Summary – This is an imaginative story about a Rwandan and Nigerian born called Nelson Sousa.
Directly or indirectly, the characters are in no way referred to any one at all, but 100% imaginative. If you like this post, I will write more.
African War Story
In the dark era of apartheid, Nelson Sousa was born in Nusenga to a Rwandan father and a Nigerian mother. After a childhood primary and secondary school education in Nigeria, enduring lost of civil wars and economical crisis, his family moved to Rwanda for a greener pasture and peaceful environment.
Facing the first scornful looking military personnel along the border sparked an awkward and scary sensation deep down their nerves. Rusty waste along the street, widowed women mourning loudly, hungry kids pulling the cloth of passerby, the Nelson’s family regretted a once happy decision.
With eyes filled with blood, little Nelson looked up to Dad and ask, “Papi Papi are we going to die? Why are people running like wild antelope like those in Kupentog forest?”, “Please answer me, I want to …” rapid gun fire filled the air. The dark angry Rwandans dread bands were on the move, robbing and carrying societal vices. Some looking so young, carrying heavy guns and leaves tied around their waist, they kept shooting mercilessly.
Grabbing Nelson and having his wife follow them closely, seemed a brilliant and safe idea. 15 minutes of zik zag running for safety, she dropped flat. She has being gunned down. Nelson watched his mum drop down like an antelope shot in the wild. Seeking safety beneath a truck, Nelson was faced with life reality. “Papi papi, look mami is dead” he said crying.
Seven (7) years later, Nelson lost his father due to stroke, he was now an orphanage in his homeland, making Rwanda the home of peace was his vision. From local school head to a community activist, he won the hearth of the masses and joined the country politics. Throw back to the memories of an African War Story .
Subsequently, after three (3) years of political struggle, he was assassinated by an unknown assassin. His death was acclaimed to be from the opposing party. Today, his written poem is stilled used to honor him for his courage and service to humanity.
This Is an African War story & it is associated with a poem. Click link below to read poem.
Mother or Murder – A Short Story
Just before the beginning of the 5th month since I missed my monthly flow, I had in mind to see a quack pharmacist along my street. I have planned to get it done earlier but my money was not up to what could even consult, left alone making things happen.
Uche has abandoned me after I complained of my slight headache during morning hours, and how dizzy my eyes turn at mid day. Although, I did not clearly state it to him that I’ve missed my monthly flow. I never wanted him to feel bad since he was preparing to sit for his final examinations. I just don’t know, maybe he was clever enough to figure out that this is all it has turned to be. Poor boy, I don’t blame him though, I made myself into this mess. I wish I could turn the hands of the clock, start it all again or maybe play very smart on that very night. Who could tell, maybe not that night? I am here all alone.
After saving every penny and dime I gathered from menial jobs and gifts from friends, I realised an encouraging amount to meet this young man. People have gone through him and they gave their remarkable stories, some are happily married with children, none could have figured an atom of unprofessionalism or being unethical for his practices.
He might be one with such God-giving gift or maybe he was so close to or might have worked with a professional medical expert who is a gynecologist. His knowledge in it is not common.
On a faithful Sunday, when my roomies have gone for a Sunday Service, I went to him, although he is an Adventist. He came to me, palpated my tommy, he smiled and looked into my eyes and called me MOTHER. Is he alright at all? Or does this young man knows his job or why I am here? I was pondering. He asked me if I’ve started feeling kicks from the baby, “which baby Oga?! I don’t know what you are talking oo, just remove this mess inside of me!” I slammed him in anger. He told me to come back the following day. I was likely to have test the following day but I had to set my priorities.
The following day came, I went to him towards evening. I got to his kiosk and we went down in an inner room. I felt the scissors through my opening as it measured my length under me. I felt the pains as if some sort of raw surgery was going under me. Seconds to minutes to hours passed, the pains were growing more severe that after he finished with me I couldn’t move my succulent butts or raise my curvy thighs. What pains have I pushed myself into? Oh God save me!, I cried. I stayed in his apartment till 11 p.m. when he was about to close. I managed through pains to get to my lodge.
My friends never got to know about the murder I’ve committed, this was a trauma I couldn’t out of it. I took pills prescribed by the pharmacist, regularly sit on boiled water. All for what? I asked myself what was my fate. I hated seeing myself close to babies as I vividly visualize my messy act. I stayed for weeks missing lectures and tests. I was ok at last and went back to my normal business but the trauma was so severe for me to bare.
Four months and some weeks after the abortion, my very first and last abortion, I vowed not to engage myself in such act again. I felt very sick, and I called my parents and they came and took me to a clinic, where I was admitted for three days. After a thorough diagnosis by the doctor, it was announced to my parents that I underwent a surgery and some sort of objects are left behind in my womb and it has been clotted within. This could be removed through surgery alone. I felt like strangling myself and wiping my shameful face away from the earth’s surface. After much pressure, I opened up to my parents. The pains written all over their faces was what I couldn’t describe. I failed them, failed younger ones, the ones who looked up to me and built hope. I brought shame to motherhood and embraced mediocrity for life.
Few weeks later, I had a successful surgery, and the unlucky me was declared to be medically barren as my uterus(womb) became shattered.
Now my sky is no longer blue, my sun has refused to rise. It has finally dawn on me that I’m hopeless.
From being a MOTHER with pride, though it would have been sauced with a little taste of shame. Now I’m a MURDERER WITH NO HOPE OF BECOMING A MOTHER IN MY ENTIRE LIFETIME.
#the choice is yours; Be a murderer or a mother.
Short Story: Fiction.
Hunger Send Kids Begging Amidst COVID-19 Pandemic – A Poor Apocalypse Tale
Your about reading a pitiable tale, get your emotions in tact, get your tears wiper nearby, hold your phone firmly, and please share this article too.
Don’t Forget To Read The Disclaimer 📖
With stomach protruded, palm hard like nut, a 13 years teen stretch her palm pleading, “Uncle abeg gimme 1 sugar, I won eat”. Only the devil could smile at a half blind girl, begging breakfast for dinner ……..
Welcome to ZKwako
With the COVID-19 Pandemic threat hitting African most metropolitan city, an indefinite ruled got passed for everyone to observe a self lock down and quarantining.
Undeniably sending millions behind doors and home bars, this is a story of a poor African community struggling for survival.
ZKwako a poor city boast of its dorminanc in poverty and daily death toil. A greater epidemic then Corona Virus rules – HUNGER.
On the coast of Lagos mainland bridge, a poor community built on stilts dwels. Far from land, poverty has pushed the families to the Lagoon mid unit.
Survival has being for the fittest, Fear from drowning grips the poor neighborhood and empty pots rattling in the air dominates the poor settlers music industry, the broadest smile showed no teeth – no joy was ZKwako nick name.
Dying while surviving inscribed on the only bill board reminded Walking dead survivors their fate.
Beyound The Boarders
Across the power lines lies a thousand poor wooden homes floating on water, zooming in, this is the story of ZKwako, a poor community with one leader – HUNGER.
After a Governmental order for stilts demolition, over 3000 persons roomed homeless. Poverty level heightened, death from hunger made survival game of thrones. Drinking the dirty salty water felt nourishing.
Pitiful, empty rattling empty pots made no magical meals of them, paddling my canoe, I got struck with a lot of heart stabbing realities.
With stomach protruded, palm hard like canel, a 13 years teen stretch her palm pleading, “Uncle abeg gimme 1 sugar, I won eat”, only the devil could smile at a half blind begging girl.
In a bid to help, stone throw was a kid groaning in pains, running to inquire, he has neither taste water nor food for for 48 hrs. Thinking of myself, I have only chewed 2 handful of Garri with the sour tasting river water.
Eyes up, they cloud turned dark, once happy family moaning in agony, a deadlier virus has struck.
A Deadlier Virus
Stirring my canoe further north ward, 7 kids frowned at me –”what’s wrong, I shouldn’t follow that road I ask?”… “Head shaking no response was ultered”.
Assumably, the elder kid face fell with tears, seconded by 6 kids silently before me. I felt like they were mourning my future death if I took that water routh.
Reversing to return west ward, one said -”Bloda dash us food”, amused I ask, “where mummy dey” ?
Standing at the door was an elderly lady with torn cloth, “we don drink Garri tire” she responded.
Blames on poor sensitization, a widow who already lost her husband to suicide after depression and 2 kids to hunger needs no blame at such point.
Returning to my well ragged corner beneath the bridge, I watched hundreds of homeless persons return to varying corners. Face pale, I was among the millions sleeping with an empty stomach.
Government and the elite knew not millions were sleeping alife and waking up as corpse.
Lying hungry beneath the noisy flyover bridge, I recall the the story of a depressed Father who died leaving poor kids without a mum.
This was a greater epidemic, o poor ZKwako I screamed on my entire asset of rags.
A Song To ZKwako
Sleeping hunger was normal, but waking up hungrier was painful.
Lying down sluggishly with hope to die soon became an anthem.
The salty river with hundreds of dead childhood friends became our only water source – What a science of recycling.
Forced vegetarians we became, the grass a new herb or death a new bed. Beneath the bridge and parks an awesome self contain for hundreds.
Born poor was firm, should I dye poor in my birth place too? – ooo ZKwako.
Unavoidably, we are forced in a pagentry contesting for “Face of Poverty”.
Sharing Is Love 💕
This tale and experience recorded is completely imaginative except for reference to poor indigenous coast tallying with a real time location at the onset.
If material relate to you or a third party, it’s 100% coincidence.
After reading large on increasing mortality rate because of HUNGER, this article is to create awareness to the world what some persons face daily.
Last Dying Days With The Deadliest Pandemic – Hunger
It was about noon, then I saw a lad with barebody, likewise the feet. He was gazing on a Pawpaw tree.
Maybe he could be among the street boys gallivanting for heaven knows why, so were my thoughts. To feed my rising thoughts, I threw the regular question ” hey! What are you doing?”
Staring at me, was all he could do. I drew a bit closer, c’mon are you ok? I asked again.
Now I felt the fear that was covering him and rendering him dumb instantly. He muttered in a faint voice and my ears could only fathom the cry of a helpless being, “brother abeg, make I take one abeg”.
At this point I lost my sense of humour, I could barely say a word as I was able to boost of the sky coloured paper (In Nigeria parlance).
I wanted to help with all I had but,will I trek back to my destination? Should I just ignore? You wouldn’t be so wicked, my faint heart whispered in dismay.
It was roughly a 45mins stay with him. I really wish I could unlock my doors of riches and lavish love on him, at least, cover his tiny bones with some flesh, get off the rags he was adorned in mockery. Lord! Help me do this, I could only pray.
The boy in his calmness as he has seen me acted reiterated, “brother please Na, I never eat since. My mother no cook anything”. This struck my heart and I felt the cold traveling from the crown of my head to the sole of my feet. I shifted my vibrating lips and asked but why?
I couldn’t have imagined anything other than the worst tho.
Sadly enough, the narrated story presented to me by my some minutes old friend gave me a topnotch on my emotions.
I knew a lot under this, I, myself I’m not a victor to this virus called poverty for I see the syndrome. My ineptitude to helping others clearly marked out the difference.
Maybe I’m getting relieved or in a less lower case. Most assuredly, there are most presentable nobles who have got the vaccine to delineate this but they’ll greedily hoard it from us and bury it in their chambers for their families.
Indeed! Human race must survive from the virus and least, we shall sail no more in societal class. Govt for one, gov’t for all.
Hunger! A Common Synonym With The Poor
A Poem –
Worst designing its aesthetic on the poor
As they gradually walk closer to death even in their dearth
Oh! A painful tragedy
Should the pity be directed to piety?
Should the fewness be counted in scarcity?
Oh! what a doom in the community of the poor?
That so unfortunately, their hope turns pale
Fate has alliedly desecrated the obscured hope
Rendering the arms of the dictators potent
With the burden they bear
The pain they all share
All aggrieved in fear and deep sorrows
The pains of feeling among but isolated
The fear of being dejected and worst rejected
They all groom their hearts to bear in emptiness of their spirits
With one ultimate question”God when?” just for a hopeful answer
Surely, none can explain to their best of experience
Those in anticipation crave for emancipation
Being freed from total independence
Surely, hope will arise in resolution
And the deadly virus will lose its existence
Just but a day! the endemic virus will cease its existence
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