The Writing Capsules

DARK MOMENT (Ep1)

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Hauwa walked past the shopping malls at the market; it wasn't a good sight to behold as everywhere looked shattered and scattered. It was as though a war broke out. A war? She thought. The last time she heard about wars was from her grandmother's story; yes! The story of the Biafran war. The way her grandmother narrated it made her scared that night. She had thought it would be those sweet stories that often lure her to sleep on her grandmother's chest—but no, that night's only got her eyes agape till dawn. As for her grandmother; she was asleep like a log of wood.

"Kill him! Thief! Thief!" Someone from a pool of crowd exclaimed as Hauwa walked towards a tomato seller to make a purchase. The whole market was in disarray; everyone was running helter-skelter, all confused about where to run to. She saw a police van parked around the "oba palace," with the policemen scattered around the market leaving the driver seated in the van.

"This is getting more serious than I thought," Hauwa muttered to herself, as she took to her heels.

"Hey! Stop there before I shoot!" A voice exclaimed. Could he be talking to her? She wasn't the only one running, anyway—so she didn't think of waiting for a tad. As she ran past the "oba palace" where the police van was parked, two policemen stood gallantly in front of her; their faces, as dreadful as death. Hauwa couldn't think of a better option than to stop and compose herself, while she tried walking past the police officers. Before she could say "Jack," she was handcuffed and thrown into the van, leaving her long hijab dancing to the tune of the blowing breeze.

Hauwa sat quietly in the van as they drove off. Why was she being arrested? What was her crime?

To be continued…






©Martha Shigaba

Here's some good news for Monday😊

The power of punctuations lies in your ability to use them accurately and effectively.

When you write, you communicate. When you communicate, you are understood.

Good morning, friends...

As you go to church today, kindly understand that taking jottings of the key points during the sermon is part of developing your writing skills.

The reason you've not started is that you are waiting for the perfect time, which may never come.

Writing is easy, you are the one who's taking time to pick that pen.

I WOULD HAVE SLAPPED HER IF SHE WAS A CHILD

Mum walked into the room with her eyes beaming with light, her skin radiating some goosebumps and I could tell at that point that she was in a happy mood

I watched her quietly and pondered. I asked myself if mum had won a jackpot, was she trying to leave me in this country while she travels to the States? I was thinking of a way to ask mum when she cuts in

"So you won't ask me why I feel different today, ba?

You see, the Hausa phrases "ba" and "fa" are my mum's phrases. Mum cannot speak without adding them where appropriate. At first, I felt so embarrassed when she spoke in public, so I tried so many times to correct her, but all to no avail. If you ask me, I think she's used to it already, it has been even before she got married to my late dad.

" Mum, I was about to ask you," I said, smiling back at her.

"Are you sure?" She asked, her face looking sceptical about what I just said

"Come on, mum, I'm serious" I stood up to join her where she was seated.

"Okay, if that's the case. Remember the store room I asked you to clean last week? But you ignored me because I'm not old enough to talk to you ba?. Go and clean it, after that, I'll tell you why my mood is this way fa" mum said, feeling comfortable with her judgement.

She had caught me again, she knew me so well to do that immediately because I needed to hear what was making her happy. A few minutes later, I was done with the storeroom, everywhere was sparkling clean, and mum was impressed. I was happy too because it was time to hear what mum had to say.

Mum sat me down and was ready to spill the juice. I couldn't tell her to hurry to avoid a hot slap landing on my face.

"So, my daughter, I was just going…"

The knock on the door interrupted our conversation, as Mummy Temmy came in.

"Abeg, make una borrow my matches," She said.

Where I was seated, with my ears ready to hear what mum had to say, the feeling of hitting Mummy Temmy if only she was a child ran within me.







It's been weeks now, mum is still yet to tell me what happened that day.

Please, is it my fault or Mummy Temmy's fault?

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