YOUR MOTHER'S ADVICE IS SOMETIMES BULLSHIT

Oppong Clifford Benjamin writes:

Do you remember the dress your mother wore at your birth? You asked your mother and chuckled and walked away.

The richest person in your family is the long bamboo seat fixed beneath the giant oak tree in the middle of the playground of your village. Its position is almost permanent.

Your mother told you stories about this old chair. She said in the old days before her, warriors and hunters rested on the chair until their sweats evaporated to the leaves on the tree.

You grew up to see palm wine sellers and lazy men play cards, you saw the chair hold history together on its tired bamboo slabs.

It is sunny these days. Even the leaves of the tree no longer grace the long seat with warmth. And your mother tells you different stories of the chair. She now says this chair practised witchcraft. She says God has punished it, God has finally unveiled the cloth covering its wickedness. Your mother warns you not to go close to it. She says so in her loudest voice, claps sometimes and laughs tauntingly.

You are now thinking. You say to yourself, I should know better than my mother. This woman who even described the dress your grandmother wore at her birth with an emphasis on the colours as if she saw it all, this woman is just full of stories. No, you can't trust her.

You looked at the lonely end of a hero and said farewell legend. You gave us all warmth, you gave us shelter, you gave us rest, you gave us life, we are alive because you were. This our village is full of stories, just tales. And I have grown up to know better than these women.

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The Making of Gods Via Sex

Episode X

Some must die so others could live. There is no real sacrifice without bloodshed.
She held the yellow piece of cloth about her waist high above her knees to allow her faster movement down the long passage to the stairway. Miss Juan tiptoed carefully in descend. Her right hand held onto the wooden support of the steps while the left was employed to keep her cloth from obstructing her quiet feet. She hurried down to the basement. She looked back as if someone called her name as if someone followed her. Sooner than she had expected, Miss Juan arrived at the exit of the basement. She was in the cold winter night outside the temple. She stood rooted to a spot, looked up onto the beautiful dark sky and admired her smartness in designing such an atrocious plot. I can’t believe it is going as planned; I must become a God tonight.
WHAT IS GOOD FOR THE GOOSE IS GOOD FOR THE GENDER. SOME MUST DIE SO OTHERS COULD LIVE.
A fierce smile beeped from her teeth and echoed on her face. ‘All must happen before day’ she whispered to the air and dashed off into the plains of Mountain Troodos upon its peak the Temple of Ishtar sat.

In the arigona cell, the man was drowned in total darkness. His hope of exit as part of his bargain with Miss Juan had started fading. Somehow, doubt began to fill his mind as the hours kept growing rapidly into a day. He wanted to slam his fist into the immediate stone wall but the fist only pushed the stinking air of dead bodies around him. However, there was a little voice in his body that seemed to reassure him that Miss Juan had not forgotten to release him to proceed with the impious design to make him a god. What if something happens in the plains, something terrible? Suddenly his eyes gulped so wide out of their sockets but the little voice told him to trust Miss Juan at all times. The voice promised him of the sand of his native land. I will free you before noon to perform a sexual act on my sexy body too. Miss Juan had told him earlier today.

In the plains, Miss Juan met with a caucus of three naked ladies of the AAC. Their nude bodies glowed even in the dark with oil all over. They were fully prepared to carry out one of the dangerous ceremonies yet sacred. Unknowing to them, they were to assist in the apotheosis of Miss Juan.
For centuries the AAC had given themselves away in the apotheosis of Kings all over Egypt, Babylon and so many other rich and influential men. Their services in recent ages had turned some Presidents of nations into gods; very popular of them was the apotheosis of George Washington which, later in 1865, as depicted in the fresco painted by Constantino Brumidi. The art was the eye of the US Capitol building’s Rotunda.
Miss Juan definitely wanted more. Right from the day she was installed as Most Perfect Chiliad she had had this dream of becoming a God herself, reaching the full potentials of her mind. She would be the first woman to receive the ceremony of apotheosis which involved bloody sacrifices.
Hidden in the woods of the plains was a stone altar. On the altar was an ancient sharp edge dagger known throughout history as the poniard. The same dagger had played different roles in many mystical schools. Most recently, the Freemasons adopted the use of the poniard in their initiation ceremonies. Across the world, the Freemasons use different sharp edge knives to represent the poniard. But in February 1730 during a meeting of St. John’s lodge in Philadelphia, USA the original poniard was pointed at the flesh of Benjamin Franklin, one of the founding fathers of America and very illustrious Freemason who wrote widely about the brotherhood. A small chalice sat on the extreme top left of the altar. A brown piece of cloth lay at the base of the table-like stone altar.
Is everything set?
Yeah, we are good to go, Most Perfect Chiliad.
With her right hand, Miss Juan beckoned the three ladies to follow her back to the temple. Walking in a tiny and long path through the plains, Miss Juan thought about everything she would become in just an hour. When it is the hour of high twelve, it will happen. A quick smile radiated her entire body but she didn’t want to appear contrary to what she had told the qadeshes.  I need to sacrifice blood for the propitiations of the sins of the cult. She had told the naïve three months old qadeshes.

Inside the cold embrace of the temple’s walls, two ladies planted themselves beneath the winding staircase, talked in hushed tones and arranged themselves so tight that they could just fit into their small hideout.
Miss Juan and her caucus arrived in the absolute silence at the middle of the main hall. With a wink and a head gesture, Miss Juan ordered the first qadesh who had armed herself with a plumb rule to take a position at the south exit. The lady tiptoed to her location and hid behind a column. Miss Juan pointed to the north exit and winked at one of remaining two ladies. She held the level she had in her arms very tightly and hid. And the last lady took a den behind the Most Perfect Chiliad’s pedestal in the east, making sure she maintained a full grip on the heavy mould.
Miss Juan smiled brightly in the dark, vast hall. Assured that the ladies would do as instructed, Miss Juan then sighed and quickly ascended the winding staircase to her office.
Miss Asabea, in their small hideout, gave off a slight chortle. Miss Juan heard the faint chuckle in the quiet of the hall. She halted in the middle of the stairway and listened to the darkness with eager ears, hoping to catch some more. Her face struck with fear but her faith firm like a concrete column, Miss Juan shouted
Sisters at the East, South and North, who chuckled?
Silence. Dead Silence. And then again, this time in more solid voice she screamed
Are we the only ones awake, Sisters?
The south gatekeeper, the eldest qadesh among the three, responded across the vast darkness from her station
Possibly, it might have been mice or anything of less importance, Most Perfect Chiliad.
Silence is holy. It is almost midnight, the hour of silence when nothing lives, nothing breathes. It is called the high twelve and in the silence of the high twelve divinity meets humanity. Miss Juan whispered into the dark and heavy air, the echoes of her words hanged in the hall for seconds.
All the while, she stood rooted on the middle step of the staircase to make sure her words penetrated the emptiness of the hall and hit the hearts of her company.
After Miss Juan had gained the summit of the winding staircase and proceeded further into her office, Miss Asabea in an almost inaudible voice whispered to Louiselle
She must be crazy. Apotheosis, she wants to conduct apotheosis.
Louiselle, though was not bothered by the news, asked
Of who?
That’s why I think we should wait to see and know why she wants to perform such a complex ceremony without the assistance of all of us.
Their faint colloquial was interrupted by footsteps ahead of them. Louiselle by reflex covered the mouth of Miss Asabea. The duo listened to the footsteps very keenly. Miss Asabea pulled her hand up and showed two fingers to Louiselle to signify there are two people ascending the staircase. Even the ladies planted at the gates were very much alarmed. These sudden footsteps were not part of the drama Miss Juan had narrated to them.
About time to midnight she had said in the early hours of the day to the three ladies at the basement, this man miss Juan pointed her index finger at the arigonal cell from a respected distance such that the prisoner could see them but could not hear a word she said. The ladies’ attention was forcibly instructed to follow the direction of Miss Juan’s finger and they saw the man in the cell full of life. This man will seek an exit in the main hall where each of you would be hidden to protect the three gates. You would suffer him to pass you by striking his temple with the instrument you shall have in your hands so hard that the sudden impact must bring him to his knees. At each gate, the same ordeal must face him. The tallest among the three ladies, feeling perplexed, asked Miss Juan why they were to do such a murder and Miss Juan responded rather angrily but controlling her voice the cult is dirty; it needs a clean bath from the many sins. And how many times do I have to tell you this?
After the footsteps had reached the acme of the winding staircase, Miss Asabea reared her head like a sprouting bud from beneath the staircase and placed an eye on the steps so as to see the acme of the stairway. Choppily, she leaned back and resumed her former position and with her eyes burning, she voiced her confusion to Louiselle who couldn’t afford to be caught spying, so hand signalled to Miss Asabea to calm down. Miss Asabea swallowed saliva to calm her and then caught up again with her breath and said ‘a lady……’ she nodded in the direction of the acme but Louiselle could see none of Miss Asabea’s gestures and still encouraged her to remain as still as possible. Loisuselle asked expectably, Miss Juan? Miss Asabea shook her head lightly in the no response and said It was someone else. I couldn’t see her face but she was taller than Miss Juan. She performed my duty. She blindfolded a man.

On the long narrow passage to the strange room, one of the qadeshes whom Miss Juan had employed her assistance led a blindfolded man. It was the second time in less than twenty-four hours the man had walked this path in absolute darkness and silence. He remembered the voice of the lady who ushered him for the first time and a smile beeped on his face. A foolish wise black woman, he thought and gave a pompous smile and a sense of pride filled his head. He was happy to have played a very vital role in Miss Juan’s conspiracy. He was clever and important, so he thought. And after fucking the hell out of the beautiful Most Perfect Chiliad herself, I shall return home to fuck some more maids. I shall return home not as a prince but a god. I have waited for this moment, for this hour. I have paid dearly for this and I deserve it. The apotheosis of myself. The man had also come to the temple of Ishtar not to honour the honourable duty of sexing an incoming Most Perfect Chiliad but to secretly turn himself into a god. His impious design had prompted Miss Juan’s own conspiracy. He had brought too much gold coins to Miss Juan to win her conscience. When he handed the bag of gold to her in her office, he knew he had successfully paid the price to become a god.

The strange room was animated with so many paintings of sex deities on the walls. The arrangement was in every respect similar to that of the installation ceremony. Same white sheet, red rose flower petals, candles. But the hymn changed. It was Gloria in Excelsior in C flat that floated in the atmosphere of the strange room, it was magical and the power of the sorcery was so obvious. There were three distinct knocks on the door. Miss Juan smiled broadly and said to herself in a whisper just as taught, clever girl. She tiptoed to the door and opened it halfway and stood steadfastly on the threshold and asked
 Who comes here?
A poor man of flesh and blood the lady responded in same undertone fashion as Miss Juan had asked.
His mission?
The lady halted for a long while fighting herself to recollect the next set of words, and then Miss Juan aided her attempt, having prepared……. The lady being prompted, she answered
having prepared his body to climb the 33 vertebrae of his own spine to reach the summit of his mind thus becoming a god of himself and enjoy in the everlasting glory of being worshipped as same.
Smiles stood in the bodies of all three; in Miss Juan it was the smile of a satisfied teacher, the lady smiled of self-satisfaction and the Man of the moment, of the words that flowed fluently from the lips of the lady.

Then let him be admitted in an ancient manner. That will be all, for now, my dear.
 The lady gave a curt bow and left by the other way of the passage to the basement.
With the guidance of Miss Juan, the blindfolded man entered the room on his back. Miss Juan held his shoulders firmly and led him to a convenient pace from the bed.
In your recent position, what is the prevalent desire of your heart?
She whispered Light to the man and allowed several seconds to pass and then added repeat it after me, light. The man repeated the response Light and Miss Juan took the hoodwink from his eyes. The red light in the room pierced the eyes of the man like a sword. He blinked his eyes rapidly until he was comfortable with the rays coming into his eyes. He noticed that he stood in the middle of a circle within a bigger circle and both circles drawn with chalk. Miss Juan knelt before him and at the circumference of the outer circle, five black candles burnt and incense filled the air.

When she reached the outside of the basement, the tall lady took the sharp turn on the left of the arigonal cell towards the south gate where Miss Juan had hidden her special gift. I cannot better reward you for the service you would grant this cult tonight than giving you this one special gift which will be hidden behind the column of the south gate waiting for you to pick it. She remembered Miss Juan’s words to her earlier in the day. She felt the honour of serving her cult and the pleasure of pleasing the Most Perfect Chiliad in her head.
She arrived at the door of the south entrance which she found slightly opened. She paused dead at the forecourt and listened to the talking silence. Someone is here, she thought. She examined her immediate environment with anxious eyes before she dared to peep with her head inclined only inside the hall and the rest of her body outside.
Quickly and without warning, she felt a certain void in her body. Everything was dark inside of her. She lay on the lithic floor of the forecourt. Her face made up of her live blood oozing into the hall just after the threshold and the remainder of her body in the cold weather of the exterior of the temple.

The keeper of the south gate clenched the plumb rule and squeezed her face and then heaved a sigh. And suffer none to enter the hall, Miss Juan had told the three ladies with particular attention to the tall lady who was to guard the south gate.  The tall keeper stepped a foot closer and stooped to have a curious look at the smashed face. Shock spread through every department of her body as she felt the cold bloody face of her only blood sister. I’ve killed my own of own, she lamented. She shook terribly and sudden anger radiated through her body. The anger transformed into evil energy in her body. She clinched the plumb rule even tighter than previous expecting to do more harm now, she couldn’t wait to break open the man’s skull and feed the early morning vultures in the plains with the pieces of the man’s head.

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Black Marionette

Nosipho Mbatha 

I always wanted people to take me seriously. I wanted to matter to people, I wanted to feel like my existence had value. I suppose it's strange that these are the thoughts I entertain on my commute to and from work every day. I hate my job. I constantly have people shouting out to me, "Zandi, do this. Zandi, do that! Some of them don't even know my name, I've been working there for eight years. I'm a nobody there. I've learnt that the most inconspicuous people are also usually the ones who quietly perform vital functions. The reason we become invisible is that we perform our duties so well that people forget it's not automatic and that things don't get themselves done.

Zandile. Because they already had five daughters when I was born. My name means "a daughter has been added" Zandile izintombi. My father was happy with all his daughters, my mother was disappointed that she had never had a son. The sister before me is named Ntombifuthi which means "a girl again". She loved us of course but it was hard to miss the sad tinge in her voice when she talked about other women's sons. I think it has something to do with the fact that my father had a child with another woman before Ntombi was born. My mother was a proud woman and I know that my sister and I were painful reminders of the time she tried to fight the other woman and lost. The other woman, Sis' Thoko, had three other children with my father, all boys. She was now, what I could best describe as an illegitimate second wife to my father. When I moved out, he cried. He told me not to tell my mother. They have a peculiar relationship. They've been married for 34 years and it seems like they're still hesitant to share themselves with each other.
How can you be with somebody for so long and still try to keep them at arm's length? I tried talking to my mother about it once but she told me I couldn't understand because I was single and lonely. My mother has been the loneliest person I've ever known, it's as though she's frightened to death of letting herself be seen as anything but solemn and stern.

Living alone has its perks, I can do what I want when I want. Nobody controls me. I had just stepped into the house and taken off my shoes when my phone rang. It was my sister Zethu. "Hi Zandi, has mom called you? She called me, she's having some kind of episode. She's losing it, she told me she's leaving dad. Talk to her, she listens to you. Well, bye. I have to go, tell me if she calls". That was my sister Zethu, the eldest of my sisters. She was so used to being in charge I don't think it ever crossed her mind that other people might have something to say. She would ask you a question and not give you a chance to answer it. She dominated conversations not because she was a great speaker but because she was so intimidating. She'd keep talking and nobody could ever tell her to stop, nobody was brave enough. She was a very subtle bully. I wanted people to listen to me like that, I wanted to command attention, make people listen to me. I want people to keep listening even if they want to turn away. I want to make them hear me.

Roughly two or three minutes after Zethu called my phone rings again and I know it's my mother. So I pick up even though I know I don't want to talk to her. "Hi Zandi, I'm really just calling to tell you that I've made a very important decision and I think it's important that I tell you girls about it". I waited for her to continue because I knew she wasn't pausing to collect her thoughts, she liked to create a suspenseful atmosphere. "I'm divorcing your father. It's really just the best thing for me. I've made this decision and I just thought you should know, the reasons are not so important. I'm glad we had a chance to talk about this". That was my mother discussing something with me despite the fact that I didn't get to say a single word. It's very easy to see where Zethu learned some of her more socially aggressive behaviours. My mother isn't a person who ever discussed anything with anyone, she would speak and your role in the pseudo-discussion was to listen, not interrupt her and not to contradict anything she said. She liked the control and she knew how to keep it.

When it was time for me to go to university my mother decided that I would become a lawyer. A young, black female lawyer. Those were in demand right now, she said. She had filled out the forms and packed my bags. She'd given me tips on how to do well in school. She never said she would miss me, or that she was excited for me. When I left I told her I loved and she told me to bring home As. What does a person even say to that? She's my mother and I love her but sometimes I feel like she's a mom-shaped concrete mould. Zethu turned out just like her. She treats her children
like strangers, guests who've overstayed their welcome but who she's too polite to tell them to go so she tolerates them. I decided quite a while ago that I didn't want children, it's just not something I see myself doing.

I remember when I got home after graduation. My mother had a huge party and she invited all her friends so she could show me off. She picked my dress, fixed my hair she even did my makeup. She wanted me to look perfect for her gloating moment. She wasn't proud of me, she was proud of herself. I didn't realize that until she introduced
me as "Zandile, the attorney", I was never just Zandile her daughter. She told them all how she did it by herself, got me through law school and had me produce excellent results. I greeted everybody politely just like she wanted me to. I shook hands and kissed cheeks, I made polite enough conversation with strangers. I later overheard one of the women in the kitchen telling another that I was very cold and aloof. I wasn't, I was just trying to do and say the right thing all the time. I felt like a Marionette and at that exact moment, my mother stood over me and pulled the strings and jerked my limbs every which way. I thought that would change when I left home but it didn't. I was the same mousy girl, the same little black marionette.

I just wanted to sink into the couch and melt away. Nobody would know I had gone. Instead, my mother would be upset that I had stopped answering her calls. I realised, quite early in my life, that I wasn't allowed to be my own person. I was whoever the people in my immediate vicinity wanted me to be. My mother, my boss, my sister. I
was born a blank canvas, and then everybody but myself got to paint the canvas. I didn't know who I was. Zandi was a stranger to me, she wasn't anyone I could relate to in any way. I don't know who I am but I know I'm not me.

I unplugged my landline and switched off my cell phone. I needed time and quiet. I needed to listen to the echo inside my own head and then maybe I'd be able to figure myself out. I had to get to know myself, I was finally going to live for me, I mattered.

All this deep thinking made me tired. I decided to go to bed without even having
dinner. I slept like a log, peacefully. When I woke up in the morning I realised I had made a mistake. I was laying in bed and I knew I would get up and go to work, I would go to my mother's just like I always do every Wednesday. I would do it because that's what she wanted me to do. What do I want? I don't know. Who am I? I don't know. What frightened me is the feeling that I would never know. But I guess there would always be someone to figure that out for me.

 Ghana Writes is pleased again to publish another intriguing short story by our guest writer of the week, Miss Nosipho Mbatha. This story, Black Marionette,  just like her ‘Mob Justice’, took our minds round and round and finally brought us that ‘oh I see. wow!’ feeling. In this story, Nosipho touched on another composite subject which is quite alarming especially in the lives of young Africans. Your parents decide what program you study at school without considering your passion and even go further to choose what would later become your nightmare: your job. In which case, like Zandi in the story, your life and happiness will be controlled by pull or push of the string in your parents’ hands like a marionette. A black marionette.

Nosipho Mbatha, Ghana Writes thank you for your informative and creatively penned stories. We have enjoyed your time with us this past week. We hope to read more from you in the not-too-distant future.

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Mob Justice

The leaking roof allowed drops of rain to fall on the bed. He felt them because he couldn’t sleep and they irritated him. He needed a new roof. A new house, a new bed, new clothes, new shoes, new pots and pans. He needed a new life. Even dreams didn’ t provide any refuge, just as drab and grim as his reality. He thought dreams were foolish things. Why dream when dreams provided no solace, no comfort, no escape? Soon the alarm would wake him up. He didn't need it, not really. He didn’t need an alarm clock because he never really went to sleep. Even sleep evaded him. Johnny Skhosana was undeniably a very unlucky man.

Lady luck was not on his side lately. It seemed she had taken to conspiring with other malevolent forces to orchestrate his recent string of bad luck. First, a raid. Then those bloody thieves had seen a gap and wasted no time in taking it. Three month’s profits gone like dirty dishwater down the drain. Damn those bloody thieves! He would get them back. When and how he did not know but get them back he would. Presently, he had much bigger problems to face than how to retaliate to a gang of petty criminals. If he didn't come up with a plan soon he would surely lose everything. No money, no job, no business. What a fool he had been to trust those hooligans. The raid had been the genesis of his problems. No, now that he took a moment to think about with a sober mind his string of bad luck had started with the loss of his chickens. Somehow they had escaped their enclosure and run off in all directions. He had tried to catch them and return them to their enclosure but they had scattered themselves too far and wide in a frantic manner that chickens tend to. He was an old man and after three minutes of running around, he was wheezing and out of breath on the verge of a heart attack. All of his chickens gone, now he only had an empty coop that seemed to mock him and served as a constant reminder of his loss.

The loss of his money, well that wasn't his fault at all. Between the criminals and the bank, he had stood no chance. They were both thieves really, one in a suit and the other in a balaclava. As far as he was concerned, banks were greedy corporations who only wanted to get their hands on your hard earned money and then make it impossible for you to get to it. Keeping it at his house was the only option he had. He didn't trust the banks, no not at all. It baffled him really, how one man could have such an impressive string of bad luck. It was probably the doing of that evil witch of an ex-wife of his, Josephine. She really was a vile woman. She had probably snuck in and released the chickens too, the beast. He would never understand what had possessed him when he’d decided to marry her. She cast a spell on him, that was the only logical explanation. How else could he, a handsome, young businessman who all the beautiful women were after end up marrying a potato like Josephine? He was glad they had no children. He saw no need for them. Damn them all. The police, the thieves, Josephine, even the stupid chickens. He hoped they all ended up in a hot stew as penance for their escape.

The raid. He had a very explicit agreement with Constable Duma which involved a hefty sum of his money in Duma’s pockets. That pig of a man had taken his money but still failed to warn him about the raid. There had been all kinds of unsavoury characters conducting illegal activities in his tavern when the police came. There had been no time for anyone to escape. They had come in from all sides like an army of ants attacking a breadcrumb. What a shock it had been, no warning from Duma. The man was a snake. They shut him down for three weeks and confiscated all his stock. Liquor license se voet! Since when does a man need a license to serve cold refreshments to other men? It was all part of a plot to ruin him. They were all jealous of his success, that’s why they stole his chickens and sabotaged his business.

Township life was hard. With saboteurs at every turn waiting like vultures to feed on the carcass of your success. The odds had always been against him but this latest mountain seemed insurmountable. Did he give up and pack up his things and return to his beloved Manzamhlophe. No, he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Not these dirty township mice or the village idiots. Don’t be mistaken, he loved Manzamhlophe but he knew that the villagers would greet him with a smile and snicker behind his back as soon as he passed. Going back now would be admitting defeat. They were all birds of prey, really. So he picked the lesser of two evils and decided to stay. At least the township vultures waited until you were good and dead to feast on your corpse, the eagles in the village picked the very live flesh off your bones.

While he was caught deep in thought MaMzobe walked in with what was now her trademark drunken stagger. Nobody had seen her sober since 1993. It was the death of her dear boy Msizi that had broken her spirit. Shot dead in the street, his corpse lay as if on display like a disturbing piece of avant-garde art. She had started drinking to forget and she had stayed forgetting and in a constant state of inebriation since then. ‘Get me a cold one please Johnny, it's been a tough day’, Johnny looked up at her as if to scold but then said ‘Tough day Ntombzodwa? It's only 09:00’ ‘Oh, did I say it's been a tough day? I meant please give me a brew that will provide me with the strength to get through what I know is going to be a tough day’ ‘How on earth is that possible? All you do is sit here and drink my beers on credit. What will you be doing differently today?’ ‘Oh hhayi! I didn’t realize customers have to undergo an investigation in this place just to be served a cold beer!’ ‘If you don’t want an investigation you can go to Madoda’s and inquire free beer!’ She shuffled out mumbling what were probably insults, but what anyone else might have thought were curses, under her breathe. Everyone thought she was a witch for no other reason other than that she was old and haggard. But she wasn’t a witch, just a drunken old woman with a heart that had been broken since 1993.
After MaMzobe’s exit, Johnny stood up to close the door of his tavern not wanting any other patrons coming in when he couldn’t serve them because there wasn’t anything to serve them. He looked around at his tavern which could have been a small living area in another man’s house. He had very effectively maximized the tiny space giving the illusion of a larger room. But when it was filled with people it was a different place like the tavern was the sun and the writhing throng of bodies were planets orbiting it. Nobody wanted the night to end. Alcohol flowed like rivers that washed away all the world’s problems. After four stiff drinks, it didn’t matter that Zakhele’s wife was sleeping with his neighbour who had fathered all three of his kids. When she was dancing under the dim lights, Jabulile could actually feel what her name stated, happy. After five beers, Mr Ngcobo didn’t mind the fact that everyone knew his daughter funded his drinking habit with the money she made on the streets as a working girl. Nothing mattered. Problems and worries ceased to exist and euphoria lasted as long as you could afford the next drink.

Even Johnny watching the people, young people dancing under the lights, they looked like moths drawn to a light that would eventually burn their wings, and the old people sitting like the alcohol had melted their bones, he felt like this was it. There was no life beyond this.
He suddenly heard a big commotion outside and immediately rushed to see. There was a huge mob shouting and screaming. Holding pangas and knobkerries some wielding bricks and glass bottles. He pushed through the crowd to see the criminal who was at the receiving end of this vigilante justice. Surprised to find out MaMzobe never made it to Madoda’s tavern he found her at the centre of the mob. Jabulile was accusing her of casting a spell on her son Thabo. After cutting through her yard late last night on his way home from a night of heavy drinking he had collapsed as soon as he reached their yard. She had found him laying on the floor outside, conscious but unable to move any part of his body. She had just come back from the hospital where it had been confirmed that he was permanently paralysed from the neck down.

The doctors had told her it was a result of his fall but she wasn’t having it. She was convinced it was the result of the old woman’s witchcraft. ‘How could you MaMzobe? Your own neighbours! He was my only son, you’ve outdone yourself this time you old witch!’ Jabulile sobbed, ‘but you won't go unpunished.'

Johnny knew how drunk the boy had been when he left the tavern, he should have intervened. Then he thought, maybe they were right. Maybe she was the reason for the dark cloud that seemed to hang over the community. He should have intervened but instead, he picked up a rock and joined the mob. ‘Oh kodwa Msizi wami!’, she cried. They attacked from all sides, people she knew and trusted. Mr Ngcobo who had known her for 47 years, Zakhele who had been best friends with her son and Johnny Skhosana whose tavern she had visited every day since 1993.

She lay on the street, a unrecognisable pulp. The whole street was silent, the kind of ominous silence before a loud drum solo. But there were no drums, no beat. Her broken heart was silent. She had been dead since 1993.

Johnny walked back into his house, rushing for the phone to go and order new stock. He would start again and rebuild his business. But before he got to the house, something caught his eye. It was the broken latch on his chicken coop, he had been meaning to fix it for months but he got busy. He knew now more than ever that he should have intervened.

The Ghana Writes guest writer of the week is Miss Nosipho Mbatha.  She is a South African writer and student of languages at the University of Johannesburg. Ms Mbatha derived her infant nurture from Durban in the KwaZulu-Natal province of South Africa and takes particular pride in her native language Zulu.

Ghana Writes chose to publish Nosipho's Mob Justice because the story is an excellent amalgamation of three complex subjects: rural to urban migration, African superstition and dangers of alcoholism. And the creative way she weaved the story around the aforementioned topics won our admiration. Enjoy!

To be the next Ghana Writes guest writer, kindly submit your best literary work to info@ghanawrites.com. We accept only short stories and poems from across the world. We publish only the best.

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Oppong Clifford Benjamin Comes Fourth in BPPC July 2017

Oppong Clifford Benjamin's poem 'Erosion' won the fourth place in the Brigitte Poirson Poetry Contest 2017. You win some, you lose some. Congratulations Aire Joshua Omotayo for winning the first prize.

EROSION by Oppong Clifford Benjamin

A mother once said to her daughters:

fill a man’s heart with rich loamy soil

and plant in it a sprig of acacia

that it may blossom

but most importantly note that

the storm will pass by your farm

and manure will join the rest of earth

to be washed away.

Away everything may fly

your acacia may go too

your sweet acacia may go to another woman

and strangely your acacia may be doing well

in its new earth.

Dear daughters, verily! Verily!! I say

acacias are not to be eaten

loamy soils are found in every pair of trousers

cry a short while for your lost acacia

refill, re-plant and expect the storm again

that’s how to live loving.

http://wrr.ng/news/brigitte-poirson-poetry-contest-2017-uis-aire-omotayo-wins-june-bppc-trophy/

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The Virgin Mother and Other Short Stories

“You have today joined the many women who die every month and resurrect a week after. You have learned the intricate windings of the waist of a mortar. You can now eat a banana and bring forth a cluster of plantain, and from today, a man is but only a baby to you. Men must pay you the whole universe to see your nakedness and finally, my granddaughter, be strong for the world cometh with its cruel fist to knock you out from this phase of your life. Please, I dare you to not give up. Be strong Aku! Be strong my granddaughter! Be strong descendant of a limping lion”

Portions of the short story 'Red Means Go' in the the collection of short stories titled 'The Virgin Mother and Other Short Stories by Oppong Clifford Benjamin'

To place your order for print copies, contact +233243129401, clifford.oppong@hotmail.com.

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Heaven is behind the tree.

With my mind made on making her realize she was a part of my body, I fought the wind across the park to reach her. Her voice had been sober on the other end of the line this afternoon when I told her to meet me at Heaven.

"Heaven!"

"Yes! where God lives with the Angels"

She laughed. Her solemn voice crinkled in my ears. Smiles filled my heart and I grinned. I wake up each day thinking of ways to make my Baaba laugh.

"and how do you intend to face God with the dirt on your hands?"

Her words were drums in my heart, my heart beat so fast that I nearly passed away. We both knew what I did for a living. We both knew what she did in the past.

"hello.....are you there?"

soberly, I spoke

"yes"

"I'm sorry!"

"It's fine. the park. 6pm."

"job?"

"I would have told you to bring the Bible"

I ended the call and deposited my body carelessly in my bed. My ribs slammed against the wooden edge of the bed and I shouted 'ouch! My Baaba!' and smiled. Then facing the ceiling, I remembered her words again and my heart pumped very cold blood through my veins. I could feel my body go cold. Certainly, I knew I wasn't dying. Very well that I can't go to hell. I must repent. I confess to her. I must tell her about my love for her. And that we both could go to Heaven tomorrow if we wanted.

I observed humans ran helter-skelter in search of shelter. My phone rang. It was her. She probably wanted to tell me the wind had come to the park with signs to herald rainfall. I watched her worry on the lover's bench.

Then I touched her shoulders from behind her. She collapsed on the bench. I didn't expect any less. She lived in perpetual fear.

"What the fuck was that?"

I smiled. My left palm carefully placed in the right, I knelt before her and begged.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Apologizing and

"since when did you become Jesus?"

I smiled.

"Would you marry me?"

I brought the diamond from my pocket into the opens of my palms.

She laughed. I expected her to. She laughed out loud. She held her stomach, exactly where I shot her some years ago.

"Since when did you know love?"

"Since I carried you to the hospital. I felt a sharp pain in my rib"

"No! I can't marry you. I've stopped this job and I want a meaningful job"

TO BE CONTINUED SOMEDAY when the muse comes.

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Romantic Nonsense.

People are scared of your silence.
I saw how fears brought tears to my lover's eyes 
when he asked me: why won't you complain?
His voice was the faces
of kids supporting the losing team
in a stadium.
His heart raced through rains
that fell like half-bitten apples from a vine tree,
his thick lips waggled in silver waters
when he said: your silence kills.

I swear I could tell he was a dead leaf
head down-legs up-head up-hands apart
somersaulting in the air to locate hell.
But I wore my secrets on my teeth
my next actions were in the open of my skin
and my words were obvious: I'm fine.
Throwing no clues his way
Enjoying him die and wake again in dreads.
There is a pain in waiting and it hurts most
when you're waiting for the end to start.

It was soon after I learned how to marry forests
that a bird whispered the powerful tools to me.
Shapeless, invisible, they were;
touch knowledge, the beautiful blue little bird said
place silence in a box
and see faith for yourself.

My lover became a piece of wood in a river
heavy yet floating on the doubts in his hair.
I watched him eat his soul up and lick his fingers
he tried to know my next set of words
as my lips danced his hopes to grave: I'm fine.

I need to visit the washroom, he said
I laughed softly and kissed his lips
I hugged his imperfect body like a god
he melted into liquid and evaporated away.
My lover is now the perfume I wear
to burn all other men to ashes
he is the memory of ruined castles
in my flesh.
At least, he could have prompted me to be human too. 
By Oppong Clifford Benjamin

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