Thereafter, the relationship grew rapidly. His rugged handsomeness and caring nature drew her irresistibly close to him. Soon she began to spend most of her weekends with him. And though he hadn’t mentioned it, she knew the relationship would eventually culminate into marriage. She also knew it would be difficult to convince her parents who would be vehemently against her marrying a Christian. But somehow she felt there would be a way out. The problem would surely be tackled at the appropriate time, maybe after her studies. For now her utmost concern was his safety. How could she stop him from endangering his life so? Maybe if she knew why he was taking the risks he could do something. But she had absolutely no idea.

Around 10 a.m., Carlos came riding his bicycle leisurely. He wore white trousers and flowery, navy-blue shirt. Many people ran towards him. "I will come back to you," he assured the surging crowd. He then disappeared inside the many security rooms at the airport. When Muslims were going for their afternoon prayers, he reappeared from a narrow gate with two long lists accompanied by two military police officers. About two hundred people were waiting to hear their names from the lists. "The first group will board at 2 p.m. while the second will travel at 6 p.m.," he announced. We had given our money to someone close to him. I and two of the youths in our group were among the second 6 p.m. batch. Since we had plenty of time before boarding the plane, like a herd of goats we milled around the airport except for the military site with several tunnels. Some trenches were like underground houses. Below the airport tower, was the officers' bunker.

By Sumaila Isah Umaisha

The story is a critical statement on Nigeria's socio-political experience since she gained independence from the British colonial rule in 1960.

It had been quite hectic in the office. Writing the murder story had been as tortuous as the millionaire’s strangling of his wife must have been. They said he did it out of anger, but I still don’t know why he did it. Nor do I know why I chose that particular day to see the man at the roundabout when I should have gone home to rest my tired brain.

By TC Munthali

Mafumu walked, no, he strutted towards the Red Taxi. Right now, true to his name, he felt like a king. Behind the toilets from where he had just emerged, they had sealed the deal. Nkhata had been driving his combi conductor-less for the last few days and he, Mafumu, being the observant type, had made a mental note of this, filing it under ‘things of great importance’ right at the front of his brain.

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