I’ve got another exciting piece. I’ve got a postscript at the end of the story. Be sure to let me know what you think of it!


I am five years old and Mama dropped me off at the pool for my swimming lessons. I am surrounded by water and I sink deeper as the bubbles rise to cover my ears. Above the water, I can hear the muffled sounds of the world around the pool. There’s a lot of screaming going on but it does not faze me. Children can be noisy.

I settle into the warm coziness of the pool. I try to flap my arms and legs but they refuse to move so I stop. I keep my eyes shut and try to recall my alphabets. They keep slipping away when I get to ‘J’ but I don’t stop. I can hear the loud whine of the ambulance going by outside but I don’t care. Today is about swimming and I am here for the enjoyment.

Suddenly, I start to drown. The water rushes into my throat and fills my lungs. I panic and shout ‘Mama’ but I know she can’t hear me under the water.  I try to open my eyes but my eyelids are heavy, as if weighed down by some unseen force. The water swirls around my mouth but its metallic and thick. Then I know.

I am not five years old. I am twenty and in a pool of my blood. I did not see Tade but I felt his knife jab into my belly. The screaming is my voice and the ambulance is for me. I settle deeper into the pool. There is a time to die and that time is now.

POSTSCRIPT: In this story, I tried to get into the head of the victim. There are quite a number of interesting first-hand reports from survivors of near-death experiences and writing this was insightful for a number of reasons. Perhaps the most intriguing reason is the fact that no one ever lives, literally, to tell this story. And we are left to ponder and imagine what goes through people’s heads in their last moments.


Hi hi!

I’m taking out the time to explore some more parts of horror fiction. In this story, I take a quick jab at the innate injustice of murder which is that nothing ever really can bring back the murdered. In addition, the lives of their families are permanently altered. To some it is some sort of comfort that the murderer does not walk freely and cannot sleep without tossing with guilt. But in reality, a lot of people who commit murders get released right back into society (after having served time, of course) and go on to have ‘normal’ lives.

Love Me

Love me… love me not” …”love me… love me not” he whispered under his breath, repeating the words in a mindless incantation as he wringed his hands in his wretched black cloth. The steady hum of the freezer behind him accompanied his crazed incantation and together they created a strange sad song that fit the occasion.

The occasion was a murder. She was an unremarkable woman. Older and with a child. Her body was soft, round with that fleshiness attributed to motherliness. They had met at the local shop where he had gone to purchase pliers to pry out the teeth from the skull of his last occasion. She had smiled innocently at him from the next aisle. That was how she came to be his next occasion.

He would swear, five months later in front of a jury made up of men his peers, about how she had flirted with him, touched his arm, with her pinkie flicking his flesh. He would rage about how she looked just like his mother and sob about how for once in her life, his mother wanted something to do with him.

When the sentencing was over and the press had died down, he would settle into bed at the asylum, gingerly laying his covers over his head. There in the darkness of the room, their faces would flit before his eyes. Each of his occasions. Sentenced to the darkness of the grave as he was to the darkness of his room. Before long, he would be asleep, snoring peacefully with the rest reserved for the wicked.  

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Hi there!

I’ve got the next story in my flash fiction series. I had fun writing this story because it required me stepping into the mind of my younger self. For context, I read a lot of horror fiction as a child and in my teenage years. My favorite author for a long time was (and still is) Stephen King. His work has always fascinated me which you can see in this story.

As usual, do let me know if you enjoy the story!


Forgive me not, for I do know what I do.

I do know that I methodically study his life on Twitter. His likes, his tweets and his retweets. When he interests me sufficiently, I do know that I proceed to his Instagram. That is, of course, the fastest way to find out where he lives. I do know that thereafter I proceed to Facebook. I need to know, of course, his friends and family.

Then, I do know that I will pay him a visit. Well, you see, not him really. His apartment. I want to know what he lives like. Is his existence as much a mess as his online presence? I need to know, don’t you think? I do know that I will follow him around for a few days. Not visibly of course, I am not stupid. Not that a man like him would mind a young, pretty woman like myself following him. Men like that would love that. But you see, my work requires that I remain invisible.

I do know by now that he has a routine. This comes in very handy, you’ll see. I do know that I’ll follow him out one of these days. Preferably on a jog. I do know that I’ll wait till it gets dark and lonely while he jogs on the road. An ‘alpha male’ like him cannot be scared of a simple matter like a dark, lonely road, haba*. I do know that I’ll stealthily draw closer as he jogs slower, waiting till the time is right to strike, armed with my mai-suya* knife. I do know exactly how his legs will buckle beneath him, unable to hold up the ‘alpha male’ anymore as his blood pools around both of us. I do know how I’ll watch, gleefully, as his blood seeps out while I listen to my recording of his incel tweets. I do know how I will wipe his blood off the blade of my knife, grinning satisfactorily from ear to ear.

I do know that I will be back to find another one like him. What I do not know is when.

*Nigerian exclamation, usually used to express surprise or shock.

*Type of knife with a curved, tapered blade, typically used by sellers of spicy meat kebab (suya) in Nigeria

Thanks for reading. See you next time!