I watch as she tears open the letter, junk mail from the 419ers preying on the elderly and the desperadoes trying to make a fortune

Her face drops, she thought this would be her turn, it turns out she’s fourth in line to a 1.5 million pound fortune, if only she pays another £20.00 in postal orders, she’ll be bumped up to second in line, she looks at me expectantly, I shake my head

“Sorry, auntie, no more, you’re never going to win anything”  I open the next letter in a metre high pile, more promises and more requests for postal orders.


#1MinFiction – Don’t touch


What is it about signs that say Don’t touch, wet paint? You instantly get the urge to reach out and touch, is it really wet?

Bats breeding. It said, nah,  someone’s trying to stop me from getting my fix of mangoes, trying to spoil my healthy food diet!

I ripped the sign off and shook the tree.

Woosh!!!, flapping wings, high pitched screeching, they descended with my precious mangoes.

Droppings, gunk, baby bats looking dazed,  angry momma and papa bats.

I’ve learnt my lesson.

#1MinFiction- how many times?

Howdy,  long time no write. Yep, life seems to get in the way and the world is getting crazier by the day.  To ease myself back in, I’ve decided to join  Nortina@lovely curses 1MinFiction.

How many times have I looked at his picture, read his letters and smelt that empty bottle of cologne?

He never came back, mama got tired of waiting. So did I.

It’s time to put his stuff away, no more just in case.
Pops, your little girl just got married.

Short story Day Africa -Story prompt Galaxy

Hi there,

My contribution to the following image prompt.


Life sucks and then the Ogbunigwe galaxy claims you. I’d been waiting for its counterpart – Death. It was scared of me. I’d claimed my space twice.  It let the others in.  It took the strong, it left the defenceless. Its agents were my people. They weren’t faceless, their scarifications told their stories.  The Yoruba, Nupe, Igalas and people from the other side of the delta. I see you.

Betrayed by their voices and high on pot, my country men – took the strong and left the weak.

Did they forgot me. Cowards? Did their hands betray them? Or were they too blood stained already?

They took him – best father in the world – shot down on market day, felled like a skittle, who will make my hot chocolate tonight? – Who will give me away when Emeka finally plucks up the courage?

‘Wait oh, have they’ve taken Emeka?’

The gunshots get louder and the agents get bolder. They’ve started on the weak.

‘Wetin we go do?’ cry the women, ‘They’ve taken the men, they’ve taken our food, now they want our daughters.

I keep looking for a sign, Ogbunigwe continues its journey dropping thunder on a burning town.

Why? I ask, just finish the job.

Meteor rubble burns my clothes. I strip and wait for it to take me.

The women copy me. They think it’s a sign. They strip. We stand naked as we came.

We sing the battle songs our mothers sang fighting the colourless agents.

They raise their instruments to shoot. They stop.

The small stuff

Happy new year everyone, I’m a bit late to the party, but couldn’t post without wishing you all a happy new year.

What I’m doing differently this year? not sweating the small stuff. So saying happy new year a week after the event is not so bad after all.

Peace and love



Short Story day Africa – Writer Prompt 13: Pink Bubblegum

Short story day Africa writer prompt 
What a web we weave when we seek to deceive. I’d heard that many a time and now I was caught in it.
Her tone went from annoyance to disbelief. She was looking for me, she must have found him.
How stupid were we? I thought he liked mama, she always went a bit overboard when he visited. Preening and pruning, Ama and I just laughed at her attempts to wax her hairy legs. Why bother?
He had tried it on before, I told her. She did not believe me.
Uncle Stephan bought us gifts, he looked after us, he fixed the car, he bought me my first phone and he bought me packets of pink bubble gum.
No, don’t be silly, she said. I had misunderstood. He’s French she said, they’re always kissing and hugging.
There was a lot to eat when he was around, mama bothered, she cooked, and she showered. he said my behind was getting bigger, mama said I took after her. I didn’t know where to look.
The veterinary clinic was open, people came, animals were treated mama made a living and everyone was happy.
That day started with a pinch, a swipe of my behind and what he called his daddy bear cuddle. His spidery hands invaded me. I was enveloped in fumes of Marlboro lights, gin and bubble gum.
‘I’ll jab you with this’ I said, waving the stun gun in his face.
He laughed. More fumes.
‘You wouldn’t dare’.
And so I did.
The tranquilliser dart went in like a hot knife in a slab of butter. He legs turned to jelly, his mouth went slack and that was that.
Another scream. Yep, she had definitely found him..
‘Savannah, what the heck have you done?’
It’s funny how she knew who’d done it, but yet, she never believed me.

Daily Prompt: Argument

Hi, I seem to have neglected my blog as life, stuff and a few arguments get in the way! I’m back with a contribution to the Daily prompt.

Round 1


It starts of innocently, you feed it with a smart come back, it wants more.

So you come in with a well placed jab.

You think you’ve shut it down.

Beads of sweat form at your pits.

Your heart is thumping, you know you’re right and he/she is wrong.

A voice like yours, but surely not, goes even higher.

You’re not backing down now.

You’re winning this one.

And then comes the regretting and the not forgetting.

Who won that bout you say. I dunno. It was an argument.



Short Story Day -Writer Prompt 10: 7 – 21 August -Mardi Gras

Hi there,

This is my little bit of pure flash fiction for a Short Story Day Africa prompt of a Mask.

Short story day Africa

Mardi Gras
My dear, I’ll weep when I hear of your demise. I’ll throw myself onto the floor and tear off my clothes. People will think grief has driven me insane.
They will shake their heads in pity and say “Sorry oh, my sister”.

They’ll turn their noses up as soon as my back is turned and think about what you may or may not owe them. Your people will come and demand that I remain in the house for 7 days. They will ask me to shave my head, to wear black and starve myself.
What nonsense I’ll think, I don’t have to wear that face anymore. I can choose my own pretty face, I can wear flowers in my hair. I can put pictures on the wall. I can dance to Fela or whatever the kids dance to these days. I am looking forward to that.

Husband, your journey has been long, but your farewell is nigh.

Your people are here, they look around the rooms and ask if you left money for the funeral rites, I shrug my shoulders and cry. I have other masks– the helpless widow, the dutiful wife or the faceless fool who fetched and carried and cooked and cleaned but was never heard.
I put one on and compose myself.

They pretend to feed my children while siphoning grain from the stores. I notice previously empty bags are now full. My mask slips, I go wild and send your people packing. They snigger and stare.

The imam counts his rosary beads, whispering fake prayers under his breath. I ask him to leave. It IS my house now.

I hear the sounds of Samba in the distance, it is Mardi Gras tomorrow. I will dance to my heart’s content, the shackles have been shed.
RIP jailer. It’s my time to shine.

Ode to Gratitude

Hi gratitude, I seemed to have lost you somewhere along the way.

I’m trying to get you back, cos I know you have me covered

I’m promoting to you to my first and last thing of the day.

Why? because you improve my heart rhythm and reduce my stress level and generally make the world a better place.

You flood my body and my brain with feel good endorphins, you can’t be that bad after all.

Let get back together..


IMG_0602 (1)
Punting on the River Cherwell.


Christ Church College, Oxford

I’ve decided to link up to Bernadette’s posts on thankfulness. So what I am grateful for this week.

I spent Saturday with my youngest teen picnicking and  walking around Christ Church meadows in Oxford, small thing I know, but she’s at an age where going on a picnic with mother is so last year.

With promises of Pokémons aplenty and a visit to Top shop we set off.  Oxford was hot, stifling hot and full of tourists lining up to do the Harry Potter trail, see the splendour of Oxford’s colleges or just being herded into open-top buses to do touristy things in a small city.

We headed for peace and tranquillity of the meadow and sat watching the rowers and punters manoeuvre their boats down the Rivers Cherwell and Thames.  The best thing of all is that we talked about stuff, stuff important to teenagers without the TV, a phone or any distractions except the occasional splash and waddle of the ducks and geese that seemed too hot to move.

“Thanks mum”, she said after we’d stuffed ourselves on cold coffee, sandwiches and cookies. “It’s been great, but can we go shopping now?”

And so we went back to maddening crowd in Oxford city centre.  Two hours of bliss with my Teen is something to be grateful for.