Flash Fiction: Falling

“Temisan.” Mother whispered.
“Temisan wake up.”
I reluctantly opened my eyes and saw she was out of the bed, looking out through the window.
“My God.” She said.
“Mama what is it?”
She came over to my side.
“Remember son, you must be strong at all times.”
“Mama what’s going on?”
She pushed me under the bed and told me to stay quiet. I heard footsteps coming slowly towards our room and the door was flung open. Someone came in but I couldn’t see who as the light was off in Mama’s room.
“Agatha!” A raspy male voice called.
“Why are you here?” I heard her say.
“My son. I am here for him. He has been away from me for too long.”
“Never! I won’t let you take him. He won’t become irresponsible like you.”
I heard a slow chuckle coming from the stranger. He advanced towards her and grabbed her by her neck.
“Temisan run!” Mama called out.

As if pushed by some force, I sprinted from underneath the bed and found myself running towards the open front door. A gun shot sounded behind me and I hesitated.
But run she had said. So I ran towards the main road.
“Temisan!” The street seemed to echo.
Exhausted, I crouched on a path by the side of the road. In a blink of an eye I was falling, down into the dark. Falling into the unknown. My feet landed with a splash and I became aware of the walls around me. I was in a well.
“Mama!” I screamed.

“Mama!” I muttered.
“Were you talking to me?” Ik asked.
“Not at all.”
“I thought you said something.”
I shook my head and turned my attention back to the control panel of the aircraft I was flying in front of me. The blue sky seemed a bit dull today and it was probably because of the harmattan weather. It made it easy to manipulate the aircraft though.

Then my eyes saw it. My heart skipped a beat.
“Ik!” I shouted.
My co-pilot Ikeoghene turned towards me.
“Was this aircraft refueled yesterday?”
“I don’t know. I’m not in charge of that.”
“Oh my God! Ik this craft has hardly any fuel in it!”
The body of water underneath us was almost making me hyperventilate.
“Chimo!” He exclaimed.
“What do we do now?” I wondered, my heart starting to beat fast.
“There should be parachutes in the supply trunk.”
“So we jump out?”
“There’s no other choice. We can’t make it.” He gestured towards the red light blinking under the fuel meter.
I put the craft on autopilot, my heart racing now. Oh my God. I’m going to die.

“Temisan have it.” Ik handed me a parachute. The red light was blinking faster now and the plane was starting to swerve.
“Temisan let’s go!”
“I can’t do this. I’m hydrophobic.”
“I can’t stand water.”
“You be officer like this?”
Ik pulled open the emergency exit open.
“We have less than 10 seconds.”
“Ik I can’t do this.”

Then came flashes of memories.
The gunshot resounding.
Temisan run!
The walls of the well closing in.
Mama! I’m drowning.
Is anybody there?
It’s that boy from the house down the street. His father shot his mother and himself you know.
A missionary is adopting you.
I want to be in the air force.
Mama! I’m drowning.

“Temisan let’s do this. The plane is on fire!”
“I can’t. I’ll fall to my death.”
“Come on. I’ve got your back.”
“You’ll leave. Just like Mama did.”
“Oh boy I’m not going to leave you.”
He grabbed my hand and counting to three, we jumped out.
In the free fall, the wind hit my face and I could feel freedom and a faint voice like Mama’s
“Temisan face your fears.”
But I was falling.
Falling but free.


Happy Mothers’ day! The best part of posting on this blog is getting your feedback and comments. What are your thoughts about this post?

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Flash Fiction || Head Quarters

head quarters fiction

“Jerome don enter!”

“Run for your lives!”

Wigs were grabbed, underwear retrieved as each of the seven girls struggled to vanish from sight.

“Where’s Hanifa?” Light skinned Chinwe asked me when we were back safely in our rooms, panting from the race we just had up the stairs.

“Chisos!” I had totally forgotten about the 16 year old new intake. I said a quick prayer against Jerome on her behalf.

“I’ll fetch her,” I said as I hurried back outside only to catch a glimpse of her with Jerome. He was smiling at her and she was smiling back sheepishly too. Next thing his right hand was on her arm, resting there casually. I cursed silently and walked towards them.

“Jerome how na?” I hailed.

“Philo! I’m good o! You no tell me say you have new catch here na.”

“This one is not for business,” i said and beckoned to Hanifa to go indoors. She left reluctantly, batting me an annoyed look. I turned back to Jerome who was looking at her lustfully.

Oh no, I groaned in my mind.

“Why are you here?” I queried.

He threw his head back in laughter. His teeth were stained yellow with tobacco and looked like an abandoned wicket chair.

“What do you do here?”

I rolled my eyes and hissed.

“No be head quarters this place be?”

I gave no answer.

“Is that not the name of this establishment?” He added as he moved closer to me, so close I could smell his alcohol ridden breath. he reached out for my waist and I struggled for freedom.

Read more of Head Quarters fiction here. Sorry guys, I need your views to make more money. Yes you read that right. In case you’re good at writing and want to make impact and cash while at it, check out the website. They are currently recruiting in-house writers.

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7 Super Tips For Writers

Hi readers!
Welcome to yet another blog post. How are you today? Great I hope. Could you kindly fill out this survey for me. Thank you!

A couple of people have asked the question “What’s the difference between writing and blogging?” From my own point of view, blogging is a form of writing. In blogging, you compose a post and share in the bid to reach an audience which is the same as writing.

writer and books

As shot by @peteralawode

I read a post on Adaeze’s blog about how she was tired of blogging and a post was linked to that where she found motivation. As a writer/blogger, there are times you’d feel tired or experience writer’s block but you have to think of the reason you started blogging in the first place to keep you going. I shared 5 super tips for bloggers back in May. Here are 7 super tips for writers:

1. Develop your own niche. As a writer you should find a niche that is easy for you to write about. Something you love or that you are passionate about as it would be easy for you to stay motivated. Also, don’t compare yourself with others. I have been a victim of this several times but I just shake it off now as my life is different from these people’s lives.

2. Develop your own point of view or story. There’s a lot going on in the world right now that could be an inspiration for you. Write about it as you see it. Figure what you can bring to the industry and no one can.

3. Be authentic. Be passionate. Focus on what you truly want and what you’re good at. Then work hard at it.

4. Don’t appeal to everyone. Set a target audience. Although this is not compulsory, you should target a set of people you’re writing for. Is it just Nigerians or West Africans? Or teenagers? Or graduates? The heart broken? Target an audience.

6. Appreciate your readers. It’s all about your reader and fans. They can make or break you.

7. Be patient. I’m keeping these two words in mind. Patience is a virtue some people lack. However, a good writer is made from practice not just having talent of writing. You can’t just write your first draft and expect it to be a hit. Experience makes you better just like age makes wine taste better. When publishers are not coming forth, be patient.

Sooooo, these are bits that I have found useful. Which of them do you find useful? Have you got any other indispensable tip you follow as a writer? Share below. The best part of posting on this blog is getting your feedbacks and commments. What are your thoughts about this post?

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Flash Fiction: Lagos Palaver

Flash fiction is a fictional writeup consisting words not less than 100 words but not more than 500.

“Ojota! Ojota! Enter with change!”
I shifted the luggage in my left hand to my right. Lord knows it was heavy and I wanted to sleep. However I had to hold on. Father’s warning rang in my head.
“Lagos is a dangerous place. Don’t trust anyone.”
When the bus eventually got filled up, I settled next to a decent looking guy who was dressed in plaid shirt and jeans.
“Excuse me, I’m dropping at Ojota. Could you let me know when we get there?”
“Sure.” He mumbled.
Assured, I dropped off to sleep. When I woke up with a start shortly, my bag was nowhere to be found. Nobody claimed to have seen the bag and the guy beside me was said to have alighted a bus stop we just passed. Lagos for you!

P.s: Anticipate! Something big is dropping tomorrow. Can you guess what it is? ?

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Poetry || Yearning

Famished pages and arid ink
are what I’m left with
I want you. Thoroughly.
Deplete, replenish my paucity
Fill my emptiness
Make sober this drunkenness
You took more than a piece of me
With you the day you left now I see
It was cold
because you made it so
The coolness from deep inside your soul

You were gone before I asked you to stay
to stay for one more day
So much distance between you and I
I question myself why
Would have written a symphony,
sung in harmony
But these words scribbles my pen
Think about me, us and then
I yearn for you
and it is true
I am but a blank book,
fill me with your words
My voice is hoarse
I have called out to you
day and night
with all my might
The way back home I hope you remember
For you to come back to me, I will wait January till December.

©Ajibike O

This poem was written for Imisioluwa. When he told me he was anchoring a poetry show on a radio station in Abuja and wanted me to write something for him, I was glad until he told me the topic. Yearning for a lost lover.

I find it difficult to write about things I can’t feel. Took me about two weeks to cook this up and I’m glad to say that challenge made me slightly better. Perhaps challenges make us better persons. However I couldn’t listen to the show though. Have you ever had the cause to yearn for something or for a lover before? Do share in the comment.

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My Farafina Trust Workshop Short Story Entry

Hi readers!
One thing you probably don’t know about me is the fact that I am a fan of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, the writer of award winning novel “Half of a yellow sun”. Yes, I adore her and just might end up being like her one day. Just kidding! I look up to her in some aspects of literature and writing generally so when I saw the Farafina Trust Workshop advert, I knew I had to participate. Finally an opportunity to meet my role model.

Procrastinated as usual till the last day of submission. I had the beginning of the story in mind but didn’t start typing on my phone till past 6pm (The ColorNote app is one of my favs at the moment). Finished typing the story, edited it as best as I could and I sent it to the submission email.

It was then it occured to me that something was wrong. I checked my story again and discovered I exceeded the word limit. Bummer! I was dampened and knew I wouldn’t make it. Although a friend tried to encourage me to be positive, I knew how much importance is attached to rules being followed to the last full stop in competitions. Anyway, the list of the candidates who made it was posted about a month later and I didn’t make it.

Was I sad? Nope. Already expected the disappointment. Got over it hours later with the notion that the competition helped make me a better writer really. Nobody I knew made it either and Adriel who blogs at Adriel’s Journal also mentioned how heartbroken she was when she discovered she wasn’t selected in one of her blog posts. Funny enough that same story she submitted is making waves at the moment. How wonderful God can be! The struggles we go through as writers.

Even in life when it seems like you’re giving what you love your best shot but things are not coming easy, keep doing it. An appeal to everyone out there, if you’re in any position to help a writer out with editing, publishing or even just support, you should not hesitate. If you’re in the best position to help any creative out, please do. Please.

Anyway, here’s the story I submitted. I don’t have a title for it but do enjoy and kindly drop a comment below. I am ‘Dammy and I will not stop writing until my maker says so.

Farafina Trust Workshop Short Story

Name: Ajibike Oyindamola

I am a student of the University of Ibadan, Yoruba and an art enthusiast. Books for me have been my companions from a young age; eye openers and educative. Writing gives me opportunity to express myself, things I see and things I have experienced which other people can relate to.

“I found a lump.”
I said to Tiwa.
I watched the look on his face change. The shock was sort of amusing. But the situation at hand could not allow me to laugh out.
“Are you sure?” He asked.
Why would he ask me that question I wondered.
“Yes. The doctor at LUTH confirmed it.”
Silence hung between us and the movement of the maids downstairs echoed in the house.
“Just like mother.” He finally said.
“Yes.” I affirmed.
Our mother had committed suicide eight years before, leaving behind a note which informed us about her breast cancer. No one had known about it before.
“I can’t deal with it. Can’t cope with the pain. I haven’t been as strong as I used to be since your father left.” She had written.

The bottle of poison on her side table and glass of wine which laid on the rug beside her bed gave the cause of her death. No autopsy had been done.
“Jola, have you ever wondered about something?”
“What’s that?”
He looked away, gathering his thoughts. The look on his face showed he knew something.
“Perhaps it would be better if you talked to Dipo.”
Dipo was the first child of my mother, my elder brother.
“Talk to him about what?”
“Talk to him about mother’s death.”
The day mother had been found, I had refused to come out of my room. I felt numb and tired. Mother never had our time. Always after money and so we went from one boarding school to relatives houses. One time we had been shared among our aunts because mother had to go to Dubai for business.

Dipo had returned from Aunt Nnenna, father’s younger sister’s house different. He kept to himself for some days and then returned to his old jovial self but there was something different. Something more matured.
“Tiwalolu, I’m confused. Can you just tell me what is up?”
“I wish it was that easy. You would have to figure it out yourself.” He said and headed to his room.
The house was mother’s. We had agreed not to sell it after her death. It was to serve as a reminder of our childhood, most of which was without her.

When I turned up at the company the next day, I had to commend the good job Dipo was doing. The building looked magnificent. It did when it was mother’s company but now it had a bit modern features.
“Dipo the slayer!” I hailed him as I entered his office with the tag ‘Managing Director’ on the door.
The nickname was given to him back in secondary school when his uniform used to be well ironed and the girls were after him.
He chuckled lightly and opened his arms for our signature bear hug.
“Why have you come?” He asked.
“So I can’t come by to say hello to my brother?”
He raised his hands in defence.
“I didn’t say so.”
I cleared my throat and told him quietly.
“I was at the hospital last week and the doctor told me I have cancer.”
His face remained expressionless.
“I have cancer like mother.” I continued.
“Mother did not have cancer.” He said.
“What do you mean Dipo?”
“She committed suicide because she had cancer, didn’t she?” I queried.

He stood up and walked to the open door. He locked it, dragged the chair beside mine and sat in front of me.
“Jola, you’re quite old enough now I think. 24 years is something. I have tried all I can to keep the family together after mother’s death. Even though I was just 21 then. Sure you can see how well the company is doing.”
“I know. But you’re diverting from the question I asked.”
“I’m sure you would remember growing up and knowing your father left because your mother was never around to take care of the home. How did it feel it sister? Knowing your father would rather be with an uneducated girl than your award winning mother? Pitiful right? How did it feel like being in boarding school for over 6 years of your life in which you saw your mother just twice a year? Pitiful right?”
“She wasn’t a perfect woman yes but she was just trying to give us a better future.” I said.
“That I tried to convince myself. Telling myself she was doing it out of love. But she was thirsty for power wasn’t she? Power over her own children.” He yelled.
“Calm down Dipo.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down! I was raped! I was raped by my own Aunt and you’re telling me to calm down? I was raped and I couldn’t even tell my own mother because she wasn’t there to listen. I was bullied in junior class and yet I couldn’t tell my own mother. Of what essence is her existence then? I asked myself. All she wanted was the money and power and she had it all. I asked myself of what use is her being alive.”

I gasped in disbelief as the statement registered in my head.
“D…Dipo, you mean to tell.. to tell me..” I stammered.
“Yes sister. Yes, I killed her. Yes, I poisoned her wine. Yes, I wrote that suicide note.”
“Oh my God! I can’t believe this. I have a murderer for a brother.”
He reached out and grabbed my shoulders. He shook me and said:
“I am not a murderer. The real murderer is that woman who birthed us.”
I stood up and went to the window, I needed the fresh air.
“So Tiwa knew about this.”
“Yes he does. I told him about it some years back.”
“And he didn’t tell me or the police?”
“Why would he? He understood perfectly why I did it. She always said all she was doing was for us right? Well look at us today, I’m the managing director of her company, Tiwa has an engineering firm of his own and your newspaper and clothing line are the talk of the town.”
He stood up, walked towards me and placed a hand on my shoulder.
“You might see me as a bad person sister but I did what had to be done. For us. And I’m sorry you have cancer. Surely it’s in its early stage and can be treated?”
Still bewildered, I carried my bag and walked out of his office.
As I stepped into the street, I looked at the sky and breathed in the Lagos air. I knew what I just heard would never be told to another person. It had become a secret. Our secret.

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Poetry || An Ode To Annoying Boyfriends

An Ode To Annoying Boyfriends

Of Adam’s blood
Voices commanding
Of selfish boyfriends
Wanting us all to themselves

Of jealous boyfriends
Questioning about other boys
Probing and green
With doubts about trust

Of love on horse carts
Dragging me behind without complaints
As you lashed with your tongue
And forced me apart from my self worth

Of slammed bedroom doors
Shoves against the walls
Slaps and streaks of red running
Burning and blinding temporarily

Of drowning in your bottles,
Neglecting my nether eaters
Suffocating our passion
But still never letting go

Of me packing my stuffs
Ready to leave you
But you going down on your knees
Yet another problematic boyfriend.

– Smallee × Dammy


Smallee blogs at Smallee Writes


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Poetry || When Love Happens

Hi readers!
This is a poetry collaboration between myself and Alabi Seyi, another amiable poet whose works are worth viewing. Kindly check out his blog and rate us on a scale of five please? Thank you!


When love happens

Flowers sprout

New beginnings are marked

Lessening of scars

Days move slowly

And laughter more frequent


When love happens

Unconscious changes

New memories created

Past days of tears

Slowly replaced with happiness

– Dammy


When love happens

Two hearts beats in resonance

The darkest of closets gets emptied

A kiss pruces fireworks

Butterflies and rainbows in each passing breath

Deepest of feelings

Exchanged with a touch or smile


When love happens

Poetry enters the heart

Truth replaces heavy handed words

Stars replaces darkness

Clouded skies replaced with sunshine

– Seyi


When love happens

Talking without words

‘Cause the eyes says it all

All there is to say

Lips moving in rhythm of love


When love happens

Inner warmth

Sharing yourself with another

Conversations that never end

Like the days before

Had been a blur



When love happens

Minutes turn into seconds

Hours into minutes

A lifetime with another

Your biggest wish

Hands tracing sketches

Even Da Vinci would grow jealous of


When love happens

Goodbyes are followed by tears

Moments of impulse are followed by apologies

Fantasies are replayed so much

They turn into dreams

A moment shared with the lover

A memory forever cherished.

– Seyi


When love happens

Thighs wrapped around another

Lips curled in passionate moans

Backs arched in response

Sparks flying without restriction


When love happens

Pleas follow

Don’t let go

Don’t leave yet

Another moment of this

Another moment of that

Another stolen kiss

Pieces fitting into place

Heart beats race

When love happens

– Dammy


When love happens

Bodies move into autopilot

A brush of lip on skin

Send ripples down the spine

Self-control becomes nothing but more arching

Touches more hurried.


When love happens

An innocent smile

Makes the inside twitch

Eyes rolling subconsciously

Fingers entwining

Each holding on for dear life

Adonis and Venus smiling down on mortals

Lost souls finally finding purpose

When love happens.

– Seyi


What can you say about when love happens? Comment below!


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