Peak Tree Inn [I].

Hello everyone, long time no ink. Yea, I know. I’ve missed you too. Usually, when a writer goes A.W.O.L for such a long time like I did, he gives excuses. It is an unspoken rule, a rule I do not intend to bend. So here’s my excuse;

Two years ago, around the time legends are usually born, deep into October. I had the misfortune of being invited to a book expo in the far east (yea? I was with you smoking garri throughout October? Ehen?). The invitation letter arrived on a Tuesday, saying I had to make it to isi-ukwu-ato (yes. Isi-ukwu-ato, Abia state, Far east Nigeria) by friday. I was reluctant, but for the well formatted, red inked inscription on the first of the two-paged invite, I would have stayed at home. It read;

   Dear sir, 

SPECIAL INVITATION TO THE 26th B.O.O.K EXPOSITION OF A.S.A.W.W

It is with pride in our hearts that we invite you to this year’s edition of the B.O.O.K expo. Being held from Friday, 26th Oct – Sunday, 28th Oct. At the peak tree inn, Uturu, Isi-ukwu-ato L.G.A, Abia State.

You are advised to travel as light as possible as everything you could possibly need within the duration of the expo will be provided for you. Please remember that punctuality is key, and rooms will be assigned on a ‘first come, first serve’ basis.

We look forward to hosting you.

Regards,

Longinus Osisi.[esq]

I am sure it caught your eye as well. That innocent sentence; ‘everything you could possibly need within the duration of the expo will be provided for you’. It caught my eye, and I swear to you, it brought me pain.

Three days later, I was on my way to Isi-ukwu-ato, alone. I had contacted all my friends at the writing club Owerri to know if anyone was also invited, it was not out of care; I wanted them to know I was getting recognition, silently praying that no one else was also invited. Of course, no one else was invited, so I boarded the bus from Owerri to Okigwe that morning as the only ‘recognized’ writer in it. I made sure of it, flashing stickers and membership cards to eyes that cared to blink, all through the two hours journey of pick’n’ drop.

After two hours of advertising by yours faithfully and human shopping by the driver and his Creasy conductor(s), we finally made it to Okigwe by 12pm. I asked for directions to uturu, since I was new to the town and I was advised to board another bus at half the price of my initial fare. This time, the journey time was considerably less, with a lot more dangerous turns. There were times I thought I died, but this write-up should still serve as proof of life.

One hour. That’s what it took to get from Okigwe to Uturu in Isi-ukwu-ato L.G.A. The bus driver had dropped me in front of a community secondary school, and then pointing towards a herd of commercial cyclists at another junction, he shouted ‘ask them where e dey’. And sped off. The Time was 1:15pm.

So I crossed over, as ‘light’ as I was, and hungrily accosted the first motorcyclist in sight.

‘Abeg, where can I find peak tree inn?’ Staring down at the piece of invite for confirmation.

‘Peak tree inn?’ He asked, staring at the leaflet I had in hand. I nodded.

‘Na why you no dey greet?’

‘Good afternoon sir’.

‘Ehen’ he replied, as though he enjoyed every piece of the greeting.

‘Peak inn dey that small track road for there’ he said, pointing to a really ‘small, track’ path behind me.

‘Which house you dey find for there? I fit carry you go’ he added.

‘I no dey find person, e get one conference wey i wan attend for there’

‘Conference? For peak inn?’ He asked, evidently shocked.

‘Yes, book conference. You dey go?’

‘No o’ he replied, and then leaned over to whisper to the others. It seemed he gave them a warning, they immediately started leaving the junction. Him first, followed by everyone else. Angrily, I crossed over to the other side, on to the small path and walking a few more steps, stood before me, ‘The peak inn’.

It was an old two-storied building with a pent house. In fact, it was a very old two-story building with what seemed like a pent house. The painting on it had worn out, the louvres were broken and dusty, the grasses however were well kept and neat. The gate seemed like it had been repainted recently, and on the lawn, an old lady knelt, weeding. I knocked at the gate gently.

Slowly, the old lady walked over to the gate.

‘Can I help you?’ Her English was quite refined.

‘Yes ma’am, i was supposed to attend a book expo here…’

‘Are you always this early?’ She cut in.

Smiling I answered back. ‘Yes ma, punctuality is key’.

She smiled back, as though she expected to hear those exact words. She slowly opened the gates. As I stepped in, I froze at the banner that hung from one of the windows.

  ‘Welcome to the 26th B.O.O.K expo of the Abia State Association of witches and Wizards [A.S.A.W.W].’

I swirled around to run, the gate was gone.

All rights reserved, no part of this publication is to be reproduced, reprinted or shared on any platform without the permission of the writer.

Written by: Ogu chinedu

Today, i have sought for inspiration as to what to write, and i have found none. My lack of inspiration lies not in my not being creative, i wanted something strong, some story to show you how much i believe in you reading my blog. I needed something to motivate you. Since i found nothing, i decided to tell this story instead. It is based on my own experience, i twitched a few things, but at the end, the beauty lies in the words.
Once, i had gone to see my father in my hometown, he was a homely man. Literaly, homely. He loved my village and always wanted us there. Like most 21st century children, we preferred the city, with all its sights and trills. For me and my two brothers, i think the catch was in the girls. Whilst the girls in the hamlet were natural beauties, the ones in the city had an added advantage. They were just badass.
Anyway, that day i had gone on one of my rare visits to the village to see my dad, since it was very rare, he insisted we took a tour of his possessions before i left for the city later that evening. One of his posessions was a land he said he had inherited from his father, it was located deep into the bushes, along the path to the river. The only way to reach it was by foot, and so we had to trek.
One of my many fears about bushes was the deafening silence from the trees, the sudden movements in the grasses gave me goose bumps. On that day however, i decided to conquer my fears and take in whatever beauty i could find. I was with my dad, i had to be a man.
At first we walked at a fast pace, conversations flowed, laughter followed and then we let the palm fonts swing to their rythm. We did this for a few minutes unconsciously until there was nothing to talk about, our pace became slower and there was no need to laugh. The palm fonts however did not mind. At this point, no longer bothered by the burden to make conversation, i began to take notice of the things around me. How yellow the cassava leaves were, how hoarse the palm tree’s body had become, how green the rain had made the grasses. It was at this point that i noticed a portion of land by my left, tiny two-leafed plants were sprouting up in circular form around each other, there, with the sun blocked by trees, little rays of sunlight poured on them. The sight was beautiful to behold. I asked my day what they were and he said bamboo. I was astonished.
I was astonished not because i felt bamboos fell from the sky! But because it was hard to believe that something so tall and strong was once that small and fragile. I was astonished because my dad also said that sometimes it took years for each single bamboo to spring up as those cute two-leafed plants. Imagine that! Years!. Imagine being left in the dark, trampled upon, starved of water, starved of sunlight for years! And when it does come out, it comes out as two-leafed. Not a giant tree, but two fragile leaves with a stem. For the bamboos, the trouble is not the two leaves, the pain is in the years underground, formulating,spreading roots, getting strong. Once they survived that, sprouting from the soil was no problem, surviving would be no problem either, why? Because stars cannot shine without darkness. Once the were out, even as two-leafed plants, failure was no longer an option. This is the same with humans. You see every experience is supposed to make us stronger in every form. Every dark spot is supposed to make us ready for the end of the tunnel, because when you’ve seen darkness, you can appreciate light. When you’ve know sadness, you can appreciate joy. When you’ve felt hatred, you can better understand love. Whatever you do, know this,

without darkness, stars could never shine. Without formulation, there’d be no bamboos.

Adios.

Follow me on twitter @silly_spocky or like chinekubiz on facebook. You’d be doing me a great favour.

©Chinekubiz™

So i have been asked to finish up or have my head on a platter. Faced with the two choices, i choose the former.

For the first part of this story, click here.

Everyone must have been wondering; Did mr drunk find out about mr slave’s affair with mrs drunk? What happened to the girls?.
There was this friend of mr drunk’s who had been with him through all the trials and troubles of being a drunk. Do not get it twisted, mr drunk’s friend was no ordinary drunk, rumour even had it that he initiated mr drunk into the highly reverred profession. Anyway, like i said, Mr drunk and this friend had been at drinking for a very long time. So long that even my drunk’s friend had forgotten that mr slave was a slave in mr drunk’s house.
Mr drunk and his friend like most besties had a tradition:- anyone who was adjudged ‘Last man standing’ by the bartender at the local bar each night had the right of an early morning call to the other person’s house with the bartenders warrant, permitting the ‘stander’ to search the ‘standee’s house for any beer leftover. Mr drunk was no loser, he usually won the contest. One day though, he didn’t…
What had happened was that mr drunk had a bitter quarrel with mrs drunk over the taste of the pudding that evening. By the time he got to the bar, he was not in an excellent state of mind to win the standing contest. Mr drunk’s friend capitalized on this, and won…

Mr drunk was bitter, so bitter that he left very early the next morning to avoid the humiliating sight of his friend searching his house and finding his secret stash of booze. An hour later, his friend arrived at his house. Normally, on normal days he would shout ‘druuuuunk!’ And then proceed to bang repeatedly at mr drunk’s door. That day was no normal day. Since it was a day of victory, he wanted to enjoy it. You could imagine his disappointment when he crept to mr drunk’s bedroom and heard moans instead of whines of pity. He banged the door open and froze. There, right there on mr drunks bed was mrs drunk…and mr slave! Mr slave not mr drunk. In that moment he felt dizzy. Maybe he was drunk he said to himself. He pushed his head out the door for some sunlight and then popped back again. Mrs drunk was still there on the bed with sheets covering her nakedness and a blank expression on her face. Mr slave however was kneeling with tears in his eyes. Mr drunk’s friend didn’t like the sight. Mr slave was kneeling, it should’ve been mr drunk. Mr drunk’s friend sighed and left.

Two days later, mr drunk was matching to the bar in utter anger! How dare he?! His one and only friend. How dare his only friend rape his beloved wife. Mr drunk had made up his mind, as far as he was concerned, his friend was a dead man. He had it all, everything needed to kill a drinking legend; two empty bottles and a bitter kola. Armed to the teeth, he stormed the bar.

The next day, the news was all over town. Mr drunk’s friend was indeed dead. The great legend had fallen by bottle wounds…and mr drunk had fallen with him. You see the ‘bitter kola’ was no bitter kola. It was camfor, the local air freshner. Drinking culture required breaking two bottles on a legend’s head and then stabbing him to kill him. To appease the gods, the killer was required to chew bitter kola. Problem was, mr drunk had taken camfor instead. He died.

Rumour had it that mr slave sensing danger took mrs drunk and eloped. Where to? No one knows. But mr drunk’s daughters are still there in that little town.

Liked the story? Follow me on twitter @silly_spocky and bookmark this blog for more. Contact me on +2348164079881 or e-mail: chinedukogu@gmail.com.

©Chinekubiz™

Once upon a time, in a town not so far from your current location, there lived a man whose race and color we know not. He was a successful drunk with many a broken bottle to his name. This man whom we shall henceforth refer to as ‘Mr drunk’ had a wife and two daughters, among his many uncategorized posessions was a slave whose race and color we know not. For future references, we shall refer to mr drunk’s slave as simply ‘mr slave’.
Mr drunk and mr slave though far apart by social status had so much in common. You see, while mr drunk was a voluntary sex addict who never played with his daily visit to brothels at certain times a day, mr slave on the other hand was an involuntary sex addict who was not allowed the opportunity to play with his forced visit to mrs drunk’s bedroom exactly at those times mr drunk paid his brothel dues. over time, he had no option but to enjoy it. A sex addict is a sex addict you may say, and right you are! This simple uncomplicated family lived this way for many years with no problems as everyone knew his/her duty to everyone. They were one little happy and partially drunk family.
Until…
Remember when i said mr drunk and mr slave had many similarities? Well, mr drunk was a jolly good fellow who saw no wrong in anything, so was mr slave. Can you also remember when i said mr drunk had two daughters? Well, so did mr slave. Or atleast that was what mrs slave said. Somehow, i really don’t know how, but somehow, mr drunk came to know that mrs drunk had been sleeping with mr slave way before the birth of his first daughter….and somehow, i have forgotten how that story ended. Do follow me on twitter @silly_spocky . Dm me afterwards, hopefully i might remember then.

©Chinekubiz™

Akuko moved

As a writer and hustler, i am inclined to notify the general public about the porting of one of the blogs on which i write, from blog.com to wordpress. Please do endeavour to check akukoanyi every now and then(especially on fridays) as my work ‘fine bouy’ has found a home there. I thank you immensely for your patronage *winks*

©Chinekubiz™

Hello

Spockula

Let me give a brief intro about myself. I am a writer(a very lazy one), a blogger(see akuko and dreamshumba for details), a programmer and a human being. I am African. I am Nigerian. After this post. The next couple of blog posts should give you some insight about my personality. My name is Ogu Chinedu Kingsley, and this is my first blog post. Contact me on:chinedukogu@gmail.com

©Chinekubiz™