I’m sure you know the effusive Ogechi Nwobia.
If you don’t, where have you been hiding?!
Anyway. She had a successful run publishing what I’m just finding out was the first ‘season’ of an ongoing series called Hunter’s Game. Intriguing title, no?
This is to inform you guys that Hunter’s Game will be continuing this Saturday the first of October on Ogechi’s blog here: Her Blog.
That made me laugh sef.
Now, a sneak peek into what to expect from Hunter’s Game II:
The sun had long since completed its return home by the time she took her evening run. Her trail was different tonight as she ran through the city for the first time. It had always been through the beach or some other trail close to home but this night, she took a different, longer trail, just for the fun of it. Her ears were plugged into her iPod, Eminem’s rap filling her ears and fueling her heart rate as she maintained a steady pace of 3:38.
After completing 6km, she commenced her return home, her pace dropping slightly to 3:50. In 30 minutes, she was back to her small cottage overlooking the Jibacoa beach. She peeled her soaked tank top and tights off her body and went into the bathroom for a cold shower just as she turned on the television in her room.
When she came out of the shower, she sat in front of the television, drying her short hair. She needed to cut it again. The hair grew way too fast. She suddenly noticed an item on the news bar:
“Breaking News. Passenger plane crashes in Nigeria, killing all 120 passengers aboard.”
“Holy shit!!” Ijeoma exclaimed.
She turned up the volume of the news and listened as the reporter provided updates of a plane crash that had taken place hours ago. It was 3am in Nigeria but quite clearly, no one was asleep. The airplane was one in the fleet of Miranda airlines owned by Chief Victor Ubong. At that time, the passenger manifest was being read. The journalist reported that 3 of Chief Ubong’s children had been on the flight, one them was the pilot, the other a flight attendant and the third one apparently hitching a ride. The black box had been found and investigations had commenced.
Ijeoma buried her face in her palms. This was completely shocking. Chief Ubong was well known to her. He had actually arranged the private jet that had taken her off to Cuba six months ago. How could such a thing happen to him? She briefly contemplated reaching out to him but changed her mind. They were not exactly tight buddies. He owed her a favour and had repaid it by ensuring her safe passage out of Nigeria. No need to get emotional over his loss.
She turned off the television and changed into something light for the night, then walked into her small kitchen and fixed herself a cocktail. There was so much madness going on in the world, she would rather remain oblivious to it all.
She took her drink back to her room then turned on her Netflix and relaxed in her bed.
Against the backdrop of the movie dialogue, Ijeoma heard a ping that signified a notification for her email. She paused the movie, picked her iPad and checked. The mail had come into a Gmail account she had not used in months.
Check the news. There was a crash. Someone just murdered my kids. Come home. I need your help.
The sender was V. Ubong. Ijeoma stared at the screen for a long time before taking another sip of her cocktail. She slowly typed out a response;
My condolences chief. But I’m retired. Never returning to Nigeria.
She sent the email and shut down the iPad before returning her attention to the big screen in front of her.
The mean *&@%^!
Keep it a date with her, stalk her everywhere. I assure you, she (and it) are entirely worth it!!
To have a feel of what you missed by not reading Hunter’s Game before now, click here:
Thank me later.
Innocent blinks like an owl caught in sunlight as he wakes up slowly. For some seconds he is completely disoriented, and then it all comes rushing back to him. The promotion…the congratulations…the surprise party…the Hennessey…
He is supposed to be at work. He sits up suddenly, winces and grabs his head.
What a hangover.
He shifts on the bed to get off it – and suddenly realizes he is still wearing his work clothes. A frown settles on his smooth features. He couldn’t have been that drunk. He stops moving and tries to remember exactly what happened after the party…but nothing comes up. It’s all blank.
He can’t even remember how he got home.
His glance is drawn to the bedside table – specifically to the wedding day picture of him and his wife that had been on that table since they got married. He sees his own grinning face from where he is sitting – but there’s something not quite right about the other person in the picture.
He leans forward and picks up the picture frame, noting that the glass that protected the picture from dust was absent. He runs his fingers over the picture, wondering how and when that happened…
“Good morning baby! Congratulations again! You were so tired yesterday I couldn’t disturb you. But what do you say to some early morning celebrating?”
Innocent freezes. There’s something wrong with the voice.
He turns on his behind, intending to ask his wife why she sounds like that.
And then he takes one look at the woman who obviously just came out of the bathroom, barely-there towel showing off long, lean light-skinned thighs to advantage. She leans against the door of the room – smiling coquettishly.
Innocent takes one look at her.
Okay. Thank you so much for staying with me. I really hope you enjoyed that!
There’s obviously something going on in the above story – but I leave you to figure that out. There’s something I’d like to ask you though.
Are you who you are because you know it, or are you who you are because everybody else says that’s who you are?
I mean, if you woke up one morning and everyone around you said you weren’t who you thought you were all your life; your husband/wife/
girlfriend/friends/the MTN-card selling girl on the corner all suddenly said they did not know you, would you still be you?
Imagine Innocent; going from knowing and being unknown to not knowing and being known.
Do ask yourself; what is identity? And just what makes us…US?
Please have a frabolous – yes; F-R-A-B-O-L-O-U-S weekend!
You may also like: True Fear I
Honestly, I’m one of those guys who thinks romance novels are ‘one kind’. Read why here.
But I won’t lie; I have read some romance novels that make me go ‘hmmm’. And me going ‘hmmm’ is a matter of national concern. Hehehehehe.
Reality is; no matter how much you think you know about ‘love’, there’s always something about it you cannot talk about till you’ve seen it through other eyes. Do y’all agree?
Allow me introduce you to my big sister, Lara Daniels; African Romance Suspense Storyteller, nurse, mother, wife, sister, mentor, inspiration, supporter, champion….need I say more?
You’ll get to read an excerpt from her latest novel; ‘Lessons In Love’ below – but before we get there, allow me whet your appetite with this short thriller from Lara: The Traveler.
How did that feel?
And now – without further ado, here’s an excerpt from Lessons In Love!
Lessons In Love (An excerpt)
Lara Daniels, African Romance Suspense Storyteller
We’re now in his kitchen. He lets go of my hand. I doubt if any cooking ever takes place here. It’s so clean. So new. So contemporary. It ought to be in a museum. I lean against the granite countertop while he strides across to the very modern stainless steel fridge – I’ve not seen the likes of this before; in magazines, maybe. From where I stand I see the refrigerator is well stocked – all kinds of flavored drinks and a wide variety of assorted snacks. He mechanically procures a coke and tonic water from the fridge, empties it into two tall glasses which he has retrieved from the cabinet above the fridge. Then he reaches over to the wine cellar and brings out a bottle. He twists off the cap and shortly pours it into the glasses. He carries both cups and turns to face me. His eyes glow with something I can’t decipher.
“Here,” he says, handing me one of the drinks. He is close enough for me to smell his crisp, mesmerizing scent, and frankly, it disconcerts me.
I eye him doubtfully. Truth be told, I’m nervous. I’ve told this man I want him to sleep with me and he hasn’t given me a reply.
He takes a long swig of his drink, then places it on the counter top and gives me a quizzical stare. “Are you okay?”
I shrug, trying hard to tamper down this mortification that’s washing over me in waves. “You’ve not said anything Jimi,” I say.
His eyes burn into mine. “Tara, cut me some slack. You’ve stomped me with a request that’s a little disturbing…something out of character for you. A man needs a drink.”
Disturbing? What’s all this self-righteous talk? “But you were so willing to say yes yesterday,” I say bravely. “You didn’t need a drink then.”
“Tara, yesterday…I was speaking without thinking, something I rarely do. You were upset and defensive. I don’t know, I lost it. ” He stops and grimaces. “When I said sex mechanics yesterday, you do know I wasn’t asking you to sleep with me, right?”
I nod. “I do.” In hindsight, I realize it was one of those awkward situations I get myself into where the conversation spirals out of control.
“Look, I don’t know how long you’ve had sex but the way you wrote about sex in Tomorrow and Lagos Blues, it’s just … implausible. For two people who supposedly love each other, there was no tenderness there.”
I roll my eyes. We’ve been here already. He has made me listen to the comments of other readers. Why are we rehashing how bad of a writer I am when it comes to love scenes?
“So when I said sex mechanics,” he continues, “I meant…” he rubs his hand on his head, struggling to find his words. “Crap,” he spits out. “I don’t know what I meant. Tara look, you are the writer. Do what you need to do to get your material. Just make sure it’s good material.”
I frown, shaking my head. “But Jimi, I’m doing what I need to do to get good material.”
He gives me a blank stare like he has no clue about what I’m saying.
“I’ve never really been in love before.” Well, until now. “I’ve also never had sex before and I’m asking for your help, and you haven’t given me a reply.”
“What?” He whispers. I think he’s about to implode. “What do you mean you’ve never had sex before?”
I ignore his shocked expression and trudge on. I am a desperate woman on a desperate mission and I’ve got to air my piece, now that I still have the courage to say it.
“Look Jimi, all I know is that yesterday you were so willing. Today, you’re…..I feel like you’re trying to let me down nicely. I’m no charity case. If you don’t want me, tell me and I’ll go ask someone else to do me the favor.”
I sense his menace before he voices it. “Over my dead body,” he says, and before I can take my next breath, he pounces on me.
About Lessons In Love
Fourteen months ago, Tara Olu-Browne quit her well paying job to follow her heart: Become a full time romance writer. Her decision is paying off, until she agrees to write for Black Desire, a new romance publisher set to turn out books that will appeal to a West African audience. Black Desire is headed by business mogul, Jimi Akintaylor and while he says he enjoys Tara’s previous works, he is critical of her current manuscript calling the love scenes improbable. Tara is left with two choices: quit writing for Black Desire or suck up her pride and request pointers from Jimi on how she can improve on the love scenes. She chooses the latter, and realizes too late that she just signed up for some very practical lessons in love.
About Lara Daniels
Lara Daniels is a Registered Nurse by day and an avid romance author at nights. Born and raised in Nigeria, Lara penned her first fiction at the age of nine. She continued her love for writing all through Secondary school, then to college, from where she relocated to the United States. In July 2009, she published her first novel, Love in Paradise and in 2010, she published the sequel, Love at Dawn – which charted on iTunes UK top 100 Romance novels. When she is not writing, Lara enjoys spending quality time with her family – a husband and three children. She currently makes her home in Texas. For more about Lara Daniels, catch up with her on her blog at http://www.laradanielswrites.com or on twitter @LDparables
And there you have it! Go grab your copy now o! Now o! Don’t make me send a particular Cereal Killer at you o!!!!!
You Have Been
Hehehehehe! Thank you!
They say the only thing to fear is fear itself.That fateful morning, he found out otherwise.
Innocent blinked like an owl caught in sunlight as he woke up slowly. For some seconds he was completely disoriented, and then it all came back to him in a rush. The promotion…the congratulations…the surprise party…the Hennessey…
He was supposed to be at work. He sat up suddenly – and winced, grabbing his head. It felt as though three wraps of Mama Put fufu were resting on his brain.
As he staggered off the bed, a small jingling soundinsistently inserted itself into his consciousness. He stopped, wondering where it came from – before realizing that the sound too had stopped. It started again the moment he started to move again, and it sounded like it came from below him.
He looked down – and was surprised to see ‘grey’ where ‘brown’…or at least skin color was supposed to be.
He was still fully dressed in his work clothes from the day before. He groaned out loud. Which kain…
Wincing out loud as he felt another jab from the hot iron in his head, he started to pull off his clothes slowly, trying to remember exactly how drunk he had been the previous night. No be today I start to dey drink Henney na, he thought, roughly pulling the stripped tie from his neck. And why didn’t Henrietta wake me?He turned to the bed, intending to ask his wife just that. Her side of the bed was empty.
She wouldn’t be in bed at this time of the morning, he reasoned. But where she dey? Almost immediately, he heard the tinkling of water splashing from the bathroom and smiled. There she was.
He wrinkled his nose as he pulled off his soiled shirt, grimacing in distaste. He smelled as though he had taken a dip in Alomo Bitters and Ogidigba at once. This is…this is curious; he thought. I definitely did not drink this much.
Emptying his pockets of keys and phones and loose change and wallet and – he put everything on the table beside the bed. And then he took off his shoes and every last bit of clothing, dropped them among the small heap he’d created, and then swept the clothes towards the silent laundry basket that stood in one corner of the room. He was reaching for the towel hanging above it when singing broke out from the bathroom. His lips stretched in a smile that slowly became wider as he recognized what she was singing. Brymo’s Good Morning.
He reached for his toothbrush, distractedly noting that its head was looking frazzled. Shrugging, he slowly walked towards the bathroom, fingering the day-old fuzz of hair around his jaw. He didn’t need a shave. Not yet.
The bathroom door opened as he walked towards it and Henrietta appeared, wrapped in a pink towel and patting her face.
“Hey,” he said. “Why didn’t you wake me…”
The woman took one look at him and screamed.