The Woman With The Orange Bag.

 

The car crawled along in the lazy traffic.
Akeem looked at his watch. It was 10:45am. Dark clouds threatened to ruin the beauty of the morning sun. If it rained, the traffic would be unbearable and he would be late for his business meeting. He prayed silently that things would work out for him. He mentally calculated how much he would make from the deal and smiled to himself. He rose up in his seat and stretched his neck to investigate the cause of the slow traffic, that was when he saw her.

First he saw the big orange bag she carried, then he saw her grey dress. She was pretty, dark and full bodied. Her hair was done in braids which poured over her shoulders. She stood apart from the large crowd waiting at the bus stop.
Akeem’s eyes settled on the woman and their eyes met.
In an instant he made a decision.
His car came to a halt in front of her. She opened the door and got into the car without saying a word. As he moved his car forward, an old woman in a blue wrapper and a white blouse crossed the road. He pressed hard on the brakes and the car leaped forward like a drunk man doing the Abiriba war dance. The old woman, with completely white hair cut into an Afro, stood in front of his car and looked directly at him.
Horns blared furiously behind him like the deliberations of a congress of angry baboons. His eyes were fixed on the old woman who crossed to the other side of the road and disappeared into the crowd at the bus stop.
The woman sitting beside him hissed under her breath. His eyes searched for the old woman but he couldn’t find her.
What was that all about? Akeem wondered as he drove on in the lazy morning traffic.

He turned his attention to the pretty woman sitting beside him. Her dress rolled a few inches up her legs, exposing her thighs but she didn’t bother to cover it. Akeem looked at her legs, his eyes filled with lust.
“Hi. What is your name?” he asked, still looking at her legs.
“Joy.”
“Where are you going?”
“Where do you want it to be?” Joy smiled.
Akeem licked his dry lips.

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The Other Side Of Love 5

The Other Side Of Love 5

“Anita, Edward Osagie is your brother.”
“Noooooo!” Anita screamed.
This was insane!
She held her head in her hands and wept in anguish.
Her voice reverberated in the house. The dogs started barking loudly.
This couldn’t be happening to her. It only happened in the movies or to other people. Surely what she heard from her father just now was either a mistake or a cruel joke.
A security guard burst into the living room and stopped when he found Anita kneeling on the floor and crying.
“Is everything okay sir?” He asked with a concerned look on his face.
Chief Batubo turned him away with an impatient wave of his hand. The guard stayed for a few seconds before he left the room.
“Anita, please listen to me,” Gogo touched her hand.
“Don’t touch me!” Anita shoved his hand away.
Chief Batubo raised his voice at his daughter.”Do you want to hear what happened or do you want to keep crying like a child?” he asked.
Anita managed to stop crying and looked at her father through tear stained eyes. She had to listen and try to make some sense out of this madness.

Memoirs Of A Writer 2

Memoirs of a writer 2.

Have you ever written something really bad and felt like burning the very computer on which it was written in an attempt to completely erase the evidence of your poor talent? Well, I have-not destroyed my computers- but felt bad several times, but it never stopped me from writing some more. I saw this as a test by life, to see if I had what it took to be a writer and thankfully I passed the test. As a writer, focus and persistent effort at your craft are more important than having great talent. The really great writers are those who are devoted to their craft, not just the talented ones.

Writing and Self Publishing Master Class.

Writing and Self Publishing Master Class.

It’s been a while since I taught a writing and self publishing class.
I didn’t want to fall into the trap of teaching others how to write while I did absolutely nothing about my own writing. So, I declined invitations to speak at workshops and focused on writing my own books. The last class I taught was about three years ago. Quite a number of people have asked when my next self publishing seminar is coming up and I told them to hold on until this year. So here we are.

The reason I haven’t organised any seminar in the last three years is simple. I am not in the business of organising seminars on writing to make a living. I am a writer who occasionally teaches on writing. It is important that you recognise this distinction.

Memoirs Of A Writer

Memoirs of a writer.

I scribbled something in my notebook, read it, shook my head and marked the page with an angry ‘X’. If I read the page later and still wasn’t impressed, it would end up in the waste paper basket.

“Good morning, Mr George.”

My writing table faced the window. Anybody who passed by in the compound could see me writing. However, I didn’t expect anybody to pass by that early except of course the owner of the house who had a mini-warehouse at the back of the building. She stopped in front of my window and looked at what I was doing.
“Good morning,” I replied cautiously, expecting her to move on and leave me alone with my thoughts.
“Why are you at home and not at work?” she inquired.
I wondered why she was asking. She had never been interested in what I did for a living as long as I paid my rent.
“I am a writer. This is my work.”
Technically, I wasn’t a writer because until then I had not written or published anything for public consumption.
“Ha,ha,ha!” She laughed with derision and looked at me with pity.
“You are a writer? You better get a job like everyone else instead of deceiving yourself that this is a job. Is this how you plan to feed your family?” She walked away, still talking to herself and shaking her head. “He says he is a writer. Wonders will never end.”