The Curse of the Hedgehog


After he had got bitten to death by the once seemingly sane hedge-hog, the yellow squirrel returned from the underworld only to receive an interesting call.

“Hello, my name is Mr. Hedge-hog. I am calling on behalf of Zerrazen. Am I speaking to Mr. Yellow Squirrel?”

Yes you are,” replied Mr. Yellow Squirrel.

“Well sir, I am contacting you in regards to a past due balance on your account.”

Yes, I know, but I could not pay my bills on time because at that time I was M.I.A.”

“Oh yes sir, it says on your bill, that you are currently in transition to becoming a fully fledged zombie, and we at Zerrazen take that seriously.”

Well, if you or Zerrazen really understood my situation, you all should also know that getting a job in my current state is practically impossible. I mean everyone keeps running away from me, it’s like I’m cursed.”

“Well sir, you are a zombie in transition, I mean you’re practically not alive.”

Do you think I don’t know that? I am freaking dead walking yellow squirrel.”

“I understand your situation Sir, if I was bitten by a zombie Hedge-hog, I too would be fuming.”

Argh argh argh argh argh rah argh rah rah awrrrrrrr rahhhhhhhhhhh

“Sir, are you there?”

Arghhh rah argh rah arghhh rah rah rah awrrrr rahhhhhh

“Sir, oh my, what a pity, there goes another Zerrazen customer. He didn’t even get to pay his past due bill.”

The hedge-hog quietly dropped the phone and sighed. “Typical of a yellow squirrel”

The Legend of the Hedge-Hog


He was born in the land of tall grass; a land filled with much green and much more poo. His story was born out of haste and running. His parents were die-hard adventurers who traveled through different farms lands. Their various trips always ended up with them running for their dare lives. The hedge-hog grew up brave and afraid at the same time. At night he was batman, and during the day he was superman only without the powers. And unlike this title he was not anywhere close to being called a legend. The only famous hedge-hog he knew was dead; he had been killed by those filthy humans. So, how in the world is this title related to this current living hedge-hog? Well, all this hedge-hog knew was that all the hedge-hogs who were considered legends always managed to end up dead; either by road, by those degenerate humans, or by the fearsome Mr.Snakey.

Oh Mr.Snakey, with his beautiful eyes, and magnificently carved sets of teeth.

“Oh those eyes could fool any hedge-hog” and it actually did fool hedge-hogs.

He understood why Mr. Snakey was always angry; most hedge-hogs always found new and exciting ways to always trash Mr. Snakey’s home.

What this powerless hedge-hog could not comprehend was why Mr. Snakey always gulped up any hedge-hog in plain sight.

What the hell happened to the free world?

This world was now rotten and badly needed saving.

This world needed a hero and this hedge-hog was not anywhere close to being called a legend.

Locust Season

The man in the world was lost in his own words. Time after time, he always looked out from the outside, but finally he decided it was right or left that he ventured inside life’s own mechanical wheel. The next phase to this episode was moving from this deep deep ditch he found himself in. This wheel made a different kind of screech and scream whenever it turned and whined. The man’s ears could not contain its crying discontent. Finally, but not soon enough, the man understood he had to drop his baggage of self loathe. To understand the journey, one must understand the beginning. Though the end is abrupt, the path was always treacherously long. All along he had not put any thought into the way he had been living his life, but after that day, he now had a clear vision of how he needed to put down his own stamp. He was his own sent messiah. His tired but inexpert hands held the answers to his many questions. To be fair, he had a reason for this journey; he wanted to find gold. Even though he already had treasures, the earthly gold was needed to preserve on his quest. Alas! The premise to this wish had already taken off.

The calabash sat on the ground empty and without point. The potter of this very traditional vase had been very wise to leave it with a face, so that whenever one looked at the calabash, a sad face was seen; it was a vessel reflecting its creator’s very own soul. The man stared hard at the mystical object, he saw something peculiar. The calabash reminded him of his earlier years, those years when he scavenged the plain roads of Kaduna looking for food for his brain. He remembered those days he was filled with a raw desire to explore all the missing explanations to human beings ability of discontent. Then, he understood the very core that made us tick or rather click, but he couldn’t grasp our ever surfacing pile of green and thirst for greed. Those days were behind and past; he was older, in a broad societal term; matured. The man lifted his drink closer to his face hoping the glass would rid him of his old memories. Those vintage memories always felt soar and a bit too rough for his guts. With much haste and distaste he closed his eyes and hoped to see the woman who hated flowers. Into nothing but void, he fell.
The man in the pale red suit sat with proper etiquette, crossing his legs, and placing his hands carefully on his dry drink. As he blazed on, amidst the smoke screen, the woman in the beautiful dress danced moved her body slowly. She danced and teased all that looked upon her. She controlled her body with such ease and delicacy. When her eyes finally met his, she set her dreamy lock on him. With her lips licked, she willingly tranced and enticed her new onlooker. The man was now in her spell, and with each gulp, he fell much harder.

“What kind of black juju was this?” he thought.

Another puff, and all this would clear.

Still, still.

He was trapped, bound to the beauty before him. In land not his own, he had found a Queen.
She was his hook, the beginning was clear, the middle was coming forth, and the end, well that was in the making. The woman seemed to see his mind, so she used her shape as her defense.
So was she just another good one?
Were his days of singular thinking gone?
More fog from his smoke, still she tempted and drew in for the kill. Her eyes burned into him and wrote him a new tale; one he had to discover. He was forever stuck. She was only too real, not just another dream he had closed his eyes to. Her eyes said it all. And she knew this, so with music free-flowing, she swayed her hips and smiled. Now, all he needed to do was call on her.

“Time is up sir, she is gone,” the really tall man said standing over the man in red.
“You need to leave or to be more primitive, you need to get the hell out of my premises.”
“Alright, no need to show your other ugly side.”
“I found her.”
And with that out of his open mind, the man stood, with a half-haggardly stance, he left the room holding onto his face of content.

A Night In Africa

Here there were no Lions; there were no colossal Elephants or Laughing Hyenas. Peace and Life were the only present existence here. Unlike those movies that depicted Africa as a ravaged or desolate land, this current Africa I was in was bright and full of life. Right from the moment I stepped onto this estranged land, I somehow felt immediately connected to mother earth. I had come here for adventure instead I was handed more than I had bargained for. To begin describing Africa, and its people was an extremely difficult task, how could I explain the joy I got when an African Child I had handed a bag of rice smiled joylessly at me, how could I explain the feeling I got when a mother thanked me endlessly for two days because, I had given her son the antidote for the killer- disease called Malaria. I always wondered what other people thought about Africa, did they think of it has a place full of misfits or has a place home to Mother Nature; I hope the latter. The African woman to me was perfectly everything I had read about during my college years in my history class. She had a grace I had never seen or could have imagined. She embodied Motherhood, her well braided hair seemed to have been planted on her head, and her perfectly dark skin shone brighter whenever the sun found her body. I had read about how wild Africa was, but I had not experienced any of it since I arrived here, and still I was contented about my trip so far. Sure there was no light or constant water were I stayed, but there was a certain peace I felt, all of those social amenities did not bother me, all I wanted was more of the joy I was experiencing. I remember visiting a family in a nearby village; I was treated with a very strange but sumptuous meal. I remember how the family would come out by night and how the Pa (the father of the house) would captivate his little children with African Folk Tales. These stories always seemed to have some sought of spell on his children because their eyes seemed to pop out with excitement. I enjoyed every story I listened to, there was this story about a Tortoise and Lion and at the end of the story, I remember the children laughing hard at how the tortoise had outwitted the big and ferocious lion. These stories made my heart heavy because I thought of how this family seemed to love each other, this love had never experienced. I asked myself why this family was so content with their little hut, their little farm, and their little beds. Why were they happy with having not a thing in the world, they had no expensive car, no expensive clothes? Then I realized how much life back home was different and fast, back home everybody had no time to really appreciate life. We worked hard to live comfortable lives for ourselves and our family. The smiles I saw on these African faces were absent from where I came from. Sure, these African people had problems, but they still had time for their traditions which was appreciating everything Mother Nature had given them. Back home most of us went to the mall to get almost all of our food; all the African Families I met planted and harvested all their foods. They may not look it, but these people weere more much healthier they I could ever be. I had an opportunity to meet with the oldest person in the village I stayed in, she was 103 years old, still she worked day and night on her farm, and I remember her grand children telling me why she was still strong. They told me she had never missed working on her farm even for a single day. They also told me the gods had blessed her with divine strength and health. In my Mind I thought about those old people back home, at age 67 most of them stopped working, they looked weak and feeble. Before I left Africa I was exposed to a night of pure bliss, this night was extremely special to the village I was in. It was called the Night of the green Mambas, it was night of rituals, a night when they thanked Mother Nature for their Good living and Good Soil. The night started off with bountiful amount of different varieties of foods, then a dance occurred in which a little boy danced with a full grown Mamba. The little boy danced like he was possessed by the god of perfect harmony, the snake he was holding seemed to follow his every move without trying to bite him. After this dance, everybody stood up to dance to a flute played by the town crier. The villagers urged me to dance with them, I resisted at first, but I was urged persistently by a little girl. As I started moving my body to the tune of the flute, I suddenly felt like I was possessed by an unknown spirit. For hours I danced like I had never danced before, like I was enchanted with the deadly venom of a mamba. I will never forget that night, the night I lost my timidity, the night I danced like a green Mamba. Oh Africa, some days I wish I had never left you, I wish I was back with you, back with Mother Nature, right in her arms.