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I stepped tentatively, hands shaking as I twisted the door nob and walked into the Pastor’s office. The Pastor sat cross-legged on a black swivel chair in a room that screamed ‘bourgeois’. His head tilted to the side as he spoke softly on his phone. He tapped a finger rapidly against the large brown table in the middle of the room then beckoned me to come closer till I sat on the chair opposite him. He hung the call and gave me a wide smile as he leaned forward to speak to me. “Cynthia,” He said, “I’ve been seriously praying…


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*knock* *knock*

The door opened a crack as two bloodshot eyes searched through eagerly. They widened in surprise and a set of thick black fingers quickly disappeared behind the door frame propelling it to lock. There was a click and a rattle of chains as the door opened again, this time in full.

“Oh my God!” Mr. Ojo — a man in his mid-forties dressed in a standard white Lux singlet and blue Ankara wrapper — stood by the entrance at shoulder level with his expected guest. He stared down at two melon shaped breasts and grinning, he stepped aside…


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THE WAITING ROOM.

Asa once said: “There is fire on the mountain, and nobody seems to be on the run.”

To my infantile mind, those words were nothing more than lyrics inspiring within me, at the time, a sense of freedom in the rhythm of the song. Now, I understand the deep and almost painful realization the artist had obviously come to when she sang those haunting words.

If society were a woman, she would be an uneducated one; meaning lacking knowledge or intelligence (in this case). She would be a liar and a contradictive fool, also she would be…

Sholaye O.

I am a Nigerian writer.

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