Rayo turned again in her bed and pulled the Ankara bed cover over her legs just in time. She had just prevented a day-old mosquito from landing on her ankle with its proboscis. She closed her eyes and tried to resume her sleep. But something was just not right and she kept on closing and opening her eyes, desperate for sleep.
Category: Short stories Page 1 of 2
My Daddy Longlegs resulted from careful journaling and awareness of what was happening within and without. I gave a lot of deep sighs trying to write this review. In my head, impulses of “I have a lot to write on this” kept shooting like stars, and I knew that a dense mass of something in my chest needed to unwind. I have a lot to say, but each point looks irrelevant, and I can’t articulate it yet.
This story is not about mosquitoes and their blood-sucking colleagues. It’s neither about demons. It is about humans and their emotions. It is metaphoric, like some of the parables Jesus told.
Humans will always act as humans, whether in the church, mosque or some other secular places. In a world which is our temporary home, we have to keep getting transformed because of our human nature.
It is understandable now that we are in women’s history month to talk about a woke subject–feminism.
It was scary and somewhat brave to broach this topic, as it is a sensitive one that is more often than not spoken about among church ladies. It’s not for a lack of them not being aware of these things, but it’s more of being selectively mute about it in church. Yeah, the Church is not a circus where everyone speaks of whatever comes to their minds and makes it a rowdy place. But then, these issues are being discussed everywhere else.
The story started with a simulation of what people call capital tongues from the prayer cord. Yeah, just like the stereotypes, he is a guy. And from the concave lenses of Sayo, the story continues. We see a beautifully dressed female chorister take the microphone to lead the worship. Only later did we know the gravity of that action of merely taking the microphone. The prayer cord had set the congregation on fire using the same microphone, and it was to be used to project the wership of Jeezes, according to Mumcy Precious, the female chorister.
I’m living my best life.
Freshly squeezed bitterleaf juice in one hand, thoughts of recent events in my head, and the soft melody of soothing voices from my radio kept me snuggled in the corner of my bed. I watched the rays of light that I hoped would touch my yellowing philodendron bounce off and on the multicoloured rechargeable torch on the window instead.
Church Chronicles is currently on its 7th lap. That means we have seven whopping stories with “Church Chronicles” as its umbrella.
But right now, we’re taking a short pause to reflect. It’s just right to say we’re on Sabbath.
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After then, we can see if we can continue with the Church Chronicles series.
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“Calm down now. Your phone selfie camera is on. Look into it and act like you’re enjoying the drip. Drip drip,” Eucharia said to herself, batting her eyelashes at the camera. Ifeanu rolled her eyes as both walked down the road to Chapel.
“Drip ko. In this land of UI. Two weeks of school stress and such vanity is gone,” She thought.
The eye is the lamp of the body: when your eye is clear, your whole body also is full of light…
“What do you see?” Grandma Agbaje pointed at the small window to her right and returned her gaze to those of us in her teenage Sunday school class. Our gazes moved to the window, and some of us stood on our toes.
“A window with silver aluminium sill,”
It was a weird conversation with a stranger down the winding staircase. It felt good. Sunday arrived early and in sync with the soft instrumental escaping from the second floor. It preluded the start of service.
Sunday was Sabbath. It was a special day of rest when people poured out the streets in their Sunday best. Aso ebi from a cousin’s wedding. The three-piece suit from last Christmas. Agbada from best man duties the previous month. Shoes that were a gift from a friend on her birthday.