When Tomorrow Dies

By Chucks Dominic Morsi

This novel WHEN TOMORROW DIES, is impressively evocative of village life. It is work of fiction as much as it is satirical in nature. The book gives a fascinating insight into the peculiar way of life in certain parts of our society; cognizant of the catastrophic effects of our actions too. For example, the bad influence of corruption on the society, failing moral values, cruel tradition against widowhood and perceived inhumanity to the less privileged, can only make one feel emotional and cry for a dying society! Even so, the book is a savage attack on a faulty political system where it now seems ‘Things fall apart’ – from the Nigerian point of view – this novel confirms the truth about us. As it stands, the alien tragedies of socio-cultural practices spiraling our society, is unfortunately, destroying us. And that’s by no means an elixir of life.

Therefore, we must save the society now, or else tomorrow (metaphorically speaking, represents the future and yet unborn generations) sooner or later, will bleed to death! And when tomorrow dies, hope is gone.

This novel is suitable for readers under all ages. It is interesting, intelligent and meets your reading pleasure

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chucks Dominic Morsi
• Release date: Sep 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463120910

Chucks Dominic Morsi

My name is Chucks Dominic Morsi. I am an author (maybe a little of poetry too). At that, I spend a fair chunk of my time on writing, reading, chasing business or doing other things that make me happy. Moreover, holding a Bachelor of Arts, journalism with minor in English, I guess, I should be a fine writer with finesse! Agreeably, an excellent writing is complemented by telling a good story, of which, I have often had complimentary remarks. People don’t praise or express admiration about my work because I am the ‘best’ just that I do the best I can (though not holding all the aces), but when I sit back to personally admire my works, one thing that prompts within me, tells me that I have the forte for telling the African story – our own story – in the most sensible way, I make fiction look real to my potential readers. The determination to do so never faltered.

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Copyright D. C. Morsi 2019

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The right of Chucks Dominic Morsi to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patient Act, 1988.

All the places, events and characters in this novel are imaginary and do not depict or bear relation to any person either living or dead. Should any of the names used, exist in true life, we sincerely say it is purely coincidental and thus, this book bears no relationship with such names in anyway whatsoever.

Contacts: Email: [e-mail],

Tel: [phone]

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

PROLOGUE

YOU BET!

CHAPTER 1: BEFORE THE RISING SUN

CHAPTER 2: REMINISCENCE

CHAPTER 3: LOOKING FOR TOMORROW

CHAPTER 4: TOMORROW'S AN OLD VETERAN SOLDIER

CHAPTER 5: IF YOU LOOK AROUND, YOU WILL SEE…!

CHAPTER 6: TO THE WORLD OF TOMORROW

CHAPTER 7: THE ITINERANT WEEPING CHILD

CHAPTER 8: YET UNBORN TOMORROW

CHAPTER 9: WHEN LIFE LOSS ITS SWEET TASTE

CHAPTER 10: THE PEANUT HABIT

CHAPTER 11: SORROWS OF THIS EARTHLY LIFE

CHAPTER 12: FATE, AS ELUSIVE AS EVER!

CHAPTER 13: THE ANTELOPE, THE HUNTER, AND THE SON

CHAPTER 14: MY LONG MEMORIES STILL

CHAPTER 15: A WIDOW'S SACRIFICE

CHAPTER 16: LONELY NIGHT

CHAPTER 17: UNDER THE BLACK NIGHT

CHAPTER 18: AFTER THE MOURNING RITES

CHAPTER 19: MYSTERIES OF TRADITION

CHAPTER 20: GOOD-JOLLY-FELLOW

CHAPTER 21: ANOTHER DAY IN…

CHAPTER 22: EVEN AT THAT

CHAPTER 23: DELUSIONS OF TOMORROW

CHAPTER 24: ALL MEN ARE NOT REAL MEN

CHAPTER 25: BROKEN CORD

CHAPTER 26: KLEPTOMANIAC FINGERS OF CORRUPTION

CHAPTER 27: A NATION FULL OF PROMISES

CHAPTER 28: FOREVER AFTER

CHAPTER 29: THE D-DAY

CHAPTER 30: BURYING THE HATCHET

CHAPTER 31: THE ARRIVAL

CHAPTER 32: MOTHER

CHAPTER 33: ARINZE WAS INQUISITIVE

CHAPTER 34: ARINZE AND EGONWA

CHAPTER 35: THE BENIGHTED AMANZI

CHAPTER 36: THE PHOTOGRAPHER, EKWUEME

CHAPTER 37: THE WHITEMAN'S MAGIC

CHAPTER 38: DESTINY OR FATE

CHAPTER 39: STRANGE ENOUGH

CHAPTER 40: BEFORE NOW

CHAPTER 41: BEFORE THE DRY SEASON BEGAN

CHAPTER 42: IN A MAN'S QUEST

CHAPTER 43: LIFE HAS ITS IRONIES

CHAPTER 44: MOMENTS AGO

CHAPTER 45: IKENNA, THE CHICANERY

CHAPTER 46: IT CAME TO PASS

CHAPTER 47: AND THE MYTHS

CHAPTER 48: UWA THE TROUBLESOME BOY

CHAPTER 49: THE STRANGE TREE

CHAPTER 50: BLAME IT ON THE GODS

CHAPTER 51: SAGA

CHAPTER 52: YET AT THE VILLAGE SQUARE

CHAPTER 53: THE ROW

CHAPTER 54: WHAT COULD BE THE MATTER?

CHAPTER 55: THE FOLLOWING NIGHT

CHAPTER 56: WHEN DOGS SPEAK…!

CHAPTER 57: THE DOWN POUR

CHAPTER 58: HEIGHT OF IGNORANCE

CHAPTER 59: NWANGELE

CHAPTER 60: THE END OF AN ERA

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

CONNECT WITH CHUCKS DOMINIC MORSI

D E D I C A T I O N

This book is dedicated to the most wonderful Morris, Yvonne, Jesse, Wesley and Calyx (Divine) Morsi.

You are the utmost thing in my World; and the reason, I work extra time – painstakingly.

Lest I forget to acknowledge my amiable friends who believe in me: Mr. Oka Ogbonnaya, Proprietor Doncas school, Lagos, Teko Friday, Mr. Shola Akinyemi MD/CEO, Fatsoholy Ventures, Lagos. Mr. Sunday Sobowale, Chairman, Acme-Oaks School, Lagos, Dr. Gbenga Aderibigbe, the Medical Director, Saint White Shield, Lagos.

I appreciate you.

PROLOGUE

Long before her husband passed on, Ugorji (Obidike's wife) was happy and a glowing woman. And, that was no more to be. A poor widow; tradition changed her entire happiness to misery. Though she was not comfortable with her present circumstance, yet, she was reminded that tradition is tradition!

Overall, this story interjects between snapshots of a cultural practice, shared values and joys, tragedies and other facts of everyday life of the Ama-eke community at a moment in time.

And like no other, Ugorji, cannot change what has been... It is the custom, and there was no justice against it. She falls in deep despair, saddened, depressed and cut to pieces by a situation that was none of her fault. Would she be able to overcome this? As it was not a personal matter, she had to let be what must be – the reality of a gory and cruel tradition, for which Ugorji shed tears for tomorrow's generation over amoral practices synonymous with us now.

This novel is a well plotted dialogue mixed with interesting exposition and heightened by a stinging satire on a faulty human society – like ours. Given the endearing habit of corruption blight cum elitism malady in the society, typically, 'Ani-di-Mma people's Republic' as used in the book is a metaphor symbolizing our country where the fight against corruption is now taking a dimension in its humanizing values stemming the tide, perhaps.

The mythical story revolves around colorful characters and fictional village communities where intrinsic interest, rural way of life and interpersonal relationships akin to mother-child bonding, kind of, knitted the people together to a common cause.

This book will whet your appetite and it's a must-read for everybody.

'YOU BET!’

The author of this book creatively puts together the different threads of the plot (i.e. the series of events that have formed the story of this novel) in a way, making the book an omnibus.

The story is worth your attention! You can bet – it will leave readers and critics alike keen for more, after you are done reading the whole chapter.

It is interesting enough to make your time and money spent on it a worthwhile investment.

CHAPTER 1

BEFORE THE RISING SUN

Michael Udochi suddenly woke up from a deep sleep this fine drizzling morning. He sat there on the bed mumbling softly.

An old grandfather clock, which he bought two years ago, hanging on the wall like a speechless figurine, was ten past six by the clock. Reluctantly, he stood up from the bed, wiggled his fingers and then arm akimbo, feeling so drained. His eyelids were visibly droopy with sleep. For a moment, he stood erect in the middle of the room like a cloaked mannequin – wondering at nothing in particular. The room by now was having the natural light of the day, gradually creeping in through the window, which was half opened. He puzzled over… twisted his body side by side, suppressing a yawn.

Meanwhile, the dog belonging to his neighbor, Mr. Thomas Danquay was yet barking and growling in a distance. And that didn't keep Michael fully awake. His eyes still in a light drowse like a drunken man, he almost lost his balance as he lurched few short steps and stopped. From where he stood, his height was nearly 6ft tall, dark and fleshy. Though handsome in a way, but like many black men, his nose was just a little longer than the swine's snout; coupled with his receding chin, was also an uncanny resemblance to his father; an elderly man regarded in those days as an officious strong man.

Lazily, he slung the wrapper which served as a duvet over his broad shoulder, narrowing his eyes at the direction where some noise was coming; at the same time, rubbing his eyes gently with the back of his palm.

He wasn't really sure where the continuous noise was coming from, except that this sharp sound of plate and spoon hitting against each other was what woke him up abruptly.

Many a time, the small stubborn rat making all the noises was busy with some pieces of fishbone left on a dirty plate which was on top of a wooden food cupboard standing beside the window and the bed. As soon as it sensed Michael's presence, the rat quietly scurried to hiding. This rat had often spied on him, breaking his sleep half way and quickly disappears whenever he made an attempt to kill it. Though oblivious to the noise now, it pained Michael that he couldn't kill the rat. Even at that, he heaved a sigh of relief and went back to bed. The stifling room which was less than some big men's dog-house in size, there he was with nothing much to boast of but just junks like those already used and dumped stuff stored in Honorable Silvanus Njika's attic.

Mr. Michael was just about surviving from the shock of a wrecked marriage, when one day, on short notice; he lost his job December 4. His wife had left four months ago because he was unable to meet up with the family needs. He's now a petty fisherman; as wretch as those people living in other towns.

Ama-eke where he lived, is not a popularly known town, yet the amazing places in the town makes it a fine little place in which you can see the bristled side of life through the eyes of many people living in it – poor and having no home – is surprisingly similar to those in Nembe, a seaside village within a ten miles distance away.

Although there are fairly a small subtle differences between the two suburban areas but the noticeable cultural landmarks in both communities makes them have something in common. For example, turning southward into Ojemba Ezeife street, which was something of an obscurity, obviously, you will see how grimly unhappy the town-dwellers were; a lot of them: peasants, pensioned men and women, widows and kwashiorkor-ridden children surviving in a depressing atmosphere with broken hopes, sore stressed, pale and drawn faces, formed a better part of this baffled town glazed with widespread human suffering and archaism.

In this tiny town, the growth of class and parochialism is apparently gaining momentum; coupled with the inexorable rise in 'authority stealing' in high places, etc.

Michael sat crouching a little and his palm was resting on his chin thoughtfully. Corruption here is nothing new; but a long standing tradition, which has steeped in grand scale menace.

It aches my heart to see… before Michael could finish what he had in mind, Mr. Awka Fabien a sixty-five year old man small in stature and popularly known as 'Uncle Umbrella' quickly interposed him:

Now you can understand that corruption is like a dose of lethal poison to this town. One day, it will eat up everything just like what cancer does to the skin. He said in a tone that suggests nothing but-the-truth. He smirk his face as if he wanted to smile but he wasn't. He continued. With this unquenchable thirst for greed and… there seems no hope for tomorrow. He said dismally.

Whether it was right or not to call Mr. Fabien by his nickname which his children sometimes ago find deeply offensive, no longer matter to them these days. The name as it were, had not only come to stay, but spontaneously comes to mind the moment you saw him in the street with his usual walking steps sandwiched in an extremely confident manner, tells anyone that he had no qualms with the umbrella which is very handy as his walking stick. By the way, it also served as a warning sign perhaps to the people that it might either rain or shine heavily; either way; he had put the people on the alert.

It was now 10:15 a.m. by the wall clock. The drizzling had stopped. Mr. Michael ate a hurried breakfast; changed out of the wrapper he had around his waist earlier into a slightly faded blue shirt with white stripes and a pair of brown khaki short and then, walked straight to the backyard to fetch the fishing net and paddle which he left there yesterday by the firewood stacked in heaps by the corner of the kitchen.

These days, kerosene in the town was something of a luxury and since only the rich people can afford to buy, the poor ones had since resorted to the use of firewood for cooking. And for the irregular power supply, they use hurricane lamps instead.

A moment ago, Michael had left on his way down to the riverside at Umuozala, post-haste.

Umuozala like many other communities had no benefits of modern life, though they made the best of what they had. And as if he had the same opinion with Michael and Fabien about the town and corruption being a lethal disaster:

Good– you can now think back and tell us how many of those corrupt shenanigans in this town had been convicted? Mr. Maja Tombra said acerbically.

In not being able to provide an answer for the question on his mind, he smacked a fist into his left palm; smiled benignly with a nod of the head vaguely as though he had come to a conscious conclusion:

Clever rogues, he said amiably.

His lank and grizzled moustache which was a bit tired out twitched as he moved his lips. The edge of the saggy moustache however gives an impression about him to be somewhat not fashionable as such and that is opposite of what today's fashion needs. Particularly, the straggly hairs hanging at the corners of his mouth obviously lacked style. He was never bothered about what he wears or how he looks.

In the setting sun, sometimes being alone (like those days when he spent his life working for the government without much to show for it) his legs stretched in front of him, and his back was comfortably resting on the armchair. The mango tree in the middle of his compound provides him with shelter from the searing sun. In a distance to where he was, he had heaped tons of dry leaves which fell off from the mango tree, now gathered together ready to be set on fire.

He worked as a civil servant; pensioned off and made redundant some five years ago. He hails from the Niger Delta region of the country.

These days, he spent most of his idle hours comfortably and warm in his armchair. This is of course one of the many tragedies of a retiree – going through an enforced idleness. Age was no longer on his side. He loves to read. And as usual, his pair of reading glasses sits loosely right at the tip of his nose like an old professor. His sagged face produced furrowed ridgelines as he laughed, revealing his already tiring set of teeth. He was at the moment, in the middle of the front page of a newspaper; and had wrapped his attention on one column to another. Reading as a matter-of-fact was the only thing that made his life bearable. His wife died shortly after he was retired. And for the past one year and half, he was prostrated with grief after the death of his wife, Philomena.

Now, with his lips sealed together in a thin line, he tittered at this amusing anecdote; actually another caption quickly caught his attention.

What the heck is this country actually turning into? He asked raising his voice a little and that could attract notice of those passing by. Again, he shook his head with a mirthless smile and turned over to the next page.

Before now, corruption was anathema to us but not again. It has now become something of interest and so amusing.

This is a matter of conscience. He retorted bewilderingly.

From his glazing eyes, you can see how tired he was now, stifling a yawn, he closed the newspaper, stood up and took a short walk to ease himself.

It was quarter past 4 p.m., several young men and women who came from the middle-class family that live at Philip Okigbo avenue and adjoining streets not far off were already gathering at The Gents' bar 6 Mitford Okeke crescent owned by one Chief Orbed Ezeagu; rich and well-respected; fair in complexion with the figure of a man.

The bar looks out over a botanical garden finely cut flowers and grass attached to the fence few steps away from the serving alcove and there the people spend every evening just like this one priding themselves with all sorts: brandy, lemonade, Beaujolais wine, whisky, schnapps and cold bottles of beer which were served in goblets and Bohemian glasses.

Sometimes their laughter and voices rose in a crescendo such that it almost drowns out the music playing somewhere in the bar.

The sound of music kept blaring through the speakers stationed inside the bar and from those left outside close to the cubicle. The color lights shone dimly. The bar was often up for business till dawn – Fridays to Sundays.

However, like a lumbering dinosaur, the evening slowly dragged on its feet. By now, the evening primroses from a distance were beginning to open. The golden sunshine from the sky softly glows on them. The grass and trees in a distance too were gently swaying in the cool evening breeze. From the other side was this noisy chirping of birds nestling at the top of a tree nearby. Their voices gave prominence.

It was a fine evening still, the golden-yellow sun in the sky was an indication that the last quarter of the busy day was about to usher in the night fall soon. Though it was 6:45 already; everywhere you turn was yet busy with activities. Mallow, larkspur and other growing flowers dispensing their oxygen into the air, was quite stimulating, engrossing and memorable.

CHAPTER 2

REMINISCENCE

‘Burr, cruu… cock!’ like a grunting pig, at first the sound was low but grew louder by the seconds. The room in the meantime kept resonating with the loud snoring tune, as Chico deeply slept; and one must have a stone deaf ears to be able