League Day 12, Round 3 – LOW18
Welcome to the final 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.
This round is for the Short story category and would see Hussain Abdulrahim, Jesutofunmi Fekoya, Iteoluwa Adesina, Ahmad Amobi Adedimeji 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.
I pushed away what I’d done from my mind. The more I thought about it, the more emotional I’d feel. And I didn’t want to feel anything. He didn’t deserve my emotion.
I wish I could say I grew up in those typical loving homes, where everything was perfect. But I didn’t. My home was anything but perfect. Dad was an aggressive drunkard. He’d go through the same routine everyday. Wake up late in the afternoon, eat his “breakfast”, grab some cash he didn’t earn and head to the bar. He always returned around midnight. Then he’d bang on the door for mom to open up. From under my covers, I’d pray she wouldn’t. But she always did.
He’d push past her, and head straight to the table. He’d eat his dinner silently, as if gathering enough energy to be mean. Then he’d stand up and start trashing the whole house for reasons I couldn’t understand. He’d turn mom into a punching bag right after. And then collapse on the floor, snoring. That was on a good day. On a bad day, he’d rape her after the beating. Then pass out right after throwing up, leaving her to clean his mess. How I knew? I wasn’t a child anymore. When I was younger, mom always said the noise was all a game. I’m 15 now. I knew better. But I was still a coward. A coward who was afraid to stand up to his dad.
That all changed today. Mom finally listened and summoned the courage to run away. We’ve left already. We had no idea where to, but it didn’t matter as long as we were away from him.
What I didn’t tell my mom, was I’d poisoned the dinner she left for him. I’d weighed my options. There was no reporting to the police. They never did anything. I had to do this on my own, and I was convinced I’d made the right decision. This was a briefed-case. There was no two ways to it. He was guilty. And the only fitting judgement was death.
My brother was an human right activist right from his university days. The humanitarian blood flows in him. He was expelled for two months with false allegation against him that he’s trying to be the soul of cultism on campus. And that doesn’t stop him from telling or writing what was right. There are some lecturers that love what he does and they assured him of sweetful job after his graduation. He knew they were lying because they were all rebels.
That was university days.
Months ago, my brother had an encounter with the commissioner for the state affairs’ son. Koda. He returned from United State of America recently as a graduate of law. He shot a man that blocked his way while driving. He shot the man and nothing happened. Nobody talked about it and the case was briefed. That really infuriated my brother and he wrote an open letter to the commissioner himself. The people, as though they would be behind him, rejoiced and were saying encouraging words. A man said ‘I was waiting for a brave man like you to do something before I start my own’. Beautiful lie. My brother knew they can’t do or say anything. He only wrote it as an activist. Human rights activitist.
A week after my brother wrote the letter, he was killed. Nobody knew how he was killed or when he was killed. His body was sent to the town with a letter. A letter that ought to awake the sleeping souls of people but rather killed them. The had a line that said “He who thinks to try what he did will end up like him”. When this line was read, everybody flung. They all said they have a purpose in this life.
That was how my brother’s life was briefed and nobody talked about it. The agony of his death breaths heavily in me everyday.
THIS WAS HOW YOU DIED
You were a fool. A terrible one. How could you be having an affair with your wife’s bestie? Did you think it would end well? Did you think it would last? That you would go under your wife’s nose without her sniffing the infidelity? And come to think of it; why her bestie in the first place? Why Layla of all women in the world? Did she even love you? Was it not your wealth that attracted her? And to quell her jealousy? Was it not to destroy your home?
Why didn’t you see? Why were you so blinded by lust? Who went to the other? Was it not you who planned night escapades? Booked posh hotels where you continued to fall deeper and deeper into the abyss of condemnation? What was it about Layla that got you hooked, craving and craving and unable to have enough of her? Was it her trademark talcumed face? The way she walked? The way she rolled her eyes whenever she spoke or laughed? Or the way her voice tingled in your ears when you called her on the phone? Or the way she whispered your name, breathing lazily behind your neck, her fingers digging into your strained arms at the height of passion?
Did you think your wife would forgive you when she eventually discovered your betrayal? Did you think that night you knelt and wept that her heart had softened? Were you not a fool to think you deserved her forgiveness? Did you suspect that she would do what she did three months later? What were you thinking when you sat to devour that meal? That it was just another sumptuous meal? That your wife was incapable of hurting a fly? That everything had returned to normal and that smile which overcrowded your wife’s face was genuine? What were you thinking? That forgiving was akin to forgetting? What did you feel when half way into the meal you became dizzy and in your head was an hurricane raging and raging? You were a fool. A terrible one.
Pride goes before a fall were the word on the lips of many whenever they saw Barrister Emmanuel. He was a man who moved about with his shoulders raised high. He acted condescendingly, looking down on people. People thought Lawyers were proud but Barrister Emmanuel’s pride was on another level.
However, that was not how Emmanuel had been. At a young age, everyone had looked down on him. He was considered dull. He failed his classes and even at the age of ten, he couldn’t read or write though he was going to school. Everyone thought he was a failure, even his family treated him like one. Emmanuel decided to change the way they looked at him. He studied, trying to be the best he could be. He did late night readings and listened in class. His determination paid off and he graduated from the University with a first class degree. He got a good job and before long, he became a popular lawyer. Now, it was his turn to look down on others. He was determined to show those who considered him a failure before that he was better than them now.
“Shouldn’t we go over the case again? Brief ourselves?” Shola, his co lawyer asked.
They were handling an important case that involved a dangerous criminal. Emmanuel was on the prosecution side and he was determined to win his case. He had done a lot of research.
“I know what I’m doing,” Barrister Emmanuel said, not bothering to spare Shola a glance. He didn’t need a small lawyer telling him what to do, he thought.
Perhaps, if he had stopped to listen, he would have been saved. Perhaps, he would have had to open his briefcase to look over the files again. Perhaps then, he would have realised his briefcase had been exchanged for another. Perhaps everyone in the court room wouldn’t have died after he opened the briefcase, detonating the bomb in it. But perhaps maybe all these wouldn’t have happened in the first place, if only people believed in him as a child.