwined with hers. How could she escape such assault?

Christina groaned aloud and rolled over to the left side of her king sized bed. Her loins were burning, she needed release.

– You know what to do

No! her mind screamed. This was her cross to bear, and she was going to bear it gracefully. She had dedicated her body to the Lord, right from the age of twelve, when she had given her life to Christ while in her SS2. Since then, she had fought hard to resist all forms of temptation from the opposite sex.

She knelt down to pray. Prayer always helped.

“dear lord, please help me to bear this cross like a true soldier of Christ. I have dedicated myself to you and I intend to keep that promise till I get married. Please Lord, give me the strength to overcome”

She began to cry. She was losing the battle. Even as she closed her eyes in prayers, all she saw was his body, covered in sweat, lying on top of her; his eyes, glazed over with desire and longing boring into hers and her eyes looking into his as she savored the sensations assaulting her senses. It was so real, like watching a movie in high definition on a wide screen.

Her throat closed up. She couldn’t pray. She rocked on her heels and sobbed quietly. Her prayer life was in shambles too and she found that whenever she prayed nowadays, the words sounded hollow and she never felt that connection with God like she usually did.

She felt all alone. With each passing day, she could feel her resolve weakening. It was so hard trying to fight the feelings and urges. It left her drained at the end of each day and she hasn’t been able to concentrate much on anything else.

– Why are you fighting this? Wouldn’t it be better to let go? What is so bad about wanting someone? God will understand, after all, He created you, and He put the feelings there?

She was too tired to fight the thoughts, and she allowed them free rein. She had always been afraid that she would never like sex nor enjoy it. If any of these dreams and feelings she was having was anything to go by, she was sure she was going to become a nymphomaniac. Her desires were simply insatiable.

– God will surely have mercy on me. He is a loving Father, and he said that He will always welcome us with open arms whenever we stray and confess our sins.

– Christina, you know yourself. If you should go down this path, open this dam, then you are never going to look back. You will be drowned in your own storm.

– But everybody is doing it. Maybe I was too rash in the vow I made to God. I was just a teenager, and I knew nothing about love and desire. Perhaps God is going to overlook my folly in making such a hasty vow.

Her phone alarm beeped. It was 6:30am. It was time to start preparing for work. She wanted nothing more than to burrow under her bedcovers and ride out the tempest raging in her inner thighs. She clenched her buttocks tightly for a minute and released it, and clenched it again. It wasn’t working.

The alarm snoozed again. 6:40am. She should really hit the showers, she thought. She dreaded going to the bathroom on days like this; having to wash down there and resist the temptation for her fingers to just linger for a bit.

She stood up.

“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit” she mumbled and headed for the bathroom

She knew that the hardest part was having to work closely with him all day, feeling his body heat as they hurdle over the project they were working on, inhaling his scent, and seeing him smile.

– Oh Lord, the smile! She inhaled sharply. God help me!




















The Prisoner in the middle, and more

IMG-20160324-WA000So, Easter has come and gone. It has however left a mark- an anthology of 10 short stories, edited by Kingsley Okechukwu.

The stories are rich, funny, and touching, with a good dose of humor. They are written by authors who are not afraid to write stories based on their faith.

I will be sharing one of the stories here today. It is titled “Unedited Jesus” written by Kingsley Okechukwu, a prolific blogger and story teller. In his characteristic style, Kingsley tells the story of a 13 year old, faced with a dilemma of faith, in a light hearted manner. It is my favorite story in the anthology.



Unedited Jesus


I said a silent prayer before I walked in. He sat behind his desk, his fresh face smartly cut into two intellectual halves by the goggles on the bridge of his nose. His hair was full and spotted with grey patches in the right places, in the right amount. He was writing and frowning at it. My ‘Good morning sir’ relaxed his tightened lips a little but he didn’t look up nor stop writing. I felt a twig of jealousy at the pen which held his attention so much, and pitied it a little, poor pen held like vice in a massive fist.

My form teacher had told me, after the assembly, to go and see the principal during break. I know I hadn’t committed any offence but no one saw the principal for anything trivial, the C-in-C as we called him only dealt with heavy issues and wouldn’t bother with a thirteen years old SS1 girl with sickle cell anaemia, except she had done something wrong. So I waited and hoped.

I didn’t catch anything the teachers taught in the nearly four hours of waiting, and by the time the bell for break was rung my handkerchief was sweat-soaked. So watching him write I half-assumed he was writing the expulsion letter he would flung at me; or he would look up, shake his head and say, ‘No, I didn’t send for you.’ I couldn’t think of anything between these two extremities.

When he looked up, he shocked me with a smile. ‘Please have a seat.’ I sat on one of the twin chairs before his desk. He fished out a paper from a file and lifted it close to his face, like a mirror, and gave an appreciative nod.

‘Did you write this poem -Feathers of the Past yourself?’

‘Yes.’ I didn’t hear myself. ‘This is so excellent! Well crafted, simple and firm.’

I wanted to cry with joy, and to run out of the office before he re-read the poem more closely and see the utter rubbish it was.

Every year, our school organized a poetry competition named after our principal entered by at least eighty students. The three best poems were awarded on the speech and prize giving day, with handshakes, plaques and monetary prizes, and were then published in the Sunday Sun. It was the dream of every student.

I never dreamed of winning. I just wrote a poem about my father, dead when I was three, and whose absence Mom mourned at dire moments in her struggle to raise her five daughters. I submitted because Mr Olu threatened to flog any Press Club member who didn’t enter the competition.

‘…A real beauty. Your poem came first; now, I don’t usually call the winners to discuss their work. We tend to surprise them on the prize day, but there’s a little problem with your poem.’

My heart stopped beating.

‘Nothing we can’t handle.’ He smiled and handed me the poem. The paper shook a little in my hand. ‘In line nine you wrote, “The silent call of Jesus Christ”, right?’ I nodded.

‘You see this poem will be read aloud on the prize giving day then published in the newspaper for a diverse audience who don’t necessarily share your religious sentiment. Why don’t we tweak it a little–?’

‘You mean remove Jesus Christ from my poem?’

‘Yes. You can replace it with “The Lord” or “The Saviour”.’

‘But it won’t be the same thing.’ His eyes narrowed but he kept the smile on his lips, with trained patience.

‘Will that be a problem?’

‘No. But why can’t Jesus remain in the poem?’

The principal laughed a loud hollow laugh of one suppressing a mounting rage. ‘My girl you are young and a little foolish. If you don’t replace that phrase your poem will be disqualified. You will lose the fifty thousand naira prize.’

Fifty thousand naira would transform my mother’s second-hand shoe business. But…

‘Give me the poem. I will make the change myself.’

As he stretched his hand, I stood up and ran out of the office; poor Jesus in my hand, intact.


Hope you enjoyed it? Now go get the free e-book here and read my story.

In the comment section, let me know which story was your favorite, and what you thought of my story.

Thank you.



The morning after – flash

It was a beautiful day in Uroa, a small town in the northwest of the island of Zanzibar, Clara observed, as she opened the curtains letting in the rays of the early morning sun.

She smiled at the recollections of the previous night; the dare by her friends, getting drunk, and dancing with a local. A sound behind her jolted her back from her reverie. She turned towards the sound and froze.

“Jambo” the half-clad man said and smiled.


The drought ends

The eleventh day

Of the eleventh month

Of my eleventh year

At the stroke of eleven

My dam broke

I became a woman.