Featured Fiction: Girl On Fire By Ude Ugo

Ibim, what have you done!

Your mother screamed as she rushed to carry you. She looked at the last pages of her journal as the flames in the hearth eat them up and notices how you ogle at it. She shakes her head, children and curiosity, she mutters.

***

Mother was wrong. You weren't just curious, you had and still have a thing for fire. In other places, you would see a therapist but where you're from, it's demonic oppression. You love the feel of flames on your skin and the scars on your hands look good to you.

At 8, you had burnt all of Mother's books, in art class you drew nothing but flames. When you burnt down the house at 12, you were sent far away but had to be brought back when you fell terribly ill. You were left to your demons and you burnt every little thing, secretly.

***

You sit in the woods and watch the house burn. You couldn't control your joy when you got the anonymous call to set the house ablaze. You did this for a living. At 25, you are wanted for arson. Even the authorities would be shocked to see the petite lady who burnt down things.

You had set the house ablaze and even though you wanted to stay, you couldn't. From where you're sitting, you see two fire trucks pass. It's a big fire. You grin widely but then it fades when you hear a woman who's being restrained from running, scream.

A child. A nanny.

Sick. Stayed home. It can't be! You thought there was no one home.

You run home and make a call;

'Man, you never told there was a child!'

Pause.

Her punishment?! WTF! How could you be this mean!!

The line goes dead. Your breath catches in your throat.

***

You step into your barn and undress. Petrol on your skin, you start a fire. You sit in it and breathe in. It would be hours later people see flames. By then you're a bundle of charred flesh.

- Ude Ugo

Comments

Fiction | The Tripod Effect

THE TRIPOD EFFECT The Smiths were unable to conceive children and decided to use a surrogate father to start their family. On the day the surrogate father was to arrive, Mr. Smith kissed his wife and said, "I'm off. The man should be here soon" Half an hour later, just by chance a door- to-door baby photographer rang the doorbell, hoping to make a sale. "Good morning, madam. I've come to...." "Oh, no need to explain. I've been expecting you," Mrs. Smith cut in. "Really?" the photographer asked. "Well, good. I've made a speciality of babies" "That's what my husband and I had hoped. Please come in and have a seat" After a moment, she asked, blushing, "Well, where do we start?" "Leave everything to me. I usually try two in the bathtub, one on the couch and perhaps a couple on the bed. Sometimes the living room floor is fun too; you can really spread out!" "Bathtub, living room floo...

The Curve And Colors Of Hate | Uwen Precious Ogban

The Curve And Colors Of Hate When the evening news had broken Father spoke with a tone of pain and anger “Nigeria is a whore,” And my mother agreed Painting sensual scenes giving you pleasure of what looks like a garden that hides a landmine. And how trying to walk through it becomes slippery A journey asking for crimson libations, full of fractures and ‘Had I knowns’ while you looked over the fence for greener pastures Her sighs spoke of a menu full of thrills but you are served double horrors She, Nigeria, abhors you later on when it relinquishes you of value, Truly, she is an old ‘Whore’ My Father picked it from there, “Nigeria gets hard as rock” Wants of men despised Sullen moods recorded in poems, speeches, and events, snubbed For as long as it makes sultry suplex’s on a comfortable ring – Nigeria is satisfied “Son, Nigeria is you, your mum and I” Guilty to a fault Pained by happenings that come with fire and brimstone Let loose from bellies that should hold patriotis...

Featured Poem: Slavery In Africa - by Uwen Precious Ogban

SLAVERY IN AFRICA We believe they rowed their boats of tumults into our region; carrying with them bags of conundrums, while we drummed our drums and jollied to their, intonation. The way they dressed, the way they addressed us Made us mime to the harmony and yearns in their speeches of a dawn to civility and hale: that was a start of the course of slavery in Africa. We still thought they were our brothers, because our chiefs rolled floridly with their proposals While we were mockingly disposed of In the field, or given to bespoken tailors as apprehends; as helps; in servitude; ‘posed to carry out orders as the come in flicks. We became babies in our own motherland we became cartage of their foreign plans. We cleared our huts so that they could find comfy and build on our strengths draining our tears as they wryly whipped us on our backs. Their wisdom their prowess They used to molest And we gazed in cluelessness Cause we still didn’t see it as slavery then – but as pain, so enjoyable....

Jaachi Writes

Search This Blog