My City Journeys

If I say that the first time I came to Port Harcourt was in April 2016, I would not be accused of lying. I had earlier spent few months before that time but I was caged up with nanny duties. The only time I went out was for grocery shopping, school runs, church, and hospital. When I came back much to my dismay it was due to the obligation that I had to serve my Beloved Country. After weeks of living with the pangs of regret, I decided to brace whatever the city had for me, since this time around I had the opportunity to explore. Fresh out of camp, I had to accompany a friend to shop for few clothes till her consignment was shipped here from the high seas of Lagos where she lived initially. No pun was intended there as the boxes that came in later were enormous. We asked around for markets and places where we could shop for clothing items. We were presented with many options and decided to visit the Mile One Market. After school, we hurried to the junction to begin our journey t

First, make sure you are already booked with the patient who had slumped in the examination hall due to the difficulty he had breathing. Then, wear your white jacket, very white jacket; a tablet PC; a stethoscope; red pen and the medical file. Second, take a book and practice your medical handwriting skills. Learn how to draw this very well that not even the medically inclined person can decode. Few drawings of the heart will do. Not necessarily important but to assure your patient that the case is serious. When he comes in, smile, smile, smile. Don't ever stop smiling. Assure him that all is well. That why what happened occurred was because of certain issues with the heart which can be ascertain after the few questions you are going to ask him. Bring your seat closer, look him straight in the eyes and ask: "21? Oh, I see." He nods in pain. "How exactly do you feel?" "Dizzy. I get dizzy trying to breathe." "Any wheezing?" &

Never in your plans. But it just stopped raining in the early hours of a Tuesday morning, the heavens above your small student’s dorm sends forth sunny rays pretending never to have known anything about the rain. The birds are tapping your glass window with their gold and scarlet beaks, and the occupants of the next rooms are loud – something kind of a ‘blessing’ came to them in their dreams. You hiss, open the windows and the smell of the red sand outside mixed with leaves of dead plants enters your nose. Is this a bad day? Is there not something arty about the day? A walk round the city would be great. I usually do not wake up from sleep feeling positive about any day. I am lazy and find it difficult leaving my bed to venture off into the unknown. Maybe, it was just as a result of depression. I have been taking antidepressant for long – since I entered my final year in school. After attempting suicide thrice, my friends thought it would be wise I go back to photography, painting

"Vegas!" I shouted as I waved down a tricyclist, popularly known as Keke Napep. I was all smiles. "50 naira," the keke man echoed. I have never been to Vegas Restaurant and Bakery, the new bakery in town. Everyone is either talking about it or visiting it. It seemed I was the only one that had no appetite for not only food, but good things. My best (female) friend always go there with her boyfriend. Any time she comes home, I'll definitely have a fresh Vegas bread to eat. The said bread has low sugar, and is preferred by many. "Vegas bread is the best," my friend said cheerfully. "Have you calculated the cost of going from here to the place? Just to get a loaf of bread," I hissed. I had no plans of going to get it myself. But on my graduation another friend of mine demanded it. Because I was excited, I promised to get it for her. There's nothing there! I thought. Just bread. Nothing more. A week later, to fulfill my promise

"Things are not getting better." "We shall soon die." "Soon die? We are already dead. We are not living. Is this life?" "What made us vote this heartless man into power?" The two men at the newspaper stand close to Ebotrans bus terminal went on talking without pausing. Sometimes, in between their chat, I searched for a soul: the soul responsible for transporting people from their homes to a newspaper stand, only to end up engaging in discussions that lead one no way. Abakaliki city, just like every other city in Nigeria is going through hell. Did I write that? The city is going through hell but no one cares. Perhaps, everyone is too busy trying not to care by looking for ways to eat. The money already marked out for buying food can never be used to get papers. Never! The money is meant to do its work of buying the things the holder wishes. Thus, the money can never get a paper. No one eats newspapers. My City men journey from various