Archive for the ‘Short Stories’ Category

Today, I called a mature man an ignorant bastard. A man old enough to father me. What a shame, to be that old and still be an ignorant bastard. But that happens somewhere near the end of the story…

via Learner’s Permit- by Nkem Awachie.

Click to read the full story 🙂

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Golden Morn

Scene 1: In a ‘supermarket’ in Nsukka.

Me: Please, do you have Golden Morn?

Girl: (walks round shop and returns) No, we don’t have it.

Scene 2: Another shop.

Me: Good morning, do you have Golden Morn?

Man: What?

Me: Golden Morn.

Man: Golden Malt?

Me: Golden Morn!

Man: Golden Money?

Me: Never mind.

Scene 3: Yet another shop.

Me: I’m looking for Golden Morn.

Girl2: Eh?

Me: Golden Morn.

Girl2: (gets up and looks at shelves, returns.) Is that a kind of perfume or what? What is that thing?

Me: It’s a kind of cereal.

Girl2: (confused look).

Me: It’s somehow like cornflakes.

Girl2: Oh. We don’t have.

Scene 4: One last shop.

Me: Good morning, do you know Golden Morn?

Man2: What?

Me: Golden Morn!

Man2: No.

Me: (thinking) Maybe I should just eat Igbangwu.


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I shouldn’t have come here today. Eden- God’s Backyard. It’s scrawled in charcoal across the wall of the …

via God’s Backyard- By Nkem Awachie.

Click on the link to read this story.

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Scene: A lecture hall with big slide windows on both sides. Vacant seats at the back. In front, students are seated, clad in formal, black and white attire. Over the sound of muted conversation, music wails from a mobile phone. Lecturer appears at a window. Music stops. Lecturer enters.

Lecturer: Whose phone was playing music before I came in?

A male student raises hand.

Student 1: It was I, sir.

Lecturer: Walk out! Go and find the music department. This is the Faculty of Law.

Student 1 leaves.

A female student sneezes.

Lecturer: Why did you sneeze? Are you a he-goat?

Student 2: No, sir.

Lecturer: Do have a handkerchief with you?

Student 2: Yes, sir.

Lecturer: Use it, then. Stop spreading your disease to the rest of the class.

Student 2 searches handbag, brings out nothing, closes bag.

Lecturer: Where is your handkerchief?

Student 2: I don’t have one, sir.

Lecturer: Walk out!

Student 2: Huh?

Lecturer: I do not tolerate liars in my class.

Student 2: Sir, I am not a liar.

Lecturer: Why did you tell me you have a handkerchief when you have none?

Student 2: Sir, I do have a handkerchief. I only just realized that I did not bring it to class.

A male student shuts a window.

Lecturer: Why did you shut the window?

Student 3: The sun’s rays bother me, sir.

Lecturer: Is that enough reason for you to shut off the entire class’ supply of oxygen? Are you butter? Will you melt in the sun? Look at you. If there’s money under the sun, you’ll go pick it. Get back to your seat and stop disturbing my class. If you walk about like this in court, you’ll be imprisoned for three months.

Another male student enters.

Lecturer: What? What an insult! How dare you walk into my class without waiting for my permission?

Student 4: But I bowed at the door, sir, just like you told me to.

Lecturer: You bowed. That means you requested permission to enter. That does not mean that I granted you permission. And when did I tell you to bow? Have I seen you before?

Student 4: Yes, sir. I was late to your last lecture.

Lecturer: You! You’ve been late to all my lectures! Come here.

Lecturer ushers Student 4 to a front row seat.

Lecturer: Are you alright?

Student 4: Yes, sir.

Lecturer: Are you very sure?

Student 4: I’m sure sir.

Lecturer: Do you come from off-campus?

Student 4: No, sir, I stay in the hostel.

Lecturer: Are you going through any serious crisis?

Student 4: No, sir.

Lecturer: Do you eat? Do you sleep?

Student 4: Yes, sir.

Lecturer: Then, you must be a slug. Walk out!

Student 4: Sir?

Lecturer: You have absolutely no reason to come late to class, but you do. You are lazy and sluggish. I do not tolerate lazy and sluggish students in my class. Walk out!

Student 4 leaves. Lecturer faces the class. He squints at a female student.

Lecturer: Do I know you?

Student 5: You are my lecturer, sir.

Lecturer: Not that. I’ve seen you outside this school environment. Wait, let me think… Shoprite!

Student 5: Yes, sir.

Lecturer: How many times have I seen you there?

Student 5: Three times, sir.

Lecturer: Do you work there?

Student 5: No, sir.

Lecturer: Then what do you go there to do? Are you a shopaholic?


Lecturer: Have you bought the recommended textbook for this course?

Student 5: No, sir.

Lecturer: Walk out! Go and shop for your textbooks.

Lecturer notices another female student.

Lecturer: Why do you have that big ring on your finger? Are you married?

Student 6: No, sir.

Lecturer: Engaged to be married?

Student 6: No, sir.

Lecturer: Is it an attempt to discourage young men from running after you, by giving them the impression that you’re already taken?

Student 6: No, sir.

Lecturer: Are you taken? Do you have a boyfriend?

Student 6: No, sir.

Lecturer: Then, take off that flamboyant piece of jewelry and stop distracting my class!

Student 6: Yes, sir.

Lecturer: Now, for today’s Lecture…



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I’m standing in the rain. It soaks my tank top and jeans and sneakers. It soaks my weave, my bones. I’m standing with my face turned upward, wanting more. I want the rain to fall faster, harder. I want it to hit me like stones, to wash against me like the waves of a tsunami. No, I want the rain to wash me away, take me where the water goes. I pull off my top. I want the rain to beat my chest, to soak my heart. I want it to fall on my heart. How else can I stop it from bleeding? The rain beats me, the sky is bleeding. Nature weeps with me. I let the tears soak me. I scream. It comes out as a gurgle. The rain water chokes me. I take off my shoes, my socks. They’re too heavy. There is only so much I can carry. I feel the mud with my toes. My feet sink in. My heart bleeds still. The rain beats me. I can’t see the sky. I can’t feel my tears. The cold makes my fingers numb. I can’t feel. I lie in the mud. The rain will beat me till my heart stops bleeding.

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BN Prose: Rita’s Curve by Nkem Awachie | Bella Naija.

Follow this link to read my short story on Bella Naija.

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This story of mine was published as part of a series of short stories on campus life, in anticipation of Eghosa Imasuen’s book, ‘Fine Boys’.

Farafina Books

We got locked out of the hostel again today. It wasn’t our fault, me and Chizzy. We were hungry, we had to come down to get something to eat. We would have come down earlier, but neither of us wanted to be the one to walk down six flights of stairs for a plate of mishai. We tried balloting; Chizzy was the loser but she refused to come down because she fetched the water we washed with this morning. I refused to come down because I was the one paying for the food. She had to contribute in kind. It was already past 9:00pm when our singing tummies dragged us down the stairs.

The front of our hostel was not as crowded as usual because the Business students were on vacation and the Law students were preparing for their examinations. I missed the surge of life that the crowds exuded—loud…

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Linguistic Playfulness is a blog run by the participants in Farafina Trust Creative Writing Workshop 2011. You’ll find a lot of amazing stories there. Here is one of mine.

Linguistic Playfulness

Probably, in your first relationship, you’ll be idealistic, fresh from secondary school, a virgin, and determined to remain one till you wed. Unfortunately, your first love keeps asking for a bite of the golden fruit. You stick to your hymen, sure that in time he’ll realise what a rare gem you are, pop the question, sweep you to marital bliss and cherish you till death. He won’t. After a calculated period of begging, he’ll write you off as impossible and dump you for the closest piece of ass available.
You’ll be heartbroken, but confident that the next man will be smart enough to see what a treasure you are. After two more eligible bachelors have come and gone, you’ll think to yourself,
‘Ah! Heck! What’s life without a little compromise?’

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Linguistic Playfulness

When I was born, my mother sought to give me a name that represented something beautiful and unique. She named me Poppy. She shouldn’t have. As a result of her creativity, I’ve had to endure such jibes as ‘Poppy, who’s your pop?’ ‘He must be a stray dog.’

Sometimes I want to wear a sign on myself that says, ‘My name is Poppy, not puppy.’ Maybe I should have done that in primary school. It may have stopped other pupils from pouring their leftover lunches on my desk. One of my friends suggested that I switch to my Igbo name instead, but that’s even worse. Nwabuife, child is something. What kind of person names their child that? I can’t even shorten it to look cute- Nwabu, Buife, BuBu. When I asked my Mom why she gave me the name, she said, ‘You’re a child. You won’t understand.’

My family lives…

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By Nkem Awachie

I woke up scratching at the door, panicked. Someone was screaming. Her shriek pierced through my dreams. She …


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