League Day 12, Round 1 – LOW18
Welcome to the first round of league Day 12.
League Of Wordsmiths is an initiative of Whyke Anthology which began last year. Serving as a means of promoting poetry, story writing…and art as a whole, across Africa, whilst also serving as an aid for young, budding, aspiring…writers in the African diaspora. Continue Reading Here
This round is for the Short story category and would see Samuel Victory, Adeshina Ajala and Adeniran Simisoluwa slugging things out for the prize.
Theme For This Round is: Briefed Case
1) Judges Decision takes 80% of the total decision, while votes recorded from voters takes 20% of the total decision.
2) Under no circumstance should you guess the owner of the individual stories.
3) Voting lasts for 24hours.
4) Only Votes recorded in the comment section of this post remains valid.
5) Vote using “I Vote story 1”, or “I Vote story 2” or “I Vote story 3”…
6) A voter is allowed to vote maximum of 2 stories out of the 4 contesting stories.
7) The contestants are urged to invite friends to vote for them. No rule exempts you from canvassing for votes.
Let The Game Begin!… May the best story win.
A story for my daughter
The wedding picture hung on the wall of our well-furnished living room always bring me the fresh memory of our wedding day. It was IfeDayo ’08, he’s Temidayo and I’m Ifeoluwa. I had thought that the compatibility of our names would automatically guarantee that of the union, but I was wrong. I realised I married the wrong man on our wedding night.
I met Temidayo during my undergraduate days, he was working then. Things happened so fast, and we got married a few months after my service year. The courtship was about 2 years – I thought I knew everything about him, another wrong assumption. He came from a wealthy background, so money was not a challenge. Our wedding was done in a grand style, guests still tell the story. Unfortunately, the marriage itself was dissolved on the wedding day.
I received the first slap on my face from Dayo on our wedding night. There was a little argument on what we would order for dinner – we had lodged in a five star hotel for our honeymoon. He gave me a resounding slap that sent chills down my spine. This was a man that never shouted on me during courtship. He made realize outrightly then that he’s now the husband and he has the final say. He reiterated that I must never question his authority. The remaining part of the one-week honeymoon was spent in tears, as memories of warnings against the marriage flooded my mind. My mother tried talking me out of the relationship, but I was adamant. I thought money answers all things, what a costly assumption!
I have spent five years in his house, and as you can foretell, they’ve been years of pains and regrets. I have two kids for me, while he has several others outside our marriage – ‘my marriage’ should be the best term. I have no option than to keep enduring and praying for a change. Divorce is no option for me. I keep hope alive by training my children. I would surely have a story to tell my daughter.
She leaned against the bars, searched the darkness in the cell with tears in her eyes. You limbed to her and greeted, asked about your wife and son. She remained silent, kept searching your aging, bony frame and grey unkempt beard. She began to whimper. You whispered again, “How’s your mother’s health?” She dabbed her face and pulled a photo from her scarf. Hot tears broke from your eyes. “She’s gone, she’s gone.” You kept saying as you withdrew from the bars to a corner.
“Uncle said mummy died from stroke due to high blood pressure. That your thoughts crushed her, and that she has gone to rest.”
“I guess as much”, you nodded and cried.
She beckoned on your son. He’s 10 today. He craved to see you again, so she brought him.
You stared at his naïve eyes. You wished the bars could melt, so you could hold him close and feel his breath. You met all his unasked questions with rounds of cries. You called his name, bent towards his face. “Son, I don’t know how those wraps strayed into the safe- box of my Taxi.” Your voice now became very solemn. “Son, I’ll be true to you, I know nothing of this.” You weren’t sure he understood, but he started crying as tears flowed from your eyes. You forbade him to no gain. “I’ve always been a taxi driver, not anything close to those wraps. That bleak and black Friday fried me up.”
You assured your kids that they’ll be fine with their uncle. You told them how he tried to salvage your case and how he supports the family in your absence.
Its thirty years since you’ve been here. Your pastor is here to tell you how your brother came to him last evening, to confess how he arranged to get the cocaine into your car and the subsequent arrest. How he bribed the Judge to get you to jail and how he poisoned your depressed wife. How he wanted to have the expansive land your father left to himself alone.
Our ear-to-ear smiles were glued to our faces, our hearts pounding erratically in sync, with joy. It was a rainy Sunday evening and we had just received our first gift. He was swaddled in shawls and blankets, lying still in our arms.
Now we’re sitting in the living room almost a year after, no emotions expressed on my face. My husband’s arm wrapped tightly around me, as though he’s trying to hold me to this world. I pity his resilience. I left this world long ago, in that hospital ward. I had to look for my gift.
Sickle cell anemia, the doctor called it. His eyes held remorse as though it was his fault we had a child with cells shaped like sickles.
Abiku, my grandmother-in-law spat when she heard. Her eyes permanently overflowing with bitterness, did not change this time.
A briefed-case, was what I called it as I searched emptily for my gift that I carried for just nineteen months.