Hello Cribbers, it's that time again to read some of the stories by our contestants and read some of the amazing and brutal reviews by our able Judges. In this batch, the contestants are:

001 THE PEN REAPER

002 CAESAR

003 LIONESS

004 JAY

Let's welcome our first contestant: 

001 THE PEN REAPER

Nsikak walks through his front door, and slumps onto the worn out couch in his sitting room. He is exhausted from another stressful day at Ibom Plaza.

"Nsuto-mkpo! - What a day!" he exclaims, tossing his red tie onto the ground, and kicking off his shoes. He hates going to Ibom Plaza, with its busy drivers, noisy sellers, and smelly gutters.

Nsikak always comes home sweaty, sticky, and smelling of wet bus. His clothes are always stained from the dusty streets of the Plaza and need a thorough washing, which makes him even more angry.

However, Nsikak's mood changes as he thinks about dinner. "Hmmm, what shall I eat today?" he wonders, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he scans his fridge for leftovers. That is when he spots the leftover akana, his father's favorite dish!

Nsikak takes out the cold, green leaf which holds the long, chewy slices, and deeply inhales the earthly aroma of the akana.

He smiles and his heart leaps for joy as he remembers helping his mother cook akana sauce and yam, just the way his father loves it. He decides to make it for himself, just as his parents did, for old times sake.

As he cooks, the aroma of fried peppers and spices transports him into fond childhood memories. He remembers playing football and winning 2,000 naira, which made his mother proud and earned him an extra piece of meat in his MTN rice. He remembers his father's loud laughter and the importance of the special sauce passed down from father to son.

The sizzling of the onions reminds him of the hushed chatter of his mother and sisters.

"Nsikak, di. Yak ikpong iban ino utang amo - Come, Nsikak. Let us leave the women to their gossips." His father would say. "Iban, ema utang! - Women! They love to gossip!" and the women would giggle.

The green leaves and red peppers in the sauce reminds Nsikak of his mother's favorite wrapper that she loved to wear to church on Sundays.

The simmering of the sauce is gentle, like the tales of tradition his father told him about akana. How it exploded and scattered the evil gathering of other animals and their plan to overthrow the lion as the king of the forest. He smiles.

With each stir of the pot, Nsikak is reminded that this is more than a meal. It is a symbol of his family's love and legacy.

Nsikak sits down to enjoy his meal, feeling happy and content. He knows that one day, he will share this meal and legacy with his son and that makes him proud.

Nsikak takes a bite of the yam dipped in akana sauce and exclaims.

"Da! Tastes like home," he smiles, rubbing his tummy with joy.

Then Nsikak hears his mother's voice ring in his ears.

"Nsikak, ama eyed ubok? Ama bong akam?! - Nsikak, have you washed your hands? Have you blessed your food?" He jumps up and rushes to wash his hands, blesses his food and settles down to enjoy his meal of akana sauce and yam. 

Commentary: We all have foods that remind us of home❤️

JUDGES REVIEW

Judge Nadia Sulaiman

I like you, I really do, but I'm a little lost...

Your writing is top notch. Your imagery and voice is on point. But in accordance to the theme for this stage, I fail to see the way this portrays it. Maybe it's just me.

Judge Olaitan Davis

Not what I was expecting.

Judge Nina Ogbeide

Well, your story this stage sort of disappointed me. I get what you were trying to do with your story but it just didn't click. As usual; a stellar grammar and a great use of punctuation but your story didn't make me feel anything.

Judge Umar Hasan

I like the picture you painted with this story, Pen Reaper. It was a beautiful one. And I understood it well. Well done.

Judge Giwa Falade

I am not impressed and I am not sorry to say this.

Commentary: Well.....unto the next storyyy

002 CAESAR

It was lights out in the camp but Nonye could not sleep. She kept tossing and turning in the sleeping bag she lay in. She closed her eyes for a few seconds but opened them again. That would not work. She sat up and looked at her fellow children lying around her, all of them fast asleep. She could not sleep like them, though. She needed him to make her fall asleep. She had been waiting but he was not yet at her tent. Maybe he was not going to come, she thought.

The night was cold. The thin material the tent was made of barely protected her from the cold breeze blowing that night. Nonye shivered and hugged herself in an attempt to get warmer. It did not help much. Just then, her ears picked up the humming near her tent. She knew the song, and knew what it meant. A smile bloomed on her face.

In the darkness of night, Nonye made her way through the bodies of sleeping children on the ground and to the tent's entrance. She was familiar with the man standing there, even though she did not see his face in the dark. She recognized his smell of firewood and smoke, and the odd way he stood, like a hunchback. Nonye asked him about it one day and he had said it was his price to pay for being too tall. "You came," she whispered to him. " I thought you forgot." She felt his palms on her head, ruffling her hair.

"I had work to do. I apologize. You still could not sleep?" she nodded. "Let's go." He lifted her in his arms and they made way to their talking spot. It was a place that was far away from the cluster of tents in the middle of the forest. It was closer to the inner forest, closer to the dangers that lurked within, but Nonye was not afraid. As long as Brother Gozie was with her. She trusted him, even though he was one of her abductors.

He was the only good one amongst them. He was fond of her and she, too, could say the same. He felt like family. He took care of her, smuggled in snacks for her. He made her miss her own family too. That was what led to their meetimgs at night. He told her stories to help her fall asleep.

She placed her head of his shoulder as he moved. He was quick, but quiet. He tried his best not to step on twigs or dried leaves or do anything that would alert anyone close by. Nonye did not make a sound till they arrived at the place. He placed her on her feet and took a seat on one of the tree stumps. She sat down too, but on the ground near his feet. "Let akpi not chook your bumbum." She laughed. "It's not a laughing matter. We are almost running out of medicine. You children can be so reckless and get hurt easily. Medicine is expensive these days."

"You could have considered it when you decided to kidnap and sell children." Nonye knew she should not have said that when she heard Brother Gozie inhale sharply. "Sorry."

"I don't like what I do, Nonye. I told you before that if I saw a chance to escape, I would take it and not look back." Nonye could only see his outline in the darkness, not his face. The sky was pitch black. There were no stars or moon.

"Brother, sorry." She heard him grunt. He was still displeased.

"No problem." She heard shuffling and rummaging and then the lighting of a match stick. She watched as the flame on the kerosene lamp illuminated their surroundings. She saw his face and smiled. He kept the lamp on the ground between them and brought out a wrapped foil from his bag. "I went to town today, so I got you some things." He handed her the foil which she accepted with joy. The sharwarma felt like heaven after months of eating watery tasteless beans, or garri with watery soup or white jollof rice. She could hug him.

"Thank you, Brother." He shrugged and bit into his own snack.

Gozie watched her devour hungrily. He knew that the taste of the snack felt like heaven to her. It was a rarity in that camp as food was as bland as nothing. Tasteless. He smiled as he watched her stuffed cheeks move. His hands reached out to pinch them but he held himself back. "What is today's story about?" She went straight to business. Chinonye. He chuckled at how alike she was to his sister back home. He had not seen her in years. And ever since he joined Pa Jones' gang of child abductors, his chances of seeing her were slimmer. Worst mistake of his life. Gozie had no choice though. It was either that or death.

"Nonye, I miss my family, my parents, my sister," he started. "I wish I could see them one more time, know how they are." there was a bit of silence before he continued. "I was stolen. I don'tuse the word kidnapped. When I was fourteen, I was stolen from my family. Pa Jones and his syndicate. They stole me from my family and they stole family from me. They took my life away from me, Nonye.

"I miss mummy's egusi soup, with those round smoke fish she sused to pack in my plate. And Sundays when we used to eat yam not rice like other families. I miss the nights we would be watching Zee World while eating abacha. Even street ball. God, street ball with the boys in the neighborhood. There was one palm wine seller beside our house that time. I used to beg him even though dad said I should not drink it. My sis found out shaa, almost reported. I had to give her chin-chin money for one week.

He laughed and looked at her face, fully attentive. "I know you miss home too, Nonye. I know. So did I, but I got used to life here. That is something I won't let happen to you. Even if Pa Jones has to use me for sacrifice, you and the other children in that camp will leave. You hear?" She looked confused.

"I found a way today. Wetin I suffer, you no go suffer am, iyeh, Chinonye?"

"Yes, brother."

"That was also my sister's name. Coincidentally." He smiled at her.

"Brother?"

"Let's go back. You must be tired. At least you feel sleepy now, ba?" She nodded. "Oya, oya."

Commentary: Plot twist: Chinonye was his sister!

JUDGES REVIEW

Judge Nadia Sulaiman

Okay... Wow. I love this turn. And it's like you used the roleplay example we gave you and created a clever storyline from it, without copying and pasting. The creativity in this is what I can't just miss. How it's in the perspective of an abducted kid (who could be similarly compared to the missing children in the roleplay example). Or, will I start to talk about the friendly abductor... who can kinda be likened to the writer of this work. I mean, the contestants were the abductors and hence, you being one of the contestants and by extension, one of the abductors. The roleplay example tells the contestants/invaders/abductors to prove their innocence and show they're good people and can be trusted... And then, in the story, there's a friendly abductor. Omoh. Maybe I'm overthinking it, but all I know is that I'm smiling from ear to ear. You're a creator, Caesar. And, I love the way this story turned out, every single bit of it. This story and Medusa's story is my favorite for this stage. As far as I'm concerned, you did an amazing job.

Judge Olaitan Davis

Where's the childhood nostalgia?

Judge Nina Ogbeide

A poor attempt. Could neither get into your story nor understand it.

Judge Umar Hasan

I don't know what happened with your story, but it didn't exactly do it for me.

Judge Giwa Falade

Egbami o. Egbami. Ki tun le leyi ni tori olorun.

Caesar, I guess we have different definitions of childhood memories/nostalgia.

Commentary: Next up, we have: 

003 LIONESS

There was a time when Sunday used to be my favorite time of the week. It was a day I always looked forward to. People hate Mondays because of work, I hated Mondays because it felt like forever before I would see another Sunday.

Saturday nights would find me sweating as I struggled to iron my dad's heavily starched clothes. I was the worst at ironing then—I still am—but he always wanted me to iron them.

On Sunday, my mum, my sisters and I attended a church close by, while my dad always went to the church we attended before we moved. It was much farther, so he left quite early.

I would wake up to help him wash his car. It was white, so it stained easily. I think I enjoyed this part the most. It would still be dark out and very quiet. You could hear the sound of the droplets as they splashed on sand and concrete, while crickets chirped in the distance under the cover of darkness.

After he left, I would go back to sleep. My dad wouldn't get back till evening. He was important in the church, so he stayed for all three services.

He always brought something back for all of us; fruits or sweets, sometimes both. And on days when he brought neither, there was always yogurt, that big green Supayogo.

My dad is late now and my Sundays are bland. I no longer look forward to them because I know it is impossible for them to measure up. Going to church also seems like a bore.

I long for those Saturday nights I have to go into his wardrobe and sift through his clothes, breathing in the scent of camphor balls, old sweat and strong cologne.

Those Saturday nights when I put all my weight on the steam iron because I wanted to ensure that the gator was "sharp enough to peel yam".

If I had known I would one day have Saturday nights without ironing his clothes, I would have lingered longer in his wardrobe and put more effort into ironing his clothes.

I long for those early Sunday mornings when the sound of my dad gathering buckets aroused me from sleep.

Those Sunday mornings when my feet swayed from unslept sleep and my aim with a bowl and water was mediocre at best.

If I had known that I would one day have Sunday mornings where I could sleep till daybreak, I would have taken longer washing the car and not skipped the tyres. If I had known, I would have gotten up earlier so I could go to church with him.

In those evenings, I would have savored every bite of the fast food or fruits. I would have taken longer to finish my yogurt, realizing that I only liked Supayogo because it came from him.

The iron no longer works, so we bought a new one. No one could drive, so we sold the white car.

I've come to dislike Sundays because they fill me with a deep longing. They remind me of what I've lost, and of the simple, quiet joy that's gone with it.

Commentary: The green supayogo brings soo many memories to mind🥹

JUDGES REVIEW

Judge Nadia Sulaiman

Um, what's going on in this stage?

I am not reading the works in sequential order, so this is one of the latest works I have read and I just have to say, what happened? Even the best writers are not giving up quality. Was this rushed? I don't know what's wrong, but please fix it in the next stage.

Judge Olaitan Davis

This is it! This is what I was looking forward to reading! Well-done, Lioness.

Judge Nina Ogbeide

Your story made me feel. Even though it didn't really do justice to children's fiction, it definitely was nostalgic. The beginning felt really off, like you were just recounting something boring to your audience but it picked up right after the father died. You really did amazingly well with your play of words from there too. Yeah, you did well.

Judge Umar Hasan

I guess I was expecting more from you, fierce woman. But well, it is what it is.

Judge Giwa Falade

You had me at "big green supayogo" 🤭.

Your story was bittersweet and I enjoyed it.

Commentary: Last but not least, presenting :

004 JAY

Mbatu was the most known in Welembe.

With his hard shell and his wit, no one could outshine him. Wise and quite confident in what he knew, many found it hard to see wrong in what he spoke, well into his older years. It was a beautiful thing to all the animals in Welembe, as they all had a place to keep their secrets and take home solutions as well.

Mbatu was Welembe's adviser, the old and wise tortoise, many blaming the death of his wife on her inability to quite grasp all that he spewed in his 'moments'. All loved him regardless or had to, from his grey hair to his greatly wrinkled skin, for when they needed help, Mbatu's home was always open. He loved to speak, and the need to share his wisdom wouldn't let him, so he opened his doors.

This greatly helped his grief, for with the loss of his wife and no children to call their own throughout their marriage, there was no one to really be there for him. The funny thing is, that was all he needed. Someone who would just be, doing little else but listening to him, just for him to at least pass on the much he knew onto somebody else, that his home wouldn't be left without one to consult on bothersome issues.

One fateful day, to his delight, he found someone at his door. A child, small and completely brown, with speckles of a dark, saddening green filling the parts that weren't brown. It was a grasshopper, oh, yes it was, and Mbatu's excitement knew no bounds.

He wondered what a child was doing before him, looking as downtrodden as he was, on any other day, as it could have been Chief Adibo, with a yam or two to appease him, shaking his horned head and stomping the hooves on his feet, seeking succor in his words, for his right to one grassland or the other. It could even have been his friend, Benefo, a tortoise older than he, as he mentioned coming to see him when they met on his way from a meeting.

The grasshopper introduced himself, his voice bringing some unreachable joy to Mbatu's heart. It was a small, timid voice, one filled with all the bravery he had mustered on his way, the tiniest bit of awe hanging after each word.

His name was Enele, and he was horribly lost.

See, his parents had died in the hands of the treacherous humans they'd heard soul-crushing stories of, just a few months after the family had been banned from Welembe, as the people had found out that his father was a spy. As the village who sent him saw no use for him, they let him off as well, leaving him to end his life and that of his beloved with their only offspring to survive life on his own.

Realizing he couldn't help his parents, he went the only way he'd never forgotten since childhood, home. The only problem was, he didn't know the village well enough anymore with all the changes, and this was the closest place he found.

Mbatu looked upon the little one with pity, and soon, he was eating yam porridge beside the old tortoise, hearing stories of his early years, as a young one just like him, roaming the village and hearing stories like these from the old ones of his time.

Their laughter was beautiful together. A blend of sweet and sour, young giggles and solid aged laughter, time evident in something so trivial, so unnoticeable.

From that one plate of porridge they'd shared, for he'd run out of plates and hadn't found the strength to wash them, they'd become family. After eating, Enele offered to wash, and soon, Chief Adibo, had to offer more yams, as there was now a second in the backyard, flying from leaf to leaf, however inexplicable the resemblance was.

Surprise turned to fondness of the little grasshopper, and even Mama Okine, the hen, had taken him under her wing when Mbatu could not watch over him. The chicks loved him, playing catch with him, and asking him to teach them to fly.

In simpler words, he found home.

Time danced past, as it usually did, and soon, Mbatu had no strength left in him. Enele was old now, with a woman of his own, reliving his father's tales of love he'd heard time and time again. The village now knew him, as he radiated all that Mbatu was, thus the ease for Mbatu, his age not letting him see troubled people any longer.

Another afternoon of conversations, and Mbatu went to sleep, never to wake again. Enele grieved badly, longing for his words, his blessings, his instructions. He longed for them, though every story had grown stale from telling and retelling with each new problem they received, for they had soon begun solving issues together.

What he did not know was one thing, and Mbatu never told him. Mbatu had gotten what he wanted. Someone to listen, someone to be.

...

"That is the end of my story. What have you learned, my children?"

With that the night had ended for the children, echoes of 'Mama, tell another one!' filling the aged woman's ears. Whilst they slept, the rough mat endured for the love of their grandmother's company, they dreamed of the little grasshopper and the old tortoise.

The old woman, however, sat and thought of her own companion, their laughter vivid in her ears as lone, sad tears found their home in her eyes. She'd found that the story she'd told them was strangely similar to her very own.

She was her very own Mbatu, the only difference was, she had more than one Enele. 

Commentary: I'm glad Mama has found her Eneles

JUDGES REVIEW

Judge Nadia Sulaiman

Well, this was a decent read. I'll give it to you. It had a folktale effect to it and that's what I like to see in a stage like this that requires Children's fiction. Good job, Jay.

Judge Olaitan Davis

This was quite confusing, but good.

Judge Nina Ogbeide

I really love the diversity in your story. It's so unique and it's a breath of fresh air. While I love the idea of your story, it didn't really hit well for me. Well, until the last line and that sort of compensated for everything.

Judge Umar Hasan

Wow, well done o. Trying to cook with something akin to Tales by Moonlight and Animal Farm. Not bad sha. But I'm not sure it's what we asked you to do.

Judge Giwa Falade

Tales by Moonlight. Good route.

Commentary: I'm pretty sure we all enjoyed this batch of stories and loved reading the Judges' view on them. Watch out for the next batch of amazing stories from our fabulous contestants.