Piece & Pieces

By Paul Ugbede

A young lady's illness and death is attributed to diabolism as her family ignore medical diagnosis... A youth corper posted to a rural community adapts to his environment by resorting to his basest instincts. A village's tribal divisions comes to head quite tragically against the backdrop of an illicit affair... The personal dilemma of poverty and hopelessness among young Boko Haram recruits... A village is thrown into confusion as its most virile bachelor dies in suspicious circumstances and a futuristic tale on when baseless ideologies high jack government policies.

This collection of short stories gives a stark narration of forgotten parts of modern society and speaks to the oratory nature of how Nigerian stories are told.

Paul Ugbede’s ability for story telling has been celebrated in plays with over ten productions to sell out audiences. In this his first collection of short stories he has mirrored society in a real and telling way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paperworth Books
• Release date: Jan 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463961230

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Piece & Pieces

Short Stories

Paul Ugbede

Copyright 2019 Paul Ugbede

Published by Paperworth Books

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CONTENTS

TO KILL A WITCH

SIDE BY SIDE

MY FATHER TIJANI

THE INCIDENT

DAY AFTER TOMORROW*

THE ART OF DYING

OBETE OGBEGE AND HIS NINE INCHES

AYIKI ALLAH

*This story was created during the Writivism 2014 program. It was longlisted for the 2014 Writivism Short Story Prize and subsequently published in Fire in the Night and other stories, the 2014 Writivism Anthology of Short Stories.

To Kill A Witch

Among our people, one does not just die. First, a witch from your family places your soul in a wooden goblet and takes it to the community of witches on the hill of Oduchenw and there, they feast on your soul as the owls hoot all night long until you die. That is why we say that in Amaka, you die many times before your death.

So when Angela died, there was no argument as to what killed her or even who killed her. For we all concluded that Iyego, her mother had eaten her own daughter, the best of Amaka town, in broad daylight and in the full glare of all.

That rainy afternoon, when I led Angela’s coffin to her father’s atakpa, the monotonous wail of the ambulance siren and the angry wail of Amaka were squeezed into one big black solid question. The question I had been asking myself since Angela died at a specialist hospital in Abuja, Why? Why would Iyego eat her own daughter, her first child who had built a house for her and bought wrappers for her? Why did she eat Angela eight months after Angela gave birth to a daughter, our daughter? She had Angela inside her for nine months, why did she not eat her then? Or eat her when she was a small child, or even when we got married? Why wait until she became a successful and accomplished woman? Why now? It was true what the elders said then, that witches had no souls, because if they did, they would not eat their own.

The siren attracted the villagers who were already expecting us. I sat in front of the ambulance staring through the window pondering on how year in and year out, Amaka still remained the same. The same brown tiny huts, the same huge trees and hills and the same air of ikwirikwu, the local tapioca delicacy. Naked children laughed and ran after us, while older people peeped out of their huts and from behind thick shrubs. Some hit their chests and shook their heads. They knew the corpse was going to Idugbe’s compound.

A fresh outburst of cry rented the air as a group of young men brought the coffin out of the ambulance and placed it on a table. I saw my elder sister Eleojo. She ran to me and held me tightly and we both nearly tumbled to the ground. I knew what was on her mind as she had warned me eight years ago not to marry into that family.

I still could not believe Angela had died and so could not bear to refer to her in past tense or say the word deceased. Calling her name made me saner and helped me deal with it all.

Hei! an old woman wailed, hitting her dry chest and raising her arms to the sky, "Ma ko jenw omai jile oko nwu?" This had been the question everyone asked since Angela died. It meant, "So they did not allow this small girl enjoy her life?"

Angela! Mathew, the principal of the community school shouted in anguish. He stood in front of the coffin, Why Angela? Ehn? Why are we so wicked? Now that we have succeeded in killing her, are we satisfied? Are we satisfied? He stormed away angrily.

Though he spoke to no one in particular, everyone knew he had been referring to Iyego, who was rolling uncontrollably on the floor beside Angela’s coffin. Her cries seemed to irk some of the people who threatened to drag her away from where she was if not for the prompt intervention of Pastor Ignatius.

Pastor Ignatius was our pastor and he had come with us from Abuja for the funeral. We had met him three months after Angela and I got married, when she first had her bout of fever. We had frequented different clinics and seen several doctors all prescribing different medications but her illness seemed to get worse with every dosage. She also began to complain about having scary nightmares and as such, she found it difficult to sleep at night. After talking to a friend about this, he confirmed my worst fear – what was happening was not ordinary. He had recommended that we contact Pastor Ignatius who he described as a powerful man of God who could perform miracles. When we attended a service at his church, we had to wait to see him and it was at that meeting that God revealed to him that Iyego was a witch.

Your mother is a witch, he said to Angela point blank as we sat opposite him in his office. It was a big spacious office and every piece of furniture was ornamental. The desk was of genuine oak and its legs were covered with what looked like real gold. A big portrait of the pastor stood by the wall and in the picture, the pastor had his hands raised up and his eyes closed as if praying to an invisible being.

Your mother is the strongest witch in your village, Pastor Ignatius continued, his eyes closed. Angela could not say anything. How did one answer to what was clearly not a question but a revelation from God? God did not lie and no one knew that more than Angela. Your mother has vowed to destroy you, Pastor Ignatius said again. She has decided that you shall not enjoy the fruit of the womb and when you give birth, you shall die, he concluded.

At this point I became afraid. What if Angela died? What will I do? I looked at my wife, who was sitting quietly, her blouse falling off one lean shoulder, revealing the pink strap of her bra. God had given her to me. How we met and how our relationship started was due to God.

It was raining that day in Abuja before she bought her first car, a green SUV. I had just dropped off a passenger around Gwarimpa and was contemplating going back home when I saw her, standing in the rain, holding a wet newspaper over her hair. She was tall and very slim, making her appear taller than everyone around her. She flagged me down, I pulled over and she hurriedly got into my taxi, wet clothes and all.

Please take me to the Federal Secretariat, she said, I am already late for work.

The rain had not washed off her lavender perfume and it wafted gently into my nose.

Madam don’t you think you need to change? I asked her as I pulled into the traffic. You should not be going to the office like this, I said, catching her eyes in the rear-view mirror. She had these deep sleepy eyes that were considered sexy.

I hope you would not charge me extra for that, she said.

I laughed, Na just small money you go add for me.

I know say you wan chop my money, she said with a smile, but if I have to go back home now, I would be really late. Today is my first day at work.

Don’t worry Madam I know all the shortcuts and can get you home and to the office in good time. So, I’d insist you change out of these wet clothes. Abuja weather can be unpredictable and I won’t like it if you fall sick when you start your new job.

Years later, she told me that, that was what she loved most about me and what made her fall for me. It was was my assertiveness, my ability to make her do what I wanted. We went to her house, a flat in Kubwa where she quickly changed into a yellow blouse and black skirt and re-applied her make-up, but even with the freshly applied make-up, I would not have called her beautiful. Fine, yes but not attractive enough to make my heart beat.

I raced through the streets of Abuja in the rain. A few minutes later, her phone rang and she answered, "Mama wei, uliya kw’ukolo, na call we," she said and then cut off the call.

At this, I smiled, So you are Igala?

How do you know? Her dreamy eyes widened in surprise.

I am Igala too.

Wow, really? I’ve heard that there are lots of Igala people in this city.

Where are you from? I asked as I raced along Gwarimpa expressway.

She laughed, Even if I tell you the name of my home town, you won’t know it.

Try me, I said smiling. She was easy to chat with.

"It is beyond seven hills and seven rivers. It is a year’s journey,’ she joked.

I laughed, The only village I know like that is my own village Amaka. I caught her eyes again in the mirror as I said this and her dreamy eyes widened even more at this.

I’m from Amaka, she said.

From then on, we became close and she called me Omayemi, her brother. I usually went to her house to pick her up and take her to work and then dropped her off in the evenings. At the end of the month, she’d pay me, most times more than the amount we agreed on. Soon after, our phone conversations became friendlier and friendlier and then more intimate. Before long, we started sleeping together and then shortly after, I moved in with her. At this point, she insisted I stopped calling my former girlfriends and I did. Well, not with my old sim card. Thinking back, did I really love Angela? I wouldn’t say that I did. She did not possess any of the qualities I usually found attractive in women – her buttocks and her breasts were too flat. But Angela had a quality no woman I had ever dated had, she was very generous towards me and lavished me with many gifts; she shared everything she had with me. When she bought a new car, a green SUV, she gave me the keys to use the car as I pleased. So I’d drop her off at work in the mornings and then I’d use the car for my taxi business, and my other businesses. She had promised to help me get a job if I gave her my credentials. I told her I would think about it because I didn’t want it to look like I was sponging off her. I didn’t think my ego could handle that. Looking back, I think those were part of the reasons why I decided to marry her – her devotion to me, her being there for me, her energy to run around for me. That was until she became sick.

Pastor Ignatius asked us to come for a night vigil that week and afterwards he came regularly to our house, holding individual prayer sessions for us at special costs. Soon after, we started attending Sunday services at his church and not long after, we became members of The Finger of God Ministry.

Angela became well after the series of initial prayers. Some of her light returned to her and I became less apprehensive and more relaxed. Her devotion to Pastor Ignatius was total. She plunged herself and her resources into his church and even donated her salary for six months to the church’s building project. In fact, I could say Angela’s money built the Finger of God Ministry, albeit a stunted finger, which was almost amputated by the Department of Urban and Regional Planning. She bought a new jeep for Pastor Ignatius and even sponsored his trip to Jerusalem. She became a