iTell stories and everything beautiful.

"I didn’t know you were AS," she said. "What’s it like?"

2024-10-23T18:46:00.000-07:00

I have not posted here in months. Don't worry, it's not you, it's me. Whenever I write, I'm often caught between revealing too much or not being honest with myself.

Also, this blog is on a free platform, so sometimes the site experiences glitches and becomes inaccessible. If you're reading this, it only means today the blog didn't act up.

I'll start from the top.

Months ago, I went for a test to find out my genotype.

I am AS.

I shared this with a friend.

"I didn’t know you were AS," she said. "What’s it like?"

"For starters, it means I can't just fall in love," I replied. "I have to ask the girl what her genotype is, then give my heart the chance to love her. Lol."

The whole conversation reminded me of a poem by Roseline Mgbodichi published on Agbowo.

I cannot marry this boy that shares my tongue

Because our mothers mothers mothers mother

Shared a lover.

I have come to a life where love needs fact-checking, Ask;

Was this birthmark inflicted or did you grow it from another life?

When you sleep with your eyes open, who do you look like?

How often do you think of a grave?

Is it a coincidence that you find sleep in my great grandfather’s armchair?

Is your grey hair a gift or a prophecy?

Where do you go in your dreams?

Are those sandcastles you are digging up in our backyard or is it your life?

The last time I posted on this blog, I was grappling with earning a B.Sc. degree (or whatever you want to call it). If you didn’t see my project defense pictures on Facebook and Instagram, here’s me telling you I graduated.

Ladies and gentlemen, I know you're really happy for me! Thank you, but life after school is after my life! 😂😭

It's all good though—my life is hid in Christ.

I probably should tell you how I studied Plant Science and Biotechnology but I'm currently a social media manager by profession and trying to build my digital marketing agency while trying to be a filmmaker. No fear! I'm not intimidating anybody, I'm simply marketing my brand.

But nobody is really talking about these things; life after school, or maybe they are and I've not found it yet.

Sarah Manyika mentioned in one of her interviews—paraphrasing here—"If your heart is yearning for a kind of story, and nobody has written it, you should write it." Write the stories you want to read.

For those who don't know, Sarah Manyika is the author of In Dependence and Like a Mule Bringing Ice Cream to the Sun.

My point is, I haven’t read any blog post about life after school, so I thought to write one. I don't know how many people will read this, but these days, I'm not concerned with follower counts or who’s reading and who’s not. There was a time I was.

Recently, I reduced my Twitter followers to 106.

Now it's just people I know and people I find interesting. I've seen a lot of strange people on social media and toxic comments, and I don’t think I’m ready for that. Let's not even mention the constant posts like, "Hi, I'm 16 and I just made my first two million," or, "This is the business I started when I was in my mother's womb, and I scaled it to a million dollars before I was aborted."

My dear, you don't need that kind of pressure after school. You just have to do what you do and keep at it until you're able to fly. You might ask, "What if I don’t know what to do or have anything to do?" Omoh! It's not me that will give you that inspiration. Not today.

~~It's not me.~~

Last week, I had set out to shoot a short film for the Abuja Capitol Film Fest.

I rented equipment, apparently that was when the national grid decided to collapse, so a one-day shoot extended to two days. I almost cried because of the stress we went through to charge the equipment and ensure the shoot didn’t extend into the next day, to avoid paying for an extra day’s rental. We improvised, on top the improvisation we were already improvising (may the gods give you understanding).

On my way home, I blamed the country for the grid collapse, blamed the weather because it rained, blamed the school for not having an alternative power supply, and I blamed myself.

Somehow, it would be a miracle if and when I eventually pull this off. It would show how Nigerians, despite the conditions, setbacks, and pain, are still able to achieve "much" with "less."

This post might not be everything you want to know about life after school, but I hope you are okay and you're well? Also, if you feel someone else needs to read this for strength and hope, feel free to share the link. I would like to know what part of this post got to you the most. Kindly leave a comment.

The One with Ori

2024-03-15T16:55:00.000-07:00

Your hair smells like familiar and unfamiliar things all at once. Shea butter and a little bit of that scent that smells like money.

The smell of your hair reminds me that there is “you and I” and “me and you,” everywhere, all at once.

It reminds of streets within the University that I have trodden and you haven’t. It reminds me of the songs that I danced to alone on those walks, and now with you. It reminds me that the canopy of the trees are cool enough to leave out the umbrella and feel the sun on our faces.

It reminds me that you no longer “loom” over me, yet my head sits directly in the middle of your chest, when you pull me in for a hug. I smell your hair on your shirts too, everywhere, all at once. When I perceive the whiff of how your hair smells, I remember that you hate to read, yet we text into the night. It reminds me that comfort can be quick and I am absorbed in it. It reminds me of the ridged eyebrows that shroud kind eyes, and a face that I would look at all day.

Your hair smells like familiar and unfamiliar things all at once. You allow me to be. I love to laugh and you love to laugh too, it sounds like something Asa could have written. If I were in a romance novel, I would write that I have fallen in love with you. But I have not. I am reminded of that everytime your hands close around my face, or you hold up my little palms to yours. I am reminded that during P.E, we were told that if you run slower, you would run longer. Yet you kiss me and I lose touch with reality. When my friends tell me that I am jumping too high and too quickly, I remember that you told me something similar and it fell face- flat on the court. I am reminded that 14 days in is not okay to declare myself in love, because on day 41 I might discover that you snore at night and you may find that I sometimes drool. Would the feelings of day 14 hold up against these odds?

Your hair smells like familiar and unfamiliar things all at once. I remember saying I could not be enough for you, yet I hold on to you like my life depends on it. I want to have all of you, and then you call me special. It is day 14 and we walked ten thousand steps. 60% and I am still scared. You have probably fallen asleep, but I am here listening to snippets of Moses Bliss talking about having a relationship with God and I think about how vulnerable we have become with ourselves and how I am feeling new emotions.

Your hair smells like unfamiliar things, will I allow myself enough grace to be moulded into the patterns of your life?

Your hair smells like familiar things. The total number of words here is 519.

© Mmokutimabasi Uttah (2024)

Mmokut works as a journalist for the University of Ibadan's journalism team. She's a Content and Creative Writer.

Other posts by Mmokut: If insecurities were houses men built, 2:56am and Disjoint Thoughts, Our letters were goofy.

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If insecurities were houses men built, I owned a mansion.

2024-03-12T23:03:00.000-07:00

I’ve never had enough hairs on my legs to shave.

It’s 9am in Ibadan and I’m hanging clothes on the line, or maybe I am more engrossed in watching the lady in my line of sight shave her legs with complete focus. I am drawn to her level of concentration and wonder how long she has been doing it for? Maybe she just started, because if not, shouldn’t the razor be familiar with the angles and curves of her legs and calves, making an easy job of the whole process. Maybe she has a boyfriend now. The novels I read growing up implied that the men required smooth-shaven women to stroke their egos.

I am 14, and my cousin pulls out a shaving stick from the bag that contained her essential toiletries. I am surprised that she has started shaving. Two days ago, my mom had berated me in her usual damning manner on why the shaving stick that rested on the window sill of our bathroom, had no business with my armpits and vulva. I ask my cousin why she is already shaving, and she says her legs are too hairy and she doesn’t like them. We are 14. I look down at my too smooth skin, with little black dots where the hairs that should have been never sprouted from. My Biology teacher called them follicles, my classmates said they looked like the skin of a plucked chicken. I do not understand the meaning of having too much hair.

I am 17, and I have learned that if you want more hair to grow on your body, you should start shaving. I bought a little pink shaving stick and went to work on my armpits, vulva, my legs and my arms all the while hoping that it was true. Two weeks, and the hairs on my body are still the same, almost non-existent. If insecurities were houses men built, I owned a mansion.

I am 18 and the girls are saying how lucky I am that I barely grow hair in my armpits and on my legs. I do not know how to feel because was it normal that it took 4 weeks for my hair to grow back after a shave? Was it normal to look at my thighs and think of boiled chicken? I muster a smile while listening to them talk about the difficulty of shaving the nook under their legs, not understanding a thing.

I am 21 and my skin is still too smooth, no hair in sight. I should be done with hanging my clothes, but I am more engrossed in watching the lady in my line of sight shave her leg with complete focus.

The razor nicks her skin, and blood pools at the spot almost immediately. I hear her talk about how Veet would have been a better option, but the smell is something she cannot deal with and I am suddenly grateful. I wonder if this is what adulthood is. The gratitude for never having enough hairs on my legs to shave.

So What I Maybe Running From You

Artist: CosmicBagels

Mmokut works as a journalist for the University of Ibadan's journalism team.

She's a Content and Creative Writer.

Other posts by Mmokut: 2:56am and Disjoint Thoughts, Our letters were goofy.

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You smell like all the things my mother said.

2024-01-16T12:14:00.000-08:00

When I first arrived in Nsukka in 2019, I was so unprepared for it. I was in a terrible place; emotionally and psychologically. I often complained to you about the cold here as it was my first time experiencing such intense cold.

I remember wanting to shave off all my hair. There's something about the human state of mind and hair. The subtle desire to express how we feel inwardly through our hairstyle.

I remember chatting with you (we were still talking then), and you asked me not to cut off all my hair. Somehow, you helped me through that phase. Days later, we fell apart. Distance had its toll.

Today, I'm having my haircut. I watch my hair fall piece by piece like worn out leaves, and I am forced to remember bits of our conversation.

One would think that as we grow older, it becomes easier to hold on to people, to understand them better, and not be quick to let go. But that's a lie.

I was learning to let go during the time we spent together. In fact, the first day we met, you caught me digging a hole the size of my past.

You asked why I had so much dirt in my hands, "I spent half my life digging graves", I replied. "I've made my heart a cemetery of emotions and memories I wish to forget.", I added. But you walked up to me, and planted a peck on the graveyard of my cheeks.

I still wonder how we stopped talking, people change perhaps. I remember you every time Nsukka is cold, and every time I let my hair grow out.

With you, I had learned to find home in everything. I would often taste the sweetness of my mother's jollof in our conversations. I hum the tune to my father's favorite song on cold evenings. And I would tell you my sister's jokes like they were mine.

One day, I looked you in the eye and said "...you smell like all the things my mother said..."

Yours,
Barnabas Ekpima...✍🏼

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I'll grow my hair for both of us.

2023-11-16T17:30:00.000-08:00

I often forget I own a blog, other times, some of the things I write aren't long enough for a blog post.

Fortunately, and ironically when it comes to length, my heart doesn't seem to follow the "rule book", a lot of the things I log into my notepad are not more than four to five lines.

It's partly why I feel twitter is a safe space for me; with the 280 character-limit my very very short stories do not seem out of place.

You only get to type about 40-70 words, it's like learning to speak anew, saying more by saying less.

You know what? We should all be on twitter, "X" I mean. Heh!

You're probably wondering how all I've said relates to "growing out hair", well we're getting there, I'm not the kind to give spoilers. My friend Lynn, took this lovely picture of herself on afro, happens be a perfect fit for the title of this post. Don't you just love a thick black hair?

IG @Lynn Barratts

So, this particular blog post is basically a "copy and paste" of few posts I shared on my twitter space in the past few days, underneath each of them is the official link to the actual post, feel free to visit, retweet and comment.

For in this space, I have loved, cried and aired my heart as though I was seated in a room with a therapist:

My memory card stopped working, my books, pictures and videos, gone...😪

I've been through this phase before though.

I tell myself, "I shouldn't be this attached to pictures, books and videos. It shouldn't hurt this much."

But here I am moping 😥

click to visit post

when are you gonna tell her you've got a playlist saved in her name, and it's on repeatt! ✨🎵🎶

visit post

“My love is wider than Victoria Lake

Taller than the Empire State

It dives, it jumps

I can't give you more than that…”

@estelleokunlola

seated across, the therapist asked that I sketch anything I felt best represents my life.

"It's broken", I said.

She heaved, "That's why you're here, to fix it, remember?".

"I mean the pencil, it's broken..."

view post

Then Fela died not long after, and I watched Gozie silently grieve for a man he'd never met.

— Tomorrow I Become A Woman

(Aiwanose Odafen)

@africannovelbot

Look how I sit by my phone

waiting for you to call

view post

maybe I dream too much,

maybe I'm not content, maybe.

view post

We never stopped being poets

when we put the pen down

@SophiaThakur

I miss you, not the miss-miss.

you know the kind where you've got someone on your contact list but you don't call, not because you can't but cause things aren't like

they used to be...

That's how I miss you.

view post

“Purple Hibiscus for me is about nostalgia - it’s a sort of romanticised remembering. I wrote it in my early twenties, when I was in college in Connecticut. I was very homesick, it was the middle of winter, and I just started writing because I wanted to remember home…” — CNA

@AFREADA

another day to peel myself off

the bed... and work till sundown.

view post

I am tired and my tired is hanging on a thin thread😓

view post

You notice the strand of grey, her hair seemed to have grown less thicker than the last time you visited, but you smile...

"I'll grow my hair for both of us",

"What...?" she chuckled.

"Nothing, just a line from a poem.
I've missed you."

She blushed.

You pull her in for a hug,

"Merry Christmas, mummy..."

view post

I hope this meets you well. I'd love to know which of the post resonated with a phase in your life (past, present or future).

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IJEOMA.

2023-09-23T16:44:00.012-07:00

PhotoCredit: Uko Udofot

During the period of my primary school education into secondary, my dad had this car— a Mercedes 230 (V-boot as it was often called then). The car had a music player, and so my dad would often buy CD plates (albums of popular musicians, various genres).

I remember we had an album by Dolly Parton (coat of many colours was my favourite track), we had another by Bob Marley, Lucky Dube, Kenny Rogers, Shaggy, and Duncan Mighty (I still remember all of them).

Album Cover: Coat of Many Colours

When my dad would come to pick my younger sister and I from school, he would often let us choose the album to be played.

I remember, most times, I would choose Duncan Mighty (a Nigerian song artist), and I would place a particular track on repeat, the track was titled Ijeoma.

I was young, didn’t know much about love (actually, I didn’t know anything about love, hehehe). Neither did I know who Ijeoma was and what she meant to him. I simply just loved the cool rhyme at the intro and the fact that the song often made my young mind think and wonder what love would feel like. Other times, right after the rhyme and few lines of the song, I would skip to the next song or insert another album (the intro was always enough for me).

It’s been a decade and four years since then, yes people, I don grow.

Tonight, while I was about to make ready my choir uniform for service tomorrow, I heard a song from the “Ijeoma” album playing from my neighbour’s room and I could feel my heart wrench in nostalgia, if I had as much as blinked, I believe I would have cried. Lol, couldn’t trust my eyes to stay dry, so I forced myself not to blink.

Should I say I felt a bit forlorn? Maybe.

The life I had in primary school, now seems… so far away. I fought the urge to go on YouTube and stream Ijeoma (for certain reasons).

Different phases in my life were shaped by music, my parents loved music (dad loved afrobeats and reggae), my mom loved country music, reggae and she played the acoustic guitar too.

Eventually, it rubbed of on both my sister and I. The love for music came naturally for us. My younger sister was made a member of the senior church choir while still in secondary school. Years later, I learned to play my mom’s acoustic guitar (the guitar eventually spoilt in my hands and now hangs in my room like an artifact).

Though over the years, I have learned that music has a soul; each time I hear Coat of many colours by Dolly Parton, or an old song by Duncan, Marley, Dube or Kenny Rogers, it weaves memories of my mom, my dad, his Mercedes that eventually got sold, my eight year old sister arguing over which album should be played first, and my ten-year old mind gulping every line of Ijeoma and wondering why a man would sing a full song in honour of a woman.

It’s interesting how the brain stores certain memories alongside the music that made those memories. It’s like the song becomes the memory, and likewise the memory, fused into the song. The two eventually become inseparable.

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Nine Liars — Maureen Johnson [Ikanke-Abasi Umana]

2023-09-17T15:49:00.003-07:00

There are no spoilers... I think.

It’s been several weeks since I read Maureen Johnson’s Nine Liars, and about the same time since I said I was going to write about it.

Technically, I’d already written, contested and finalized my thoughts, but it turns out you can’t publish writing that exists only in your head. A shame really.

Nevertheless, I’ll try to remember what I thought all those weeks ago, and in places where I forget, think again, and type for all to see.

Nine Liars is the first book I read in 2023 (congratulations, Ikanke-Abasi). It is the fifth in the Truly Devious series that tells the story of Stevie Bell (a “true crime aficionado” and sleuth), her friends; Janelle, Nate, and Vi; and her boyfriend, David. As is tradition, they are all teenagers. Well, except David maybe.

I was really into mysteries in 2021 and started reading the series then.

The general idea of Truly Devious was not brand-new but the circumstances felt very fresh and whole. The books and their characters were lovely and it was such a joy that I happened on them without any foreknowledge. The same feeling you get when you find money in your jeans.

So I unquestionably, thoroughly, loved the first three. The fourth too, even though my friend and reading buddy, Eddie, felt that Stevie had become sort of obsessed with David. I didn’t notice.

Similarly, when I finished Nine Liars, I was in love. Stevie was a wonder, having incredibly flawed judgement but still managing to inspire great joy. The book was perfect and that was that.

It wasn’t until Eddie said she wasn’t going to read it that I thought about what could possibly be wrong with Nine Liars. I soon had to admit that although it was great, it wasn’t as perfect as I wanted to believe.

Here are my thoughts in bullet points:

What I Liked

I love how Maureen managed to navigate the abundance of characters without losing their depth. Every character was distinct and properly developed. It never felt like you were being turned around in conversations, trying to figure out who was who. It did help that some of them died but still, incredible.
The humour. I mean, what's murder without a side of Nate jokes?
The history and geography of London that was woven into the story. I think it’s very brave for writers to take on physical or social environments they aren’t native to. Plus, I really like history.
I like that although the timeline was short, the book did not feel rushed. Everything was well-paced and realistically timed.

What I Did Not Like

I knew who did it. I mean, I always try to guess who did it, and I sometimes want to be right but this was too easy. I didn't even have to change my position on the suspect 14 times.
I was only scared twice. In fact, I only had to check if I was the only person in the room and cover myself one of those times.
There were fewer detours and ups and downs. It was a shorter book.
The emotions were too simple. Stevie lied that enormous lie and they just forgave her? Just like that? The lifelong friends of the murderer just believed Stevie and turned against their friend? Just like that?? The emotions were too convenient.
There was less of everyone except Stevie. It was probably to accommodate all the new characters but I missed Janelle.
The end. Really Maureen? I thought we were friends.

Conclusion

Readers always want the next book out as soon as we put the previous one down but I suppose it comes at a cost. I think when writers are able to pour time into their work, it increases in substance.

I love Maureen Johnson and her work. Nine Liars isn’t flawless but it’s a great book. I would absolutely recommend it and the entire series.

So, this is the end. You’re welcome to clap and leave a comment. As a gift, here are a few of my best quotes from Nine Liars. Enjoy.

White made Stevie feel like a sacrifice.

----------------

They followed him for so long that Stevie started to wonder if they were the victims of a very lazy kidnapping.

----------------

“A battered burger?” Nate said, a certain amount of awe in his voice.

“Go for it,” David said. “Arteries are for losers.”

----------------

Janelle shifted in deep discomfort. Vi stared into the remains of the chickpea curry on their plate. Nate was so utterly expressionless that he was no longer with them in spirit. He had moved on to some other plane of existence.

----------------

The Tower of London, Stevie was embarrassed to find, was not a tower.

----------------

“Here for a bad time,” Nate said, “not for a long time.”

----------------

Trash was archaeology. Trash always told the truth.

----------------

When you want someone to tell you something—don’t ask, tell it wrong.

----------------

“You tell me the truth,” Janelle said. “Lies are poison.”

This review was first published on Medium

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“Eko ni bajé— Lagos will not spoil”

2023-08-22T08:25:00.002-07:00

Institute of African Studies Museum, UNN

As a teenager and for the longest of times, I’ve always wanted to live in Lagos.

Lately, I realized the longing for a life in Lagos was spurred from the stories I read in novels;

Welcome to Lagos (Novel)

Lagos— the city of of opportunities.

Lagos— the city that never sleeps, “Eko atata”.

Eko ni bajé— Lagos will not spoil

Ise ya, Eko— Let’s hustle for Lagos, Let’s grind for Lagos.

When I eventually live in Lagos, because i will, before the Lord returns😅

I wish to get an apartment in a storey building, so night after night, I will stay up late, look out my window, let my sleepy eyes take in all there is to this city that never sleeps, and I will write.

By day, I’ll board a danfo (however it is spelt), I will taste Lagos’ okpa (so the argument with my roommate on which state makes the best okpa will end— for the record, I know it’s Enugu).

I will visit the places I read about in novels and maybe, the prophecies of my friends would eventually come to pass, “Nabas, you won’t like Lagos so much”, “the place is noisy compared to Uyo”, “Traffic will make you feel miserable”.

So eventually, I will leave but as I pack my bags and prepare to leave the vibrant city, I know that my time in Lagos will be immortalized through my writing.

I will capture the spirit of Lagos, even as I leave it behind.

You know the mixed emotions of leaving a place you love, but knowing that your memories and writing will keep it alive. It’s why I will leave while my love for Lagos is yet ripe.

And in my writings, I’ll reiterate what a friend once told me about Lagos, “…the city makes you do too much, for too little”, but you rather have it that way than not have Lagos at all.

Ever been to Lagos or did you grow up there? What was your experience like and what do you think of my future experience in Lagos? Do tell… 🙂

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Colours and everything in between

2023-07-19T11:28:00.007-07:00

"...my writing often returns to me in weird and urgent ways...", Mgodichi had said in one of her blog posts and at the time I read it, couldn't entirely relate.

Not until now— where I'm staring at my blog, and I'm unable to write anything.

I have been feeling a lot lately, and I really want to write, to write, and write, but omoh... my writing is telling me, "no be you go tell me wetin to do".

And it's fine. LOL no hard feelings. I'll be here waiting for it to return.

You know, life in school can be very passive— relationships, people, everything seems like they are here, just so they can leave you later.

For someone like me who seems to feel everything so deeply, the passive life here is not helping.

Though, I've made up my mind, for the years that I'm here, I'll make the most.

I'll write, I'll vlog, I'll blog, and I'll love people like it's forever, above all, I'll make memories.

You know, pictures are one of the ways to save moments from fading, a way to leave memories in solid form.

Recently, I made a video, titled it "Center of the Universe". After then, I've had moments when someone would randomly walk up to me and say, "I watched your video. It's beautiful". And I would smile like it's a normal thing to have people recognize me from a video, let alone commend me for it.

Oh well, for the record, I don walka this school, no be small. I think I know all the beautiful places one could use for a video shoot. My next video is on "body shaming", it's a very sensitive topic, so I'm giving myself time. I wouldn't want to rush it, I need to breathee...

I've already gotten several comments and documentaries on the subject matter— someone sent a note to my DM, "I've been voice shamed, body shamed, small looks shamed, course shamed..." (That's enough spoiler, you'll get the full gist when the video is done).

Well, my friend Promise visited Nsukka today, I have really missed her. It was ~~nice,~~ lovely meeting her after... two years? I think. Gosh, time is running!

Lastly, I mentioned once, how the word "love" is such a strong label and shouldn't be tagged on things lightly...

But yesterday, I was sitting at the music department's quadrangle, and I was reading a post by Roseline Mgodichi.

Roseline Mgodichi

I found myself almost screaming, "I love this. I love this Roseline..." I loved it so much, I wanted my friends to read it too. And I guess they did, cause I shared it on my status.

I am looking for a proper way to end this post, but as it's not forthcoming, I guess I would have to abruptly say good bye.

"Good bye"

P.S: You're probably wondering why I titled this post "colours and everything in between", well it's an inside joke. The one who knows, knows. LOL

© Barnabas Ekpima

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Chevalier (2023)

2023-07-07T21:22:00.005-07:00

WRITTEN BY STEFANI ROBINSON
DIRECTED BY STEPHEN WILLIAMS

Chevalier is a biographical musical drama written by Stefani Robinson on the life of Joseph Bologne.

Joseph Bologne, the illegitimate son of a French Plantation owner and an African Slave. The movie gives a foreshadowing of the grown Joseph Bologne, The Chevalier de saint George interrupting Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and upstaging him at his own concert.

With this scene, we are taken to the beginning of Joseph's Fame when he is dropped at an academy for elites. Due to his colour, he is almost not accepted due to the fact that at this time, the blacks were still seen as beneath any other race and an "abomination" for the french and the African slaves to procreate. A result of this procreation being Joseph Bologne. He is eventually accepted based purely on merit of his talent. Joseph's father's parting words with him being, "Be excellent. Nobody can tear down and excellent french man."

With this we are brought to his teenage years as we see a peek of this racial discrimination against Joseph by his French mates. Joseph goes on a fencing duel with a french counterpart and wins, at this point he gains recognition from Queen Marie Antoinette who dubs him Chevalier de saint George. From this point up his life is potrayed as a roller coaster that only goes up.

Joseph proposes to be the conductor of the Paris opera. With his friendship with the Queen Marie Antoinette she proposes a duel between both competitors. This competition brings him in contact with Josephine the wife of Marc Reine. They both have an affair which leads to a child. But this child is killed by Marc Reine.

Joseph Bologne's life begins to fall apart as he fails to be the conductor of the Paris opera, his falling out with the queen as she fails to back him up followed by the death of his child.

He fights back by composing music which gave hope to the slaves leading to a riot with these french men chanting "Egalité". Meaning, "Equality of man."

Joseph Bologne's music plays a vital role in French history. Eventually his songs were banned for giving too much hope to the African slaves. This led to the loss of many of Joseph Bologne works although they are being studied now.

The movie is both Educational and entertaining, everything Sophocles wanted a drama to be. And everything Aristotle describes a drama as in his book Aristotle's poetics.

In my opinion CHEVALIER is a selcouth movie. I recommend for ages between 13 and above. Purely exceptional.

CHEVALIER [REVIEWED BY DIVINEGIFT]

Utebor Divinegift is a student of university of Nigeria Nsukka. Enjoys everything art related especially in areas of writting.

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No one will wait for you.

2023-06-28T18:29:00.007-07:00

In no particular order, I hereby vent my thoughts; the happy, the sad and the beautiful.

The Happy:
My visit to the basketball court on Monday made me realize there are so many tall people in this world, also very short people. I am neither of the two.

The Un-happy But Not Sad:

In my first year, I had a crush on one of my course mates, who apparently, is my friend.

In my second year, she got married.

For some reason, I wasn't aware of the wedding till my third year. After I found out, I didn't know what to feel— hurt for a love that never was? Tsk. It made me realize how passive life can be; things and people never stay the same.
My friend, Jesse often says, "No one is coming for you", in other words "No one is coming to save you".

But then, I've also realized "No one will wait for you either..."

The Sad:
I write about things that disturb me, that plague my mind, and things that make me happy— but sometimes I feel I'm letting the world into my life, which is bad. My mom had once asked me to take down a certain post, "It's too much information for public consumption", she had said.

I do not know any other way to air my heart.

Writing is the only way I can meet with the ocean and not drown.

The Beautiful:
Meet Ikanke-Abasi.

Lately, my conversations with Ikanke has been a form of healing and therapy for me. If I have the the time, I'll convert our chats to a journal— someday.

The Un-whatever I'm Feeling Right Now:
I miss family. I miss family— I miss what would have become of my family if things had turned out different. Alas, I can't say much, cause that would be Too Much Information (TMI) for public consumption.

The Beautiful, The Beautiful, The Beautiful:
Colours, Imo, Kanky, Aity, Feel, Holly— never mind, these are just given names of people I have crossed paths with in the past years and months.

Again, I'm withholding... everything seems passive. It's like literally loving and holding your breath at the same time.

The Happy, The Sad, The Beautiful, The End:
I watched the movie, Chevalier (2023), it's based on the life story of Joseph Bologne.

In the closing notes of the movie, it was stated that The French Government stopped people, particularly the black community from playing his music, not because it sounded bad.

On the contrary, his music was and is excellent.

They stopped the black community because of the effect it had on their minds— the enslaved. His music inspired hope, liberty and freedom— the French Government didn't want that, as they still considered blacks nothing but slaves at the time.

From the cover art, you can see Bologne was black. A black man playing good music in a white community was enough to set France ablaze.

Interestingly, Bologne's Music was classical and had no lyrics, just instrumentals.

Music affects the mind. Music is beautiful. Music is spiritual.

© Barnabas Ekpima

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My mother's other son

2023-06-05T03:42:00.011-07:00

If you've been around long enough, you've heard this story at some point— we were in senior secondary school (SS3), this was years ago and Moses brought a novel to class, "Sherlock Holmes", it was a collection.

Who would have known? That I would peel open the pages of that novel and I would be so drawn to the art of storytelling.

After I read Holmes, I was story-thirsty and I begged him for another novel.

Then, Moses brought me "The Lost Symbol" by Dan Brown.

It's been almost a decade since then, and I'm still reading everything and anything I can lay my hands on.

It all started with Moses.

Moses and I became very close even after secondary school, I became his mother's son and he became my mother's other son. LOL

In 2017, I wrote my first poem and that was only after I read one of his (which sounded more like a song than a poem).

Yes, you guessed right😅 my writing started with Moses too. Here I am, I own a blog, iTell stories and everything beautiful.

Moses, this morning I read the note you wrote to yourself as a birthday wish, something about hoping not to die... (I'll leave out details) but I was touched.

So I made this particular blog post, just for you— recounting our experiences from secondary school till now; how instrumental you've been in my self-discovery.

So if you are ever in that spot where nothing seems to inspire you, remember that I'm here because you brought me here.

When you eventually read this: I want you to know that I've always believed in you, and every idea you've ever shared with me still blossoms somewhere in my memory.

It might not look like it now, but you're becoming everything God wants you to be.

I love you, everyday Moses. Everyday...

Yours,
Barnabas Ekpima

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JUNE POETRY COLLECTION (2023)

2023-05-29T14:55:00.007-07:00

THE PHYSICS OF LOVE
By Yahuza Usman

You are the field in a magnet
Attracting my loneliness to behold your face—
& I can't evade its cohesive force of attraction.

We now emerge on a contact force,
Where its pull force wheedles you to chuckle
And its push force dragoons you to sight at me.

I can't go away from you anymore,
As you became the Physics of love
And I became your Albert and Newton.

Thus let your smile be our gravitational force,
& with our mass, we can be thrown vertically upward
& we shall be fed with the air resistance we love
to leave the sky of doubting memories.

POEM IV:
By Barnabas Ekpima

here, the ocean
it dries to dust
we smile
like we've seen it before

like we've seen it before
we smile
it dries to dust
here, the ocean.

THOUGHTS
BY Deevinee🌻 [Divinegift Utebor]

Picture: Pinterest

Oh mother!
Avail me the pleasure of your breasts
That I may cry on them
Avail me your soft hands ever ready
For I have sinned and made a mistake
And in my loneliness have I realized it's depth

I am this one with air
Tossed about by ungrateful nostrils
I have but myself to blame for this misery
For what I had, I cherished not
And that which I cherished has bade me farewell
Tis true what thou hast
Is indeed not cherished till lost

POEM:
By Barnabas Ekpima

never have I, been to Sichuan, nor Haiti but—

I have, felt earthquakes in my mother’s voice.
Heard her prayers fall
like Jericho’s walls; her words, like the sound of bricks crushing a body.

She cries, and even earthquakes tremble.

I have, seen her turn falling stones to bread, and call my dead things, body to life.

The preacher man says,
"with faith like mustard seed, you'll say to this mountain...
crumble to pieces"
—but to love like my mother, is to be both mustard and mountain.

ALSO AVAILABLE: March Poetry Collection

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We’re all mad in this country, but we’re madder in Lagos [Promise Ozor]

2023-04-08T01:24:00.005-07:00

Promise, this would be my second time having a session with you, how do you feel about it?

Oh okay, Nabas. You know, I’m trying to be very humble about it, but you’re here giving me signs that I must be an interesting person.

So it’s hard to stay humble. Hehehe.

I’m joking anyway. I’m pleased. Thank you for considering me “interesting” enough to want to have me here. I appreciate it.

The pleasure is mutual, LOL. So can you say a lot has changed in your life since then?

Oh yes, defintely. Last time we talked, I had only veterinary medicine and no love life going for me. Now I’m doing a bit more with my career, have a good partner, and I’m even out here doing social media. I feel young again 😌.

I learned you had stayed in Lagos at some point in your life, were you raised there? If so, do you owe a bit of who you are, and the things you picked up while growing to the fact that you grew up in Lagos?

I was actually born in Lagos.

So yes, growing up in Lagos definitely contributed to who I am today. You meet so much diversity there, and such need for class, that just feels a little fake in most other places. Lagos taught me good conversational and social skills, but it also taught me to be suspicious of intent and ready for madness at any point. I never press my phone by the window, ever!! We’re all mad in this country, but we’re madder in Lagos.

Do you speak Yoruba? Or any dialect? You're Igbo right?

No, I don’t speak Yoruba. I hear a bit though, the street talk. I speak Igbo, yes.

Is pidgin a dialect? I’ll like to think so cos I speak that too. LOL

What's your take on music? Who do you listen to when you're really stressed and just want a form of relief... What do you do too?

I love music. It comes third only to books and food. I listen to almost every genre, and I appreciate good music.

I don’t have a particular person I go to when I’m sad. It depends on the mood. Sometimes I want Benjamin Clementine to comfort me, other times it’s Coldplay and sometimes I just want Bella Shmurda to pump me up.

When I’m down, I eat read, eat, sleep, listen to music, pray, stroll or talk to a friend. One of these would usually do the trick.

How was childhood for you? Any unique memories you'll like to share with us...

Childhood was fun. The misery of life hadn’t hit. I still laugh a lot now, but I remember I was a very happy child, quietly mischievous too. I was also very curious about everything. I asked so many questions, read so much. I just wanted to know.

I remember one time my cousin and I read “Ade the superman” and decided to try it out (we’re the same age and it was a joint decision). I went to cut out my Aunty’s red material she used for decorating at events and tied it to my cousin’s neck. Then he stood on a stool, that I placed because I felt it would give a better angle for our experiment, and took a dive. He actually did a “whoo hoo” with his hands in the air. It was a split second of pure joy watching him “fly”. He ended up passing out sha, and was out cold for a while. Broke a few bones and sprained his neck. I still call him “Ade the Superman” every year on his birthday, a reminder that it was only attempted manslaughter.

This or That session with Promise Ozor

1. Roommate or live alone?
Live alone

2. Books or movies?
Books

3. Stories with sad endings or happy endings?

Happy endings. Life sucks already. I want to get away to a happy place please.

4. Second chance at love or second chance for your career?

Second chance at love. As much as I want to act like I’m a reasonable person and choose career, I’m really not that serious to want a job back. Give me a second chance at love, with a billionaire.

5. Big wedding or small wedding?
Small wedding

6.Calls or text?
Texting. Calls stress me out

7. Nights or mornings?
Night. I come alive in the night time. It’s a pity I have to be an adult and sleep on time these days. On time, like 1am.

8. Nosy neighbours or noisy neighbours?

Noisy neighbours please. I hate people wanting to be in my business.

9. Live rich in Nigeria or live average in any country of your choice?

Live average in a country of my choice. I deserve basic amenities, security and sanity. I love my country, but does my country love me?

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2:56am and Disjoint thoughts

2023-03-31T00:39:00.009-07:00

I’m learning that you cannot accept glory and shun gloom; they come in pairs. And if you can accept your day why dispel your dark? Take it, bleach it, and find what it is you have to learn from it—because there is something.

— Ofem Ubi

I have never been to an art exhibition before. The one time I really desired to attend one was when robbers decided to exhibit themselves on the Eko Bridge in Lagos. I remember waking up with half my soul in Lekki at 11 a.m.; it was only 6 a.m. in Yaba in the dingy room I slept in at my aunty’s house.

Ofem Ubi has the nicest voice I have heard, especially when it comes to poetry. I know that I am often indecisive about my “best collections”, but on this day, he wins the “best collection” award; tomorrow it might be Titilope Sonuga or Joshua.

It is 2:29am, I am supposed to be understanding the concepts of how your cells live through oxidizing glucose, but I found myself listening to Selah by Ofem;

"The way I fall at the feet of God each time,
Begging him to make something out of me,
Mama, I cannot find a raft,
You know I cannot swim,
Too many times I have been baptised,
And yet, I still don’t feel like a new creature..."

Thinking about how much those lines resonates with the voices in my head. I think I wanted to see Ofem’s show so badly for three reasons:

● The house smelled of rat pee all the time.

● I felt trapped within myself.

● I hoped that I could hear Ofem’s voice through his photographs. Or maybe in his mother’s face.

I saw pictures of the success of his exhibition displayed on his Instagram and Facebook pages that day, about the same time Sanwo Olu was trolling on Twitter for telling Lagosians stuck on the bridge during the robbery to roll up the windows of their cars and wait for it to pass. I do not know the emotions that came with these moments: anger, disgust, or pride. It seemed odd that I would feel these three emotions at once, define green.

This is the first time I have written without the help of an A.I in a while; my thoughts are the most disjointed place to be, it wouldn’t speak well of me at work.

On a very good day, I am a man.
On somedays I cannot cover enough clouds to be a boy,
So I’d become everything else,
A buck-teethed, a half-winged cherub, alumni of a gun finger
Red sea, a broken street lamp, a missing rosary,
You name it—is it still possible?
— Ofem Ubi

It is 2:50 am; I woke up to read botany, then wished myself a collection of novels I am dying to read, as birthday gifts—my birthday is in May—and then my thoughts turned to Ofem, because I felt as though I was dancing too much to Bnxn, Buju, or whatever he is known as.

I thought about that solemn, bright afternoon in Lagos, where I had to show my soul the way home in disappointment, and I thought to write it down.

This may be the most disproportionate thing you’ve read in a while. I am sorry; it’s just the way my head is.

I should go back to reading Botany; I have an 8 a.m. class today...

© Mmokutimabasi Uttah

Mmokut works as a journalist for the University of Ibadan's journalism team.

She's a Content and Creative Writer.

More about Mmokut @ABOUT US or @Hall of Fame

Ofem Ubi (G.A.S Exhibition, Lagos)

Ofem was selected for the G.A.S Fellowship Awards, an Artist Residency Programme that gives amenities of freedom for creatives to work and immerse themselves more into whatever artistic practice they’re involved in.

He is a multidisciplinary artist from Nigeria who uses poetry, photography and film to preserve memories.

His poetry film, Velvet, was selected for the Fringe of Color Film Festival (2021) Click highlighted texts below to watch short films by Ofem Ubi: Velvet, Southpaw, Drown me safely, Sweet Potato

For more info about Ofem (social media handles, etc) kindly visit the Hall of Fame page or simply click Hall of Fame

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CITY OF GRIEF AND DECEIT

2023-03-29T15:16:00.006-07:00

Some fates are actually the result of a small push. This very fate, however, came out of a sudden grief—a melancholy—and, like a dog holding a bone, it transformed its anatomy into a gleeful soul, filled with indescribable excitement.
Blessing was a taller and fairer-complexioned lady. She became enraged after receiving five heartbreaking, bone-crushing love rejections from men in a month's time. Filled with extreme sadness and a phobia of being deceived again, she trudged throughout her town, Mafindi—a place where love rejection has become as available in every house as the sun; there was not even a lady that didn't get hers—leading her to a place where her feet were so exhausted that they began to stop. Thus, she sat there, in a desert several miles away from her town, recollecting the flowers of pain that filled her garden of happiness, hope, and solace; reflecting over the sole reason behind the tears that flooded her eyes and left her tissues burnt with grief; and doubting the breathtaking surprises she had experienced in her life; and doubting the breathtaking surprises she had experienced in her life; and doubt It was a fine cry—loud and long—but it had no top and no bottom, just circles and circles of miseries.
Sitting without any hope again, an elegant, cute man dressed in a black suit—like a barrister—appeared before her like a thunderbolt, shining like a diamond, blooming like the sun, and glittering like gold. When Blessing peered into his face with keen interest, she began to observe how handsome the man was—apparently, even the wind expressed happiness by blowing rapidly towards him—and, like a parrot, she asked him with gusto, "Who are you?" "And what brought you here?" These questions came out of her mind unprepared; she was not able to control her emotions. Without any action, the man, like a baby that plays with toys, was silent for a while before he voiced out with a resonant sound that had, perhaps, made every breathing being in the desert to listen—a tone that shares a resemblance with a nightingale:
"I am a messenger from a world adorned with alluring brightness. I am here to engrave your lugubrious expressions. Not only will I give you a calabash of love, but I will also form a speedy river that will perpetually flow for a long time, giving deep peace to your tender heart and trickling the ice of great consolation from your eyes down to your abdomen—a slow flow that will sluggishly penetrate into your heart, imbibe all the breath-snatching exasperations you have accumulated for long there, and squirrel them into my heart. "I am Joseph!"
Upon hearing these delightfully appealing expressions from Joseph, Blessing became seriously awestruck. She embraced him tightly, drew him closer to her bosom, and sounded out:
"Joseph! Of all the cold nights, lucky memories, and silent joy I've had, I've never encountered the likes of your soul-soothing voice, radiant face, or structurally enchanting being throughoutmy life! "My heart is so fortunate today!"
****
After a few months, their bond, like an iroko, grew taller and taller. One day, Joseph decided to give Blessing a gift. He consciously pondered what to gift her, like one who was asked to swallow the world. Considering some factors, he footslogged to the forest and brought a flower. Lately, he inscribed some words on a piece of paper and wrapped it together with his flower.
It was in the scorching sun of a Sunday that the ladies assembled underneath a mango tree in their town, Mafindi, to receive their packages from their lovers. Blessing was fatigued from waiting; thus, tears of animosity began streaming from her eyes. "Joseph?" She thought in her mind, gazing at the top of the mango tree. She could only smell the overripe mangoes on the tree.
Not sooner than later, from afar, she beheld the movement of a wind—it was a breath of Joseph, blowing gently, and then she was elated beyond expression. He handed his envelope to her and, with a charming grin, disappeared.
Blessing danced to the tune of gleefulness and quickly unwrapped her gift. She looked at a piece of paper and opened it. She began reading secretly.
"Blessing, today is Valentine's Day. All I can say is, "Your love gives me a light to see beyond—it's an ice crawling on the body of my grief."
The following day, Blessing walked to where she thought she could meet Joseph and, passionately, give him a peace-filled smile that would quench his miseries. She searched ups and downs looking for him, yet all the efforts she made were a mere illusion. The day passed, and she didn't see him. The night slipped into another day, and she didn't even perfume the smell of his breath. It was very strange, this ice of love that crawled on her grief.
After she thought about it for a while, she made sense of the package she received from Joseph. "The last sentence showed that he would leave me." She said, gazing at the sky. Thus, she realized the inescapability of her fate.

Mati Diop’s ‘Atlantique’ for Cannes Film Festival

It is indeed, without doubt, sheer good fortune to miss somebody long before they leave you. Blessing's hope and love were for Joseph, whom she missed despite the fact that his face ran through every strand of her heart.
© Yahuza Usman

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I would rather live rich here in Nigeria

2023-03-28T14:43:00.004-07:00

Aidiee, how are you today?

I'm doing great, thanks, and how about you?"

I'm good, thank you.

Well, I've always known you as "a friend to my other friend," LOL.

I won't say I stalked you, but... it's safe to say that I recently stumbled on your Instagram page, and I felt I should get to know you better. Your pictures are lovely, by the way.

For starters, I know "Aidiee" is the alternate spelling for the initials "I.D.," so I'd love to know your full name.

Oh. Okay... My name is Idaraesit Iniobong Ndem.

Nice, well your Instagram page has a couple of job titles, and I must say, I'm quite impressed to know you're skilled in several things; though you didn't mention anything about hairs (which is what you deal in), is there a reason?

I did mention it, although I wasn't specific about it... I am currently working as a content creator for the Iceberg Woman hair brand in Uyo. So the "content creation" among my job titles is what I do with Iceberg Woman's Hair.

You studied microbiology in school, yeah?

Yes, I graduated with a distinction in microbiology from Heritage Polytechnic Eket in Akwa Ibom State.

Wow! Impressive, but at the moment you're into graphics design, blogging, and content creation—so obviously you're not working in line with your course of study. Is there a reason or did you always know you would deviate from your course of study eventually?

No, I never wanted to deviate from it. But, as you know, given the state of our country, jobs in your field of study don't easily come by, so while waiting and hoping for an opportunity to open in that field, I started learning digital skills for myself, and I happen to love graphic design and content creation, so it became a big part of me, and I want to stay here for a long time.

Hmm! So what's your take on happiness? What makes you happy?

Family and friends literally—being able to be there, enjoy moments, ,make jokes, understand each other, and just be chill through different situations.

Are you happy? Now...

Yes, I have just been really learning about understanding who I am better and knowing this things is increasing my happiness daily.

Wow! Interesting. Permit me to ask, looking back at your life, what has been your biggest regret, and what advice would you give your younger self?

Procrastination." Literally, "procrastination. They were loads of projects that I would have loved to complete, if not for always saying, I will do it today, ok tomorrow and then next till I totally abandon it.

Lol. Well then, if you were to spend the rest of your life with just one person, who would that be? Oh well, you're free to pick me, LOL. But I'd like to know, who exactly would you pick?

LOL..... I mean I'm not picking favourite here but I'd love to say My Niece
Esther's been my favourite person since forever, and guess what? She's very interested in content creation, so that's a plus.

This or That
1. More time or more money
More money....
2. Shawarma or Pizza
Sharwama
3. C. Ronaldo or Messi
Messi
4. Apple or Android
Apple
5. Call or text
Text
6. Cat or dog
Dog

7. Would you rather live rich in Nigeria or average in another country?

I would rather live richly here in Nigeria, and so far I've got the ability to travel to any country of my choice and be back home.

8. Cook food or buy outside
Cook food

9. Noisy neighbors or nosy neighbors
Noisy neighbors really entertain me.

10. Read a book or watch a movie
Watch a movie... I love seeing movies. I have very specific genres for specific moods.

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for the salty spaghetti your daughter prepared

2023-03-20T03:49:00.008-07:00

I was only four when you scolded me for not saying a word of prayer before eating; it was the third time in one week you had complained.
"Before eating, always learn to first thank God for the food. Don't eat without praying", you said.
Right after that, I prayed Psalms 23 over my meal, "the Lord is my shepherd, ...he prepareth a table before me..." I recited to the last line.
"Good", you responded, "and let this be the last time I remind you...",
Everyday since then, I thanked God for beans, for noodles, for egusi, for pap, for the stew that had no meat and the ones that did, I thanked Him for the salty spaghetti your daughter, Nkechi prepared. Her meals were always salty. Good thing you would only let her cook on Fridays. I hated Fridays but I loved home, not until father passed away.
Today I am twenty-four, and I can't remember the last time I called God "Father" or "Shepherd".
My heart has forgotten how to feel at home in a church building.
The first time I told you I had issues believing God, you had just prepared beans for breakfast and it was also the holiday after my final year exams.
You stared at me with your mouth agape. The shock on your face sent chills down my spine.
It was also the first time in twenty years you ever heard me use the word "I" and "am" in a sentence that didn't end with my name, "I am tired", I said, "I just want my space... I want a break."
"From God?" You gasped, right before breaking down in tears like I had just bruised open your skin, Nkechi added salt to your wound by telling you how I'd decided not to bear my Christian name in school.
My heart crumbled to see a mountain moving faith like yours melt to tears at the sound of my unbelief.
But I didn't want you to know about my change of name, at least not then, so I stared at Nkechi scornfully before leaving the dining table.

Can you still hear me? Do dead people read letters? I'm sorry I never called home since then. Couldn't bear to see you tear up because of me.
I'm sorry I refused to pray over your coffin before the priest laid you to rest; it was painful to watch them bury a mountain like you, so easily like you were some mustard seed.

Can the dead read?
Dear mummy—
Do dead people know all the answers?
I'd love to know, "Is He more real to you now?", "Does He still prepare tables in the presence of thine enemies?", I'm asking because I still catch myself thanking God for every meal.
I don't want to, but you've taught my heart to be thankful to God for food. Though I want to believe that filling empty bellies is not the only miracle He's known for— even though the empty space you and daddy left in my heart still echoes with unbelief.

Nkechi keeps telling me it's my fault you died unhappy, it hurts me each time she says it. I guess she has perfected the art of salting open wounds.

She said you would often pray that I find peace, and have the faith to still the raging storms in my heart.

But I never got to tell you, did I? That the Psalms that led me beside still waters had drowned— somewhere in my childhood memory.

I was only four when you scolded me for not saying a word of prayer before eating; I would say you were wise to teach a child the art of thanking a God he couldn't see, for something he could see and taste— now, I would have to trust a God I can't see, for a mother I can no longer see.

You did it, you've made God the only memory I can hold onto whenever I think of you.
Did you know this would happen?
Does this mean you died happy? Eh mom? Tell me...

© Barnabas Ekpima

Share your thoughts on this piece in the comment section.

Barnabas Ekpima is a poet and storyteller. His works have been published on Writers Space Africa— Nigeria, Otherwise Engaged Journal, and NAELS (UNILAG) Journal.

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Call for Submissions [Movie Reviews, Book Reviews, Poetry, short stories etc.]

2023-03-18T09:26:00.016-07:00

Hello artsies, do you love movies? Here's your chance to recommend and review movies.

Basically, all you need to do is pick any popular movie of your choice, write out your point of view (fun part, criticisms and favourite characters), send to our official mail address itellstories.official@gmail.com with your picture and a brief bio.

Click any of the movie titles below to check out our top movie reviews:
Far From Home (Netflix 2022) reviewed by Barnabas Ekpima
The Chosen reviewed by Ifeoluwa Adeyemi

Are you creative, artsy, you have an eye for aesthetic photos or you just love taking pictures?

Do you write? Poems, short fictional stories, or life stories?
Get a chance to have your stories, pictures and artworks published/featured on the number one storytelling blog, "iTell stories and everything beautiful", and also on Pinterest.

iTell stories and everything beautiful is majorly committed to promoting African stories and arts— but also open to receiving submissions from non-African countries too.
It's a storytelling blog, we tell various kinds of stories; send in interviews, documentaries, poems, short stories, chapbooks, etc.

GUIDELINES FOR SUBMISSION
Stories/poems must be in Microsoft word document.

• short fictional stories (max 500 words)
• Real life stories (max 300 words)
• Poetry (max 13 lines)
• Photos/art works (must be a personal work)

Go through our Terms and conditions, Privacy Policies and Guidelines before making a submission to itellstories.official@gmail.com

(Include your WhatsApp contact while sending and a brief bio)

Also send in your popular social media handle, cause your pictures are definitely gonna get a "following" , so when people want to follow you for more, they know where to go (Instagram. Tik Tok? Facebook) just give us something to make you famous with.
By sending in your works, it means you have read through our policies and have given us the official right to publish your work on our site.
Thank you for working with us.
Yours,
iTell stories and everything beautiful.

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Mortar

2023-03-18T01:06:00.001-07:00

Mortar: by Samuel Ojile

I scrubbed and combed my head very hard in the bathroom; cement had caked into small round stones on it.
Water poured freely over my aching body and as I closed my eyes, I saw the smiling faces of boys like me at the building site. The faces turned into grimaces and dirt and the only thing left was empty bags of cement on the floor.
I poured water again and relief felt like what was lying in my safe. It was a small box I still frequented when emergencies arose, I had dropped a thousand naira note in it after the day’s job. Laughter erupted from my mouth as I juxtaposed activities; going to work clean as day, and coming back like a body of walking waste.
The mason, Maxwell was a jolly youth. I enjoyed working with him. We talked about a lot of things while we worked. He had asked me why I always showed at the building site properly dressed, with a laptop bag strapped to my shoulder.
“I wear my clothes ironed oo, even if they are old, plus, my laptop is like my android now.” I said, mechanically.
He laughed.
“That is why they call you professor.” He said and I scoffed. Our faces and parts where our work rag did not cover were turning ash and white with stains of cement and dried mortar. Our work rag, soaked with water and sweat, looked almost the same as our dirty skin. Sweat would gather and disappear on our skin. Outside, I tried to lift a block, sleazily my fingers split sand particles and they sped into my eyes. It felt like pepper to have sharp sand in one’s eyes.
“What happened?” Maxwell asked; his muscles visible as he tied a yellow rope to a block. His eyes were now on the plumb, “You spent time get t ing the block.”
“Yes, I was just...sand got into my eyes.” I said, in a fash-ion that craved pity and assured him that I was not wast-ing time. We were maximizing every minute because our pay depended on how many blocks we laid.
“We’ll place at least 120 blocks today so that your money will come out” he announced, “I don’t work with time, I work with that first target.” He added, firm.
“Hmm.” I complemented and we kept busy. We talked about the education system, our studies, the corrupt gov-ernment and the upcoming elections. Most of us working at the site were students. Maxwell studies engineering at a polytechnic, I didn’t ask him whether it was civil engi-neering. I just assumed it was. We always assume things on the site. The first day on site, I found it difficult to get any task. The Engineer had assumed I was a student on I.T. because of my outfit.
Taadimma, one of the labourers on site, walked towards me like a wrecked block. His waist jolted to either side as he moved with a bucket of mortar on his head. When he had poured it into the beam, he stood still and announced, “Today my God has tried for me and I will not try him by mixing another bag.” It was his fifth bag. He had sworn when the work started, that he’d mix ten bags of cement that day.
We all paused for a split second and what followed was hard, chorused laughter.
“What? eh, Professor.” Aka, a secondary school lad who was also bringing in mortar, asked and I told him what had happened, more humorously. The whole evening, we discussed the dif f erence between soft-work, hard-work and smart-work while we cleared up. We helped each other complete tasks before nightfall. I had helped Aka to fi nish the mortar on the fl oor, packing it into a thick bucket and pouring it into a beam. The weight had fl at t ened my hair and some of the semi-solid slid through my head covering. As I tried to wash my hair, it was packed, thick with caking cement. I resolved to do a proper cleaning at home.
“You dey always come site with your laptop, you dey do yahoo?” Taadimma asked me when the Engineer had paid everyone, “I want make you teach me oo.” He con-cluded. Carrying a laptop around was associated with being fraudulent. It was not the first time Taadimma mentioned ‘Yahoo’ in my presence; he was trying to get closer. He had asked me why I was doing the same work with ‘us’ in a way that ostracized labourers from good life and placed me on the advantaged pedestal. He did not know I was a hunter, a Wi-Fi hunter.
“I no be yahoo boy, oga” I am not a yahoo boy, I said, almost warning him.
“I no get big phone naim make, and I dey learn online with am via school Wi-Fi " I said, pointing to Obuka Street, where people, especially students who had stayed back during the ASUU strike had gathered, their faces il-luminated by their gadgets.
When I arrived home, that night, I needed thorough bathing in readiness for the next day’s ordeal. As I lay down on the bed, it felt like my back was breaking and my spirit was taking the shape of pain. I wanted to be free but now, I was fending for everything I needed; a Smart-phone, two square meals and emergencies like paying transport fare to a new distant site where I may be called to work. Gradually, I was becoming known as ‘labourer’ instead of ‘student’.

This story was first published by Writers Space Africa— Nigeria on WSA-Nigeria Anthology of Short Stories, edition: Survival.

Kelechukwu Samuel Ojile writes Poetry and Short Stories. He studies Pure and Industrial Chemistry at University of Nigeria, Nsukka. His works mirrors the society, criticizes politics and borders on other complex realities of the physical and metaphysical world. He Found The Reel of Poetry and Short Stories, a community of poets, storytellers and artists where he serves as the Editor-In-Chief. He is a Poetry Editor at Neverland Lit. Mag., Co-rep. and Graphic Designer at PIN UNN Connect Centre and he plays chess when he is not busy.

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Written Colours

2023-03-16T03:32:00.002-07:00

Art in the blood takes many forms
Has many shades and hues
It's different lines and forms
Lines that zig zag and those that wave
Formed and formless
In some generations these lines are broken
Shattered in madness and bohemian tendencies
Pricking blood vessels in it's recipient that bleed out as ink for a suicide note.

Art in the blood can be a woman giving up her dreams of music to take care of her two offspring
It could be her son
A boy with a heart full of hybrids of his mother's dreams
A head filled with ideas
A pad and a pen,a keypad and a deluge of words and poetic devices
His hands shaking from the earthquake that is his heritage as he pens witha spirit filled quiver
Faith dripping from it's tip

Art in the blood can be God creating through man...

© Moses Edemeka

Moses Billy Edemeka is an artist and a poet whose works are born out of a deep desire to create something out of the ordinary.

He's an avid reader with a good taste for music.

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A CLOSED EYES IS A SYNONYM TO A BAKED SILENCE

2023-03-16T02:56:00.002-07:00

I started crying and bleeding tears in my poem since
when I lately realized in a chaotic silence that
anything that belongs to me begins to leave me.
My voice is one of them. & any pen that always sings lullaby
with me begins to be silent like a corpse inside a metal coffin.

My teacher's pen too.

Anything that had even once lived with me is no more breathing
again with me, my happiness too. & every time I marvelled about

these pitiful plights, the sun melts the sleeping neurons within my brain.

PC: freepik.com

Now, I close my eyes tightly to see how silence
would but grow a canopy of leafed trees that will shade
my flowing tears. The moment I open my closed-eyes again

would be but a day that I'd give birth to a new soul-soothing rhymes.

ABOUT YAHUZA USMAN

Yahuza Usman, a certified Wikimedian, is a Nigerian poet, short-story writer, book reviewer, voracious reader, essayist and a member of the Hill-Top Creatives Art Foundation from Al-Mishkat Academy, Jalingo, Taraba State.

He coauthored about 7 International anthologies. He has his works published by Al-Mir'aatuh Magazine, World Voices Magazine and elsewhere . He's the prose 2nd runner-up of WVM Online Contest, May edition. He was shortlisted among the 2022 Iconic Writers of India by Sparkling Cornexpress Media, India. Yahuza is also a Hafiz, typist, a graphic designer and a networker.

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As though I just grew a new set of eyes — Zoe Anosike

2023-03-15T15:17:00.002-07:00

As a lot of you know, I dropped my glasses during the last Healing Streams Live Healing Services

Though before then, I made conscious efforts by going out without my glasses in preparation for my healing, you might not know how much faith it took me to take off the glasses, not until you realize how bad my eye condition was.

I was short-sighted and it was really bad, so much, if I ever tried reading without my glasses, I would have to take the book very close to my eyes to see the letters, and I would still have to squint.

Prior to the Healing Streams, I would take off my glasses on several instances.

Sometimes, I would go as far as running very fast, even in the dark.

There was even a day I ran from Hilltop to New Engineering Annex (UNN); I stopped to rest at some point though and it was amazing that I didn't trip nor fall, neither did I bruise myself during the period I was acting in Faith😁

I remember one Sunday after service before the Healing Streams; my chapter Pastor, Pastor Emmy Ekekwe, he called out to me while I was passing by as usual (I'm very shy to talk to Pastor;🙈 I'm not used to talking to Men of God as if they're your pals) he asked how I was feeling and about my glasses.

I told him how I don't go out with it anymore and after listening to me, he said, "You'll drop your glasses", I said Amen, and laughed (I like laughing) 😂

Omoh! How could I have been so unserious?🤦🏾‍♀️

Anyways, Sarah laughed when she heard she'll carry a baby, So.......

On the last day of the Healing Service when Pastor Chris was praying for everyone who needed a healing, I fell under the power of the anointing, and yeah that's how I got my Healing.

Weird right?

Nope it's not weird, it's a Miracle! Ayaah!

As I got up to dust myself, I suddenly realized I was able to read the words on the projector screen from where I was standing, which was not possible before.

I was so happy, I immediately dialed my H.O.D in church, sis Beulah, who wasn't around at the time. She wasn't answering, so I sent a WhatsApp message instead; it was quite late though and as expected, she was happy for me and posted it on her status🥺💃🏾

The things I couldn't do before I started doing them; I washed plates and there was no complain. LOL

One time after I received my healing, I was eating with my roommate and I decided to clear the crumbs off the spot where we ate and my roommate noticed that I didn't wait for her directions on where to pick from. When I finally picked it all up, she said, "You have eyes o..." 😂 she sounded as though it had just dawned on her that I'd grown a new set of eyes🤦🏾‍♀️

Thank God for the Gospel according to Pastor Chris, thank God for the Healing Streams Live Healing Services!

Thank God for Pastor Deola Phillips 😭; She's my role model (I call myself Pastor Deola Phillips Jnr sometimes).

Highly Esteemed Pastor Deola Phillips,

CEO Loveworld Inc.

Thank God for Pastor Emmanuel Ekekwe😭

Esteemed Pastor Emmy Ekekwe

Thank God for Believers Loveworld, UNN😭

Follow Believers Loveworld, UNN
Instagram: blwunn
KingsChat: blwunn_ (The Thriving Church)

To register for the March 2023 edition of the Healing Streams Live Healing Services with Pastor Chris, click the highlighted text: Register here

Set up your virtual centre : Click here

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Far From Home (2022 series) Netflix

2023-03-14T16:11:00.012-07:00

Far From Home, nope! Not the Spiderman series.

This “Far From Home” is not so far from our home, Nigeria. The movie is a young adult home series produced by Netflix, also happens to be the first Nigerian young adult TV series.

Well I’m not here to give spoilers nor sneak peeks, just here to air my heart. If you’re reading this, it probably means you’ve watched the movie, or you’re about to. Either ways, you’re here.

Far From Home is the story of Ishaya Bello, played by Mike Afolarin.

Mike Afolarin

Ishaya is a teenager from a poor family, a very talented artist who hopes to someday show the world "everything" he's made of, well in this case, "every-art".

Then there’s me, “Barnabas Ekpima”.

Oh no! I’m not in the movie LOL, just here to talk about the movie. I realize Ishaya’s story had been my story at some point, and has probably been your story too, or currently is.

I dare say, 65 percent of budding artists in Nigeria can relate to Ishaya’s story.

Before I proceed, I’d like to give credits to the head scriptwriter, “Dami Elebe”, for putting together this beautiful movie. If you’ve watched Skinny Girl in Transit, or Rumour Has It, then you’ve obviously witnessed the brilliance of Dami Elebe, cause both movies were also written by her.

Dami Elebe

Back to our “Ishaya”, he’s talented but lacks the means to fund his dreams; a young teenager struggling to pursue his dream of becoming a renowned artist. Amidst this dilemma, he’s saddled with the responsibility of catering for his family being that his father is unable to work due to an accident.

In the course of helping his younger sister pursue her dream of studying in Wilmer Academy, he stumbles on the opportunity to win a scholarship to Wilmer Academy (his sister’s dream school), although he is only interested in using the scholarship grant to fund his trip to London where he has been offered an apprenticeship with established artist, Essien (Deyemi Okanlawon).

Deyemi Okanlawon (left) and Mike Afolarin (right)

As Ishaya’s story unfolds, we see that every attempt he makes to pursue his dreams only lands him in more trouble.

In watching this movie, I have also realized the freedom that art affords the human mind, and the misery that comes with it, if left untamed.

Ishaya’s love for art, at several points was the only strand of hope he could hold onto. And often times, in pursuit of this hope, he wanders away from responsibility and the situation at hand (does this ring a bell).

Ishaya’s younger sister declines the scholarship because… (oh no spoilers, I remember). Eventually, Ishaya receives the scholarship in lieu of his sister.

He's admitted into the country’s most expensive school, which then affords him the liberty to mingle with the children of the elite, plunging him into a world of love, lies, friendship, and many enemies.

Meanwhile, a huge secret threatens his newfound status and, ultimately, the safety of his family; as though his love and desire to be a renowned artist was both his dream and also his undoing, sad.

To quote a line from one of my favourite poets, Jolade Olusanya, “Treat your homes like you live in them, even though your minds have built mansions in the cosmos…”, as a poet, watching this movie made me realize the need for balance.

Everything has its place, art, love, family and relationships. Never let one override the other. And because I promised not to give spoilers (for the sake of those yet to watch), here’s where I’ll draw the curtains.

Dami brings this beautiful story to an end in episode five, which fits perfectly with another line from Jolade's poems, "It was my fault to assume that my father's house would be big enough to hold my world".

Leave your comments below, let’s know what part of the movie inspired you or whatever you have to say about the movie.

I had chosen to talk about Ishaya cause I could relate to his life in a certain way. You could tell us which character you loved more.

I remain your humble host, Barnabas Ekpima.

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March Poetry Collection

2023-03-11T03:44:00.018-08:00

iTell stories and everything beautiful receives poetry and short story submissions from several writers across African countries.

Picture from Pinterest

The following entries were collated for the month of March, 2023

POEM I: MY FRIENDS
by Joel Oyeleke

were together for life
yet they only lived their
love inside of winks, blushes and butterflies fluttering wings of affection.

I learned that you can be 2 metres close
to your lover and yet
be too shy to love,
or even the world would be too quick
to be against it.

Often the space between distant lovers
is that spark in the heart
that says; no matter what, love is our bond.

POEM II:
by Daniel Jacinth

A long age Expired. When at last, we knew how little Would survive us—how little we had rebuilt Out of the huts of history’s shame Up from a past that’s grounded in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and broad, Welling and surging, I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a wondrously clear light Bringing the blessings that my ancestors gave me, I am the intuition and the hope of the enslaved person.

POEM III: CAN I BE YOUR ADAM?

by Abdulrauf Oladije O. M

Believe me, my heart beats for you

At every bit of the talking clock

On ny love's wall and all it ticks is

Your name, loudly that the deaf, I, can

Hear with my ears & see with my blind heart.

All I want from you is not just a moment

Which keeps in bank, ephemeral enjoyment,

Rather, a home in your beautiful heart

Where I can shroud my shivering love.

Oh, the pretty Eve! Can i be your Adam?

ABOUT THE WRITERS
JOEL OYELEKE IFEOLUWA (W.C V), author of THE THEM IN ME (DIREWORDS 2022) is a budding poet, student, avid reader, literary enthusiast and writer from Osun state, Nigeria.

He keeps his poems simple yet deep and real.

He has poems published on outlookIndia, poemify, ourpoetryarchive, yellowhouselibrary, poetryplanetbookpublishinghouse, ccaf.africa, 7th Chinua Achebe Essay/Poetry anthology, storymirror, artingarena, and elsewhere.

He is currently a poetry Reader and Editor at ARTING ARENA Magazine.

OLADOSU DANIEL JACINTH is a poet, novelist, songwriter, musical artist, scriptwriter and ghostwriter. He has worked as a ghostwriter with different writing firms.

He's currently a ghostwriter at Premier Royal Writes, and also a music journalist.

ABDULRAUF OLAJIDE is a young poet from Nigeria. He writes about nature, love, pains, the evens and the odds in his country, Nigeria. His works have been published in world voices magazine and forthcoming elsewhere. He was the second runner-up of the WVM June Contest, 2022.

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"I didn’t know you were AS," she said. "What’s it like?"

The One with Ori

If insecurities were houses men built, I owned a mansion.

You smell like all the things my mother said.

Yours,Barnabas Ekpima...✍🏼

I'll grow my hair for both of us.

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IJEOMA.

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Nine Liars — Maureen Johnson [Ikanke-Abasi Umana]

This review was first published on Medium

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“Eko ni bajé— Lagos will not spoil”

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Colours and everything in between

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Chevalier (2023)

WRITTEN BY STEFANI ROBINSON DIRECTED BY STEPHEN WILLIAMS

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No one will wait for you.

The Happy:My visit to the basketball court on Monday made me realize there are so many tall people in this world, also very short people. I am neither of the two.

In my second year, she got married.

But then, I've also realized "No one will wait for you either..."

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My mother's other son

Yours,Barnabas Ekpima

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JUNE POETRY COLLECTION (2023)

THE PHYSICS OF LOVEBy Yahuza Usman

You are the field in a magnetAttracting my loneliness to behold your face—& I can't evade its cohesive force of attraction.

We now emerge on a contact force,Where its pull force wheedles you to chuckleAnd its push force dragoons you to sight at me.

I can't go away from you anymore,As you became the Physics of loveAnd I became your Albert and Newton.

Thus let your smile be our gravitational force,& with our mass, we can be thrown vertically upward& we shall be fed with the air resistance we loveto leave the sky of doubting memories.

POEM IV:By Barnabas Ekpima

here, the oceanit dries to dustwe smile like we've seen it before

like we've seen it beforewe smileit dries to dusthere, the ocean.

THOUGHTSBY Deevinee🌻 [Divinegift Utebor]

Picture: Pinterest

Oh mother!Avail me the pleasure of your breasts That I may cry on them Avail me your soft hands ever ready For I have sinned and made a mistakeAnd in my loneliness have I realized it's depth

I am this one with air Tossed about by ungrateful nostrilsI have but myself to blame for this miseryFor what I had, I cherished notAnd that which I cherished has bade me farewellTis true what thou hast Is indeed not cherished till lost

POEM:By Barnabas Ekpima

I have, felt earthquakes in my mother’s voice.Heard her prayers fall like Jericho’s walls; her words, like the sound of bricks crushing a body.

She cries, and even earthquakes tremble.

I have, seen her turn falling stones to bread, and call my dead things, body to life.

The preacher man says,"with faith like mustard seed, you'll say to this mountain... crumble to pieces"—but to love like my mother, is to be both mustard and mountain.

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We’re all mad in this country, but we’re madder in Lagos [Promise Ozor]

1. Roommate or live alone?Live alone

2. Books or movies? Books

5. Big wedding or small wedding?Small wedding

6.Calls or text?Texting. Calls stress me out

7. Nights or mornings?Night. I come alive in the night time. It’s a pity I have to be an adult and sleep on time these days. On time, like 1am.

More about Promise Ozor (social media handles, etc) kindly visit the Hall of Fame page or simply click Hall of Fame

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2:56am and Disjoint thoughts

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CITY OF GRIEF AND DECEIT

More about Yahuza Usman @Hall of Fame

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I would rather live rich here in Nigeria

Follow Aidiee Ndem @Hall of Fame

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for the salty spaghetti your daughter prepared

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Yours,
Barnabas Ekpima...✍🏼

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WRITTEN BY STEFANI ROBINSON
DIRECTED BY STEPHEN WILLIAMS

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The Happy:
My visit to the basketball court on Monday made me realize there are so many tall people in this world, also very short people. I am neither of the two.

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Yours,
Barnabas Ekpima

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THE PHYSICS OF LOVE
By Yahuza Usman

You are the field in a magnet
Attracting my loneliness to behold your face—
& I can't evade its cohesive force of attraction.

We now emerge on a contact force,
Where its pull force wheedles you to chuckle
And its push force dragoons you to sight at me.

I can't go away from you anymore,
As you became the Physics of love
And I became your Albert and Newton.

Thus let your smile be our gravitational force,
& with our mass, we can be thrown vertically upward
& we shall be fed with the air resistance we love
to leave the sky of doubting memories.

POEM IV:
By Barnabas Ekpima

here, the ocean
it dries to dust
we smile
like we've seen it before

like we've seen it before
we smile
it dries to dust
here, the ocean.

THOUGHTS
BY Deevinee🌻 [Divinegift Utebor]

Oh mother!
Avail me the pleasure of your breasts
That I may cry on them
Avail me your soft hands ever ready
For I have sinned and made a mistake
And in my loneliness have I realized it's depth

I am this one with air
Tossed about by ungrateful nostrils
I have but myself to blame for this misery
For what I had, I cherished not
And that which I cherished has bade me farewell
Tis true what thou hast
Is indeed not cherished till lost

POEM:
By Barnabas Ekpima

I have, felt earthquakes in my mother’s voice.
Heard her prayers fall
like Jericho’s walls; her words, like the sound of bricks crushing a body.

The preacher man says,
"with faith like mustard seed, you'll say to this mountain...
crumble to pieces"
—but to love like my mother, is to be both mustard and mountain.

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1. Roommate or live alone?
Live alone

2. Books or movies?
Books

5. Big wedding or small wedding?
Small wedding

6.Calls or text?
Texting. Calls stress me out

7. Nights or mornings?
Night. I come alive in the night time. It’s a pity I have to be an adult and sleep on time these days. On time, like 1am.

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GUIDELINES FOR SUBMISSION
Stories/poems must be in Microsoft word document.

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POEM I: MY FRIENDS
by Joel Oyeleke

POEM II:
by Daniel Jacinth

ABOUT THE WRITERS
JOEL OYELEKE IFEOLUWA (W.C V), author of THE THEM IN ME (DIREWORDS 2022) is a budding poet, student, avid reader, literary enthusiast and writer from Osun state, Nigeria.

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