Short Stories



Between the earth and sky above, nothing can match a Grandmother’s love.

Continue reading “NNE NNE”


“Send me a short story you’ve written recently”

“I do not write anymore”

“If you could write what would you write about?”


If I could write…
Continue reading “IF I COULD WRITE – PART 1”


Be graceful. Be elegant. Be modest. Never make waves. How one girl learned the rules for happiness—and how to break them 

By Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Originally posted at

Near and Dear: Front row, the author at age eight in Nigeria, 1985, with her immediate family: two sisters, three brothers and, bookending the group, her father and mother.

I first knew there was such a thing as blue mascara because of Aunty Chinwe.
Continue reading “THE FEMININE MISTAKE”


First of all, I want to thank my ROOMMATE and DEAREST FRIEND, Chinelo Nwangwu, for getting me this book.

Thing is, I was supposed to get this book for her, as a birthday gift. But for some reasons I couldn’t get it, I got her a different book. And Thank God I didn’t get it for her, because, when I got to the room, I told her about it, she said she had read it before.

Few days after THE BOOK BUYING, I went through a very “emosh” time and CHINELO got me the book, to get my mind of the issue. I’m glad she did. You should see what she wrote inside. I wish you could. Lol. Continue reading “SAY YOU’RE ONE OF THEM”

My Mother. My Hero.


To describe my mother would be to write about a hurricane in its perfect power. Or the climbing, falling colors of a rainbow. – American poet, Maya Angelou.


I love photography. I love capturing beautiful moments. And the above picture is just one of those beautiful moments.

You see, I came from a family of five girls and a boy, a closely knit one. However, we all dread my father – In a good way though. Silence reigns supreme whenever he is at home. We do not talk anyhow when Daddy is around. Your words should be well calculated and spoken with grace. We fear, respect and adore my father.

Unfortunately, we relegate Mum to the background. We take her for granted and we are of the opinion that she is there to do everything; and by everything, I mean every single thing; but we do not dread Mother. With Mum, you can say whatever the hell you want to say. You can tell Mum about the stupid teachers you have and the grammatical errors they make. I will not forget to mention the fact that Mum is a TEACHER in CHURCH and in the Government Secondary School just across the street.

Back to when this picture was taken, my siblings had just arrived home for mid-term break and had this science assignment called “Electrolysis”. I’m the first child and I told them strictly not to bother me with it.
(Please I have no interest in SCIENCE but I LOVE TECHNOLOGY).

They had so many assignments and had no idea on how to begin. Mum had already spent the past few hours in helping them mold the fine art assignment.

It was Friday, Electrolysis had to be submitted and Mummy had said she was tired; but her twin babies were so frustrated. They had tried everything possible, called on all friends for help yet the electrolysis wasn’t electrolyzing (Whatever that means).

Anyway, my Mum decided to give it a try and alas! The diffusion and reaction and all the science-ish started happening. It was just like magic. It was at that moment I knew my mum was a HERO and the above picture was taken.

Meanwhile, my Dad kept saying repeatedly “Hope you people have done your assignments o. Pack your things and get ready to go to school on Saturday”; with no idea of the feat his darling wife had achieved in the afternoon.

I remember this incident when I had a “boil”* in my right eye. It was so big and embarrassing. So I called my Dad who immediately sent money for me to get antibiotics that sold for #3000. In my head, I am like “If I hear say I buy medicine for 3k”. I was already looking forward to buying the pill that costs #150.00. When Dad called that evening I told him I had bought it [The lie was necessary].

THE next morning, Mama called and said “Chichi, I know you’ve not bought that drug. I know you! You know you can’t deceive me”. I was so shocked that I burst into laughter. My mum joined me in laughing and with no hesitation; I went to buy the medication.

Being a mother is not an easy task. In fact, most times I have these random thoughts in my head, “being a mum is scary, can I cope? Guess I will have just one child to make things easier”.
A mother always knows her child. This is the point where I quote Rudyard Kipling – “God could not be everywhere, and therefore he made mothers.”

I love my dad too. I could die for him. But Mum, this is for you.

 Ada gi. (That’s the Igbo word for FIRST DAUGHTER).


When Obianuju had first arrived Ibadan, she felt like she was thrown back to the 18th Century. Most houses were in a deplorable state and looked like they would collapse even if they were gently poked: the elderly; haggardly looking and unkempt. She tried to recall seeing such in Owerri, Umuahia or even Port Harcourt but there was no memory of such a sight. Her good friend, Bisi will later tell her of how the Westerners still had older natives because they were in no means, affected by the Biafran war.Another strange sight were the Hijab wearing ladies. Her only opinion of Hausas were the “aboki” men and mallams who sold petty items in the shacks along her street. For 3 months, She had refused to enter the same cab as any Hijab wearing girl and had missed an important test in the bid to board a cab that did not have a Hijab wearing lady as its passenger. Her fascination and irritation at the tribal marks that criss-crossed many faces made her question the sanity of the parents who had carried out such rituals in order to make their children unique. “Odiegwu!”. However, she wrote a paper about scarification and beautification; using her GES lecturers as case studies. 

She never understood the Yoruba delicacies however She would tell Nonye, her roommate “why on earth will someone call soup, stew and stew, soup. Arrgh”. She never understood why anyone will eat an egg with soup instead of a piece of meat. She noticed how they marveled when they saw her pot of soup and kept on reveling on her addition of seafood as well. In her mind, she pitied them and their lack of delicacies. Once when she had gotten to get her clothes from the line, a girl asked her if a snail and a periwinkle were the same thing. Immediately, Obianuju made up her mind not to fall in love with a yoruba boy. Marriage was not even an option.

She always hated it when her roommates assumed every light-skinned male or one with an “irregular” head was Igbo. What particularly annoyed her was when Ronke, another roommate,  had insinuated that the reason why Igbos added leaves to their soups was because they had no choice than to eat any kind of leaf during the Biafran war; but that was not the case and was particularly hilarious. She also hated the fact that Folake, her housemate, whilst giving a presentation in class, made a reference to Igbo drug sellers as “fake drug marketers”. Thank goodness, her lecturer immediately corrected Folake. She re-called screaming at her neighbour, “I don’t kneel or prostrate to greet, that doesn’t make me rude”.
Her friends all thought she was tribalistic but she thought otherwise, she was going through what her anthropology professor had called “culture shock” and was yet to recover. 

She had just eaten at the Tedder Hall cafeteria and proceeded to the counter to collect her change. It was at this moment that she lost her cool when the lady said “hmmm, Omo Igbo”. She immediately wished that UNN accepted her. That night, she  dreamed of UNN where she saw herself eating a big wrap of Okpa. 



How softly the rain fell that Monday morning when my water broke. Because I was used to the raging downpours of Lagos, this quiet patter calmed me, filled me with peace. My husband Omoregie was at work and so our neighbor took me to the hospital, my dress slightly damp, my heart full of expectation. My firstborn child.

The nurse on duty was Sister Chioma, a woman with an unsmiling face who liked to crack sharp-tongued jokes. During my last check up, when I complained about the backache brought on by my pregnancy, her retort was, “Did you think about backache when you were enjoying it?”
She checked my cervix and told me it was early. She encouraged me to walk up and down the ward.

“You must be happy that your first is a boy,” she said.

I shrugged. “As long as the baby is healthy.”

“I know you are supposed to wait until he is born to decide on a name but I’m sure you already have something in mind,” she said.

“I will name him Olikoye.”

“Oh.” She paused. “I didn’t know your husband was Yoruba.”

“He’s not. We’re both Bini.”

“But Olikoye is a Yoruba name.”

“Yes it is.”

“Why?” she asked. My contractions were slow. I told Sister Chioma to sit down and I would tell her the story.

My father’s first child was a girl. He said she was a loud squalling baby who grasped his finger with surprising strength, and he knew it meant she would be tough. But she died at the age of four months. The second, a boy, was not yet four months old before he died. Some people from my father’s family said my mother was a witch, eating her children, trading their innocent hearts in exchange for her own long life. But, at that time, other babies in our village in Edo were dying too. They got sick with watery shit and weak eyes. Some people said the diarrhea was punishment from God. The Christians prayed in church. The Muslims prayed at the mosque. The old people performed sacrifices. Still, babies died, and their tiny still bodies were wrapped in cloth and buried, and it seemed senseless that they had even been born at all.

It was 1985. My father was working as a driver at the Ministry of Health. He was in the general pool, a lowly position. One day, he picked up a visiting dignitary from the airport, dropped him at his hotel, and then discovered, lodged in the back seat of the car, a thick envelope of cash that had slid out of the man’s bag. He returned it immediately. The man was so pleased — and surprised—that he told the new Minister of Health about it. Two days later, the new Minister asked for my father. “I want you to be my driver,” The Minister said. “I value honesty.”

The Minister’s name was Dr. Olikoye Ransome-Kuti. He had big sleepy eyes and seemed to come from another time in the past when old-fashioned integrity was easy. His simplicity surprised my father. He was not interested in the usual carousing of the powerful, no late nights and drinking and trysts, and my father did not have to guard any secrets for him. He ate breakfast with his family every morning, and took walks with his wife in the evening, and played tennis with his children on weekends. He listened attentively, those half-closed eyes so intent that my father, at first, felt uncomfortable when they were trained on him.

The Minister asked my father about his family, and my father told him everyone was fine. The Minister asked how many children he had, and my father said none yet, but that his wife was pregnant and due in a few weeks. (My mother as pregnant with me.) Then the minister asked a question that startled my father. “How many of your children have died?”

My father stuttered and said, “Two, sir, but we are praying that it will not happen again.” The Minister told him it was good to pray, but there was something else he had to do. “Our children are dying of simple illnesses and that must stop. I want you to take me to your village. I have started a program in Lagos but I want to start others in different parts of the country. We will go to your village next week.” It took my heavy-tongued father a while to find his voice and say, “Yes sir.”

In my father’s village, the Minister walked around with his assistants, meeting people and asking them questions and listening to them. He showed women how to mix sugar and salt and clean water to give their children who had diarrhea and he told them about washing their hands with soap and he told them the Universal Primary Health Care center would be open in a month. Once it was open, every baby would receive vaccines.

He showed them photographs of bright-eyed babies in Lagos and he told them immunizations were like small precious gifts for babies. They cheered and clapped. In the eyes of the villagers, my father was a star. No minister had ever come to them before.

Who even knew that our small village existed? But my father kept telling them that he had done nothing, that it was the minister who insisted on coming. Years later, when my father told me the story, I could still see his eyes full of things I could not name.

“The Minister treated all of us like human beings,” he said. “Like human beings.”

It took mere moments. A baby’s small open mouth and a drop of liquid. A baby’s warm arm and a small injection. It took that to save the lives of the babies born that year in my village, and in the villages around us and those far from us, in Calabar and Enugu and Kaduna. It took that to save my life. I was born in 1986. I often tried to imagine myself being immunized, in my mother’s arms, in the new clinic the minister built. Women filled the passages. The treatment was free. At the other end was the family planning unit where nurse was talking to a roomful of women, sometimes making jokes that made them laugh. My mother joined them.

Years later, she told me that the reason I did not die was that small injection in my arm, but the reason I was able to go to school was family planning. My sister was born two years after me, and my brother two years after her, and my mother remembered the words of the family planning nurse who told her to “have the number of children that you can train well. Otherwise you will not be able to train even one of them well.”

Because of the Minister, my father came to know Nigeria well. The Minister went to other interior villages and towns, and my father drove him through the flat roads of the North and the undulating roads of the south. He followed the Minister to the clinics, watched him speaking, gesticulating, explaining, cutting ribbons to open health centers.

Everywhere they went, people followed the Minister. Some just wanted to touch him, to shake his hands. Others brought gifts. “No, no,” the minister said to my father, when he saw the yams and plantains and chickens. “Give it back to them. Tell them that they should keep it for me.”

I first met the Minister when I was six years old. I was in Primary One, and my father told him I came first in class and the Minister asked him to bring me to his house. I expected to wait in the kitchen, and felt awkward to be asked into the living room, into the sinking softness of the carpet and the smell of clean and new things. He appeared with his wife, both of them smiling. They gave me a book. A Childs Illustrated Book About The Body.

“Thank you, sir, thank you, ma,” I said, holding the book tighter than I had ever held anything in my young life.

Sister Chioma was squeezing my hand.

“So you knew him personally,” she said. “I finished nursing school the year he was appointed Minister.”

Her tone was different, less flat, more emotional. It was then I noticed that Sister Chioma, unsmiling, hard Sister Chioma, had tears in her eyes.

“It was because of Olikoye Ransome-Kuti that so many people in Nigeria did not die,” she said quietly, and I knew she had her own story about the Minister. Perhaps she would tell me the story later, or perhaps she would not, but it pleased me that we had a story in common.

“He was the best health minister this country has ever had,” she said, standing up and hastily wiping her eyes. My contractions were now shorter and sharper. Sister Chioma said it was perhaps time to push, and she got up to call the doctor.

Outside the rain continued to fall gently until Olikoye was born.

This story originally appeared in The Art of Saving a Life, a collection of stories about how vaccines continue to change the course of history, commissioned by the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation.

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.

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