Weekend Specials

THE THRILL (part 1) I locked the door of the goat shed, not like it was worth locking. The wood was old and mold of different shades grew from it. One kick and the door would give way. But no one would dare. No one would dare steal Ibi-orubo’s goats. I swatted a mosquito, satisfied to see the blood on my leg. Glad I killed the pesky thing. How dare it perch on me, to drink its fill? Blood is hard to come by, and I certainly have none to spare. If anything, I need some blood myself. I turn towards the house, and heave a sigh of relief. Someone has lit the kerosene lanterns. That someone was obviously my mother, I would get an earful for not lighting them on time. A chore I hate for no reason. But I was already expecting an earful. An earful for not coming out to greet my buyers properly earlier today. I walk slowly, wishing Ibi-orubo had stayed a little longer at the church meeting she had gone for, then I would have been on my bed and pretended to sleep when she came back. But my bags were packed already, for tomorrow. Tomorrow I would be paraded like a carnival, to my buyers. Paraded by girls I really don’t care to know, while my mother pretended to cry at my departure. A departure she has been looking forward to since I turned 18. Took ten years to come, ten years in which she told me to go out and search. You need a husband. Go out like your mates and get one. Had been her mantra.. Sometimes I wondered if she was going to hand me a flashlight to use for my search in the dark. I met them all, but always in the dark. Finally, I didn’t find.. but Ibi-orubo did. She came home one day, beaming like hen with twelve eggs. She whispered to father, and summoned me from my chores. You are getting married. They are coming tomorrow, for the knocking of door. You must accept them. You must not say no…. this is your last chance, you must say yes tomorrow. They came and I said yes, and they kept coming, till everything was settled. I am getting married. I didn’t ask any questions, I only peeped from my window, hoping it was not a hunch back, or an old old man, or a man with tummy bigger than that of a pregnant goat. I didn’t ask questions. Don’t drag your feet like that…. Come in and help me pack these things for tomorrow. Ibi-orubo said from the doorway. I walked past her into the living room where all kinds of cooking utensils were littered. I was supposed to be going to my buyers like a five star general in the kitchen and these were my ammunition. The pestles would be useful. I walked into my room, adjusting my wrapper while my mother called my name. I sat in my small bed, facing the door. Maybe tomorrow I would sleep on a bigger bed. If the bed was as small as mine, then I would sleep on the floor. I perceived her scent, a mixture of cam wood and Shea butter. As long as I can remember, Ibi-orubo always smelled of Shea butter. “Don’t frown your face like that. It brings bad luck” she said to me, standing in the doorway. Tomorrow, would be a happy day, you would have your own home and give me many children to bath. Come let us gather your things. Your life has just begun. As I lay on my bed, I wondered how I had to live for 28years before my life began. I had to toil in school, get a secretarial certificate, which had been useless so far. I even had to attend computer classes to learn to type with Microsoft word. And yet my life had not begun. I watched a gecko roam across my ceiling, if this was tomorrow, I would make him kill the gecko. I would make sure he stands up from his sleep and kill it. But this was not tomorrow, so I watched the gecko. Mrs Tumini Alabere. I turned the name around in my head, hating the sound of it. Why did I have to change my name. Tumini Wariso sounded so much better. One more thing I hate about my buyers. Their name….. with that, I tried to sleep. Everybody had left minutes ago, leaving him and I alone. The silence was deafening, and I concentrated on counting how many spots were on the walls. So far it might be 23 or 27, and not a word had been spoken. He was looking towards the door, and I wondered if he wanted to run out of the house. I studied his features, and wondered how many girls had turned him down before me. If I had dared to not listen to Ibi-orubo, and turned down his offer, would I have been number 23 or 27? I had looked at him from my window, those days when they came around, to see if he had any defect. But he didn’t have any that I could point out. Then I listened, to hear if he stuttered, but he spoke fluent English. Then why did his people have to pick a wife for him? I had asked myself so many times. Then Ibi-orubo told me he had studied French in a university in London, and had been to Germany and m any other countries. He is in Linguist, she had said proudly. Inwardly I laughed at the way the word rolled from her tongue…. Linguist. There must be something wrong with him…or else why would he marry a stranger? If he had read so many books, why did they have to pick a wife for him? Maybe he didn’t want to marry because he was a linguist. I should ask him that one day. But not today. Right after I ask him why he needed to learn so many languages, and why learn French in London. Wouldn’t France be a better place to learn French? Or even Togo or Benin. “Would you like to take a bath?” he asked me startling me out of my thoughts I nodded my head yes… anything to get away from the silence. Then he stood up, and motioned for me to follow him and down a corridor we went, stopping at a door, he motioned for me to go in. Everything you need would be in there he said and turned to leave hesitantly. I looked at his frame as he walked away… was that a limp I detected? Maybe that was his defect. But I wasn’t sure it was a limp. I entered the room that had everything I need, and was glad to see that the bed was large. I wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor tonight. My suitcases had been stacked by a wall, and apart from the bed and the suitcases, the room looked empty. I went to the wardrobe, and opened it. Hoping that I could learn about my husband from his clothes. The wardrobe was empty. I went to the door leading to the bathroom and opened it. It was rather large, and I looked up at the ceiling, hoping to see a gecko that he would kill, there was none. On the wall was a mirror, and a shelf under it. On it there were different kinds of feminine products. I counted three types of bar soap, only one was familiar. There was a big bottle of bathe wash, then a tube that said things about gentle fragrances and mists. It read feminine wash. I had never used a feminine wash, does it mean my husband cannot use it? Would it make him any less masculine? Three big rolls of tissue paper, all different and all unopened and one promised to be scented. Why would I need scented tissues, there was nothing nice about the uses of tissue paper in the toilet, so why does it have to be scented? I opened it, and took a sniff. The scent didn’t make any difference. Tissue paper is tissue paper and when I use the toilet, the stench would spread throughout the toilet, maybe the house…. Scented tissue or not. I would wait till he was out of the house, to use the toilet. I came out of the room an hour later, and met him seated in the living room. I had bathed, and worn a gown. I was not going to wear any of the night gowns Ibi-orubo bought for me. I also made sure I wore panties under my dress. Those old women who ranted out advices to me earlier today, would grieve at my flat disobedience. I sat down, staring at him, just yesterday I was thinking of how I would cope, and now I have a husband. Albeit one I didn’t want or need. I wondered if he expected me to cook for him. Then he stood up, and walked out of the living room. I sighed, and relaxed in the chair. He came in bearing a tray, which contained a large plate of steaming jollof rice and big chunks of meat. I wondered when he cooked the food. My mother brought us this food. Tomorrow we would go back to Lagos, then you can start cooking. He kept the tray down, and I noticed two spoons. I am supposed to eat from the same plate with him. I hate eating from the same plate with people. Some eat and drop food from their mouth back into the plate. I felt like making a partition on the plate, but I drew an invisible line, and prayed he didn’t cross it. He picked up a spoon and started eating, without saying a prayer. I wonder what Ibi-orubo would say, if she knew my husband ..the husband she had gotten for me…didn’t have the sense to pray before eating. The meal was finished, and I took the tray into the kitchen. I washed them at the sink, and went back into the sitting room. He was still seated there. I hope my husband wasn’t what my father calls a couch potato. If he was, I would have to return him. Couch potatoes never get anything done. Father always said. I walked back down the corridor, and into the room. Some minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Are you ready to go to bed? He asked standing at the door. I nodded Yes. We would be leaving for Lagos tomorrow with a ten O’clock flight. We have to be at the airport by 9 O’clock. I turned to look at him, but he was gone. I sat on the bed, in the quiet of the room. The ceiling fan labored in the dense atmosphere, and a cricket cricked somewhere close. I wondered what part of the bed I should sleep in. I lay down, and covered myself with the very heavy duvet. No doubt one of the things he brought from his numerous journeys. It is too heavy for the Nigerian weather, I hoped he wouldn’t expect me to wash it. I lay on the bed, listening to the clock tick. I didn’t want to be asleep when he came into the room. I followed the sounds of his movements through the house, then I heard a door slam. All was quiet. I stood by the taxi, while he loaded my suitcases into it, wondering where all my kitchen ammunition would fit into. When all my suitcases were in the boot, he went in and brought out a small black bag. Then he shut the boot. I stood there, looking at him. Where are all my other things? I asked him. He looked at me puzzled. What things, he seemed to ask. The things for my kitchen…..the things I brought with me when I came. Then he rumbled in laughter. That is the first time I heard him laugh. Then he unceremoniously informed her that me nicks and nacks as he called them, had no place in his kitchen in Lagos. You would have everything you need there. I looked at the shut door, tempted to insist on bringing all my properties. I turned around, and walked back into the house. I needed just one item, a small pestle. I came out bearing my ammunition, and I could see the laughter in his eyes. I simply ignored him, and got into the car wielding my pestle. to be continued

THE THRILL (part 2) The drive to the airport was long and uneventful. We were silent through the journey, and my mind fleeted between wondering what he was thinking about, and when would be the best time to inform him that I have never gotten on an airplane. I was woken up by a soft shove, I didn’t even know I had dozed off. When it was time for takeoff, I squeezed her hands so hard, he let out a loud yelp dragging the attention of people around us, but I didn’t let go. That was the second time we had bodily contact. The first time being during the payment of my bride price, when I had to give him wine from a cup. Our fingers had brushed. After two days of being in Lagos, I decided that I didn’t like the city. There were too many people, and although we stayed in a quiet pat of the town, I could feel the vibrations of the people all around. I also decided that I did not like Lagos people. The first day we got to our house, it was like a well had vomited its contents, for the amount of people that flooded the house. They came in twos and threes, laughing and smiling, congratulating my husband and looking me over like a prized cow. The women giggled, with their faces in masks of blue, red and purple. I smiled in return, and nodded my head and gave them more drinks. My husband had an endless supply. He even taught me how to pronounce their names correctly. No it’s not cognac…. It is pronounced konyak. I shook my head, and served more drinks. By the time they left, had a pile of dishes to wash, and a messy house to clean. Indeed I hate Lagos people. My husband never lifted a finger to help with the chores. At the end of the day, he walked out of the door, for more drinks with his friends. I hate Lagos. I laid on my bed, awaiting my husband’s arrival as usual. I looked at the time, it was past midnight. We didn’t share a bed, but I never went to sleep until I was sure he was back from wherever it is he went every night. I wondered when I would be able to fully understand him. Every morning, when I wake up he would be on the dining table poring through books, barely four hours after he came back home. One morning, after he left for work, there was a knock on the door. I opened it, and there before me was one of those Lagos women. I told her my husband was not around, but she informed me that she was here to see me. The smell of whatever concoction she had dabbed herself with, overpowered our surroundings. She smiled too broadly, showing the pink chewing gum she had in her mouth. She stood before me, clearly expecting to be let into the house. I recognized her as one of the brood of women that had invaded my home the first night I was here. I moved aside, and she swayed in with the side to side movements of a centipede. I shut the door, and followed her into the sitting room, watching her sway her big buttocks from side to side like a baboon. She took a seat, albeit in my favourite spot and I ignored that, taking a spot closer to her. “Hmm.. our wife…” she began, in a sarcastic manner. Then she proceeded to give me the usual amebo nosy neighbours see as their obligation. Who to avoid, who is the neighborhood husband snatcher, who likes my husband, who and who have slept with my husband, who and who would not mind having a piece of him. An endless litany. I sat there, listening to her go on and on, and it occurred to me that she would go on forever, if I let her. “Marima by the way. My name is Marima” she said mid sentence, realizing that she had not introduced herself. I smiled in response, obviously she assumed she knew my name. But if what she was pronouncing was anything to go by, she didn’t. About two hours after she knocked on my door, Marima finally left. I shook my head behind her. My fellow bored housewife. That is what I have become wasn’t it. I slammed my door shut, once again mad at Ibi-orubo for pulling me out of the life I knew and wanted. For two weeks, I lived with my husband as though he were my brother. We didn’t share a bed, and neither did we share anything intimate. Then one night, I listened closely when he came in and I heard a second set of footsteps. I climbed down from my bed, and listened with my ears to the door. Sure enough, there was someone else with him in the house. I opened my door, and walked towards his room where they had entered. I stood outside for a couple of minutes, before opening the door. Before me, was my husband unclad. The very first time I was seeing my husband unclad, and he had an equally unclad woman wrapped around him. They froze in shock, breathing deeply. I smiled and turned around and went into my room, I searched under the bed for my pestle. I grabbed it, and went back to his room. They were right where I left them, whispering quietly. The girl tried to cover her bushy mound with her palms, but that left her breasts bare, she was confused as to which was more important to be covered. When they sighted my weapon, the girl shrieked. My husband stood up, pushing her behind him. I stood by the door, and motioned for her to get out. She looked at my husband with fear filled eyes. “Get out now” I screamed with rage. She scampered out of the room, low to the ground. My husband looked at me, with shock on his face. I turned around, and went back into my room, without a word. The next morning, all was quiet and we carried on as usual. Nobody said a word concerning “you know what”. That day was a market day, so I went to the rowdy market, and bought some items for food. When my husband came back there was a sumptuous meal for him. He ate in silence, while I watched. That night, when he went out as usual, he didn’t come back in until dawn, when he came in for a change of clothes, before heading out to work. That day, I paid a visit to Marima. She was elated. I sat down, and listened to her for a long time. With a little prodding, she told me all there was to know about Clara, my husband’s mistress. Marima knew a lot. I walked back home, with a plan in my head. I knew all I needed to know, to do what needed to be done. For the first time since I came to Lagos, I had a purpose. One rule I always had, was to give people a chance… a choice, to make them create their own path. I intended to give Clara that same opportunity, Just as Ibi-orubo taught me. When I came out of the bathroom that night, I stood in front of a mirror, staring at my reflection. I thought about the nimble and supple body of my husband’s mistress. I had an even better body, of course I can be biased. I thought about what Marima had told me, and I was even more determined to give myself a chance. I didn’t come to Lagos, to be a trophy wife, or a naive village wife. I am his wife, and no matter how much he loves his mistress, he must give me my respect. How could he think that I tumini, would be his baby making machine, if he truly loved her, he would have married her, in spite of her inability to give him a child. I must give my marriage a chance. The next morning, I boarded a bus armed with the directions to Clara’s house. When I got there, I knocked on her door and she opened it. Her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets upon seeing me. “What do you want here?” she asked me menacingly. I smiled, and in the most polite tone I could muster, told her I was there to reach an understanding with her. She laughed at me, calling me a village scarecrow. She told me that my husband belonged to her, and that she alone tells him what to do, I stood there, while she rained abuses on me, telling me that she would be the one to raise my children in my husband’s house. With each word she uttered, she sealed her fate. I smiled, turned around and left her house. My husband came home furious but I was ready. He slammed the door of the living room, screaming “Where is that woman?” he was shocked to find me on the floor, shaking like a hen under the rain. He stopped in his tracks, kneeling by me and touching me all over, asking me what was wrong with me. I mumbled something incoherent, as he lifted me from the ground, and took me into my room. He sat by me for about an hour, after giving me some medicine from my drawer, then I pleaded with him to go and have his supper, which was already on the dining table. Two hours later, I quietly removed his hands from my body, while snored softly on my bed. Then I got off the bed, and made him more comfortable. It was time. I walked towards her house, making sure none of her neighbours were watching. I had gotten off the bus I entered two streets away. I carried a bag that seemed heavier than it had been initially. I tried the door handle, and it was open. I entered a lavish sitting room. Too lavish for a single girl. “Baby you are late” she called from somewhere I assumed was the kitchen. I walked towards her voice. She turned around, from the counter top she was cleaning. “What are you doing here?” she asked me in shock. I smiled, and walked towards her. I pressed the cloth to her mouth, just as she made to scream. She slumped like a rag doll. Fifteen minutes later, I splashed some water on her face, causing her to jerk into consciousness. I had tied her to a chair from her dining. Her mouth was gagged, and she widened her eyes, wondering what was going on. “I gave you a choice…..this is your choice” I took my eight inches knife, and drew a line across her face from cheek to cheek. Blood spilled out slowly. I smiled, delighting in the feel of the blood on my palm, a feeling I have yearned for for so long. She struggled, in evident pain. I was just getting started. I had so much fun, carving her up and scaring her near perfect body. For every insult she had given to me earlier that day, I gave her a slash. When I ran out of insults, I gave her extra slashes because there were still some mark free spaces on her skin. She pleaded with her eyes, crying and mumbling. I paid no heed. I had a mission. It was over too soon, as she had a small frame. Then I began connecting the marks, with deep gashes. She tried toppling herself off the chair, but I am yet to see anyone who can loosen my knots save my teacher of course. I thought of Ibi-orubo, wondering what she would say if she knew what I was doing at that very moment. She had warned me to be careful, to control my urges, but she had not known that my husband would have a mistress had she? I removed her from my mind, concentrating on the task at hand. When I got tired of her, I finished it with a stab on her chest. I would have loved to go for her jugular, and feel the warmth of her blood on my face, but I didn’t need blood spewing all over the living room. She jerked around a bit like they always do, and then became still. I call it the final rumba. I meticulously carved her up piece by piece, putting her into my bag, after wrapping each piece with foil, to hold in what blood there was. It took me an hour, and an extra hour to clean the house. Then I picked up my bag, putting her mobile phone into the bag with her parts and walked out of the house. I walked for two streets, before hailing and boarding a bus. One thing I love about Lagos, the city never sleeps. Not so good for my hobby, but good enough to get lost in, and become anonymous if need be. The next morning, I opened my eyes, to see my husband staring at me. “How do you feel?” he asked, putting a hand to my temple. “Much better” I replied. That was two months ago, and I am back to being a bored house wife. Some days I wish my husband would get himself another willing mistress, just to get the thrill for the kill I knew I would have. But so far, he has disappointed me. We even share a room these days. He is actively trying to get me a baby, he thinks that would make my life less boring, whenever I complain. He is nursing the pain of a heart break secretly, Clara absconded with another man, great story don't you think? Spread courtesy Marima the grapevine. I know I would get another opportunity to enjoy the thrill, so I await. I know it won’t take so long, I know it is bound to happen sooner more than later. I await the thrill. I anticipate the kill. But for now, I am just the bored Lagos housewife. THE END Sorry for late posting guys. i was busy through out yesterday. i hope you will forgive me just like ewoma did ? :) happy sunday to you guys from ewomazeal and saintkenz :) :) :)

first to comment nice stories

intrestinG

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Nice story

lyk seriouly...did she kill d mistress??? nd went scott free??? tah

Interesting stories nice one

interesting

Dis woman get mind ooh.

Na wa oo she just killed clara and nothing happened nice one tho

she went too far sha o.....d tribal marks she gave clara would have just been enough to teach her a lesson

Interesting...kudos @ewomazeal & @saintkenz

The heat of Man is predominantly evil. Darryl turned to loving hearts against each other with deceits and lies. Brethren! Never be too quick to trust Man bcos they can be deadly. Thank God you paid attention to little details that mattered. Happy Sunday Y'all

Nice

Intresting i was lost in it

Jeeeeeezzzzz dat last story na wa oooooo... Wicked woman!!!! . . . I love it all

That's interesting

♥♡

Nice story

Wow, very nice

nice story, keep it up

Nice . . . What is the fate of Alexander and Alexandra when Darryl and his armies entered the battle arena

nice story

Oh my God ... Pacard

What a great story..

Nice stowie.....buh d kill???? Taaaaa!!!!! I fear you ooooo

Ok issorite.