Group D: Day 4 Duel 1

Group D: Day 4 Duel 1

So far, the contestants have been bringing the game to the rings. Today, we are taking it all out to the streets.

Yesterday’s scoresheet is IN.



Bring it ON!!!

Fighting in the rings is AMARA CHIDINMA EZEDINIRU against RAPHAEL FRANCIS on: A 400-word story on LOVE HURTS

The RULES are easy

* Ensure to READ both stories

*Vote the one you think best interprets the theme.

Story 1 or 2.

* No cajoling for votes. DO NOT influence public opinion.

* Feel free to LIKE, SHARE & TAG


Story 1.
Of love, Death and Wild Fantasies

Lately, there’s a cradling inside of you, you can’t explain, it makes you swoon, leaving you hallowed out, ailing and bristling with rage. Your eyes lost the glow they long ago possessed. You sighed a lot, hissed often, smiled bitterly too many times, all at no one in particular. It is an uncomfortable anger that cannot be expressed in the way anger is expressed. There is no one to shout at. No one to blame. you only sigh. Gnash your teeth. Cry.

“Do we strut this earth just to end in pains?”

You update your WhatsApp status, you do that often, churning out flowery sentences, in a bit to unburden your over ladened mind. But your viewers only loves the uncanny beauty of your phrases and sentences and the bizarreness of their semantics— because to them, you’re a poet.

“Wole Soyinka, you write well”

they would flatter.

And you would respond with thumbs up emojis just to end their trivial conversation. Again you sigh. Gnash your teeth. Cry.

“You and this girl, she’s gradually turning you into a philosopher oo”.

Your sister taunts in response.

You want to explain, but you feel a certain languor in your fingers to type, a certain slowness in your head. It is a sensation you have begun to feel too often, alongside a deep sadness, when a discussion, about her, about Maria, pops up the radar. This time, you sigh. Gnash your teeth. You don’t cry.

Here’s Maria  for the context:
Well defined features, Abrasive demeanor, bright-eyed, caramel skin glowing effortlessly. Fleshy assets protruding in the right places like a model from a magazine. Hair hanging down rather than standing up, straight and sleek, parted at the
side and curving to a slight bob at her chin.

You met her first in the club on one of those windswept Fridays, music blared, a cacophony mingling with the growing chatters of raving youths swaying their bodies. It’s the way her nose ring, a tiny-glass like thing glittered under the fluorescent flickering lights in the club that made you noticed her. You stalked her, and soon found out her unending love for ripped jeans, for Tatiana’s ‘like you’, which she posted on Facebook as her favorite song of the year.
Sometimes at night, when insomnia crawls out of its insidious cubicles to shroud you with a gnawing haze of nothingness, you visualize her, her glossy hair, her thick lips, and you marvel at all the things you would do to her body.

Then just last week, in school, you saw her pictures pasted round every auditorium, her usual smiles blurred by a splatter of inks from printing gone wrong, and beneath the pictures in red spidery penmanship is: With deep regrets we announce the passing away of a dear friend, daughter, sister, and colleague Ms. Maria Peters who died after injuries sustained in a motor accident. May her soul rest in perfect peace.

Story 2.


“Dear Mum, I’m sorry I had to find dad. He is nothing close to the picture you and your family painted. Dad is the nicest person on earth. Even his wife and children welcomed me with open arms. They all offered the throne to me. They said they knew I would be back. I love my family and regret that you did not allow me to grow up with them. My holidays will be spent here, see you later.”
I folded the letter and tucked it under my pillow. I was happy my son had become a man. “May your chi be with you” I muttered.

Ihenyen was everything a man should be. He yielded to the pressure of marrying from his class, he did not say goodbye, not to me nor our fertilized egg. I should have known not to have yoked with a man from the lineage of Oba Ovonranwem. We were driven from Igarra, the town where my heart was stolen by the son of the soil.
Ezeobi arrived, my love for Ihenyen was transferred to him. Being as cute as his father, loving him was easy. Mama and Papa adopted him as the son they never had. All of us spared nothing raising him. Ezeobi, the product of my first love grew in strength, in intelligence, and in character. I was proud of him, all of us were.
“Dear Mum, it’s so much fun here and there’s a lot to learn, I may not be coming back soon.”

My heart was pierced with those words. “How can Ihenyen hurt me the second time, twenty years later?” I questioned my chi. Ihenyen denied my pregnancy, allowed his people to humiliate my family, with a broom, they swept us off their land. Our only offense was poverty. I bore the pain, my family lived with the shame. Until papa and mama died, I could not redeem my pledge of giving them a better life to make up for the indignity they suffered for me.

I raised Ezeobi with all the love a woman could give her parents, her husband, and her first son. He was my world. I had no other offspring. Was he hypnotized, brainwashed or bought over? How could he not remember what we went through? Our love songs, our hope of a better life, our play, our bond? He was supposed to be in the university studying instead he went in search of his father. I was happy he found him but to not come back? No, no, no.
My heart shredded in pieces, peaceless pieces.

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  1. I vote story one, nicely done descriptions, linguistics inventiveness and lovely display of imagery.i vote story one.

  2. Yeah, love hurts!
    I feel it more with story 1.
    I vote for story 1.

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