Paidion Coalition

Shout out to @ chikaunigwe  and Jennifer Egan   for the inspiration.  @ chikaunigwe tweeted about Egan's experimental writing and I was immediately excited. I've had a couple of stories floating around my head, refusing to make it to paper. But the challenge of tweeting a story gave me a break, I love challenges. So, I shall be tweeting the story everyday. The time will vary. On Tuesday, Thursday and Friday, I will start tweeting at 6 p.m. EST. On Monday and Wednesday, there is no time set in stone, as I have classes from 1 to 8:30 p.m. EST. The weekends are fair game. Basically, to keep up with the story, follow me at  @ olubela . A white car, with blue stripes and NYPD written in large blue block letters, rolls into the scene. — oluwami (@olubela) May 25, 2012 The driver turns off the engine, removes the key from the ignition, steps out of car, reaching out to dashboard to retrieve a cup holder. — oluwami (@olubela) May 25, 2012

It is a lost battle. I stand up and rush to bathroom, cursing as I speed to my upheaval pit. Done, I trudge to the sink. In the mirror, I see his body. The knife had been dragged around after the plunge. The slashes of the knife form an X with the knife finally resting in the eye of the letter. He is naked. On his stomach, the words “I am a rapist and a narcissistic pig” inked black. The uneven swirls of the letter give credence to the mastery of the hand that had held the tattoo style. I bend, turn on the tap and splash water on my face. I squint, bidding the image away but the words keep dancing in the back of my eyes.

Just because I don't feel older or don't really want to celebrate today doesn't mean I do not know understand what it means. Just because there has been a bump in my journey doesn't mean I wouldn't celebrate how far I've come. Just because I've been so busy in the past few weeks that my head constantly spins doesn't mean I shall not take a few minutes to show myself some love. Don't ask me my age, where I am, or what's happening to me. Today, I shall write myself a damn good poem that's going get published someday. And when people ask why, I shall say "because it was my day, and I had a few hours break from a hectic schedule." Tonight, I shall be in poetry class. I shall have the fun of my life critiquing colleagues who do not see every critique as hatred, but a step to get better. I shall return home and prepare for my presentation tomorrow. Until then, I wish myself a happy +1.

By Atilola Olubela At the crack of her dawn, she took pride in swings of Joys, At her sweeping power of freedom: A relief of characteristic Fragility. Months bled into years. The sun shone. Leaving reflections of hope;  Laced with grandiose illusions.

Written by Oyewande Alimi. Sirens blaring on a warm September noon, a familiar sound to the workers and visitors at St. Patrick's Hospital, Port Harcourt.  Jacopo Harut Visconti walked through the corridors of the renowned hospital, pacing around restlessly. He certainly looked out of place, a young nurse hurried past him. Turning abruptly, she studied him and rushed off. He was pretty sure she thought he was insane. It was over 40`c with the blazing Port Harcourt sun. He was clad in a beige trench coat, black turtle neck top walking in awkward manner with his yellow wellington boots.

Continued from Dec 1, 1998 VI Today is going to be different. It seems like it is just yesterday that I stood in this very room for this very reason. I pull the left collar leaf of my shirt to my lips with my right hand, stalling close to my lips so as to not get my very light pink lipstick on it. I let go. I rest my index finger on my lips as I look at the judge’s seat, not seeing it. I move my back of my hand across my lips, not caring much for lipstick smearing. I bite my lower lips, snapping my finger gently.

Continued from Dec 1, 1998 V I stare at the paper in my hand. Freedom or restrictions. I couldn’t really tell. It is one thing to brace yourself for such summon. It is another to get the summon. If I had been told, a year ago, that this day would happen, I would have called the messenger a liar. But then, I wouldn’t have predicted all that had happened in the past year either. Yes or no, there is no option. I flip the paper, wondering why the lightness of the paper couldn’t translate to its content. Am I scared? I have no idea. My phone rings. I fish for it. It’s Sandra. I press the green button.