Chimamandel Edichie hosts an annual writing competition for writers all across the country, Nigeria. The top ten winners of this tourney were typically invited for a writing workshop with Chimamandel herself, and then went on to become established novelists, selling tens of thousands of copies and deriving notable fame.
This year’s top ten winners had long been announced and were summoned for the first time… this morning.
Forty-one-year-old novelist Chimamandel Edichie sat cross-legged on a high oak chair and gazed into her reflection in the mirror. Her beauty instantly drowned out. She hid a salient frown underneath a default welcoming façade. The reality, however, was slightly different from what the public imagined.
A door suddenly swung open behind her and the head of her assistant, Shola, poked in.
“Amandel, they’re ready for you.”
Chimamandel caught his reflection in the mirror and gave a tired nod. As soon as he left, she got up and heaved a sigh. It’s showtime. There were ten overly eager youths anticipating her presence in the next room.
Seconds later, the novelist was striding through a hallway before eventually coming out onto a bright semi-circular stage, welcomed by the applause of a small audience. The auditorium held a total of thirty seats, in-ceiling lights and the stage.
Taking in the applause, Chimamandel scanned the hopeful audience; specky-eyed boys, girls in dreadlocks and boys clad in suits. Shola and a few of her team members stood at the edge of the stage, away from the theatre lights.
“Thank you, guys,” said Chimamandel as the noise abated. “First of all, obviously, congratulations for making it.”
A random guy in the audience made a loud “Whoo!” that nudged everyone into laughter. Chimamanda loved workshop first days – budding writers came with an electrifying energy.
“Asides the workshop, I’m going to use the next couple of days to know each of you personally; hopes, aspirations, all that. And, of course, feel free to ask me anything…”
A girl from the audience piped up. “How are you this hot at 41?”
Chimamandel smiled. “Cans of vampire blood in my fridge.”
Everyone laughed.
“You’re… Peju Ajaoku, right?” Chimamandel asked the young woman, instantly recognizing her from the winners’ list. “You wrote… Why I Killed My Boyfriend?”
The girl nodded, a wry smile on her face.
Chimamandel glanced at the now quiet audience, many of whom squinted at the young lady. “Who else found that title a bit… much?”
Several hands shot up.
“While I agree it is,” Chimamandel said. “The irony is her writing uses a ‘Show, don’t tell’ technique you must apply in yours.”
“Why did she kill her boyfriend?” asked a guy in the crowd.
Chimamandel paused, taken aback by the sidetrack. “Peju? Summarize to your critic pretty quickly, please.”
All attention in the room seemed to shift to the girl.
Peju stood up and smiled. “I wrote about a killer… she only targets the male gender.”
“Are you the F word, then?” piped up the same guy.
“F word?”
“Feminist.”
A number of people giggled. Chimamandel was about chiming in when Shola stepped closer and whispered. “The Chief Inspector is waiting outside. Says he wants to see you.”
Chimamandel did a double take. “What? Why?”
“Dunno. Just it’s extremely urgent.”
Turning back to the audience, the novelist decided to wrap it up. “Talk amongst yourselves. We reconvene tonight.”
*
Chimamandel’s relationship with Chief Inspector Benjamin was a genie in a bottle. The two had quite a long history, her frequent donations to the local police department had rubbed him the right way and he took it upon himself to grant her every wish, which conveniently rarely came up.
The cold Lagos air brushed her hair and she savored it. It soothed her… took her mind from weighty personal matters.
The sight of the Chief Inspector standing by the gate brought her back to reality.
“Officer, to what do I owe the surprise?”
Benjamin wore a stern face. “It’s about someone in your workshop.”
“Who?”
“Peju Ajaoku.”
Chimamandel’s brow furrowed. “What about Peju?”
“The corpse of her boyfriend was found this morning. Autopsy says he was stabbed to death a week ago.”
Chimamandel gawped at him. “Does she know?”
“I was hoping you’d give her the news. I realize it’s terrible timing.”
Chimamandel nodded. She couldn’t believe her ears. It was going to be a long day
*
Sitting in the workshop cafeteria with her assistant that night, Chimamanda had been deep in thought.
Shola, a 5ft tall man with dreads, slowly noshed a meal, thinking about the bombshell his boss just dropped on him. Behind him, a sprinkle of the writers roamed, eating and talking with each other as they had just finished tonight’s workshop.
“Chief Inspector said,” Shola said, “… he was stabbed to death?”
“You’re thinking it’s not a coincidence she wrote about it the week it happened?” Chimamanda asked. She hadn’t told anyone else but her assistant.
“It was quite graphic, Chimamandel. Oddly descriptive.”
“Well, she wouldn’t’ve been shortlisted if it wasn’t, would she?”
Shola raised his hands in defeat. “It’s in everyone’s best interest to know they’re safe here… if we’re housing a murderer.”
Chimamandel had to agree. Her phone vibrated to life… flashing the name of her partner calling. Wincing at the one discomforting part of her life, she ignored it.
“You know Simon? The guy that stood up to her?” Shola asked. “Nobody’s seen him since morning.”
Chimamandel remembered the talk from earlier. “He’s missing?”
At that moment, the bulbs went out and total darkness befell the entire cafeteria. Before Chimamandel could protest, a shrill scream sounded from somewhere.
The lights suddenly came back on. Everyone gasped.
Hanging from the chandelier in the center of the cafeteria, a 6ft tall man caught everyone’s attention, his neck tight in a noose. Chimamandel recognized him at once. It was Simon.
“Shola,” Chimamandel said, her gaze unwavering at the body. “Call Benjamin.”
(To read the complete story, click here)
(To read the complete story, click here)
