NNAEMEKA'S LIBRARY

I TRY NOT to think of him. But when I do, I hear the tides. Baba was with me the first time I heard them. The first time I felt them. They called out to me like a lullaby, leading us away from the forest path and toward the sea. The ocean breeze ruffled the loose coils in my hair. Rays of sun spilled through the thinning leaves. I didn’t know what we would find. What strange wonder that lullaby would hold. I just knew I had to get to it. It was like the tides held a missing piece of my soul. When we finally saw it, my small hand slipped out of Baba’s. My mouth fell open with awe. There was magic in that water. The first magic I’d felt since the king’s men killed Mama. “Zélie rọra o,” Baba called as I drifted toward the tides. I flinched when the seafoam washed over my toes. The lakes in Ibadan were always so cold. But that water was warm like the smell of Mama’s rice. As warm as the glow of her smile. Baba followed me in and lifted his head to the sky. It was like he could taste the su

  It’s all I can do not to scream. I dig my nails into the marula oak of my staff and squeeze to keep from fidgeting. Beads of sweat drip down my back, but I can’t tell if it’s from dawn’s early heat or from my heart slamming against my chest. Moon after moon I’ve been passed over. Today can’t be the same. I tuck a lock of snow-white hair behind my ear and do my best to sit still. As always, Mama Agba makes the selection grueling, staring at each girl just long enough to make us squirm. Her brows knit in concentration, deepening the creases in her shaved head. With her dark brown skin and muted kaftan, Mama Agba looks like any other elder in the village. You would never guess a woman her age could be so lethal. “Ahem.” Yemi clears her throat at the front of the ahéré, a not-so-subtle reminder that she’s already passed this test. She smirks at us as she twirls her hand-carved staff, eager to see which one of us she gets to defeat in our graduation match. Most girls cower at the prospect

Her name was Margaret; she was my pastor’s wife. She was popularly referred to as Pastor Maggie. My pastor’s name was Apostle Raymond, but he loved us calling him Pastor Ray, because we the foundation members had always referred to him that way. It was just recently the title “Apostle” surfaced. Pastor Ray was handsome, tall, anointed with a capital “A.” He was way too young for the level of anointing he carried: my pastor was just 38 years old and his eight year old ministry had swallowed up most ministries that were up to 25 years and above in terms of popularity, crowd, branches and influence.  It therefore didn’t make sense one bit, that he would have married a woman like Pastor Maggie. She was not in his league. As I sat in the taxi on my way back from church that Sunday, I couldn’t help the level of anger I was feeling towards my Pastor’s wife. “How on earth would she dress that way?” Click Here To Download The Book

  I’m running…running for my dear life…away from the pythonic grip of death desperately seeking to embrace me. The wind relays his message to me “I can run but not hide”. I hear his taunting high pitched shrieks echo in the dark and the once lively forest in a blink of an eye keeps mum. Fear, his long time ally in the extermination business, swoops down on me, sending goose bumps racing over my body.   My heart palpitates like the beating of the Konga drum while my head re-enacts the pounding exercise between the mortar and the pestle. I hear the exchange of gun fire put up by the Husha team from the Kafali Resistance who had given their lives so we could escape. Ground shaking explosion, cries of the wounded, heavy artillery discharging bullets slaughtering men like chickens rend the air…men who were fathers, brothers, husbands, lovers, loyalists to the opposition, who had been brain washed to exterminate us. I duck branches, jump over fallen logs, splash through streams, pausing now

I was at my family house for the Christmas festivities, which was the only time I literally saw my parents and relatives, it was always a beautiful Reunion. As a marriage counsellor God was helping, my travelling itinerary for the year was always filled, ministering from one Women's program to the other, From one marriage seminar to the other, and my message was simple..."No matter how terrible your marriage could be, it was WORKABLE...." but my encounter with Isoken and her husband got me thinking if this was true! A beautiful lady walked up to me at the Family Reunion, she looked a bit familiar but I couldn't place the face. She greeted me like a well cultured lady, and I replied her, asking about her sister as she looked like one of my old friends. I obviously was mixing her up with someone else. She called my attention to that, and told me her real identity, she was one of those “extended extended” younger cousins of mine...I noticed she had a sparkling wedding ri

Amid on the other hand was an Arab young man who was studying as a postgraduate student at the Christian University where Peter was lecturing. Amid was a very cool-headed person. He was one of those people who didn‘t stand out in public. He loved being unnoticed, hence no one knew he was a Muslim except his lecturers. He was married to Rokibah and they were blessed with a son; Ishmael. He was their gift from Allah. He made them smile always. He was two years of age but he was sharper than his age. Rokibah was a full-time housewife so it made dropping and picking up Amid every day, very easy. She had encouraged him to continue with his academics knowing how smart Amid was especially with Mathematics, while she stayed at home to take care of Ishmael. Click Here To Download The Book

“The best graduating student for the School of Biblical Studies of this session goes to Adeyanju Badmus!” That was my darling husband being referred to . You should have seen that proud look on my face.. I noticed all the other wives looked my way in envy, but it didn’t mean Jack to me, because I was the woman of the moment... My husband was the best Graduating Student of Biblical Studies... meaning my husband was the most Spiritual of all husbands! Gosh! Was I expecting it? Sure! And that was why I dressed to kill that Sunday. My designer shoe was the one my favorite aunt sent to me. My hat was the one I bought with my one month Salary. My dress! Actually cost three months’ salary. It was pure cotton... I knew my husband would be the best graduating student, so my look and his Look was deliberate that Sunday! Towards the end of the ceremony, my day took another turn, an unexpected sudden turn, a catastrophic turn, a twisted turn, a turn of the century, a turn that could actually slaug

In all the years I’d existed, I’d never expected to be free. I was the daughter of Titans, and as such, I’d always accepted it as fact that they would rule. They were without question the most powerful beings in the universe, after all. They controlled everything and everyone. They were our makers. They were our gods. But after ten years of rebellion and war in an effort to protect humanity from our father’s twisted games, we were the gods now. Still in our infancy compared to our creators, my siblings and I now ruled over the world and all her inhabitants. And as I stared out across the great expanse that was our domain only minutes after our battle had ended, I felt something I thought would end with the war: I felt fear. It was unnatural. What did we, the captors of Titans, the new generation of gods, have to be afraid of? But the more I tried to picture the future, the clearer it became to me. We hadn’t inherited just the Titans’ thrones. We’d inherited their responsibilities, as w

“How did it happen this time?” Henry tensed at the sound of her voice, and he tore his eyes away from the lifeless body on the bed long enough to look at her. Diana stood in the doorway, his best friend, his confidante, his family in every way except by blood, but even her presence didn’t help rein in his temper. “Drowned,” said Henry, turning back to the body. “I found her floating in the river early this morning.” He didn’t hear Diana move toward him, but he felt her hand on his shoulder. “And we still don’t know…?” “No.” His voice was sharper than he’d intended, and he forced himself to soften it. “No witnesses, no footprints, no traces of anything to indicate she didn’t jump in the river because she wanted to.” “Maybe she did,” said Diana. “Maybe she panicked. Or maybe it was an accident.” “Or maybe somebody did this to her.” He broke away, pacing the room in an attempt to get as far from the body as possible. “Eleven girls in eighty years. Don’t tell me this was an accident.” She

Throughout his eternal life, Walter had witnessed countless summers, but never one as endless as this. He sat behind his glass desk, his head bowed as he read the petition before him, signed by nearly all of the minor gods and goddesses scattered throughout the world. Each vowed to stand aside and allow Cronus supremacy so long as it meant there would be no war. None of them seemed to understand that they were already in the middle of one. Why would they? He and the remaining members of the council had done their jobs in shielding the world from Cronus’s destruction, but they would not last much longer. When Cronus finally broke free from his island prison in the Aegean Sea, the petition would be what it was: a meaningless piece of parchment full of names of those who would be the first to die. “Daddy?” He exhaled and straightened, prepared to scold whoever dared to disturb him, but he stopped short. His daughter stood in the doorway, her hair golden as the perpetual sunset poured in t

The cave wound upward through the earth, and Pollux grasped Castor’s hand as he led him across the uneven ground. Cerberus’s snarls echoed through the tunnel, and though Pollux would’ve rather let the hellhound feast on his own innards than admit it, fear coursed through him like adrenaline. Hades’s massive three-headed guardian of the Underworld couldn’t hurt the dead, but Pollux wasn’t afraid of a dog. He was afraid of the god who trailed him. So maybe breaking his brother out of the Underworld wasn’t exactly the smartest idea Pollux had ever had, but the council hadn’t given him much of a choice. “Come on,” he said, pulling his brother’s arm. “It isn’t far now.” “You said that three miles ago.” Castor stumbled, but Pollux was there in an instant, pulling him back to his feet. “And now we’re three miles closer than we were before. Stop complaining and start running.” They staggered through the cave together, and behind them, Cerberus’s growls grew louder. Neither brother said a word

“Do you accept your role as Queen of the Underworld?” said Henry. I could do this. I had to do this. For Henry’s sake—for my mother’s sake. For my sake. Because in the end, without Henry, I didn’t know who I was anymore. As I opened my mouth to say yes, a crash shattered the silence. I twisted around to survey the damage, but before I could get a good look, Ava appeared beside me and took my elbow. “We have to get out of here.” As we scrambled forward, another crash echoed through the hall, and a shimmering fog seeped into the palace. The same fog from my vision. This was the thing that had nearly killed Henry, and now it was attacking all of us. Without warning, it sliced through the air faster than the members of the council could control it, but it wasn’t aimed at Henry or Walter or Phillip. Click Here To Download The Book

The last friend was Critz, an old fraternity pal from their days at Cornell when Morgan ran the student government while Critz stuffed the ballot boxes. In the past four years, Critz had served as press secretary, chief of staff, national security advisor, and even secretary of state, though that appointment lasted for only three months and was hastily rescinded when Critz's unique style of diplomacy nearly ignited World War III. Critz's last appointment had taken place the previous October, in the final frantic weeks of the reelection onslaught. With the polls showing President Morgan trailing badly in at least forty states, Critz seized control of the campaign and managed to alienate the rest of the country, except, arguably, Alaska.  It had been a historic election; never before had an incumbent president received so few electoral votes. Three to be exact, all from Alaska, the only state Morgan had not visited, at Critz's advice. Five hundred and thirty-five for the chal

The trio were the children of Baba Jenriayegbe, who was a poverty-stricken fellow. The trio didn’t enjoy any luxury while growing up, coupled with the fact that their mother had died in their early years. Fate decided to show how cruel life could be on one side of the world when the only person who gave them hope died. Their father died when Ola and Ope were 16 years old, while Oba was 18. Ola and Ope were twin girls, while Oba was the eldest. Their non-Yoruba speaking friends preferred to call them using the English interpretation of their name. Ola was called WEALTH, Ope was called PRAISE, while Oba was called KING. The trio’s father didn’t leave a pin for the trio and the few things that they had in their little room was sold to give him a decent burial in the family compound. However, if Baba Jenriayegbe failed in everything, He didn’t fail in raising his children in the way and in the fear of God. By the age of 15, the twin girls had finished the New Testament of the Bible Twice,

“Just a few minutes,” Mama said quickly. Too quickly. Was she afraid? But why? “That’s all I’m asking, Alex. Please. It would mean so much to her.” Alex Stafford stared down at Sarah. His mouth was pressed tight, and he studied her silently. Sarah stood as still as she could. She’d stared at herself in the mirror so long this morning, she knew what he would see. She had her father’s chin and nose, and her mother’s blonde hair and fair skin. Her eyes were like her mother’s, too, although they were even more blue. Sarah wanted Papa to think she was pretty, and she gazed up at him hopefully. But the look in his eyes was not a nice one.  “Did you pick blue on purpose, Mae?” Papa’s words startled Sarah. They were cold and angry. “Because it brings out the color of her eyes?” Sarah couldn’t help it, she glanced at her mother—and her heart fell. Mama’s face was filled with hurt. Click Here To Download The Book

After decades of patient mismanagement and loving neglect, The Ford County Times went bankrupt in 1970. The owner and publisher, Miss Emma Caudle, was ninety-three years old and strapped to a bed in a nursing home in Tupelo. The editor, her son Wilson Caudle, was in his seventies and had a plate in his head from the First War. A perfect circle of dark grafted skin covered the plate at the top of his long, sloping forehead, and throughout his adult life he had endured the nickname of Spot. Spot did this. Spot did that. Here, Spot. There, Spot. Click Here To Download The Book

“You must be out of your rotten mind!” Mr Cole bellowed. “Me, I'm not out of my mind o” Mrs Cole replied, bunching up her husband's grey T-shirt in her st, she rocked from side to side, ready for a ght. “Have I asked too much? All I need is some money to take care of your children.” She shouted back at him almost shedding tears. He chuckled sarcastically. “Abi e ri obirin yi ni? (can't you see this woman?),” he clapped his hand in amazement. Then immediately, the sarcastic smile on his face turned into a frown.  “Woman, listen to me and listen well. You have no right to tell me what I am to do for my children. Is that clear?” He spoke rmly with alcohol heavy on his breath. “Don't you have any shame Akin? Your children are in their rooms and can obviously hear you shouting at me” she told him as she released his T-shirt from her grip. Click Here To Download The Book