MARRAKESH.

I watched the doctor's mouth move, his words drowned in the turmoil that has engulfed me.
"This can't be true!" I muttered repeatedly, tears flowing freely from my eyes.
"Stage two breast cancer," he said again. "We can remove the affected breast and start chemotherapy."
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. How can I, thirty and unmarried, lose a breast?
"She will need some time," Kola, my boyfriend chimed in, looking at me.
The doctor sighed. "The earlier, the better."

As soon as we got home, Kola began packing his bags. I felt betrayed.
"Which of the bags are you taking?" he asked.
"Taking to where?" I retorted, confused.
He placed a hand on my shoulder. "Nkem, you've always told me you wanted to travel. We'll take one week and go wherever you want. You can start the treatment when we return."
I squeezed his hands, their warmth holding my floundering hope.

We arrived Marrakesh, Morocco, under the sweltering sun. On our way to the resort, the dry air was heavy with the smell of the orchard and olive grooves. Behind the resort was an imposing mountain range, their tips capped with snow.
"The Atlas mountains!" Kola exclaimed.
A sumptuous lunch followed, complete with peppery lamb kebab.

The next morning, we  left for the Ouzoud waterfall, about three hours from Marrakesh. The red-brick earth contrasted sharply with the green carpet of olive trees in the plateau. We watched in awe as the water rushed down, sparkling in the morning sun, the loud splashing sound sending shivers down my spine.
"The waterfall got its name from the olive trees," our Morrocan guide explained, in halting English.
We took a small path to the first level, watching the deluge of water surge forth, downwards. A group of macaque monkeys chattered in the distance, prancing about in their natural habitat.

The following morning, I awoke to the cry of the muezzin. After a breakfast of crepes- special pancakes with flavoured toppings- we left for the Moroccan desert. The Jemaa el-Fnaa square was already teeming with street performers, snake charmers and snake oil salesmen. I stopped to buy an embroidered purple scarf from one of the souks.

We arrived Merzouga desert the next day. The sand dunes stretched majestically to infinity and merged silently with the cloudless, blue sky. There were hammocks and sofas in our luxury tent. Dinner was served outside, under the stars, as we lay on Berber rugs. Opening the dish, I saw a diamond-encrusted golden ring on top of the grilled chicken and turned around, astounded. Kola was kneeling on the sand.
"Marry me," he said. "Let's fight this together."

We spent our last night in Casablanca, dancing in a discotheque, the twirling lights and upbeat sounds sending ripples of pleasure through me.

I returned to the hospital the following week.
The doctor leaved through my recent test results, his eyes wide with surprise. "It seems that your cancer has gone into remission."
I stared at him, speechless.

©Kelvin Alaneme, 2015.
Follow on Twitter and Instagram @dr_alams.

Deep Motivation From Steve Jobs, The Apple Genius.

Steve Jobs, the American businessman and technology visionary who is best known as the co-founder, chairman, and chief executive officer of Apple Inc, was born on February 24, 1955. His parents were two University of Wisconsin graduate students, Joanne Carole Schieble and Syrian-born Abdulfattah Jandali. They were both unmarried at the time. Jandali, who was teaching in Wisconsin when Steve was born, said he had no choice but to put the baby up for adoption because his girlfriend's family objected to their relationship.

The baby was adopted at birth by Paul Reinhold Jobs (1922–1993) and Clara Jobs (1924–1986). Later, when asked about his "adoptive parents," Jobs replied emphatically that Paul and Clara Jobs "were my parents." He stated in his authorized biography that they "were my parents 1,000%." Unknown to him, his biological parents would subsequently marry (December 1955), have a second child, novelist Mona Simpson, in 1957, and divorce in 1962.

Jobs's youth was riddled with frustrations over formal schooling. At Monta Loma Elementary school in Mountain View, he was a prankster whose fourth-grade teacher needed to bribe him to study. Jobs tested so well, however, that administrators wanted to skip him ahead to high school—a proposal his parents declined. Jobs then attended Cupertino Junior High and Homestead High School in Cupertino, California. During the following years Jobs met Bill Fernandez and Steve Wozniak, a computer whiz kid.

The Jobs family moved from San Francisco to Mountain View, California when Steve was five years old. The parents later adopted a daughter, Patti. Paul was a machinist for a company that made lasers, and taught his son rudimentary electronics and how to work with his hands. The father showed Steve how to work on electronics in the family garage, demonstrating to his son how to take apart and rebuild electronics such as radios and televisions. As a result, Steve became interested in and developed a hobby of technical tinkering. Clara was an accountant who taught him to read before he went to school.

Following high school graduation in 1972, Jobs enrolled at Reed College in Portland, Oregon. Reed was an expensive college which Paul and Clara could ill afford. They were spending much of their life savings on their son's higher education. Jobs dropped out of college after six months and spent the next 18 months dropping in on creative classes, including a course on calligraphy. He continued auditing classes at Reed while sleeping on the floor in friends' dorm rooms, returning Coke bottles for food money, and getting weekly free meals at the local Hare Krishna temple.

In 1976, Wozniak invented the Apple I computer. Jobs, Wozniak, and Ronald Wayne, an electronics industry worker, founded Apple computer in the garage of Jobs's parents in order to sell it. They received funding from a then-semi-retired Intel product-marketing manager and engineer Mike Markkula.

Through Apple, Jobs was widely recognized as a charismatic pioneer of the personal computer revolution and for his influential career in the computer and consumer electronics fields. Jobs also co-founded and served as chief executive of Pixar Animation Studios; he became a member of the board of directors of The Walt Disney Company in 2006, when Disney acquired Pixar.

Jobs died at his California home around 3 p.m. on October 5, 2011, due to complications from a relapse of his previously treated pancreatic cancer.

Source: Wikipedia

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CHURCH

The brownish, wooden pews in front of me flaunt different shades of colours. I don't see the heads, bodies, scarves; I just see colours. I am almost always like that in church: lost. My mind wanders to the moon and back simultaneously.

I barely hear the priest but I'm listening to him. Little children blabbing in tongues, screaming in the guise of crying, a million sleepers sleeping, five golden rings. I drift to singing. The old woman beside me gives me a witchy look and I realize that I am singing out loud. She goes back to sleep.

I hate coming late to church. Having to sit  at the back with this bunch of village people who probably missed their way to the village square and decided to rest their aching legs in church.  Some creepy young woman whose gele seems to be ice-skating on her head suddenly throws sanity to the offering box, frees her boobs and invites her cry baby to a 'boobacue'. It seems like the witch-looking oldie beside me is in Jericho already watching in awe as the walls fall down flat. Sleep takes people places, especially church sleep. I bet she would have given that breast feeder a run for her milk with just one stare.
Talking about stares, my eyes can't wait for offering time, to feed on attires. The youths of this church are so mundane, they dress to church like there's an after-party.

I forcefully push aside my mindsnaps to hear a word or two from the priest. He is talking about a politician who asked him to pray for him before elections, and after he won, he completely forgot about him. He adds that humans shoould be like the disciples, willing to evangelize and spread the gospel. I try to connect the Politician's tale to the talk on  evangelism and my brain goes weak and dumb. I give up on the homily.

Seeking something to divert my attention to, I catch sight of a boy walking in with a little girl I presume to be his sister. I think I hear someone mutter something about how God will judge chronic latecomers to church, in a special way. The boy, looking all dapper in his over-ironed blazer, colourful shirt and jeans that beg to be ripped all over, walks towards the back, with a runway gait to trip over a hard rug for. I feel tightness in my chest. The girl in front of me seems to be adjusting her dress and every other thing on her. I want to laugh. The boy then stops at my pew and takes the just-deserted space at the end of the pew after asking if it was occupied. The girl in front of me looks back, in his direction. She steals a glance and faces her front. I know that will become a routine till the end of mass. I know.

My chest's still bolted. Cute boy  seems to be the religious kind. He does a silent prayer, carries his little sister on his laps in such an awkwardly appealing way and fixes his glare on the podium. He is paying attention. I wonder why I can't be like that in church then I tell myself, amidst chuckles, that things will get better when I grow up.

I find mysrlf back in my circus of imagination. My mind's a rollercoaster when a cute boy finds a way to smuggle himself in it. I picture us together, laughing, teasing, caressing, love making. I try to stop the rush of images, out of guilt especially cause its communion time. I can't. I steal a glance at him and our eyes click, he meets my gaze. He smiles, I go blank. I feel the butterflies and tomatoes in my system. I don't smile back. I'm not cheap okirika. Call me hard to get and I won't mind.

Second collection is the real definition of church in auction, priest in action. The priest sells his divine olive oil in the "going-going-gone" manner. I find the whole process annoying.

In a jiffy, mass is over and I head to the car. On the trip back home, we drive past a bar filled with people gyrating. Mum laments about how worldly people miss church for unnecessary frivolities.  Dad  supports her by saying that if an hour or so, spent in God's presence in church is too difficult for mankind to offer, then humans are really spitting in God's face. I sink in my corner. I'm no better than these people at the bar. I  didn't really attend church; I did not show up in God's presence. Guilt tugs at my sleeves, collar, pocket, soul. I close my eyes and pray for forgiveness.

Then, a thought comes haunting, from abyss. Next Sunday, that priest will still show up, weird people will still find their way to my side, another cute boy hopefully. Hopelessly, I start looking forward to all that. Forgive me, Lord.

©Chisom Okwara, 2015.

7 Strange Questions That Help You Find Your Life's Purpose.

By Mark Manson, markmanson.net

One day, when my brother was 18, he waltzed into the living room and proudly announced to my mother and me that one day he was going to be a senator. My mom probably gave him the “That’s nice, dear,” treatment while I’m sure I was distracted by a bowl of Cheerios or something.

But for fifteen years, this purpose informed all of my brother’s life decisions: what he studied in school, where he chose to live, who he connected with and even what he did with many of his vacations and weekends.

And now, after almost half a lifetime of work later, he’s the chairman of a major political party in his city and the youngest judge in the state. In the next few years, he hopes to run for office for the first time.

Don’t get me wrong. My brother is a freak. This basically never happens.

Most of us have no clue what we want to do with our lives. Even after we finish school. Even after we get a job. Even after we’re making money. Between ages 18 and 25, I changed career aspirations more often than I changed my underwear. And even after I had a business, it wasn’t until I was 28 that I clearly defined what I wanted for my life.

Chances are you’re more like me and have no clue what you want to do. It’s a struggle almost every adult goes through. “What do I want to do with my life?” “What am I passionate about?” “What do I not suck at?” I often receive emails from people in their 40s and 50s who still have no clue what they want to do with themselves.

Part of the problem is the concept of “life purpose” itself. The idea that we were each born for some higher purpose and it’s now our cosmic mission to find it. This is the same kind of shitty logic used to justify things like spirit crystals or that your lucky number is 34 (but only on Tuesdays or during full moons).

Here’s the truth. We exist on this earth for some undetermined period of time. During that time we do things. Some of these things are important. Some of them are unimportant. And those important things give our lives meaning and happiness. The unimportant ones basically just kill time.

So when people say, “What should I do with my life?” or “What is my life purpose?” what they’re actually asking is: “What can I do with my time that is important?”

This is an infinitely better question to ask. It’s far more manageable and it doesn’t have all of the ridiculous baggage that the “life purpose” question does. There’s no reason for you to be contemplating the cosmic significance of your life while sitting on your couch all day eating Doritos. Rather, you should be getting off your ass and discovering what feels important to you.

One of the most common email questions I get is people asking me what they should do with their lives, what their “life purpose” is. This is an impossible question for me to answer. After all, for all I know, this person is really into knitting sweaters for kittens or filming gay bondage porn in their basement. I have no clue. Who am I to say what’s right or what’s important to them?

But after some research, I have put together a series of questions to help you figure out for yourself what is important to you and what can add more meaning to your life.

These questions are by no means exhaustive or definitive. In fact, they’re a little bit ridiculous. But I made them that way because discovering purpose in our lives should be something that’s fun and interesting, not a chore.


1. WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE FLAVOR OF SHIT SANDWICH AND DOES IT COME WITH AN OLIVE?
Ah, yes. The all-important question. What flavor of shit sandwich would you like to eat? Because here’s the sticky little truth about life that they don’t tell you at high school pep rallies:

Everything sucks, some of the time.

Now, that probably sounds incredibly pessimistic of me. And you may be thinking, “Hey Mr. Manson, turn that frown upside down.” But I actually think this is a liberating idea.

Everything involves sacrifice. Everything includes some sort of cost. Nothing is pleasurable or uplifting all of the time. So the question becomes: what struggle or sacrifice are you willing to tolerate? Ultimately, what determines our ability to stick with something we care about is our ability to handle the rough patches and ride out the inevitable rotten days.

If you want to be a brilliant tech entrepreneur, but you can’t handle failure, then you’re not going to make it far. If you want to be a professional artist, but you aren’t willing to see your work rejected hundreds, if not thousands of times, then you’re done before you start. If you want to be a hotshot court lawyer, but can’t stand the 80-hour workweeks, then I’ve got bad news for you.

What unpleasant experiences are you able to handle? Are you able to stay up all night coding? Are you able to put off starting a family for 10 years? Are you able to have people laugh you off the stage over and over again until you get it right?

What shit sandwich do you want to eat? Because we all get served one eventually.

Might as well pick one with an olive.


2. WHAT IS TRUE ABOUT YOU TODAY THAT WOULD MAKE YOUR 8-YEAR-OLD SELF CRY?
When I was a child, I used to write stories. I used to sit in my room for hours by myself, writing away, about aliens, about superheroes, about great warriors, about my friends and family. Not because I wanted anyone to read it. Not because I wanted to impress my parents or teachers. But for the sheer joy of it.

And then, for some reason, I stopped. And I don’t remember why.

We all have a tendency to lose touch with what we loved as a child. Something about the social pressures of adolescence and professional pressures of young adulthood squeezes the passion out of us. We’re taught that the only reason to do something is if we’re somehow rewarded for it.

It wasn’t until I was in my mid-20s that I rediscovered how much I loved writing. And it wasn’t until I started my business that I remembered how much I enjoyed building websites — something I did in my early teens, just for fun.

The funny thing though, is that if my 8-year-old self had asked my 20-year-old self, “Why don’t you write anymore?” and I replied, “Because I’m not good at it,” or “Because nobody would read what I write,” or “Because you can’t make money doing that,” not only would I have been completely wrong, but that 8-year-old boy version of myself would have probably started crying.

3. WHAT MAKES YOU FORGET TO EAT AND POOP?

We’ve all had that experience where we get so wrapped up in something that minutes turn into hours and hours turn into “Holy crap, I forgot to have dinner.”

Supposedly, in his prime, Isaac Newton’s mother had to regularly come in and remind him to eat because he would go entire days so absorbed in his work that he would forget.

I used to be like that with video games. This probably wasn’t a good thing. In fact, for many years it was kind of a problem. I would sit and play video games instead of doing more important things like studying for an exam, or showering regularly, or speaking to other humans face-to-face.

It wasn’t until I gave up the games that I realized my passion wasn’t for the games themselves (although I do love them). My passion is for improvement, being good at something and then trying to get better. The games themselves — the graphics, the stories — they were cool, but I can easily live without them. It’s the competition — with others, but especially with myself — that I thrive on.

And when I applied that obsessiveness for improvement and self-competition to an internet business and to my writing, well, things took off in a big way.

Maybe for you, it’s something else. Maybe it’s organizing things efficiently, or getting lost in a fantasy world, or teaching somebody something, or solving technical problems. Whatever it is, don’t just look at the activities that keep you up all night, but look at the cognitive principles behind those activities that enthrall you. Because they can easily be applied elsewhere.

4. HOW CAN YOU BETTER EMBARRASS YOURSELF?

Before you are able to be good at something and do something important, you must first suck at something and have no clue what you’re doing. That’s pretty obvious. And in order to suck at something and have no clue what you’re doing, you must embarrass yourself in some shape or form, often repeatedly. And most people try to avoid embarrassing themselves, namely because it sucks.

Ergo, due to the transitive property of awesomeness, if you avoid anything that could potentially embarrass you, then you will never end up doing something that feels important.

Yes, it seems that once again, it all comes back to vulnerability.

Right now, there’s something you want to do, something you think about doing, something you fantasize about doing, yet you don’t do it. You have your reasons, no doubt. And you repeat these reasons to yourself ad infinitum.

But what are those reasons? Because I can tell you right now that if those reasons are based on what others would think, then you’re screwing yourself over big time.

If your reasons are something like, “I can’t start a business because spending time with my kids is more important to me,” or “Playing Starcraft all day would probably interfere with my music, and music is more important to me,” then OK. Sounds good.

But if your reasons are, “My parents would hate it,” or “My friends would make fun of me,” or “If I failed, I’d look like an idiot,” then chances are, you’re actually avoiding something you truly care about because caring about that thing is what scares the shit out of you, not what mom thinks or what Timmy next door says.

Great things are, by their very nature, unique and unconventional. Therefore, to achieve them, we must go against the herd mentality. And to do that is scary.

Embrace embarrassment. Feeling foolish is part of the path to achieving something important, something meaningful. The more a major life decision scares you, chances are the more you need to be doing it.

5. HOW ARE YOU GOING TO SAVE THE WORLD?

In case you haven’t seen the news lately, the world has a few problems. And by “a few problems,” what I really mean is, “everything is fucked and we’re all going to die.”

I’ve harped on this before, and the research also bears it out, but to live a happy and healthy life, we must hold on to values that are greater than our own pleasure or satisfaction.1

So pick a problem and start saving the world. There are plenty to choose from. Our screwed up education systems, economic development, domestic violence, mental health care, governmental corruption. Hell, I just saw an article this morning on sex trafficking in the US and it got me all riled up and wishing I could do something. It also ruined my breakfast.

Find a problem you care about and start solving it. Obviously, you’re not going to fix the world’s problems by yourself. But you can contribute and make a difference. And that feeling of making a difference is ultimately what’s most important for your own happiness and fulfillment.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Gee Mark, I read all of this horrible stuff and I get all pissed off too, but that doesn’t translate to action, much less a new career path.”

Glad you asked…

6. GUN TO YOUR HEAD, IF YOU HAD TO LEAVE THE HOUSE ALL DAY, EVERY DAY, WHERE WOULD YOU GO AND WHAT WOULD YOU DO?

For many of us, the enemy is just old-fashioned complacency. We get into our routines. We distract ourselves. The couch is comfortable. The Doritos are cheesy. And nothing new happens.

This is a problem.

What most people don’t understand is that passion is the result of action, not the cause of it.2, 3

Discovering what you’re passionate about in life and what matters to you is a full-contact sport, a trial-and-error process. None of us know exactly how we feel about an activity until we actually do the activity.

So ask yourself, if someone put a gun to your head and forced you to leave your house every day for everything except for sleep, how would you choose to occupy yourself? And no, you can’t just go sit in a coffee shop and browse Facebook. You probably already do that. Let’s pretend there are no useless websites, no video games, no TV. You have to be outside of the house all day every day until it’s time to go to bed — where would you go and what would you do?

Sign up for a dance class? Join a book club? Go get another degree? Invent a new form of irrigation system that can save the thousands of children’s lives in rural Africa? Learn to hang glide?

What would you do with all of that time?

If it strikes your fancy, write down a few answers and then, you know, go out and actually do them. Bonus points if it involves embarrassing yourself.

7. IF YOU KNEW YOU WERE GOING TO DIE ONE YEAR FROM TODAY, WHAT WOULD YOU DO AND HOW WOULD YOU WANT TO BE REMEMBERED?

Most of us don’t like thinking about death. It freaks us out. But thinking about our own death surprisingly has a lot of practical advantages. One of those advantages is that it forces us to zero in on what’s actually important in our lives and what’s just frivolous and distracting.

When I was in college, I used to walk around and ask people, “If you had a year to live, what would you do?” As you can imagine, I was a huge hit at parties. A lot of people gave vague and boring answers. A few drinks were nearly spit on me. But it did cause people to really think about their lives in a different way and re-evaluate what their priorities were.

What is your legacy going to be? What are the stories people are going to tell when you’re gone? What is your obituary going to say? Is there anything to say at all? If not, what would you like it to say? How can you start working towards that today?

And again, if you fantasize about your obituary saying a bunch of badass shit that impresses a bunch of random other people, then again, you’re failing here.

When people feel like they have no sense of direction, no purpose in their life, it’s because they don’t know what’s important to them, they don’t know what their values are.

And when you don’t know what your values are, then you’re essentially taking on other people’s values and living other people’s priorities instead of your own. This is a one-way ticket to unhealthy relationships and eventual misery.

Discovering one’s “purpose” in life essentially boils down to finding those one or two things that are bigger than yourself, and bigger than those around you. And to find them you must get off your couch and act, and take the time to think beyond yourself, to think greater than yourself, and paradoxically, to imagine a world without yourself.

Footnotes
Sagiv, L., & Schwartz, S. H. (2000). Value priorities and subjective well-being: direct relations and congruity effects. European Journal of Social Psychology, 30(2), 177–198.↵
Wrzesniewski, A., McCauley, C., Rozin, P., & Schwartz, B. (1997). Jobs, careers, and callings: People’s relations to their work. Journal of Research in Personality, 31(1), 21–33.↵
Newport, C. (2012). So Good They Can’t Ignore You: Why Skills Trump Passion in the Quest for Work You Love. Business Plus.↵

Culled from markmanson.net 

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15 Short Story Competitions To Enter Before The End of The Year.

Boston Review’s Aura Estrada Short Story Contest
is one of three contests run each year by the literary magazine.The winner of the contest will receive US$1500 and have his or her work published in the July/August 2016 issue of Boston Review. The runners-up stories may also be published. Entries close 1 October.

Calvino Prize
is an annual fiction competition sponsored by the Creative Writing Program at the University of Louisville. The prize is awarded for writing in the fabulist experimentalist style of Italo Calvino. First prize is US$1500 and publication in Salt Hill Journal. Stories must be less than 25 pages in length. Entries close 14 October.

Margaret River Short Story Writing Competition
is open to all authors of any age or nationality. Winning and shortlisted stories will be selected for publication. First prize is valued at AUD$1000 and includes $500 cash and $500 contribution towards an airfare to attend the Margaret River Readers and Writers Festival in Western Australia plus a two-week residency in Margaret River to be taken up at any time .Entries close 14 October.

London Magazine
is England’s oldest literary periodical, with a history stretching back to 1732. Entries for the magazine’s prestigious short story competition are welcomed from writers around the world. The winner will receive £500 and publication. Entries close 31 October.

Masters Review Fall Fiction Contest
is for unpublished stories up to 7000 words. Entrants must be emerging writers who have not published a novel at the time of submission. First prize is US$2000. Entries close 31 October.

Commonwealth Short Story Prize
is an annual award for unpublished short fiction open to citizens of the 53 Commonwealth countries. The prize covers the five Commonwealth regions: Africa, Asia, Canada and Europe, Caribbean and Pacific. One winner will be selected from each region, with one regional winner to be selected as the overall winner. The overall winner of the Commonwealth Short Story Prize will receive £5000 and the remaining four regional winners receive £2500. Entries close 1 November.

Chris O’Malley Prize in Fiction
is offered annually by The Madison Review. The finest story will be awarded US$1000 and publication. Entries may be up to 30 pages. The Madison Review is also runs the Phyllis Smart-Young Prize in Poetry. Entries for both prizes close on 1 November.

John Steinbeck Short Story Award
is one of three prizes offered by Reed Magazine. This award is for a work of fiction up to 5000 words and requires a reading fee of $15. The winner of the John Steinbeck Award receives a cash prize of US$1000. Entries close 1 November.

Fiction Desk’s Newcomer Prize
is a competition for new short stories from 1000 to 5000 words in length. The first prize is £500 and second prize is £250; both winners will also be published in an upcoming Fiction Desk anthology.Eligible writers must not have had a novel or collection of short stories published in physical, printed format. Entries close 6 November.

Narrative Magazine’s Fall Contest
is open to both fiction and nonfiction pieces. Entries may be up to 15,000 in length and must be previously unpublished. First Prize is $2500, second prize is $1000, third Prize is $500, and up to ten finalists will receive $100 each. All entries will be considered for publication. Entries close 30 November.

Fish Publishing International Short Story Prize
is for stories up to 5000 words. First prize is €3000 (€1,000 of which is for travel expenses to the launch of the Anthology). Second prize is a week at the Anam Cara Writers’ & Artists’ Retreat. Ten short stories will be published in the 2016 Fish Anthology. Entries close 30 November.

Baltimore Review’s Winter Contest
is open to short stories, poems and creative non-fiction. The theme for the contest is Health. Prizes are US$500, $200, and $100 and there is an entry fee is $10. All entries considered for publication. Entries close 30 November.

Fiddlehead’s 25th Annual Contest
will award CA$2000 and publication to the best short story. Entries must be unpublished and can be up to 6000 words. Entries close 1 December.

Lascaux Prize in Short Fiction
is open to stories up to 10,000 words in all genres and styles. The winner will receive US$1000 and the winner and all finalists will be published in The Lascaux Review. Stories may be previously published or unpublished, and simultaneous submissions are accepted. Entries close 31 December.

Boulevard’s Short Fiction Contest for Emerging Writers
is open people who have not yet published a book of fiction, poetry or creative non-fiction with a nationally distributed press. Stories may be up to 8000 words and must be previously unpublished. The winner will receive US$1500 and have their story published in the magazine. Entries close 31 December.

Culled from Aerogramme Writer's Studio.

For news about more writing competitions follow Aerogramme Writers’ Studio on Facebook and Twitter.

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The Priestess.

The moist grass brushed the soles of my feet as I traversed the forest, wondering where I was and seeking a way out. Overhead, the crescentic moon shone unabashedly and appeared bemused by my confusion. The leaves rustled as I trotted and then broke into a run, the cold wind and the cacophony of strange noises filling my skin with goose bumps.

I saw light in the distance with sounds of drums and singing voices. Tearing through the obstructing branches and leaves, I stumbled upon a clearing. Suddenly, the drumbeat stopped and the noise died down. I looked around and my eyes widened in surprise. A crowd was gathered around a bonfire, the elders seated in front with their feathered red caps, staring at me. The drummers were covered in sweat and clutched their drums, watching me. Everyone was silent.

One of the elders approached, and circled me curiously.
"Ezenwanyi!" he called in a loud voice. Turning to the crowd, he spoke solemnly. "The Priestess has appeared. The last time this happened in Umuoshe was when the oyinbos first came to our shores."
Gasps of astonishment escaped from the crowd.
"Ezenwanyi, to what do we owe this visit?" he asked, facing me.
I opened my mouth to answer. Rumbles of thunder emerged. The crowd shreiked in horror, everyone falling to the ground and bowing in obeisance.

I toured the village in a carriage borne by four men with heaving chests. The villagers showered praises and gifts as I passed, littering the road with yams and crowing cockrels. I judged cases at the village square and healed the sick by rubbing them with potions made from squashed leaves I personally plucked from the forest. I rarely spoke. Whenever I tried, deafening thunderclaps emanated.

One evening, one of the young men called me aside.
"Ezenwanyi," he began, his voice faltering. "I need you to teach me the art of healing."
I marveled at his audacity. His name was Obi and I had noticed his lingering looks.
I nodded.

I travelled with Obi across the seven seas and seven lands to introduce him to the spirits. On our way back, I noticed blazing yellow flames in his eyes. Anything he looked at was set on fire.
"What has happened to me?" he asked, looking petrified.
"You have become lightning," I answered.

The next day, he gouged out his eyes.

©Kelvin Alaneme, 2015.
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TRAPPED...Part 25.

"Dan will be coming home tomorrow."

Nkechi's eyes lit up as she opened the door. I entered my living room and sank into a sofa. I put on the standing fan and brought it to face me. The forceful draft of air was exhilarating. She sat on the arm of the sofa, the smell of her cologne a pleasant change from the smell of sweat in the queue at the banking hall.

"They said they will release him tomorrow?" she asked.

"Not exactly. But we have the complete money and I will be taking it to them tomorrow." I turned in time to note the shock on her face.

"You? Why you? Why not his father or any of his sisters?"

I shook my head. "Nne, I don't know. His captor, Shadow, requested I bring it."

She gave a deflated sigh. "Any address yet?"

"No. He usually calls at the last minute to give the location. That bastard!"

In an instant, I felt rage well up in me. "What has this country turned into? Eh? You just wake up and kidnap a young, harworking doctor and now you put his loved ones through untold suffering to raise an outrageous amount of money for your selfishness? This is just pure evil!"

Nkechi put her arm over my shoulder. "Don't worry. You will be fine. Tomorrow it will be all over."

"Where is Victory?" I asked, standing up.

"Oh. She is at Mama Tunde's house playing with the other children. Let me go and get her."

"Okay." I entered the room, exhausted.

The next morning, I kissed Victory goodbye as I made to leave. I had dressed her up earlier and packed her lunchbox.

"Mummy, when are you coming back?" she asked, hugging my legs tightly. It was obvious she had missed me.

"This evening, Sweetheart," I said, fighting back the tears. I lifted her up. Her beautiful eyes gazed into mine. "And Mummy will never go away again."

She nodded, her face breaking into a smile.

"Be a good girl, okay?" I said, tickling her.

The sound of her laughter filled the room.

Nkechi locked up after me as I left, Vicky standing in the stairway, waving. I waved back.

Old Major was on the verandah when I came, clad in his well-worn blue kaftan. He has worn it since his son was kidnapped, eleven days ago. He smiled on seeing me. "Nne, welcome," he said, accompanying me into the living room. Añuli was cleaning the centre table with a cloth. A broom lay by her side. She noted my hesitation and smiled. "You can sit. I just finished sweeping. Nnoo."

"Has he called?" I asked Old Major, as soon as we were seated.

He shook his head and reached for his phone. He dropped it on the centre table. "Chiemeka!," he called out. "Bring the bag. Stella is here." He turned to me. "Bola just left for her office. She said they needed her urgently."

Chiemeka emerged from the room, carrying a blue chequered Ghana-must-go bag. "This bag heavy small o!" she said, setting it down at a corner of the room.

"Do you know why they call it Ghana-must-go bag?" Old Major asked, looking at me. 

I shook my head.

"In January 1983," he began, "President Shagari ordered all immigrants without the right papers to leave the country within a few weeks. At that time, there were over two million illegal immgrants. A million of them were from Ghana."

"Why will he give such an order?" I asked.

Old Major shrugged. "So many reasons were given. We don't know which to believe. Fueled by rumors of possible maltreatment in Lagos after the February deadline, within few days of the announcement, two million people packed what they could into 'Ghana-must-go' bags and thus began a massive exodus towards Seme border."

"That sounds unfair," Añuli said.

Old Major continued. "Well, in 1969, Ghana expelled many immigrants including Nigerians under the Alien's Compliance Order..."

The sound of the ringing phone cut him short. I glanced at the wall clock. 9.00am. 

I noted some tremors on Old Major's hand as he picked the phone. He quickly put it on speaker.

We heard a voice screaming at the background. A familiar male voice came on.

"Mr. Fabian Olisa, do you have my money?"

"Yes, Yes...Sir. The five million. Complete,"Old Major said.

"Good. Stella will bring the money to me on Owode road. It is off the Lagos-Badagry Expressway. She should come alone and stop in front of the high-tension electric poles there. Leave your phone with her. She should be there before two hours."

"Okay. But I need to know...that my son is safe," Old Major said, his voice shaking.

The was a loud hiss at the other end of the line. His next words sounded like a reprimand. "Keep wasting your time."

The line went dead.

"So, we are just going to hand him five million without knowing whether my son is dead or alive?" Old Major said, pacing the room.

"Papa, don't worry. He is alive. Let's just do as he said. We are running out of time."

He shook his head. "Okay. I will drive you up to the Owode road and wait for you and Dan to come back."

He carried the Ghana-must-go back to the car and placed it on the back seat. I entered in front with him.

"We'll take through Mosunmola and emerge at Ojo Road. We will then  join the Expressway."

We drove in silence, my eyes going frequently to my left wrist to check the time. The Volvo's engine roared at every intersection as Old Major switched the gears. I cleaned my sweaty palms on the blue denim I wore, upbraiding myself on how terrible I looked. The jean trousers had been Nkechi's idea. I had donned a satin gown and was finishing my make-up when she entered, staring at me in dismay.

"You can't go out dressed like that," she said, touching the material to demonstrate how light it was. "They can just tear this into pieces."

I have been appalled by her thoughts.

"I am just going to drop money, not to wine and dine with them," I said defensively.

In response, she had gone to my wardrobe and fetched my long abandoned jean trousers. I had won it only once in the previous year, preferring the allure of native fabrics.

I had struggled to fit into it. I felt awkward as I buttoned it.

"It fits you perfectly," Nkechi said, standing behind me in front of the mirror. "All the curves in the right places. Dan will be pleased."

I had pushed her away playfully and found a cashmere black blouse to go with it. It had all seemed like a great idea until now. I silently cursed myself for forgetting the important issue at hand and thinking of vain things like the clothes I was wearing. Who cares? Certainly not Dan nor his captors.

We drove for another hour, often slowing down at the parts of the road undegoing construction. I watched the trees and vegetation on the side of the road, receeding fast as we made progress. A clearing with a small kiosk appeared in the distance. Old Major slowed down to ask for directions.

An unclad male child was rolling in the sand in front of the shop. He eyed us with suspicion as we approached and started crying. A man in a brown danshiki emerged from the kiosk and carried the boy. He smiled at us, exposing his missing front row teeth.

"We are looking for the direction to Owode road," Old Major told him.

"Owode...Owode," he said, setting the boy down on a bench. He nodded in sudden realization. "E no too far again. The next turn by your right. Just dri-i-ive." He pointed into the distance, stretching his last syllable. We thanked him and left.

We made the turn to Owode road and drove some distance. Ahead, we saw the metal frame of the high-tension electric pole. The whole place looked deserted. Not a single person was in sight. Old Major parked beside the road and killed the engine.

"What now?" I asked, trying to mask the fear that has gripped me.

"We wait for his call."

I clasped my palms together trying to calm my nerves. 

After ten minutes of breathing exercises, the phone rang. Old Major handed it to me.

"Hello," I said, closing my eyes.

"Stella." It was Dan's voice.

In an instant I opened my eyes and sat up. "Dan! Are you alright?"

"Why are you not at the high-tension with my money? Or do you want your boyfriend dead?" It was Shadow.

"Sorry...Please...I am close...I was waiting for your call," I stammered.

"You have five minutes." The line went dead.

I fumbled with the Volvo's handle, pushing it open. I grabbed the bag from the back seat and broke into a run. In a short while, I was at the high-tension, panting. I looked around, there was still no one in sight. On both sides of the road were lush vegetation and few strange short palm trees, different from the ones we had in my village. I heard some rustling in the bush opposite me. Just then, I felt a cold metal behind my neck. I shuddered.

"Turn around slowly and and hand me the bag," a male voice said.

I turned to stare into the barrel of a pistol. He was light-skinned, handsome with a rough beards. I slowly handed over the bag.

"Where is Dan?" I asked, looking around.

In that instant, I felt a jab on my neck and a needle-prick. I swung around, knocking off an object from his hand onto the ground. An empty syringe.

He had a smirk on his face. "Sorry."

I felt my body go numb and my vision getting blurred. I tried to run but my legs gave way under me. I fell into the surrounding darkness.

©Kelvin Alaneme, 2015. Follow on Twitter @dr_alams.

TRAPPED...Part 24.

The ringing phone on the centre table jolted us back to our senses. Old Major picked it, his hands trembling.

"Oga, why nau? Why did you cut my son's finger?..."

Bola gestured to Old Major to put the phone on speaker. He did.

The voice at the other end laughed hysterically for some time. At the background, we heard someone, howling in pain. Probably Dan.

"I can see you got my gift," the deep, cold voice began. "First, I am not your Oga. You can call me Shadow. Second, you forced my hand. Third, if you mess things up again, you can quietly go and buy a coffin."

There was an eerie silence in the living room as we listened intently.

"Mr. Fabian Olisa, besides having my eyes on you and your son for some time now, I know you. I knew that you could not come up with ten million naira even if I gave you a week. I just wanted to know how good you are at following instructions. As a Major in the defunct Biafran Army, I expected you to do better. But you failed. Woefully."

He took a deep pause. I looked at Old Major. His face cut a pathetic figure.

"Which brings me to the second set of instructions. I want to make this very simple and unite you with your son. Get the little sum of five million naira within forty-eight hours. Stella will bring the money to a location I will give you later..." I froze upon hearing my name. Everyone in the room turned to look at me. I returned their queried look with a blank stare.

The voice continued,"Oh, Stella. Don't be surprised. Dan and I had a little chat about his love life." He broke into another round of laughter. The next moment, his voice was serious. "Don't even try to wear a wire like Bola."

I looked at Bola in confusion. How the hell did he know?

"The third instruction is the same as before. If you like call that scumbag Sergeant Okoli and rattle away your son's life...or what is left of it." The line went dead.

My surprised stare was greeted by the confused look on everyone's face. Bola finally broke the silence.

"How on earth does he know everything? He seemed aware of our every move!" she said, throwing up her hands in despair.

Old Major sat down on the couch and rested his chin on his palms. "That boy...Shadow or whatever he calls himself, is very smart. How he got to know everything, I can't say. But one thing I know is that I am no longer involving the Police. He may have an insider among them."

I nodded fervently where I stood, still in shock that a dangerous stranger is aware of my private life with Dan. I felt terribly unsafe.

"So, how are we going to raise the money?" I asked, looking around the room. Everyone's eyes said the same thing: This would be hard.

We began brainstorming. Old Major placed some calls to some of his friends pleading with them to purchase his shops for two million naira each. They all turned him down. The best offer he got was for one million naira apiece. He had no choice.

"I have three hundred thousand naira in savings," I volunteered. "I can also sell my second shop for an additional two hundred thousand naira."

I saw tears form around Old Major's eyes. "You don't have to sell your shop," he said.

I touched him reassuringly. "Allow me do all I can, please."

"I have two hundred thousand naira in savings," Bola said. "I could take a salary advance of hundred thousand naira, making it up to three hundred thousand." Old Major nodded in gratitude.

"I have a hundred thousand naira I kept aside for my rent,"Añuli said."I will get that."

"Where will you then live?" Old Major asked her.

"I can come and live with you, Papa," she said, hugging him.

"I have a hundred thousand naira in savings," Chiemeka said. "I will talk to Mike to see if he could lend us some money for the church development funds."

"So, we have roughly three million naira," I said. "We are running out of time. Let us go and get the money and figure out how to get the balance." I rose to go.

"Please, we should all be very careful," Old Major said. "I no longer know who to trust."

I knocked wearily on my door. Nkechi opened the door and seeing my state, shook her head. I sauntered in and sank into a sofa.

"How did the rescue go?" she asked.

"How did you think it went?" I snapped back. "That devil knew our every move! He even sent us a souvenir. Dan's ring finger in a box!" The mere thought of it churned my stomach.

"Jesus!" Nkechi exclaimed.

Just then, Vicky appeared at the adjoining door, rubbing her eyes and yawning. Our voices must have awoken her. I smiled weakly.

"Sweetheart," I said, beckoning on her to come. I carried her on my laps, resting her head on my bosom. "How have you been my darling?"

"Fine. Mummy." She was still feeling sleepy. I stroked her hair, running my hand along the length of each braid.

"They asked us to bring five million in two days," I said, in a hushed tone.

"What?" Nkechi said. Vicky stirred. I gestured at Nkechi to keep her voice down. "How will Old Major raise that?"

"He is selling his shops in Alaba. All of us are contributing money. I am selling my second shop."

Nkechi stared at me in disbelief. "Like seriously?"

I nodded. "It will fetch at least an extra two hundred thousand naira. We need every dime we can get."

"You suffered very much to get that shop," she said, rising to her feet. She paced the room, lost in thought.

"Don't sell the shop. I have two hundred and thirty thousand naira in the bank. I will lend you the money from there."

I felt a heavy load lift from my chest. "Thank you so much. I will pay you back as soon as I can."

"Before nko?" she said. "I am just doing this for Dan, your divinely ordained husband whom you donated freely to another woman."

"Stop joor!" I said in feigned annoyance. "Husband ko, donation ni."

The next morning, we were all gathered in Old Major's living room, counting cash. On the centre table were bundles of one thousand naira notes waiting to be counted. I mopped  beads of sweat off my brow.

"How much now?" I asked Bola, tossing a bundle into a nearby Ghana-must-go bag.

"Two point eight million," she said, looking up from the big calculator she held in her hands.

I looked at the remaining uncounted cash on the  centre table and shook my head. We needed an urgent miracle.

After another hour of collective, furious cash-counting, the centre table surface was empty. We all turned to Bola to hear the final figure.

She shook her head. "Four million. We are one million naira short."

Old Major's hands went up his head. "I have sold everything but this house. I even borrowed an extra one million naira. And it is still not enough."

For the next hour, we sat in silence thinking of where to raise the balance from.

"Chiemeka, you said you will talk to your husband about lending us some money from the church's development fund," I said.

"Oh, that," she said, looking away. "I spoke to him about it. He said he cannot approach the church for it."

"Why?" I asked, rising from the floor.

She shrugged. "He said if he told them he needed the money for a ransom, they will not oblige him. And he cannot lie to the church council."

I sighed, scratching my head. Suddenly, an idea occurred to me. I had one last, painful turn to make.

"I need to go somewhere in search of the balance,"I said, to no one in particular. Old Major gave me a worried look.

"Don't worry. I will be fine,"I said, exiting the living room.

I stood for a moment before the big, black gate, unsure of whether to proceed. I did the sign of the cross and knocked. Moments later, the gateman appeared and gave a faint smile of recognition. I entered the compound. Jimmy's father had sighted me from the balcony of the duplex and was beaming with smiles.

"Stella, Stella. Long time no see."

I greeted him and proceeded into the living room.

Jimmy's mother was seated on the sofa, playing with Uche. She rose as soon as I entered.

"Ma-ma," Uche said gleefully. I was surprised he has not forgotten.

Teary-eyed, I kissed him on both cheeks and hugged Jimmy's mum. Jimmy's father soon joined us.

"I hope all is well, my daughter," he asked, looking intently at my face.

I shook my head. "I am in desperate need of help."

They listened silently as I narrated Dan's story to them. 

"The day I gave Uche to you, you gave me a cheque of one million naira which I turned down. I know it sounds foolish, but I really need that money now."

Jimmy's father stood up and left the room, without saying a word.

My face fell. I had made a big fool of myself and appeared like a cheap extortionist. Jimmy's mother stood up and left the room.

I stared at the floor, wishing for it to open and swallow me.

Moments later the couple returned, their faces expressionless. I braced myself for the worst.

"Stella, you deserve more than this,"Jimmy's father said, handing me a cheque. I stared at him in this belief. I looked at the cheque. It was in my name. A million naira.

I jumped up in joy. "Thank you...thank you," I said, hugging them.

"Always come to us if you need anything," Jimmy's mother said.

As the gate closed behind me, I checked my watch. 3.40pm. I had twenty minutes before the bank close for work. I flagged down a bike and asked him to take me to the nearest Zenith Bank branch.

"Madam, e far small o," he said. "Two-fifty naira."

I hurriedly mounted on his bike. "I will pay you double if you can get there before 4pm."

At exactly 4pm, I jumped down in front of the bank, flustered. I handed him a five hundred naira note and ran inside. The security man at the automated door looked at me in pity and opened it for me.

Panting heavily, I joined the queue in the banking hall, my heart filled with relief.

My phone rang as I exited the bank, the withdrawn cash wrapped in a black polythene bag under my arm. It was Old Major.

"Any luck?" he asked. The uncertainty in his tone was unmistakable.

I smiled. "Papa, Dan is coming home tomorrow."

I heard him shout with joy and break into a song. 

A song of victory.

©Kelvin Alaneme, 2015. Follow on Twitter @dr_alams.

ADOLF.

April 30, 1945.  Reich Chancellery, Berlin, Germany.

The sound of the gunshot reverberated in the ante-chamber of the Führerbunker. Adolf lunged forward, collapsing in my arms. Blood oozed freely from his right temple, his 7.6mm Walther pistol falling from his hand to the floor. He took one last breath and it was over.

The Führer and the leader of the Third Reich was gone. All was lost.

I laid him on the sofa and bent down to kiss the bloodied forehead of the man who had been my husband for forty hours and my partner for sixteen years. It was not goodbye. Not yet.

I reached for the grey can containing the cyanide capsules. The lid bore an embossed 'swastika' sign, Adolf's insignia. He came up with the design personally and it soon became the symbol of the 'New Germany' he propagated and later ruled. We first met one bright autumn evening in October,1929. I was seventeen and restless, fresh out of convent and trying to pursue a career in photography in Munich. My boss, Heinrich Hoffman, in whose photoshop I worked introduced us. They were returning from a politcal rally, massively attended.

"Eva, meet Herr Wolff," Hoffman said, beaming with smiles.

Adolf was smiling as I took his hand. His grip was firm. His gaze, tender. I quickly looked away.

"Go over to the restaurant across the street and get us some beer and sausages. Hitler just spoke to 16,000 people and is very hungry."

I pulled away and ran off to the errand, my heart pounding. I could not explain the sudden longing I felt for this man.

After they had finished eating, I hung around listening to Adolf discuss politics with Hoffman. There was something stirring in his voice. Something that made me want to belong to him.

"I will give you a ride home," Adolf said, rising.

I opened my mouth and closed it without a word. His Mercedes was parked outside the shop and during the silent ride home, all I could think of was him.

I saw him more frequently afterwards. My boss have been made his personal photographer and I was on hand to take his photos which were in high demand for the Nazi propaganda machinery. Somewhere in the crowd, camera in hand and soaking up the mounting euphoria his speeches elicited, I took shots of the man who was fast becoming the most important man in Germany. Screams of 'Seig Heil' greeted his speeches, his gesticulations and powerful words drawing wild applause from the crowd. He stirred our national pride and made us believe we were unconquerable. The more I listened, the clearer it became to me that I belonged to him body and soul. But he acted distant.

The reason soon became apparent. I was sent by my boss to his Munich apartment, the second floor of Prinzregentenplatz 16, to show him some pictures. A pretty blonde, roughly my age or slightly older, answered the door.

"I...came...to see Herr Hitler," I said, stuttering.

"Oh," she said, sizing me up. "Come on in."

I admired the framed oil paintings in the passage. We passed a majolica pot containing a cactus plant and I could hear Adolf's voice coming from the living room.

He paused as we entered and smiled. A middle-aged woman and another young girl were sitting on the sofa laughing. He was holding his book, Mein Kampf, in his hand.

"Eva." He gave me a hug. I saw the blond look away and the woman frown.

"Meet my half-sister, Angela," Adolf said, pointing to the woman. "And her daughters Geli and Friedl." He pointed to the blonde and the little girl. "Angela takes care of this apartment and my villa in the Alps." I greeted the woman and shook hands with Friedl.

"I was reading to them from my book," he said, after I had sat.

"The one he wrote in prison," his sister interjected.

"Why were you in prison, Uncle?" Friedl asked.

Adolf smiled. "We tried to take over the government. But the leaders were not ready." He turned to face me. "I was subsequently arrested and tried for high treason. I spent one year in Landsberg prison."

I shook my head in pity. He placed a hand on my shoulder.

"It was a good thing. While in prison I wrote this book detailing my struggle. So far, it has sold over two hundred copies and my publisher paid for this house. Misfortune can be a good thing."

I proceeded to show him the pictures and left an hour later. My female instincts told me something was going on between him and Geli.

In the presence of a possible rival, my love for him grew in leaps and bounds. I obviously needed him, more than he needed me, or any woman. He was never seen with a woman in public, despite his charm. He portrayed himself as a lonesome warrior, married to the German people and their fate. His dedication paid off handsomely. The Great Depression of 1928 had thrown the German economy into chaos. Many lost their jobs and there was widespread hardship. Adolf seized this opportunity and campaigned vigorously for his Nazi Party promising to rebuild the economy and create jobs. He advocated a 'New Germany' rid of Jews, Romani gypsies, homosexuals and the supremacy of the Aryan race. We believed him, screaming our loyalty till our voices went hoarse and tears flowed. He was our light.

1931 was my lucky year. My waiting finally paid off. Geli was found dead in her room at Adolf's Munich apartment, his Walther pistol on her hand. This bad news surprisingly made me happy. But I was in for a rude shock. Geli's death broke Adolf in many pieces. He mourned her endlessly, cancelling many of his speaking appointments. Geli's mother blamed her daughter's death on Adolf's obsessive nature.

"You jealous bastard!" she raged. "You had her followed. You broke off every possible male contact. You practically made her a prisoner!"

Adolf sobbed like a child.

"I loved her," he said, crying inconsolably. "I loved her with all my heart."

He refused food for days and declined to see his party leaders.

One evening, my boss voiced his concern. "We are losing Herr Wolff. Try to bring him back."

That night, I slept in his apartment and listened to him talk to himself all night.

"The German people need you. You will win next years Presidential elections," I said.

He paused for a moment. I saw a faint glimmer in his eyes. Holding his head in my eyes, I spoke to him matter-of-factedly.

"Do this for Geli. Do this for the New Germany."

He nodded, wiped his tears and went into the room that served as his office.

The next morning, he assembled the leaders of the Nazi Party in his apartment and they strartegized for the next year's elections. There was a renewed vigour in his speeches. And a new venom.

He lost in the 1932 Presidential elections to Hidenburg despite vigorous campaign. Yet, because he had the backing of key industrialists, President Hidenburg was pressurized into forming a coalition naming him Chancellor. I saw less and less of him and grew more despondent. Taking my father's pistol one summer afternoon of 1932, I pointed the muzzle to my chest and fired. I woke up days later in the hospital. My parents were by my side.

"What were you thinking?" my father asked, after I was fully awake.

I was silent, wondering inwardly if the news reached Adolf.

He was there the next day. There was devotion in his eyes. My parents were escorted to the adjacent room.

"My love," I said, smiling weakly. "I live only for you."

He nodded. "Your love and loyalty was never in doubt. Yet, you were ready to lose your life." He held my hand. "I need you alive, not dead."

From then onwards, our love took a different turn. I was twenty and madly in love the most powerful man in Germany. He paid me more attention and bought a three-bedroom apartment for me. I moved in there with my younger sister, Gretl, despite my father's protests. Adolf was doting, taking me to movies and operas whenever he was in town. In public, however, we acted as strangers. Ocassionally, he would get an envelope full of cash to me through any of his assistants. 

His profile rose. By 1933, his book had sold a million copies and he was the undisputed Leader of the Nazi Party, the only thriving party in Germany. I often overheard him talking to party leaders about altering the constitution to grant absolute powers to the Leader of the nation. By 1934, after Hidenburg's death, Adolf had ultimate control and became the Führer und Reichskanzler of Germany. Leader and Head of State. I was extremely proud of him.

"The more important the man, the less important the woman," he said one evening at the dinner table. I ate on in silence.

"Why don't we get married?" I asked, looking up.

He gave me a stern look. "I am married to the German people. A wife and children? What a distraction!" He left the table, incensed.

The years wore on. I visited him whenever he was in town. I was also the hostess of the Berghof, his villa within the Obersalzberg of the Bavarian Alps. As Adolf's responsibility piled, he shuttled between Berlin and the Berghof. The 1936 Summer Olympics was a testament to his organizational genius. A 100,000 seat track and field stadia was built with many gymnasia. It was billed to be an experiment to prove the Aryan superiority. It backfired. A negroe, Jesse Owens won four gold medals is sprint and long jump, much to Adolf's dismay. The winter Olympics was also hosted by Germany and for the very first time, Adolf allowed me to sit by his side in public. The papers carried a picture of us the next day but made nothing of it.

What everyone now calls the second World War almost never happened. It was a bet went wrong, a bad decision. Adolf had invaded Poland, hoping that Britain and France will stand aloof. With tacit support from Italy and Japan, he had sought to expand German territories, a conquest for the German people. On the evening of September 3,1939, his Ambassador to London, Joachim von Ribbentrop broke the bad news. I was eavesdropping from the door of his office.

"Führer, Britain and France just declared war on us."

I heard a fist bang on the table. "You assured me that such won't happen! Now what?"

I hurried quickly into my room, burying myself in a novel.

By mid-1940, things have escalated. Adolf also began to change. I noticed the tremors one morning when I entered his office to greet him. He could not stop them. He put his hands behind him, on seeing me.

"We are at war,"he said. "I will be spending more time in Berlin."

I nodded mutely, aware of the implications. Prolonged absence. Crushing loneliness. I had gotten used to it.

Months later, Gretl came to visit. She found me seated at the projection booth seeing a movie.

"The whole world is at war and you are here seeing a movie?" she asked.

I smiled. "It will be over soon."

"Have you heard of what was being done to Jews captured in Poland?" she said, looking around.

"They're being killed?" I offered, wondering why she was acting strange.

"Worse. They are being gassed to death. Millions of them being massacred in Auschwitz, Buchenwald, Sorbibor, Bergen-belsen, Treblinka..." She broke down in sobs. "It feels so, so wrong."

I supported her shaking frame. "The Führer knows best. Have faith."

On 20th July 1944, Adolf's assistant Bormann greeted me with bad news. There had been an assasination attempt on the Führer. A bomb had exploded in Rastenburg. I hurried to the hospital. The doctor said he was fine except for ruptured eardrums and the over 200 splinters of wood removed from his leg.

I held his hand all evening till he fell asleep. The next morning, Heinrich Himmler, the head of the SS, visited.

"Is it done?"Adolf asked, struggling to sit up.

Himmler nodded. "We've rounded all the traitors and shot them. 4,900 of them."

"Any news from the front?"Adolf asked.

Himmler hesistated for a moment. "The Red Army and the Western Allies are about invading Germany. We are losing serious grounds."

Adolf smiled weakly. "We are unconquerable, Heinrich. Just believe."

By the spring of 1945, most of the Third Reich had been destroyed by the Soviet Army and the Western Allies. The enemy were marching progressively towards Berlin. I had travelled to the Führerbunker to be by the side of the man to whom I belonged.

"Why did you come?" he asked, on seeing me.

"From our first meeting, I swore to follow you anywhere, even unto death," I said, kissing his lips.

In the coming days, many of his generals deserted him. He fought on, rejecting every proposal of surrender.

On 20th April, he marked his 56th birthday by awarding Iron Crosses to the boys of the Hitler Youth who were fighting the Soviets at the Berlin front. Just after the midnight of 28th April, Adolf became my legally wedded husband. It was a small, civil ceremony, accompanied later by a marriage breakfast. I was awash with joy as I signed the marriage certificate as 'Eva Hitler.'

I looked at his calm face again, part of his signature moustache covered with clotted blood. I placed one of the rubbery cyanide capsule in my mouth. I took one last look at the room. On the wall, Adolf had written in black paint, "I and my wife choose death to avoid the shame of flight  or surrender." Geli's portrait hung on the wall, her piercing eyes taunting me. I rolled my tongue on the capsule and bit. I felt a trickle in my mouth. Within minutes, I was engulfed by a surrounding darkness. I saw the concrete ceiling of the Führerbunker melt away and countless bodies of starved, dead Jews heaped upon me. I struggled to emerge from the pile only to be knocked down by another heap of dead bodies. I stayed down.

©Kelvin Alaneme, 2015. Follow on Twitter @dr_alams.

ECSTASY.

Tossing aside the white veil

And with it the burden of singlehood

I thought of the rough road to bliss

I arrived battered and bloodied

But wrapped in his arms

The pains were gone

He helped me out of the gown

His hands awoke deep feelings

I felt his lips on my neck

And a million sweet sensations

Coursed through my spine

Dam bursting, waters gushing forth

Kisses broke the silence

Hands travelled the smooth, soft terrain 

Bodies glued together, moving as one

We swam in endless affection

Pleasure unleashed generously 

Two hearts lost in time

Alas! An outburst of smile from Mother Earth

Hearts flutter, joy erupts, souls bond 

Gently he whispers my name

I respond softly, relaxing in his arms

The chiming of the clock sealed our innocent chuckles

©Kelvin Alaneme and Jane Ebere, 2015.