glint, Short Fiction

Funsho Olododo

 

If you look beyond the black noise of ceremonies of burial, he would be knee-deep in nearby headstones, staring on in dead-eared silence and chewing on boli & epa. He’s a slim man, one would call him thin until they saw him move – which he barely did. He often stands until the coffins key into the grave and are covered in tears and siftings of red soil, moist humus and carpets of grass. Then, he is gone. One moment, there is a man in a black buba and sokoto with a grey moustache and red cap looking on at the grieved with clear eyes, the next, he is gone.

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glint, Short Fiction

For Stupid King After Flood

Twelve retches in the dark; something cold and slippery crawls up the inside of your throat. Aquamarine scales glisten in the half-light and a tentacled head worships as you pull it out of your mouth. A child laughs in the corner as you sob from relief, calls you stupid, walks to pull you by the ear with surprising strength, over rusted metal, out into blinding sun. A handful of gold cubes are tossed after you. They all manage to clatter against your skull.
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Musings, Short Fiction

Busola Orange Juice.

The emptied bottles of this drink are labelled by the use of strips of white exercise-book paper cellotaped to used eva water bottles. Handwritten with a fading Bic in overt cursive is “Busola Orange Juice”. Those who have bought and tasted of this juice say the girl who sold it to them was a slim thing of about twelve. She is blacker than wet roads and too quiet for their liking. The men who tried to touch her inappropriately as she bent down to pick up the juice, say their hands had barely come close to her waist or yansh when they felt a sense of doom lift their stomachs. It was, they say, as if their entire beings were warning them that they were about to put their hand inside a pit of snakes. One woman who thought Busola beautiful enough to be her housegirl had put her palm on her shoulder and experienced the feeling of leaning too far into an empty well. Busola sold her curious drink to exactly a score of Lagosians.

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Short Fiction

We Ate The Passionfruit

He met her in a storm.

The thunder had bellowed and thrown a tantrum across dark skies. Day had turned to night swiftly and Lagos remained relentlessly bustling. Cars and buses still zoomed by, blackish blurs in grey dimness. He had run as fast as he could to the nearest piece of dry land, because the sky had opened up just as he had hopped off a particularly rickety danfo filled with otherworldly fishmongers and a talky driver. Job hunting was a bitch, they had told him they would call back but he knew better. So he ran through the deluge into the giant iron canopy of a filling station where others shivered and stared at the angry skies, God was putting on a performance that was far from amusing. Lightning forked and split across the sky in blue hot streaks, and even though he braced and held every muscle in his body still, the coming thunder still made his bones vibrate with an odd fear. The lightning was supposed to be scarier — it was fast hot hungry electrons looking for flesh to devour — but in the end it was the roar of the heavens that made him cower.

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