Hi Readers,

I know the weekend wasn’t so pleasant with all the terrorist attack. And I find it hard to believe Kofi Awoonor died in one of these attacks (sometimes I forget these people are human).

So, Remember how I told you about a funny story on Friday? Well, This is it; It’s Moskeda’s Purge, and I hope it cheers y’all up. Enjoy 😀

Send entries to loonpurge@gmail.com hola me on twitter @sunkit1

got_suya_spaghetti_top_tshirt-r4abc510c205b4361a65a3f7a69e64a04_8nhmm_324

Suya of Revenge

Aaaaah! Suya!

This story cracks the hell out of me each time I remember it. Okay, so on this particularly evening, I was with my sister, my cousin, my aunt and my dad. In those days, my dad was a terrorist and I mean this with a big grin. He terrorized us for a while until we learnt the art and switched it back on him. That was to be years later, though.

That evening, we were just from church. My dad was driving and on our way home, he stopped at this junction to buy some stuff from a store across the street. We ladies sat back in the car but whilst waiting, a nice aroma, scent, smell, whatever you call it, came wafting in and invading noses. If we were cartoon characters, we would have floated right out of the car and followed that aroma. Our heads followed though, and turned to a suya spot which was just beside us and we all began to salivate.

“Let’s buy suya!” someone said. I can’t recall who. But we all agreed and put our kobo-kobo together to come up with N25 which was something in those days. Being that I had plans to sample the product, I got down and went a’buying. I sampled and waited as the guy cut and wrapped the order but as I stretched my hand to pay, I heard my dad’s car start and before I could turn my head, I saw them driving off. I was surprised but I did not panic. “They will come back,” I said but as I saw the car zooming off far away, the tail lights going further and further, I was like, “wait o, these people have forgotten me.”

“No, it’s not possible,” my other voice said. “They will come back.”

I waited for like two minutes and when I didn’t see the car heading back up from the darkness, I allowed myself to panic. My next emotion was anger. I was angry at my fellow suya lovers in the car for not informing my dad that I was not with them, I was angry at my dad for not noticing my absence, I was angry at the long distance I had to walk to get home and the fact that the only cash in my hand had gone into the now useless suya; but I was angry most of all that no one would tell my dad that I was not in the car until he noticed my absence which might probably be when he got home. Long and short of the whole story was, I was screwed.

I started heading up home, the once lovely street not looking so lovely anymore. In those days I loved busy streets at night. They gave me hope that one day I would grow up and live independent like the adults who roamed around them with no care in the world. But for that moment I had to settle with being an adolescent and slapping the street alone. I hastened my steps and started nursing thoughts about eating the whole suya spitefully but I held back and decided revenge would be a suya eaten cold.The plan was to go home, eat it slowly in front of my not-helping accomplices without sparing them a piece and after I was done, I would painfully relate my trekking ordeal.

So, with a renewed purpose I urged on, even looking forward to walking by the lonely and creepy cemetery road that led to my house. I walked for like seven minutes (wasn’t really checking my watch) and got to this bridge that meant a landmark for me. That’s how I do in my life. If I want to walk from my bedroom to the kitchen and I feel it’s too far, I pick a landmark. When I cross it, I feel elated and find strength to finish my journey. The landmarks are just mentally marked points though. No soul searching or any weird thing happens there. Please, it’s just from the bedroom to the kitchen.

I crossed the bridge landmark and from afar, I saw my dad’s car racing towards me and I was like“this does not look good.” My dad drives like a movie star. I love that man. When he’s mad, he and his car become Fast and Furious.

The car scarcely made a turn as the passenger door flung open for me. I got in and my dad, without a word, snatched my precious Suya of Revenge and flung it over the bridge. I swear, I could hear it splash into the water. I looked at him aghast and my anger was refreshed but I said nothing and went into heavy sulking mode. I exuded heated fumes from my pores and hoped he choked on them but for where? The man was still driving like 007 oblivious of what I was thinking. Throughout the ride home, all I thought of was my suya, my suya, my suya of sweet revenge and malice. I wanted to strangle somebody. Dad first!

We got home and I stormed out of the car and slammed the door. Now, why did we slam doors in those days? Did it help our point? Nope. But just last week I slammed the door at my husband. It felt good, suffice to say.

So, I slammed the door of that car and went to my bedroom. All the culprits were there… looking very guilty and I think, very foolish. I had a picture… no, a recording in my head of me lining them up and telling them how it was doing me. But I didn’t. Instead I asked them why they abandoned me.

“We told him you were not in the car but he didn’t hear us,” my sister said.

“You couldn’t shout?”

“We shouted. We were saying, ‘Sally’s outside, Sally’s outside’ but he didn’t hear.”

My dad had hearing issues. He can like to be deaf for Africa.

You can be going like:“Daddy, please can you pass that spoon.”

And he’ll be like, “Ehn?”

“The spoon!”

“Ehn?!”

“THE SPOON!”

“Why are you shouting?”

And you reach for the spoon and take it and he goes, “What were you even saying sef?”

So they may have been right. The old man didn’t hear then. But I wasn’t letting them off easily. I still told them my mind sha. Trust me to always say it how it’s doing me. I told them. I can’t remember what I said but I said it and went to sleep angry. The next day, we brought the incident up and it was all laughs. Later on, my dad and I laughed about it too and he explained why he did what he did. He said he was simply pissed. I understood. I made him pay me, sha. I think he’s still paying; it never ends.

What pained me most about what happened that evening is that I missed that sweet suya.

LESSON: Don’t go buying suya unless you’re sure of your transport back home.

Sally is a writer and that’s all she basically does. She’s Phlegmatic but would prefer to be known as Melancholic. She is just trying to make sure the world reads her work or she will set its citizens ablaze
she blogs at www.moskeda.wordpress.com
follow her on twitter @moskedapages

We are here again 😀 …This is Deborah’s purge, one of those deep entries.  If you don’t read it, then you must be on a long thing.  You better love it as much as I do.

Stay tuned, there is this really funny purge I am going to post on Monday.

All rights reserved, Please make my day and send entries to loonpurge@gmail.com also hola me on twitter @sunkit1

Journey Through Eternity Wall Photo

The Journey

Its one of those nights for me, I’ve just read some of the deep poems and stories on the purge blog, and here I am sat opposite my laptop, trying to think of a way to write something deeper than what has already been written. Perhaps a poem of some sort, or a narrative of an event that happened in my life. Nothing was coming. Even my laptop wasn’t helping.

For lack of anything thought provoking to write, I close the email page a third time and open Facebook, maybe a little mindless ‘internetting’ would get my intellectual writing juices flowing. I stare blankly at the page. I start to drift away and then my over-thinking kicks in. I pretend to be happy and all what not but deep down I am unhappy and saddened. In the midst of my unexpected sad thoughts my surroundings began to dissolve from me and there I was in an open space, nothingness enveloping me in its entirety.
I thought I had died and gone to a land of nothingness, I feared the worst and began to wander off when I saw a younger me sat in a corner waiting and staring. I inched closer and the apparition before me filled with me an even deeper sense of sadness. It was no apparition, it was indeed a younger me. The innocence that filled my eyes, the sweet youthfulness that was me, just as I began to weep at what I had become now, young me stretched out a smooth beautifully caramel coloured hand at me. I took it and my journey began.
Young me took me to the very beginning, the humid Thursday night many years ago  when I took in my first breath. When I was doomed to my destiny. What I saw broke me, a young girl being born into the world not knowing what was to come. I had a thousand things to say to my mother there and then, I started to scream at her, “give that child away”, “abandon her when you can, all she’s going to do is bring you grief and heartache”. It was the little I could do for my mother now. I had made her cry so many times, I love her I really do but she deserves a child that would make her happy not me.
Little me sensing the immense pain my heart was feeling watching the events unfold before me took my hand and away we went. We sped past through the years  and I saw myself grow. I wasn’t so bad after all, I was loving, caring and affectionate. My mother was so quick to tell everyone about me and my dad would shower me with praises left right and centre. Where then did I go wrong? We stopped in front of a door as if to answer my question. It was all too clear, the day I lost my innocence. I could not bring myself to open that door. I knew what was happening behind it and I could not stop it. All my screaming and kicking and shouting could not help me. I heard the shriek behind the door and that was it, my innocence had left me. I knelt before the door a pain I couldn’t explain taking over my very being. A pain so deep I could not cry, I knelt there for what seemed like hours and when I turned around young me was dead.
My innocence and sweetness had died and I could not revive it, I began shaking young me but she was long gone, With my own hands and my own doing I killed off my innocence, the key to my happiness I destroyed and I was left all alone to deal with it. I sat down next to the dead me and continued watching. Things sped past but I could see it clearly. As the years went by things got worse and young me decayed. She decayed and decayed until she was just bones and that was where I was now, I had reached the present and I had ruined myself beyond a point of no return. I became angry rather than sad, the world deceived me! The world lied to me! The world told me all I was doing was ‘fun’, and urged me to go on because I saw it on TV and heard it all around me.
In my anger I was returned to the nothingness I never really left and there in the corner sat another me. This me was a sight for sore eyes. This me was tired and drained and was a pull and push away from death. But to my surprise this me spoke, it told me things I’ve always known and showed to me the negatives by which I live my life now. It showed me all my harboured doubts and all my inhibitions  and then it said “this is what is killing me, us”. Then it showed me a door and as I walked through I was hit with happy things, beautiful memories of things I had achieved. For the first time in a long time my heart smiled and my soul sighed with relief.
I walked out and it was nothingness again, but this nothingness was my fresh start. I was not in nothingness after all, I was in the canvas of my own life, With my own hands I killed my innocence but with these same hands I shall build my dignity. With my own hands I brought about my sadness and unhappiness and with my own hands I will paint the rest of my life in glorious colours that I wish, My blissful ignorance and young naivety may be long gone but they gave way for the woman I have become today and the future of greatness that awaits me.
With that I came back to reality and with a renewed vigor to want to live life I picked up my laptop and began to punch keys and make words.
Deborah Agboola blogs at  http://all-about-gbemmy.blogspot.co.uk/ and tweets @Gbemisola_A She loves humorous intro’s and outro’s otherwise, she faces the risk of depression.

Hi People, This is Yvonne Aka Ginger’s purge. Remember All rights Reserved.

Please send your entries to loonpurge@gmail.com and hola me on twitter @sunkit1

Thanks Guys for always reading.

self_pity

MY PURGE

I hummed the teddy bear song by Barbara Fairchild as I massaged the locally prepared shea butter through my hair and scalp. I had just washed and dried my hair and I was getting ready to face the day. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to achieve that day, I wasn’t even sure if there was a reason to live for that day. I folded my hair and held it up in place with pins. I put on very light eye make up and smeared my lips with shimmering red lipstick. Already dressed in a pair of jeans trousers and a shirt, I sat back on my bed, I had no clue what I was feeling; it was far from  happiness and far from hatred. No, I wasn’t bitter, I wasn’t mad at anyone. It was deeper than sadness, it was a whole different level of emotional trauma or stress.

My mum and I weren’t particularly close, I felt so alone each time I remembered that I didn’t have friends either. Oh yes, I was used to that lonely feeling. ‘Why do people pretend to care’, I was beginning to think aloud as I struggled to unlock the padlock securing the door to my shop where I do everything sewing and art related.

I sat over my sewing machine and watched naked kids play under the morning light shower, sonorous voices of two Calabar women exchanging the morning gossip could not be ignored. Mama Good, a jovial woman in her mid-fourties, was watching her pot of soup and wrapping ‘eba’ in transparent nylon wraps. The aroma from her egusi soup reminded my stomach that I hadn’t had anything all morning so I quickly ordered for a wrap of eba and soup to be served to me by noon, and of course, we spoke in our local dialect also.

I worked till 3 pm and became unusually tired, I felt this surge of weakness well up from within. I couldn’t think of what to do about it, my spirit was almost broken, I had borne so much and locked it all up inside. I felt no one could understand, I knew sympathy wasn’t going to help then so I couldn’t talk to anyone. I just needed strength, it was my only solution; I needed grace to walk through the flames. I needed to find peace or a place of solace. I was hurting inside, then I knew what I felt was pain.

I quickly packed everything I needed to go home with. I took a bus to the only place I could find peace. It was quite a distance and the traffic didn’t help matters, there was a congestion but at least, the bus was creeping. I slouched and relaxed on my seat hugging my hand bag and closed my eyes. The bus was utterly quiet, no one was getting on or getting down and soon, I was at the gate of where I could call home. It was open, I was breathing hard, and I made the first step inside, then the second and third turned into a quick pace. I was running towards the cathedral building. I couldn’t decipher if my heart leaped for joy or the pain grew.

I got to the western door, that faced directly opposite the altar, panting. My knees felt numb, my fingers and lips quivered. Warm tears rolled down my cheeks, I smiled as I sang the Amazing Grace and walked down the isle to the altar. I got to the altar and knelt down and muttered a silent prayer for strength as I sobbed. Then I heard The Voice, it said, “When someone lies to us, it teaches us that things aren’t always what they seem; When someone cheats us it teaches us that greed is the root of all evil and we should aspire to make our dreams come true through the right means and when a loved one is unfaithful to us, it teaches us that resisting temptation is man’s greatest challenge, and finally each person that enters our lives has a unique lesson to teach us”.

I knew from then that there would be beauty from pain afterwards and it would all fall in place someday.

I’m Yvonne aka Ginger, a fashion lover, writer and model. Also a melancholic sanguine recovering from a psycho-neurotic disorder; depression (LOL), I’m getting better by the day. I love writing, it serves as an outlet to express my deep thoughts and I’ve worked on a novel to be published soon. Yes, I’d be the happiest person if I could meet with the writers of this purge someday and share experiences. You can find me on www.karaconcepts.blogspot.com and @yvonne_evyluv on twitter.

Good morning.

Hope we had a good weekend cos I sure did.

This here is Dunni’s Purge. A realistic piece that goes to confirm that trust is really a box of chocolate and you never know what you’ll get.

Please send your entries to loonpurge@gmail.com

Hola me on twitter @sunkit1

dunnie

Sacrifice

I was doing the dishes when my mum announced, “Feyi, you know you’ll be going to the university in few months’ time and I’ll need someone to assist me around the house so I employed a house help.”

“Okay. Male or female?” I asked, trying to sound indifferent.

“Male. He’s arriving next week from Togo.”

“Ugh, Mum! You know I don’t feel comfortable around male house helps. Moreover, how are you going to deal with the language barrier? Both of us can’t speak French fluently.

“See, we are in the twenty-first century”, she informed me, as if I’d just stepped out of a time machine. “Not many people are willing to be menials anymore so I can only take what I get.”

“Yeah, and luckily, it happened to be a boy,” I retorted

She sighed exaggeratedly. “Honey, the thing is I don’t trust the female ones. They’re so naive and gullible. Remember that girl that lived with us when you were ten? I never told you why I sent her away she got impregnated by the barber that works in the next street. I don’t want history to repeat itself. Moreover, boys are more hardworking. Oh, and about the language thing, the woman that helped me get him said he can speak little English.”

He arrived the following week. I had just returned from a friend’s house, when I saw him sitting in the parlour, with a ‘ghana-must-go’ bag on the floor beside him. He was wearing a white robe, like an angel bringing good tidings to my family. He was swarthy and seemed to be of average height.

“Hello, you must be the new house boy.” I said, forcing a smile.

He nodded. I decided to switch to French.

“Comment t’appelles tu?”

“Placide. Je m’appelle Placide.” His face lit up immediately. “You talk French?”

“Um, yeah, I speak little French.” I was about to mount the stairs when an idea occurred to me. “Hey, let’s make a deal. I’ll teach you English, you’ll teach me French.” He nodded his head obligingly, smiling faintly.

Placide behaved like his name. He was placid and meek. He was very diligent and got a hang of things pretty quickly. He took initiative and didn’t have to wait for orders before knowing what to do. My father was usually apathetic to every helper my mum employs but when Placide returned the three thousand naira he had found in the pocket of my dad’s jeans when he was about to wash them, my dad took a liking to him. Honest helpers are as rare as real diamonds.

I kept my word. My mother had neatly stacked my primary and secondary school textbooks in the bookshelf in my room, so I fished out the ones for English and French. He possessed an enviable alacrity and aptitude for learning, which helped him master the English language faster than it took me to master French.

The apprehension I had earlier concerning him quickly vanished, and a bond began to form between us. I became comfortable around him, and would converse freely with him whenever we happened to be together.

“Placide, you seem really clever and dexterous. Why aren’t you in school?” I asked one day, when we were cleaning up the kitchen.

He sighed, “I dropped out of secondary school when I was about to enter the final year. My parents got involved in a car accident few days before school was to resume. My father lost his life, while my mother couldn’t walk anymore. We exhausted all the money we had for her surgery and wheelchair. I couldn’t continue my education.”

“I’m so sorry. But don’t you have siblings or relatives that can be of help?”

He shook his head. “I have an elder brother but he doesn’t live with us. He’s very selfish. He works in a business firm but never bothers to send money home.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. I’ve been doing odd jobs since then, so that I can save up enough money. I’ll send some to my mother− my aunt takes care of her presently– and I’ll use the rest to further my education.”

“That’s good. What do you want to study?”

“Computer Engineering. That had always been my dad’s dream for me.” His voice sounded husky, as if he was crying, but he was doing the dishes so I couldn’t see his face. I walked over to him and hugged him from behind, not knowing what else to say. Comforting people was not my forte.

Days turned into weeks, and then months. My mother successfully persuaded Placide not to return home at the end of the year as he was now part of our family. He celebrated New Year’s Day with us.

The first week of that year was very tiring for me. Due to the previous strike ASUU embarked on, the University of Ibadan ended up starting a new session in January, instead of September. I was to leave the following week, so I was busy buying all the necessary items and packing for school. Placide was somber through out that week, and I had to promise to call him often just to put a smile on his face.

Ziiiip

The sound of a zip being drawn down stirred me one night. I could feel a movement on my legs. Something was tugging at my underwear. “Oh my God, a rat,” I thought. I started and fully opened my groggy eyes only to see Placide over me. He was half-naked, clad in blue-checked boxer shorts, and was looking downwards into my skirt as if he was searching for a treasure between my thighs.

I was bewildered. Why was I still in my clothes and not my night wear? Why was Placide on my body? And then everything started falling into place. I had got back home late the day before. Out of fatigue, I had slept off, forgetting to take my shower and change into my nightwear. I hadn’t bothered to lock my door. My parents had mentioned that they would be attending a vigil that night. Placide had surreptitiously entered…

“Oh my God. What are you doing?” I cried

He looked up at me and blinked, as if he had just had an epiphany. “I…I, um, came to get something.”

“On my body? Jesus. Just get off me and get out!” I said, tears already streaming down my face.

“Feyi, please stop crying. I’m very sorry.”

I looked around me, and picked up the glass lamp, that was on my bedside table. “I swear I’ll break your head if you don’t leave my room this minute.”

He scrambled off. I hurriedly locked my door, and turned my back towards it as I slid to the floor. The tears gushed down in full force at that moment. My mind was whirling with agonizing emotions− Anger. Disappointment. Shock.

The person who I called my brother had tried to… what was the appropriate word for his action? Indecent assault? Attempted rape?

After all the love my family had shown him, he had chosen to repay us with evil.

What exactly did he expect? That I’d not wake up while he tried to sleep with me? Or I’d wake up and give him a go-ahead? Or maybe he was sleep-walking. The more thought I gave his action, the more obfuscated my mind became. I always made sure I was dressed decently at home so as not to seduce him. I could not remember ever giving him the impression that I was attracted to him. He always called me his sister so I never had the slightest idea of him being attracted to me.

I was angry at myself.  My usually keen instincts had failed me. No warning alarm had gone off in my head. I had let my guard down.

I got up from the floor, and got onto my bed. A green wristband beside my pillow caught my attention. It had the letters WWJD imprinted on it. I sighed. I had no idea what Jesus would do, but I knew how he would feel.

Jesus, this is how you felt when Judas betrayed you, right? The difference is that you’d seen it coming. I hadn’t.

I was in a quagmire. Was I supposed to tell my parents or pretend like nothing ever happened?

Hypnos emancipated me from my thoughts, as he cast me into a deep sleep while Morpheus formed dreams of half-naked men in blue-checked boxer shorts.

I opened my eyes, looking into the worried eyes of my mother. “Feyi, are you okay? It’s noon and you’re still asleep. Or did you observe your own vigil at home?” My mother was like that– always trying to joke even when she was worried. I smiled faintly.

“Seriously, are you okay? Your dad and Placide are really worried about you.”

The events that had occurred in the early hours of the morning flashed across my brain. In that moment of truth, I made a decision that seemed to border on folly. I decided not to inform my parents or anyone at all. It would break their hearts, and my father would definitely send him away. I knew how much they needed him. My mother needed him to help her around the house. My father had taken him as the son he never had. I remembered when they’d play table tennis together and discuss sports for hours. I thought of Placide’s mother in the wheelchair. I thought of his late father and his hopes for his son. He needed this job.

I knew that reporting his actions would not take the pain away. Instead, it would cause more pain for everyone involved. He had not actually defiled me. And I was leaving for school in few days so the opportunity would never arise again. I would suffer in silence, I would endure the pain. Time would heal my hurts and perhaps enable me to trust again. It was better for my parents to dwell in blissful ignorance. It was what I thought Jesus would do he would sacrifice himself for the joy of others’.

I smiled at my mum and said, “I’m fine.”

Placide has returned to his country. The world can finally hear my story.

Oluwadunni is an 100 level Law student of OAU. She is a PhlegMel who hopes her laziness will not hinder her from being a great writer. She only gets enthusiastic about the Word of God, good books, like-minded people and fine guys. She blogs at dunnidoxa.wordpress.com and is @I_am_doxa on twitter.”

So we are here again. To read my ( Damstylee) purge I guess. It didn’t take me long to decide what was my greatest purge; I mean how many times have I gotten emotional in my short life?

If however you’re hoping you’ll feel sad like the other writers would make you feel, wipe that thought off your mind. July, 2008 still stands as one of my worst but I’ll let the story tell itself. It’s left for you to decide however, if its fiction or not. I also tried my best to make it as funny as possible; you wouldn’t want me crying all over my laptop’s keyboard, would you?

Do send entries to loonpurge@gmail.com … hala me on twitter @sunkit1

All rights reserved.

prom

PROM NIGHTMARES

The sky was pitch black that fateful morning; at least to me it was. Lighting sliced across the blackness countless times but my focus was undaunted. I had her in my sight and I wasn’t planning to let go. She looked so glorious in the school uniform; the cream shirt elegant and the deep green skirt with a fine gloss to it. Her skin was as beautiful as she was; pure calabar beauty and her eyes… hmm… enchanting.

The teacher introduced her to us. Favour Michelle was her name. (You didn’t expect me to put her real name, did you?). I registered that in my brain quickly alongside the 30 something other boys that were as star struck like I was. The year is 2006 and I am in SS2. My name is Mike Dammy for those of you that don’t know and welcome to my greatest purge.

Michelle was directed to her seat; far beyond where my whispers could travel but I didn’t mind, I would get her later. I duly promised myself that. One week, two weeks, a month, eighteen months passed and I hadn’t accomplished my goal. I was no better than I was the day she was introduced to us. She was still a dream; a long, distant dream.

May 2008 rushed by quickly and I was presented with three major avenues to get her; my birthday, WAEC and Prom. Prom was my last card. Maybe if I took her to prom, I could get lucky when we moved our bodies tantalizingly to Phil Collins.

My birthday came and went. Did she even wish me happy birthday, I doubt that but WAEC came and I almost clinched it. On the day we were supposed to have Technical Drawing, some complications developed and everybody was friendly with me, including her. She came; we chatted and even played with my hand. I was in cloud nine. Shy me thought that was a yes but like my birthday; it was a mirage. I was still that weird kid that wouldnt’t stop smiling at her.

Prom. My last card I have to admit. I penned down the blueprints for my famous capture hoping to tell the tales of how I came and conquered but…

Anyway, I decided I was going to defer all shyness and come out bold; “Michelle, would you be my prom date?” That was all I needed to say but the heavens would have none of it and I was hospitalized for a week. On my return, all the pretty girls had been taken, her inclusive.

My rival? One nigga like this. It was like rapture when I discovered she was taken, my chest flared like a coal train and my soul sobbed in pain. Prom was my last card and the devil had taken it from me and put a joker in my face.

June or July or whatever month the prom held came quickly. The hall was set, decorations on point, couples classy and singles; well, we tried. The MC got talking early on but I heard not a word of what he said. My attention was focused across the hall. Far away from the singles corner to where the lucky ones were seated. She stood out in the distance. Her red gown making all the other girls seem like a poor rendition from an 80’s show.

Meals came and I passed it on. My mouth was too angry to let anything in. Was it waiting for her? I never found out but it surely didn’t get what it wanted that evening. Music came on and the couples got on the dance floor. I gasped in shock at the P square and D’banj lyrics that flew out of the speakers. It was supposed to be Phil not those guys.

Singles soon joined the couples and through the smallest gap in the konji infested congregation, I saw her. His hands were where they shouldn’t be and her backside… #sigh. I wept. It was disheartening. I beheld the sight again and couldn’t take it anymore. My bride was taken from me and all I could do was watch her move her body in erotic waves with her prom date. I walked out of the hall with my cheeks stained with tears. This was the end, I told myself but it wasn’t.

You see, fate has a way of bringing your heart desires to you when you chase hard after them. And it did so with NECO and a replica of the game of truth or dare; ‘Spin the bottle.’ We were back in school for our final examinations as secondary school students. My face was fairer after all the crying and wailing but she was still as beautiful as ever. One ‘glorious’ evening, we guys and the babes were bored to bits and we noticed a 7up bottle lying fallow. We picked it up believing the Universe wanted us to play ‘Spin the bottle’.

The only rule? If you lie, the universe would come back to haunt you and the bottle would point right back at you. Soon, it was my turn and my question was simple.

“Who is the most beautiful girl in the class to you?” Simply interpreted as “Who are you crushing on in the class?” Young Michelle wasn’t playing but she was in hearing distance and I panicked. So I lied and said some other girl’s name but trust the universe, the bottle came right back at me.

Who do you think I said it was this time?

It never did help me get her. I still lived in awe of her for one more year before someone broke it but that’s a story for another day.

This is my story… my Purge and no, I did not cry.

PROFILE

Mike Dammy is a Writer, a Public speaker, an Architect and a Graphics designer. He loves mentoring and is forever open to criticisms.

Blogs at http://www.damstylee.wordpress.com

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/damstylee

I have to say thank you to every writer that has responded, I really appreciate your entries. Y’all make me happy and to everyone that comments too thanks. Other writers out there, Please make me happy and send entries to loonpurge@gmail.com or hola me on twitter @sunkit1
This is Ehi’s purge.  Another deep piece which I’m honored to have on my blog.  All rights reserved.
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                                                                                       “Dorothy’s place”

She was in her favourite room in the house
Surrounded by the distinct smell of stale urine and antiseptic
Tiled walls echoing her silent thoughts
Running water masking her tears
Here in her refuge there was peace
Here in her foul smelling harbour there was serenity
Here in her bathroom she didn’t have to think
Not about her past
Not about having to explain why her brother is sitting on the restaurant floor
Not about why her brother has to use the girl’s toilet with her
Not about why her brother is ten years old and still wears diapers
Not about why mommy cries at night
Here in her bathroom she didn’t have to think
Not about her present
Not about why her fourteen years old brother can’t wear his shorts
Not about why daddy can’t look at his boy sober
Not about why she has to be her mother’s mother
Not about why she can’t be her father’s daughter
Not about why tears are streaming down her face even though she’s not thinking
Not about why….
“Dorothy!!”
“Yes mother”
“Your brother wet the bed again you need to change the sheets”
She grudgingly left her cocoon
Staring at the bed
Sheets stained milky white
“Oh mother” she said
“That’s not pee”.
Ehi Enabs doesn’t get much sleep at night, she uses that time to save the world but when she’s not doing that (on laundry day when she has to wash her cape and tights) she tweets at Twitter.com/ehienabs and occasionally she gets published on wahalacentral.WordPress.com. She also takes long walks in her head.

Hello Everyone,

Thanks for reading through week 1 and now we made it to another week. Especially with Serena Williams winning her fifth US Open Grand Slam and her 17th in total. Okay enough.

This is Telelola’s purge and I love it because it is the poem I never got the courage to write! VERY DEEP! I hope you love it too. Submit entries to loonpurge@gmail.com or hola me @sunkit1 on twitter

plea

The Plea

 

Hey you

you with the funny hairdo.

You with the curious eyes

you that is fluent with the lies.

Look at me; I’m talking to you

Do you want to be my friend?

Beauty and brains, a perfect combination

Beauty and the geek, we’ll cause admiration.

Beauty and the beast, a poignant misconduct

Beauty and deceit, weapons of great destruct.

Step up, silly, I am not a fiend.

Answer me quickly, will you be my friend?

Lend me your ears, you should not miss

My dearest southpaw, riddle me this.

What do you want but cannot have?

What can you have but do not want?

If you need ask, you’ll never know

If you know, you only need ask.

Come on, shorty, put me out of a bend

Dance to the fiddle, please be my friend.

They swoon, your face so comely

Your strength, you smile so warmly.

Little fair dolls are your prize

Take me, sugar, it matches my guise.

Don’t ask, you know I won’t dance

Lest you maim with your prance.

The die is cast, this do not pend

Decide now, say you will be my friend.

You bastard, you fool, you coward

By you I am flustered, for you I am forward.

You turned, you schemed, you hated

I followed, I slept, I loved.

You seethed, you wounded, you laughed

I burned, I licked, I cried.

You give me only pain, only anguish

My love for you will wane, it will vanish.

All this will see an end

I won’t chase you to be my friend.

Hey you

you with the funny hairdo.

You with the curious eyes

you that is fluent with the lies.

This is it, the delta

I have elected, I will not falter.

I guess you chose the way you would wend

I guess you were never meant to be my friend.

Teleola is a melancholic sanguine who is recovering from impulsive behaviors. She is christian and wishes to better herself each day and affect everyone around her positively. She hopes to be a great writer someday. She is a girl who strongly believes in love. She can be found at aljanusi.wordpress.com and on twitter as @teleolaonifade

I love this piece by  DankarO ShintO, I hope you love it as much as i do…

All rights to this piece are reserved.

Send entries to loonpurge@gmail.com

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Purgatory

A lonely soul, swimming in a sea of seething pain.

A lonely soul, soundlessly crying out for help.

A lonely soul once reveling in primal urges, torture by visions of sins pasts.

My lonely soul….. Begging to be saved.

Rescue me from purgatory, free my bounds that I may right the wrongs of days bygone.

Enlighten the light within me that it can once again burn bright.

Gird my heart that it shall never again take flight from the evils of men and demons alike.

Take my soul to thee, that I may experience inner peace.

Take my thoughts to thine that I may catch a glimpse of thy face.

Your gaze soothes like a flood of cool water on a burning stone.

My soul steams forth its evil intentions even as my heart cracks and my back breaks.

Sometimes my soul revolts, tired of this seemingly endless wait.

Sometimes my heart despairs, rending into ragged pieces as it cannot bear this pain.

But still, Still yet I sojourn in purgatory, knowing that one day thou shall descry my

plea….. Knowing that one day my soul shall know peace.

Heed not the scornful laughter of my foes

Hearken not to the vituperation of those I’ve hurt.

Retire to your revered throne and be adorned with thy crown of mercy.

The scepter of salvation be at thy side even as my case be called.

I stand before you as empty as can be.

I stand before you even as more emptier than the day I was born.

Creator, I stand before you unburdened. Less of a man than the day I died.

A stitch in time is said to save nine. My time I spent as loosely as the wind.

Like the pharaohs of old, hubris was my everyday companion.

A lonely soul, standing before you,

A lonely soul, waiting to be judge,

A lonely soul, hoping for undeserved mercy,

My lonely soul…… begging to be accepted.

Fin.

Twitter handle: @Volturi_Lord

Fareed Zakaria: DankarO ShintO is a err… weird personal friend of mine who has no idea who he is and hopes he never does. He dreams of a better world though, where chickens can cross the road without having their motives questioned. Also he likes hitting things with sticks. He scribbles at WahalaCentral.wordpress.com and hopes y’alll pays him a visit soon.

This is Vunderkind’s Purge.

All rights reserved.

Send entries to loonpurge@gmail.com

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The Scribe

Silence.

Only the soft scratch of quill against parchment, as The Scribe wrote determinedly on the roll of parchment in front of him. His forehead was cut open, but he paid no mind – although he had to pause occasionally to irritably wipe blood from his eyes. Nothing would distract him – not even the silhouetted woman at the other end of the room.

“A shadow you have become, Manuel,” she breathed.

Icy mist swirled around her mouth in the cold November air, quickly thinning and disappearing as soon as she shut her mouth again. Manuel didn’t hear her, or if he did – he ignored her.

Still he wrote.

His tangled mane hung wetly against his sweaty face, and blood and sweat dampened the parchment he was so bent on filling with words. If he cared about the mess his blood and sweat were making on his work, he did not show it. His breathing was slow, deliberate. Even.

“Speak, Manuel. It is ungentlemanly to ignore your guests.”

Silence.

The scratch-scratch. Quill on parchment.

“Because that is what has become of me, is it not? I, Nerissa, reduced to naught but a guest. To think that only a few moons have arisen between now and the time you swore your heart to me.”

The Scribe paused, swiped the back of a gnarled hand across his forehead, and wiped the blood against the breast portion of his robes. He hunched over the parchment and resumed.

“I was a fool to think you meant what you professed, Manuel. How could I have been so blind? I remember…all too vividly. Sometimes I stare into the sunset, remembering you as you were, four years ago….

“Four years ago, Manuel, when I first saw you. Aye, you were but a dimpled boy, nervous and much disinclined to involve yourself in discourse with anyone. You were oft scorned for your garb and mannerisms, and people thought you quirky. I will not pretend now that I wasn’t one of those who thought you an unlikely individual unbecoming of my social standing.

Nevertheless, Manuel, as the designs of fate could not be halted; you and I became entangled in an irrevocable seal of friendship. My friends were scandalized – they could not imagine me allowing you take me out to tea – they worried that I would damage my reputation. In times when I was clearheaded, I would panic: what did I even see in you? – yet I was drawn. Need I mention I was also being courted by another fine man? But he held no more interest for me, and I wanted nothing but the dimpled boy who would speak to no one and who wore the most ridiculous robes.

It was with much mixed emotion – on one hand I was suffused with delight, on the other, with much uncertainty – I turned down the fine gentleman and accepted your proposal, Manuel.

And oh what fine times we had! Even though you dress ridiculously still, I managed to make you a better person in public. You were no longer afraid, nor haughty, and oft I would find you the centre of much debate among your peers. It brought me so much joy to see you grow into a fine young man!

You would ask for my advice: “Nerissa, do you reckon the green robe would make a great garment for the Solstice Ball, or the red?” or “I reckon my study of drosophila could use a bit of historical studies.

What do you reckon?” And I would be there to give you advice.

One day, you no longer needed my advice.

Oh, Manuel, it was your ambition. Your ambition ruined it for us.

You were no longer content with being the lowly scribe you were, and you became obsessed with gold.

You left in the wee hours of the morning, and wouldn’t return for weeks! And when I attempted to query you – you would throw up such a rage that I would flee to my room and cry for hours.

I nagged you. Every day. Any time I found you – I nagged you. I wanted you back, Manuel, so I nagged you. And one day – and I reckon I got out of line here – I told you to choose which you wanted, me or your tomfoolery, for there were better gentlemen this minute bargaining for my hand.

And (I will die with this horrible memory) you chose your ambition. You told me, in a voice so cold, I still shiver in warm nights, to go, and never return.

So I did. I left.

But I have returned, Manuel, because my heart will not let me be. I want to know. I have to know.

Is there a chance, Manuel? Might you have had a change of heart? Might we be, after all?”

Silence.

The Scribe was writing even more furiously than ever. He was paying no mind to the blood which had almost totally obscured his vision and was now drenching the neck of his robes. His hands shook briefly, and he paused, then resumed, writing even more madly than ever.

The silhouetted woman gave a soft sob.

The Scribe wrote on, with such intensity that the parchment was ripped in places where the quill sliced through.

Without saying another word, the silhouetted woman turned on her heel, and disappeared into the darkness.

And The Scribe kept writing.

Blood and sweat dripped on to the parchment, mingled with a fresh liquid.

Tears.

But he kept writing…

This is Vunderkind; Dual Personalities.

One: Justin. A.g(r)eek. Bespectacled. Geeky. Farmer. With a Pen. Vivacious Ventriloquist. Imperfect.Flawed.

Two: Vunderkind. Son. Father. Vundrepreneur. Writer. Artist. A world without a sense of humor is the zombie apocalypse.

Blogs at http://www.iraborjustin.wordpress.com.

WahalaCentral Team writer at http://www.wahalacentral.wordpress.com.

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/ovunderkind

Ladies and Gents,

Welcome to The Great Purge. Here, those who have been blessed with the pen shall purge innermost hurts, joys, whatever… and make it into a story.

The purges you will read are a mixture of fact with fiction. Have fun figuring out which is fact and which is fiction.

And please, no intellectual theft!! All rights are reserved. send a mail to loonpurge@gmail.com if you are interested in purging, I’ll be honored.

Being the host of this challenge it begins with my purge.

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Heaven’s Tears

I sat outside the pitch black gate of our Bungalow, watching cars drive by. I counted the cars, classifying them according to their colors.

Deep down in my heart, I knew I should be inside the house attending to my mum but knowledge and actions are not synonyms.  I desired not only a new scene but also a new life; maybe.

I was hoping some time outside might drive the wind to blow strong enough that like smoke on a breeze, it would separate my troubles from me.

Watching the cars began to bore my troubled soul so I turned my eyes to the sand beneath my feet, I watched the wind sweep dirt off the floor.

“dear wind, how about you sweep dirt off my life. Then you can blow around feeling fulfilled” I soliloquized.

“Aunty Sarah” My seven year old nephew called as he ran out from the house screaming like a bad radio from.  If I did not know him better, the pitch of his voice would have deceived me into thinking he was being chased by a vampire bat.

“Yes” I answered him, without lifting my gaze off the ground

“Grandma is calling you”

“Okay.” I answered without moving, he stood waiting for me.

I jumped out of my pathetic state like I had just witnessed an electric shock.

“Race you to the house” I screamed putting my feet into a run. Amidst the run, I secretly hoped I was leaving the troubles behind.

However, once I got into the house, I realized the wind hadn’t needed much of a fulfillment after all.

I walked into my mum’s room which she shared with my dad before he was shipped off to jail over some ill accusations.

“Where were you? My mum asked

“Outside” I replied with clenched teeth

“Okay. Can you get me something to wear please?”

“Yes ma” I said making my way to her closet. I stuck my head in it and prayed when I pulled it out things would be different. Who was I kidding? My troubles were right there like a remissive cancer rearing its ferocious head, they refused to go. I felt like I was standing at the edge of a cliff

‘Why do you run from me?’ my mum asked.

Her question threw me off the cliff, I landed on my back; pain roaming in my heart.  I got myself together. I got my head out of her closet

‘I’m not running from you mum.’ I said without conviction.

Then the tears slipped from my eyes, rolling down my cheeks like stones from a rocky mountain. I knew she couldn’t see that I was crying and that broke my heart all the way.

I wish I could do everything right, but if wishes were horses.

I turned and smiled amidst my tears at her but she couldn’t see the smile either. My two year old niece ran in saying

‘Grandma’

‘Yes’ she answered trying to use her hands and intellect to locate her. I picked her up, dropped her on my mum’s lap.

‘I’ll be back mum.’ I said and ran to the bathroom to weep my heart out.

I cry because I don’t know if my mum remembers what I look like. I don’t think she knows that my seven year old nephew has beautiful eyes like a lady; that my niece is as fair as the insides of a papaya.

And as much as she thinks I avoid her, its because I cant take the hurt of seeing her so helpless and at the mercy of her sight.

I wiped my eyes and opened up the bathroom door. My big sister and her pale skin were there waiting for me, her eyes had no sparkles

‘What’s up?’ I asked her

‘We can’t find James.’

‘What do you mean you can’t find James?’ James was like my best friend and family friend. He helped a lot in the house and my mum depended on him a lot for her movement. My sister telling me he was suddenly missing sounded like a sick joke.

‘We haven’t seen him since yesterday. When last did you talk to him?’ she asked

‘Well I saw him yesterday morning.’

‘Did he tell you he was going anywhere?’

‘Nope. But maybe he has left us. You know… for a better life. Not everybody can deal with so much dependency. We depended on him too much.”

Then I walked away. That is what I do; I hate to show my emotions to people. I like to be seen more as Great Wall of China than as a person. Reasons why, I do not know.

‘Sarah’ my sister called me. After me

I stopped and turned to her. I couldn’t believe how dark her skin had become, she who was once called aponbepore (as fair as palm oil). Her fair and flawless skin was now so dark it could be compared with burnt boli, this made my heart weep and my eyes water.

“Were you crying?” she asked.

I shook my head and walked away. Not only was I trying to deal with a blind mother, an incarcerated father, a sister and her financial situation, now a friend who was a backbone disappeared caring less if his actions triggered a stroke.

I felt like I was in those silly games where your friends pulled out the chair before you placed your butt on it and then you landed on the floor. The difference is that those games ended with laughter or some sort of cheer.

I went back outside; my nephew trailed behind me like a puppy. We both sat in silence, him with his seven year old thoughts and me with mine. Then there was a thunder so loud it was like the voice of God. Maybe God saying

‘It would be alright.’

Soon, tear drops began to fall from heaven’s eyes.

“Heaven is crying” my nephew said to me… I smiled.

“These tears that fall from heaven could be falling for us” I told him.

By Oluwaseyi.

Oluwaseyi a writer with multiple personalities. Sometimes she is a loon,  at other times a freak. She is a wild nerd, who loves to shimmy and dance in the circle with Ted Dekker. However she is just a girl. Her first novel is in the oven. On twitter she is @sunkit1