Match Sticks

By Daniel Okoli

It came to me then - no, to be fair - in a flash of inspiration when I hit the ground, that the matchstick is an incredibly fragile stick which the frailest of babies could snap in pieces, and when lit a puny huff of breath - or well-aimed fart - could distinguish. It is so impotent till its flame catches on something and then it can set a giant forest on fire. One puny matchstick lit.
I may be weak but that is till my flame is lit.
The words bubbled hotly on my lips, about to spew, when one of his friends suddenly reared towards me menacingly.
This wasn't the time to light that matchstick; this was the time to save the matchstick.
There is no shame in fleeing battle courageously; it is called a brave retreat if it serves to better equip the fighter with more fire for another day of battle.
I turned and ran.

A group of friends decide to abduct a gang leader in revenge for an idea stolen from them - with crazy unpredictable consequences..

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel Okoli
• Release date: Aug 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311885357

Daniel Okoli

Daniel C Okoli was born in the U.K. Matchsticks is his first full length work of fiction. His other works, mainly short fiction, are often described as ‘deep, intense and gripping’. His short fiction appears frequently on Naija Stories website and his blog OhJustStories. He is currently with his wife in the U.K.

Book preview

Daniel C Okoli was born in the U.K. Matchsticks is his first full length work of fiction. His other works, mainly short fiction, are often described as ‘deep, intense and gripping’. His short fiction appears frequently on Naija Stories website and his blog OhJustStories. He is currently with his wife in the U.K.

MATCHSTICKS

Daniel Okoli

Copyright Daniel Okoli 2014

Published by V2F Media Publishing at Smashwords

ALSO BY DANIEL C OKOLI

L.I.F.E (Learning Infinitely From Experience

The Authentic Man (Daily)

MATCHSTICKS

DANIEL OKOLI

To Sucre, Sucre and Sucre...

OPENING

My family and I had just moved from Lagos to Abuja over the past few weeks; the new house was a perfectly finished, spacious four-room affair in Sun City Estate, Lokogoma. Compared to the cramped three-room bungalow we’d left back in Lagos, this was a real breath of fresh air and the motivation for unpacking, and settling in was high.

Kene, my first son, going gangly and sprouting more than a fair crop of pimples as is often the case with pre-adolescence, was helping me sort through old electronics cartons that contained my stuff in the room that would most assuredly become the ‘book room’; the book room was what we always meant to be a family library or the study which eventually accommodated broken electronics, excess shopping (especially from trips abroad), the odd graduation gown, and Just Daddy’s.

Just Daddy’s was the category I invented for items every family member had in one way or the other condemned as trash but I held on to for keepsake or some other reason.

One of these was a broken phonograph, a memento from my father’s groovy old days. I kept assuring myself – and Claire – I would repair the phonograph, which I was sure would liven up our customary wedding anniversary candle-lit dinners with a touch of old fashion. Even Chisimdi, my last son, with whom I thought I might share a certain penchant for retro-groove and everything 80s simply didn’t give it a second glance after that first time he spotted it in the book room at Awka, hidden under a thick layer of dust.

I started unloading the contents of one carton and happened on a familiar looking hard cover exercise book. I smiled picking up what was one of my notebooks back in Nnamdi Azikiwe University. It oozed of nostalgic memories as I flipped through its pages filled with my spidery fine writing. In the corner of one page was the cartoon sketch of the back of someone’s head, labeled ‘akpu skull’ which a friend, Amara had quickly penned when I’d handed him my book for a supposed cross-check with his own notes. I laughed recalling the ‘akpu skull’ was the name he tagged me, after I’d failed a question Mr. James, one of our first year GES teacher had asked.

Daddy what’s funny? Kene grinned at me over a stack of old academic books.

Come and see my exercise books from my university days. I invited, making room for him beside the carton I was sitting close to.

I showed him the sketch and told him the story. We both laughed loudly, his infectious high, wobbly laughter inviting a curious Chisimdi into the room, who plunked himself into my lap and tugged insistently at the book to get a view of what we were laughing our heads off at.

On one page my writing fairly wandered off the light blue note lines, metamorphosing into indecipherable scribbles. We’d gone for an all-night party at a friend’s place and I staggered back to my place shortly past 4A.M, practically wasted. By six thirty A.M my Nokia 3310 woke me with it insistent ringing; it was my colleague calling to say we had a quiz for seven A.M and he’d reserved a seat for me but I should hurry. Can you imagine what happened when I got to school? I cocked my brow at my sons in turn. What? They chorused with glee.

The lecturer came and commenced with a class first. I said dismally and both children cackled with laughter - more at my comically depressed face than what I’d said. It ran for an hour thirty minutes, the longest ever in my life. Those scribbles are my attempts to keep up with copying lecture notes. I thought I’d die of sleep deprivation.

Daddy, what is de...privation? Chisimdi wrinkled his brow inquisitively.

Kene what do you think? I smiled at my other son.

Daddy, that’s simple His lips curled in a smug smile. It means ‘the lack of something.

We kept through the note book, and picked up another. I was fond of abstract sketches outside or across page margins, a habit Chisimdi also seemed to have adopted. I found a page in this second notebook stained across with reddish brown mud.

I chuckled loudly even as Kene asked me what the mud stain was about.

It fell open on the ground when a stray football from an ongoing evening game under a slight drizzle struck it out of my grip. I tried to kick the ball back to the players and slipped on the wet muddy ground.

We flipped through a couple more pages without incidence and then discovered an old picture.

I grinned in pleasant surprise.

‘Daddy is that you?’ Kene almost gawked, jabbing a finger at a youth with an afro, sporting a jeans jacket that was a size too big and white trainers in the picture.

Nope, I laughed, pointed at a fellow with a short crop, black high collared shirt and grey trousers. Doesn’t this look like me?

This is you, daddy! Kene cried, laughing and pointing at jeans jacket. You look like an old school musician.

Myself, Caleb and Seun. I said, chuckling as I laid a finger over each person in the photograph. Close friends in the university.

Caleb and Seun, I thought fondly. Life was always chaos with them, and Debbie - a third friend not in the photograph, but very much in the picture - was often the only semblance of order that kept the group sane enough to do anything productive.

Did we do many things, I thought. But Project Matchsticks trumped everything else.

I grinned in amusement and Kene prodded me. Why are you smiling again?

Ah, I patted his shoulder gently. At - I was about to say ‘at nothing’ then I recalled I’d once told him some men were locked in padded rooms in strait-jackets for ‘smiling at nothing’ – the fact my hair looks so funny, that’s what’s making me laugh.

It wasn’t a story I would tell my kids then; sometime in the future, yes and not when both were fully grown yet, with their own kids but not just then. Then it wouldn’t be on the floor of a room fast filling the role as the family ‘book room’, sweat trickling down our backs and Chisimdi stirring impatiently because the heat was lolling him to sleep already; it would be during one fine evening outing with Claire and the kids, over chicken