ONLINE BOOK TOUR: BURY ME COME SUNDAY AFTERNOON BY NIKE CAMPBELL-FATOKI

 

Hello everyone, today I bring you the book tour of Nike Campbell-Fatoki’s new short story collection. For those who have not read the book, there will be a short description and I have also included my commentary on one of the stories below. Join the discussion by commenting, sharing with friends and stand a chance of winning a free copy of the book. You can also ask questions as the author will be available to respond to them in the comments section.

I found the stories in Bury Me Come Sunday Afternoon, engaging in a refreshing manner. In “Apartment Twenty-Four”, Campbell-Fatoki writes the African immigrant’s story with a fresh perspective. The major character, Ade is an archetype Nigerian immigrant, however, without the cliche dodginess. Ade’s internal conflict with Tamuno’s covert work is couched in an artistic subtext that encourages an individual interpretation. The usage of imagery is masterful and engaging. The resolution, ‘a drop it like it’s hot’ that leaves the reader panting at the finish line with bated breath and longing for more action.

 

Book Description

In this short story collection, Nikẹ Campbell-Fatoki filters the lives of contemporary Nigerians through a colourful and vivid prism, where past sins come to upset settled lives, where lost lives fuel a campaign for a better future and nothing is as it seems.  She explores well-known themes but delves a little deeper, questioning our ideas about people, our impressions and prejudices.  Bury Me Come Sunday Afternoon depicts the struggles of a young ambitious and hardworking Nigerian abroad with the same insightful candour as it does the tale of a brilliant but broken woman struggling with mental illness.

 

Listen to Nike Campbell-Fatoki reading an excerpt from “Apartment Twenty-Four” here

Transcript of the excerpt:

I knocked on the door of apartment twenty-four for the third time. The smell of iru (locust beans) filled the hallway. If I do not get this food in soon, occupants of the second floor will call Mr Theodore, the building manager, about the odd smell in the building. I shook my head and knocked louder. Footsteps approached the door. Tamuno opened it, his towel wrapped around his waist; dark hair covered his broad chest. When he looked down at me, his shaved head glistened. He looked well-groomed with a goatee. 

        “Bros, good evening,” I said, handing him the plastic bag of food.

         “You try for me, Ade. I swear! Ever since you introduced me to this restaurant I’ve been hooked! They put something for the food?”  Tamuno joked.  I chuckled.   

He invited me into the living room. I walked in as he grabbed his wallet on the arm of the recliner. He pulled out a wad of dollar bills and began to count them. I looked away. The living room was furnished with expensive furniture – the dark brown recliner complemented the seven-seater leather sectional and ottoman. He pressed the dollar bills into my hand and walked me to the door.

        “That’s for your transportation and for tomorrow’s lunch. Please buy me the stew with cow feet and ponmo next time.”  I chuckled and teased him about the weight he would start gaining. When we got to the door, I reminded him of the IT position I applied for at his workplace. “Did you have a chance to talk to the HR. manager yet? You’re one of my references, bros.”

        “I haven’t had a chance. You know I just got back from this business trip, and I’m in the middle of bringing my wife over.”

        “Oh yes! Congrats! When does she arrive?”

He smiled.“She’ll be here in less than a month!” 

        “You said she’s a minister’s daughter, right?  Which one?” I asked.

        “Not that it matters, but she’s the daughter of the Minister of Works and Housing.”

His phone rang somewhere in the apartment. He said he had to go. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He closed the door in my face before I could answer. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nike Campbell-Fatoki was born in Lvov, Ukraine. She is the second of four children born to Nigerian medical doctors in the old Soviet Union. A graduate of Economics with a minor in Political Science from Howard University. She also has a Master’s degree in International Development.

Nike juggles writing with her day job in budget and finance management at Prince George’s County. Her first novel, A Thread of Gold Beads was published in 2012. Her latest work, Bury Me Come Sunday Afternoon, was released in July 2016.

Nike lives in the Washington DC area with her family, where she is writing her next historical fiction novel set to be published in 2017.

 

You can order a copy of the book online at Quramo Publishing Limited, click the order form here. Also available at Patabah bookstore, Quintessence bookstore, Unilag bookstore and Salamander (Abuja).

Now, leave your comments and questions below. You can also follow the tour tomorrow at afreada.com.

 

 

Ojuola (7)

Read Part 6 here

They have been partying hard from the evening into the night. Ireti had zoomed back into the compound just when the noises of little children and their parents returning from their daily routines cued Ojuola into the knowledge of dusk’s arrival. She heard Ireti’s ringing laughter before she heard the other voices. She’d been unsettled throughout the ride from the clinic. Ojuola had smelt the tension in the stiff silence that hovered in the car. She’d dropped her off at the door, leaving her to fumble with the unseen keyhole. The powdery dust raised in the wake of Ireti’s departure had settled on Ojuola’s trembling lips.

“You no see dat manager, e wan piss for bodi!” Ojuola listened to their gruff drunken laughter above the loud jarring music. They had been quiet in the first hour of their return as they shared the booty. The thump of something against the table signalled the counting of one share.

“Ireti sharp woman, you arrived just when I needed you,” Nat says and the others cheer as their favourite jagbajagba song starts on the stereo. Ojuola presses her thighs together. She closes her eyes tight and prays that famous childhood prayer for ‘number 1’ to come and ‘number 2’ to go. But her bowels do not heed her supplication.

Ojuola opens the door and holds her breath as the blare of music hits her harder. She manages to walk unnoticed to the toilet where she heaves down in super relief. Her hand is stayed on the flush. They would hear the sound and it will draw attention to her. So, she leaves the putrid odour hanging in the air and exits.

“We must not forget Baba’s meat o, that his protection work well well,” the now familiar gruff voice of one of the men bellows.

“The meat don ready since,” Nat replies with a dry laugh. Ojuola collides with something hard on her path. There’s sudden quiet in the room as the music skips and comes to a halt. She can feel their eyes on her. Her skin tingles.

Ojuola freezes on the spot. She wills her legs to move. She orders her vocal chords to scream. They fail to fall to command. Nat grabs her wrist and pulls her closer to his side. She smells the strong whiff of alcohol and cigarette smoke on his breath.

“Nat…” Ireti begins frailly.

“What!” he snaps back.

Ojuola can feel her hot garlic breath on her neck as she moves closer and whispers out of hearing of the others.

“Mary? What would we tell her when she returns?”

“Blind girls especially naughty ones get lost,” Nat says with a finality that melts Ojuola’s buttery heart into oil. Her voice returns. She lets out a piercing scream, loud enough to shame the bass echo of the stereo.

“Sharrap! Stupid girl!” familiar voice grunts.

Nat shoves his fist into Ojuola’s mouth. She chokes on her saliva.

“Bring it,” he speaks through his teeth.

The last thing Ojuola remembers is the flashing light in her head and the sharp stinging in her nostrils before it all turns black.

Feature Friday: Independence Day by Ololade Anthonio

It’s Feature Friday on my BBM channel (FICFAC C0014488E) when I post stories written by subscribers and offer a critique. 

 

My beauty sleep comes to an abrupt end when the noise from the radio bursts into my ear. “Happy Independence Day Nigeria.” Rubbing my face I smile and hug myself. Reluctantly, I get out of bed and head to the bathroom, looking at my now aging face in the mirror I remember five years ago how young and vibrant I was, apple of the eyes of a thousand, slim and fair, face beautiful as ever with firm round breasts complimenting my features, which is now the opposite of what it was. I feel betrayed by my eyes and grudgingly take my eyes off the mirror.
“I don’t think I’m ready for this mama,” I had said four years ago.
“It is too sudden and I have not even met him more than once”
“It is not Onye, this is your third marriage you are not getting younger.”
“The same mistake you do every time, I have been submissive enough all these years, let me choose whomever I want, I’m sure this time it will not end in a disaster like the others,” I said stomping out in anger.

Almost immediately, I leave the bathroom, dump a bag on the floor and I start to rummage for the clothes that will not remind me of Uti. After searching for some minutes, I’m only able to see a few traditional attire, three jean trousers, few blouses and a gown. I spread one of the trousers and a blouse on the bed. “I’ll wear this,” I mutter, smiling as I start packing the remaining neatly into the bag.

Few months later I was dancing to a song with a cup of palmwine in my hand looking disdainfully at my new smiling husband. I had been adorned in beautiful red waist beads and red wrist beads, with a flowing black gown which I had intentionally chosen to speak out the anger, sadness and bane I felt inside of me. I looked around as I danced round the stage with my husband, my parents smiling, everyone talking excitedly. Nice. Everyone was happy except me. That same afternoon I had gone to my parent’s room to bid them farewell, the anger in me climaxed when I glanced at the baskets of goodies my husband’s family had brought, I promised myself to return every dime that was brought because of me. I went out in anger to meet my husband. “It is time,” I said, we left my parents place and we never went back.

I go into the bathroom again, avoiding the mirror this time. I take my bath. A very short bath. I will not like it if too much time is wasted and Uti finds me home. In haste, I comb my hair, wear the clothes I had kept on the bed, the trousers already tight, I struggle and wiggle in it, before I can finally pull it past each thigh. Fully dressed, my lips broaden into a big smile. “The time has finally come,” I say.

We had gotten home in silence that day. I was in between taking off my gown, when he suddenly grabbed me and started tearing all the clothes I had on. “Please, I don’t think I’m ready for this” I cried. Like a lion he devoured me, under his whole strength I laid crying helplessly as he helped himself. I was raped on my wedding night and every night I spent in his house.

In about six months, the marriage already bore me, we never communicated. The companionship between man and wife was completely lost in our marriage. Like a dutiful wife, I cooked, washed, swept, cleaned and satisfied him without any complain. I could only endure for two years. I decided to seek refuge from my mother. I explained everything going on in my marriage to her and we decided that she spoke with him. Uti flared up when he got home, he was really angry, throwing anything within his reach at me. He was shouting repeatedly “I married you, you give me whatever I want, and I can do whatever I want with you.” I sat at the corner of the room nursing my wound, drowned in my own tears.

After the last ordeal between us, Uti stopped coming home. He came home once in a blue moon. And anytime he comes, he closes the door, push me to the bed and rape me. Afterwards, he would drop some money on the bed beside me and then went back to wherever he came from. Months went by, I continued to endure, until the day a neighbour visited me.

“Do you know that your husband has another family in this vicinity, his other wife gave birth to his 3rd son today?” I couldn’t believe my ears. My eyes swollen with tears, I stuttered.
“Eer…are you sure of what you are saying?”
“I’ve never been more sure of something in my life, I went to see my mother in the hospital yesterday. I was waiting for the doctor when I heard the doctor say “congratulations it’s another boy” to someone, when I looked towards the person I saw that it was your husband, then I decided to see for myself. I sneaked behind him and saw him go into the ward to see the woman. She was carrying her baby, I also saw two other young boys standing next to her bed. They both looked exactly like Uti.”

I followed my friend to see for myself. I met them exactly the way she had said it, the two boys looked like Uti. The mother was sleeping gently on the bed with the baby cradled in her arms. I cried helplessly, river of tears flowed from my eyes, I had been used in yet my third marriage. I had been married legitimately, my own husband turned me into a whore. I went into the room, staring at the boys. They really look like Uti, they have the same miniature nose and wide mouth like Uti.

“Good affun ma.”
“How are you?” my voice croaky as I replied.
Immediately, the woman aroused from her sleep and gently put the baby in the cot beside her.
“A cute little baby, looks exactly like his father,” I said smiling at the woman.
“Do I know you?” asked the woman.
“No,” I said smiling.
“I’m…never mind, it doesn’t matter. Where is Uti?”
“He’s not here, I’m his wife, what do u want to tell him?”
“Just tell him Onye, his legitimate wife came to see his children.”

I left her dumbfounded, I smiled at her before I left the room. My smile turned into tears as I left the hospital. I went home angrily and cried my eyes out. I cried not out of jealousy or Uti. I cried because that was the third time the same thing would happen to me. Every man I marry take advantage of me and leave me with nothing but regrets. “No man will ever treat me this way again,” I said with tears of determination trickling down my face.

Uti came home with anger the same day. I have never been beaten that severely in my life. I almost died. He never uttered any word while he was bumping his fist on me, after he was through with me, he left without glancing at me for once. Friends and family could not keep Uti from changing his mind about me, he totally hated me. He stopped coming home. I wondered what he felt about me when he asked my hand in marriage. Every night I hated my parents and cursed myself for accepting to marry such beast.

I pick up my phone and send a short text to Uti. “When you are ready, come and get your bride-price in the house. I will never be anyone’s whore,” my fingers shaking while I type. I pick up the baskets and arrange the same things I saw in the baskets in my parents’ house in them.

Yesterday evening, I had just finished preparing dinner for myself when I heard the doorbell. I checked the peephole and saw Uti standing at the door. Surprised, I opened the door for him. “Perhaps he’s realized his mistakes,” I thought. Like he always do he pushed me down to the floor and started pulling my skirt, with all the strength I had in me I kicked him away from me and started to run towards the kitchen. He yanked my hair and pulled me to him, his eyes red with rage. I struggled hard and tried to move away from him, but his strength was beginning to overpower mine. I bit his arm so hard that he freed me immediately. He winced holding his bruised arm while I had the chance to run to the kitchen and lock the door. In haste I picked a knife, breathing hard I waited for him while he was working on the locks, within minutes the door was open. He was coming towards me in anger when I brought out the knife and pointed it in his direction. “If you come near me, I swear I will kill you,” I shouted. He was still moving towards me, I did not move an inch away from him. When he saw I was serious about me killing him he moved away saying; “Nice try, today is your day, enjoy it.” Then he left. I heaved a sigh of relief. “Good riddance,” I said smiling.

I carry the baskets and put them on the bed. Looking at the bed I reminisce about how Uti used to sexually assault me. I shake my head vigorously to take the thought away from my head. I carry my bag ready to leave. I’m about to open the door when I see my wedding ring still in my finger, I remove it with anger and throw it on the bed next to the baskets. I close the door and let the cool breeze take over my body. I feel liberated. Happy Independence Day to me.

 

Comments
• Legibility: Try and make your story graphically easy on the eye. If it’s cluttered with typos, lack of punctuation and the dialogues garbled, no one will want to read. As much as I wanted to leave this unedited, I had to fix some of the punctuation errors to enable easier reading. Learn the proper use of the full stop and comma. Also, to avoid confusion, you should demarcate dialogue from the rest of the story as much as possible.
• The story’s use of  the Independence Day as a motif, has a great appeal but in the handling it lost some of what could have been achieved. It’s actually forgotten until the end of the story. It becomes something peeking out of the story instead of being the strand that unites the story into a whole.

 

• The handling of flashback or digressions – because this is something that happened in the past it should not make the bulk of your story and should be well woven into your story. For a short story as this one, you need to handle digressions well because you don’t have so much space to tell a very long story. At the start, up to the middle of the story, it wasn’t clear if Uti was still part of Onye’s life. It’s at the end that the reader gets the idea that the beginning was actually a day after her independence from Uti. As much as there’s no one formula to writing a story, imagine how strong the story could be if it actually tells the “independence” day itself and we get to know about the past through the digressions?

 

• Use of ‘longish’ dialogue – The part where the neighbour related what she saw went on too long. It tilts the narrative pattern and pulls the reader out of the story, which is Onye’s story to tell. So, one wants to know what the neighbour saw but mostly through the eyes of Onye – It’s a 1st person narrative.

 

• Show don’t tell – An example: “I cried helplessly, river of tears flowed from my eyes…” The first half is telling the emotion while the second half shows it. Showing strengthens your narrative. The first half can be done away with and nothing will be lost in the story.

 

• Use of Language – try to use realistic language especially in your dialogues. Ask yourself questions like: how does Uti speak? What mannerism from her socio-cultural background will reflect in her language? Try to avoid stiffness.

 

• Overall, I think the story has a good framework and just needs more work.

 

What are your thoughts on Ololade’s story, please share in the comments below.

 

Ojuola (5)

(Read Part 4 here)

His head lays on her lap as she runs her fingers in small roundish circles on his scalp, as a mother trying to lure her baby into sleep. One of his eyes is closed and the other halfway open in between a seeming state of wakefulness and sleepiness. When she stops the motions of her hands, both eyes open wide. He sits up on the bed and cracks his knuckles. She’s watching him like a bird surveying its prey from its vantage position perched on a tree. She knows him well enough not to interrupt his introspection. He gets cranky when a clog is put in the wheel of his thoughts.

Ojuola (4)

Read Part (3) here

The doctor says I may see again. Sight! I will stare at the clear blue skies unblinking when that day comes. I wonder if the sky in the city is the same. In Adatan, they hang like balls of fufu begging to be moulded by eager fingers and swallowed down a hungry throat. I have learnt the smell of this house. I don’t like it. It smells like the coming together of many herbs and scent leaves. It leaves my nose and throat dry. I miss the smell of the wet grass and rain. Here, when it rains, I taste dust on my lips. The noise. The television playing loud music that has no semblance to the rhythms of the bata and gangan. They repeat a meaningless string of words. Words that make blood rush to my cheeks. If I could but see, I would cover my eyes in shame. That’s his kind of music. He listens to it all day.

Ojuola (2)

Read Part 1 here

The rivulets of sweat on her Mother’s shiny black back, courses through the hollow, to her shoulder and drips to meet her sagging breasts. The hoe raised high connects with the dark soil, moulding medium rounded heaps.

“The heaps for yams have to be bigger than the ones for maize,” she says.

Ojuola dangles her small hoe over her shoulder. She’s tired but she won’t stop. She wants to impress her.

“Maami, how long before sunset comes?” Ojuola asks, wiping her sweat-beaded brows with the back of her hand.

“Bebe idi, I know you’re tired,” she smiles. She tells Ojuola to rest in the shade of the banana trees.

“We have to finish the heaps today, the rains will soon be here.”

Ojuola’s arms feel like lead and even as she wills them to move, they don’t obey. So, she moves to the banana alcove where she closes her eyes and dreams of big cities and high heeled shoes. She wants to walk in them one day. The type of shoes that Mama Mary, her aunt in Lagos wears when she comes to Adatan. Koi, koi, koi, she used to mouth as she trailed behind her, lugging her big bag stuffed for children in the compound.