My name is Kokonne and I used to see things. My grandmother, Nnenne said it was a gift and her husband Etebom agreed. But my parents were not so inclined.
"She has the gift," Etebom said.
"Ete, mbok kutañ uto iko ado," my mother would say. "Don't encourage her fantasies."
But they weren't fantasies - the gift was real.
It was there when I told Iya Philomena in our compound that one day, her husband would lock the door of their bedroom and dance the horizontal waist dance with the landlord's daughter.
She said she'd heard tales of my predictions and knew I was a witch.
But she said very little else afterwards, when I told her that I knew she was already doing the horizontal dance with the landlord and that her son, Ugo, had come after their third dance session.
That Saturday, it was the gift that opened my eyes as I walked into the living room and saw Papa adding something to Mama's cup of Earl Grey.
"Papa, what are you adding to Mama's tea?" I asked.
"Not...nothing," he stammered. "Just a little bit of love."
But I knew what it was.
A concoction, the one he'd gotten from the man in a red loincloth, years before my birth. Mama had been a youth corper then, one who didn't want to be with an Ijebu man. But the concoction made her love Papa. It'd make Mama love him forever and ever.
Papa, started at me, his eyes pleasing. "Don't tell anyone, you hear? I'll buy you pizza."
"Yes, Papa," I replied.
I agreed because I knew that I wouldn't need to tell. The gift had shown me that very soon, the man in the red loincloth would die and his powers along with him.
Soon, Mama would stop loving Papa forever and ever.
Yes, I used to see things. Used to.
I lost my gift the day Mama stopped loving Papa. The gift did not show me that day in full. I did not see that when Mama would stop loving Papa, she would stop remembering who I was.
To this day, I remember the blank expression on her face that afternoon, when I walked into the living room after she'd awakened from her nap.
"Mama, your food is ready," I'd said. "Come and eat."
She'd stared at me for a long, unsettling moment and then said, "Who are you?"
I felt a cold shiver snake it's way up my spine. It was her eyes - there was no recognition in them.
"Can't you talk? Who are you? Where am I?"
She glanced about the room. My heart ached as I watched her; she looked so lost and afraid. I shut my eyes and tried to see.
But the gift was gone, gone with the man in red loincloth.
"I said who are..."
Her words were cut short as Papa walked into the room. Her eyes flared with shock. His too. I don't know how but in that moment, he knew.
When I was about seven years old, I represented my school at an event. As my father dropped me off at the venue, he asked me if the school was bringing me back home.
I said yes, that the school had arranged for a bus to take me home and he didn't need to come back for me.
When the event ended, I couldn't find any of my teachers. The only classmate I found, her parents came for her. Turns out, there was no bus; everyone had left on their own.
Despondent and terrified, I squatted down on the steps of Sacred Heart Cathedral and quietly began to cry.
How was I going to get home? My house was far away. I didn't know the way, being that I was a child who was chauffered everywhere. Why had I not just told my dad to come for me?
As I squatted there crying, I suddenly heard a familiar voice behind me. The voice of my father.
*pushes bedroom door open and stomps inside daughter's room*
"Your mother said she was going for only ten days. It's been four days and she's not yet back. If I talk now, they'll say I'm restricting her freedom."
"Daddy, it's only been four days!"
"Ehen? Four days, ten days, what's the difference? What's she going to do there that she can't finish in four days and come home? Must she stay the whole ten days?"
"Awwwwn...you're missing her."
"Me? Miss who? Mtscheeeww. A woman who has been married for so many years, yet is so comfortable abandoning her matrimonial home for what I don't know."
A few days ago, someone posted that they made okro soup with ₦1200 and there was a furore. A good number of people derided the author and said it wasn't possible. Now, I cannot tell you if it is impossible, but I can tell you about...
Mesuur, who lives in a lungu (ghetto) in one of Abuja's suburbs. She sells buns and occasionally, adds half a crate of Coca Cola to her merchandise. She couldn't make her rent this year and had to solicit for funds.
Her rent is ₦36,000.
A year.
Yes, for ₦3000 a month, she gets to live in a very lowly box that's made mostly of sand, with cement slapped on in patches. The ceiling is made of cartons and cardboard stitched together. Rats run across it and every so often, their droppings fall into her room...
A lady who lives in my friend's compound, lost her husband and his people showed up from the village two days later to collect everything from her.
As they began to harass her to bring the documents for the house, the car keys and cheque books, a neighbour overheard them.
He went and called three other men who were around in the compound and briefed them on what was happening. These men dressed up; one of them, a policeman who was off duty, put o his uniform. Together, they went to her door and knocked.
One of her brothers-in-law opened the door and told them to go away, that they were having a family meeting.
The three men ignored him and barged into the house. They said they were from the bank, that the late man owed millions in debt and they were there to pack his things.
Your name is Joy, and this is how you first learn uncertainty.
It starts when you're seven years old and Uncle Amaasi pulls you onto his lap. You can feel his erection, and even though you're not old enough to know what it is, you're aware enough to be uncomfortable.
The next time he comes to visit, you tell him you don't like him and don't want to sit on his lap. Your parents are surprised; they say you are rude and ask you to apologise to your uncle. They even demand that you sit on his lap to show that your apology came from your heart.
The next time you hear you're rude, is when that grown man toasts you by the roadside, at age thirteen. You don't know how old he is, but you can tell by his beard and prominent muscle tone, that he is far, far older than the boys in your school.
School of Health Technology, somewhere in Sokoto State.
The Lecturer 1 hands over a list to the new Lecturer 2 who will be teaching Global Health and Health Promotion to the school's 300 Level students. The list has the names the 409 students she'll be teaching.
She walks into the class, greets and introduces herself. Then she writes UNICEF and WHO on the board and asks for the meanings of these acronyms. Her question is met with blank stares and head shakes. She repeats the question. The reactions are the same as before. She's stunned.
One of the students raises his hand.
"Malama," he says, "I will interpret. They don't hear you. Ba turenci."
He become her de facto interpreter and course rep, translating her English to Hausa. But his English leaves much to be desired. There are many words he can't interpret.