The Arts-Muse Fair

One Hundred Tales by Ogechukwu Samuel ------ I still regret using one of those biros to write stories, a hundred tales. I still regret discovering the power that flows from the mind through these biros. No, I'm not talking of writing great books and charming the reader with words, I'm talking of magic, of how true the saying "the pen is mightier than the sword" is. 2049, before father died, he showed me a box filled with twenty biros and told me "some things are better left untouched" as he looked at the box like it were Pandora's box. I nodded, of course, itching to write with the beautiful biros. After father's death, I gave one to my childhood friend, Magnus, and we proceeded to write many stories with these biros discovering that the ink wouldn't dry up. I remembered the legend of the papyrus, how biros were made to connect with the human mind by the gods and bring great power to writers who were revered back then. The ink

A man squats by the edge of the house, hands working as fast as they can. Hands working iron against concrete slab. He is etching the words as fast as he can, etching them as deep as his will: here lies a man w - just then, a scream is heard from inside the house. He dashes into the house. … 1. He began to board public buses, ditching his neatly tailored suits for khaki trousers and large formless shirts. He grew out his beard and began to dye his graying hair black. He knew the Federal Agency for Idea Dispersion and Control would be tracking him. He was trying to hide from them. They had emailed him on the first day of the year to remind him that it was his speculated year of death. They had ended the email with: thanks for your prospective cooperation . He had seen what happened to people who tried to die with their ideas. That Saturday evening in his Enugu home as he and his wife watched the news; reporters from all the news networks in the country sticking microphon

If you had stayed until you turned six, you would have witnessed the birth of Adanne- Small and soft in her toes and her fingers and lips too. You would have smiled when your mother say; “Nna, play with her na… she’s your sister”. You would have watched her grow like trees—strong and beautiful, and eventually get married like others do. You would have gone to same school with her and it would have been her who will tell you that the black girl with plump butt and long hair in her faculty is Chika and that she doesn't do boys. You would have been handsome. Of course your father was handsome. He had sparse gray hair sprinkled among the black ones. You would have caught girls in the web of your mouth. But you would’ve also been into guys too but on a low-key. Your sister would have been the only one who knew this about you. She would be the one you will tell about your first experience with Kosi when you went for Youth Service in Taraba. She would have asked how it felt and y

He remembers it this way – shoving his hands as far as possible and watching helplessly as they fail to find purchase. She'd uttered no sound through the descent, merely cutting through 12 feet of conditioned air like an ambitious swan that caught cold. No panic-induced falsetto. No frantic attempts. It was sudden and swift; a solemn acquiescence. And it was the suddenness that provoked him into panic, which provoked reactions – impulsive and unthinking – that led him here. But presently, with faculties yoked by fear, and a shifting focus, his reaction is least of his troubles. He cannot unravel the past minutes. Did she trip? Tipple over? Clarity eludes him. And being trapped in a gridlock doesn't help. He sighs. His mind is sacked by hysteria, enough for him to repeatedly run tremulous hands through his closely-cropped hair, enough to smack his forehead in reproof. His ecstatic grunts. Her bucking body. The horror of a beautifully yellow face transitioned

With a cup of cold tea in her trembling hands, Zaenab parked herself on the edge of the only upholstered piece of furniture in Bulabulim Ngarnam Police Station. Her whole body vibrated, though unusually hot-tempered was the Sun that day. “Hi there, how are you doing?” a voice said. She ignored it. “Whenever you are ready ... please, we would like to know all that happened,” the same voice continued. It was Officer Danladi, the one she ran to for safety just an hour earlier. She must have been focusing so hard on trying to regain control of her body that she was unaware he had taken a seat beside her. ‘All that happened,’ she thought to herself and sighed. Then, as though time had moonwalked a bit in reverse, she became overwhelmed with fear. And thoughts. And sounds. She smelt the odour of gasoline evenly distributed in the car. And she could feel her belly aching from the device tightly fixed upon it.   It was the beginning of the