When Ada, his owner, told him she’d decided to take him to nigeria, Tomas was happy. He wiggled his tail and ran around her feet haphazardly before jumpign into her open arms. Little did he know what was to come.

They flew economy, from Manhatten to Lagos, so Tomas sat on Ada’s lap all flight long.

From the airport, he knew his owner’s sister, Dimma, hated him, however, she held her peace till the ride from the airport, home.

“You travelled with a cat all the way from America to naija, Ada?” Dimma asked, incredulous.

“Yeah, he’s cute, ainit?”

“Mba. It looks like those cats used used as vilans in catoons. Too ugly.”

“Ooi. Don’t say that about Tomas,” Ada, covering Tomas’ ears, pleaded in the british accent she leant from two years of diploma stuides in Yale.

“Oil koo, ororo ni. Don’t carry that thing into my house!”

Days later, Dimma asked Ada why they have a cat in the house and rats still skurred about boldly with their chest. “This your tommy cat is for decoration, abi? Better talk to it like you do, tell it to chase rats from my kicthen, else, no milk for it.”

“He. He, sistur. He, not an it. Tomas is not a thing, you feel me?” Ada protested.

“Thing or not, place or thing, I don’t want to see rats in this house. period.”

Tomas had no choice – but to negotioate with them rats.

“Hey buddy,” he said to a group of mice returning from the kitchen, all fed. They stopped and the little ones ran behind the father figure.

“Yes?” the father figure crooned.

“You know, this is residential, y’all are constituiting a neusances to the home owner and she is comfortable, you feel me?” he paused, his heart palputating at the angry eyes stoning at him.

“What?”

“Oh, you don’t understand my accent? erhm, should i speak french, or your language, erh, what is your langu…” he fumbled.

“Speak english. We understand english. Just talk small small.”

“Oh, slow?”

“Yes.”

“This. is. a. living space. the. owner. is. pissed. try. the. gabbage. outside. that’s. more. safe. dont you think?” Tomas smiled.

The mice, one after the other, hissed and scurried on. Tomas tried many times later to negotiate, but soon leant the only way them mice would respect and fear him is when he’s becomes the predator cat chasing and puncing on the sorry, scared rats.

One morning, dimma woke from a nightmare and flung Tomas out the window. Ada was still asleep. when she woke, too, the rain had already drenched Tomas. She picked him from under a heap of firewood where he took refuge, furs sleeping, tail dripping.

“What the fuck got to you?” Ada quarreleld.

“I saw that thing in my dream. It’s a witch.”

“How can Tomas be…. how is that possible. Listen to yourself sis!”

“That cat has been possessed!”

“My fucking god!”

Tomas lived with his tails between his legs hece, trying as much as possible to stay out of dinmma’s sight. When, weeks later, Ada packed her bags to return to the states, Tomas heaved a heavy sigh of praise. As she packed he baggage, he packed his own truck load of stories to tell his American cats, especially Mrs Green’s twins Jia and Jio.

We were harvested from paradise violently. Don’t get me wrong, most seeds really want to come here, but some of us, like me, will rather remain in paradise. When they bring us here, we are then incubated and given to families. The first time I came, I promised myself not to grow successfully. By tomorrow, I’d have stayed here for 12 months.

13 months is the official length for futility, after this, I’d be returned to paradise, not back with the other seeds, playing and laughing till the harvesters come again, but to the repair faculty, where seeds are rebooted and upgraded to correct whatever faults made them not to grow successfully into a give-away-able baby.

When the nutrients are injected into the incubator, I stop living for a minute, then the nutrient circulates unsuccessfully and is ejected, then I come back alive to stagnancy while other seeds develop into babies that couples will soon come to claim.

The first couple that came to claim me were too strict. Maybe government workers, for they both came in suits, tie, and hat. How do you want any baby to want you looking all set for work? Wouldn’t you both go to work and leave me to the care of a nanny whose only concern is the salary? Wouldn’t you send me off to boarding school during session, and go off on office assignment trips while I’m home for summer break? I couldn’t deal. Even though they saw I was under-developed, they said they’ll take me that way and give me growth boosters later. I pushed out the little oxygen in my system when they opened the incubator to touch me that my skin went pale blue, gray even. Lifeless.

Many other couples came. One time, a gay couple came to the factory and walked straight to my incubator unit. The one who I assume to be dad, came in a burgundy agbada draping from his tall frame at intervals. The other one, the daddy, was in a fine fit adire shirt sewn in danshiki style over an English pant and a matching hat. Cute couple, but I wasn’t ready for a family – not the drama.

Once, I was wooed by a middle class couple that I forgot my vow and decided to follow them. The man seemed like a pastor, for he said God every five seconds. All his sentences ended with God is faithful. But that wasn’t the thing that drew me to the family. It was the woman, soon to be mummy. Tall and statuesque with a globe of fro on her head like a silhouette formed from putting a touch in someone’s face. She walked with a certain aura of elegance and graciousness. When I heard her telling the administrators that I will bare her name and not the man’s, it stunned me. Pastor smiled sheepishly to corroborate this fact. Female family head. Radical feminism. I like.

But when we got home, situation changed so fast. Pastor told mummy to feed me with breast milk but mummy already bought cans and cans of processed animal milk. He got angry at her disobedience and attacked her like a lion would its prey. I pushed out oxygen so bad that I passed out. I didn’t breathe until I discovered I was back in the incubator at the federal child factory. Deceitful duo. I couldn’t.

On three occasions, single parents came for me. The system is designed for couples who are married under the law, but there’s provision for those who choose celibacy (for whatever reason, ranging from spiritual commitments, to mental health – I hear marriage is a lot of headache as it is happiness). But I refused them. These single people can get obsessed over kids, exerting on them the effects of their own loneliness. I can’t.

No matter whatever, come what may, I am not leaving this place. Humans wear many walls of facade over their true self. I wont be deceived. After reboot, when I’m returned to paradise, I’ll have a lot to tell other seeds. No one should be forced into what they don’t want. Family life is not for me.

A little butterfly told me the Feds are trying to make a law where seeds enjoy only two lifelines. That is, we will be destroyed after reboot and further futility. I hope, for fucks sake, this bill is not passed into law. But if it is, I guess I’ll have to choose a family when next I come to this shit hole called the federal child factory.

“My heart is doing gbim gbim in my chest,” Matt whispered to Bisola when she returned from the kitchen with two glasses.
“Relax.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea? I’m scared oh.”
“Chill. Daddy was the one that asked to meet my boyfriend. Smile for me.” As she leaned in to kiss him, the door eased open and her parents walked in. The kissers broke apart.

Coming from mass to find his daughter wrapped in a kiss left Sir William Agbaje speechless for a minute. As it was the feast of St John, all knights wore their regalia to mass: all-black coat with a belt around the waist and a cockhead-like hat with actual feathers. An off-white, nurse-like attire with a petite beret for the ladies.
To break the awkward silence, Bisola welcomed her parents who were sited on the three sitter, waiting for an explanation.

“This is Matt, daddy. My. My boyfriend. You asked to meet him. He…”
With a wave, Sir Agbaje shut Bisola, tuning to Matt he said, “May I know you?”
“Yes sah. My mane is Mathew Epkenyong. By the grace of god, I want to marry your daughter. When the time is right.”
“Are you a doctor or a lawyer or..?” Lady Folake asked even though the answer was as clear as day.
“No ma. I am a farmer. I have my own farm. A very big farm, passed from my father. And, I am an artist, too. I draw and paint a…”
“Have you considered that my daughter here is a soon-to-be pharmacist?’
“Yes sah. And…”
“Have you considered that she is now completing her bachelor’s in pharmacy and will proceed to do here MPhil in the UK?”
“Yes sah, I…”
“Have you considered, young man, what kind of future you, an unschooled farmer, will have with her?”
“No sir. But one thing I know is, I love your daughter and will not…”
“Will my daughter eat love?”
“Ma.” He smiled. “Agriculture is now a lucrative business o, in the nearest future, I will be making enough. And, just last month, I sold a painting for fifty thousand naira,” he held out five fingers. “And I will paint more.”
“Even if you paint every hour of your miserable life, you won’t be able to afford a wedding ring that fits that hand.”
“Ahan, Daddy.”
“Shut up! Mú enu e ko fi sí àpò, hold your mouth. We are pushing you to the bed but you are rolling to the bare floor. After spending so much to educate you, you want to waste with a church rat like this thing?”
“Mummy?”
“One more word, and you’ll know why I am your father.” To Matt: “Young man, run.” He pulled out the sword from his belt strap. “I say run!”
Even though not real sword, his reverberating bass and boiling anger was enough to make Matt dive and jump like a rat running from a hunter’s gun.

/`e:dzalo/ Yoruba, Noun, an army of ants, usually travelling in a file.

The day they attacked, it was drastic. I always did dishes very close to the house. That afternoon, Mama shouted: “Moved away from the yard. The oil and pepper in the dish water would attract ijalo!” But I didn’t listen. “It’s not raining season. Ijalo won’t come,” I muttered indignantly.

That night, a loud scream broke through the walls of my dream. “Tambolo, tambolo! Ijalo!”

When I woke up, ants were all over me like sand on a corps in the grave. I fought the air, jumped, slapped, killed, and cried. The bastards dealt with me.

That was the birth of my phobia for those demonic little creatures. So when I saw the ijaloweeks later, I knew I must revenge.

I quickly built a paper boat and lured them with grains of jollof rice into the boat. Soon the ship was full and ready to sail. I carefully picked the boat and dropped it in a canal nearby. When the sailing began, I knew the army sensed the change from land to sea. They began haphazard movements but none got off the boat. Who wants to drown?

When the boat got to a point where a street gutter empties into the canal, there was a catastrophe; the boat capsized.

Oh, sweat revenge! My ecstasy was cut when a bigger ant found a small piece of wood that floated and tried to save others. I scoffed. Captain America, the saving lord, Mr Hero.

When I returned to the site with my stone, Mr Hero had saved quite a number. I released the stone and it sank the rescue team. I gave an impish smirk and walked home, fulfilled.

His cat was the most prized possession of his in the monastery. Father Roberto kept her (the cat) to his heart; the next thing there after God, and Mary – and his patron saint, but before any mortal. As a child, young Roberto was an homeless orphan, eating from rich trashcans and using his hands for blanket on cold nights. He met her on the day he would take his life. She was a stray cat, roaming here-and-there waiting for death too, or a saviour. He saw something in her eyes and decided to save her.

Because of her, his life had a course. Whenever he ransacked a trash can, he scouted for two bellies. She made him happy, she was his family. So, when Fr. Benedictus picked Roberto off the street and took him to the monastery, whether his cat was coming was not a debate.

Time flew and young Roberto grew to become the head monk of St. Francis monastery. His cat too grew in grace and spirit too, for she was always with him, even in the holies of holies.

Once, the pope visited the Franciscans on episcopal, and Fr. Roberto made sure he took his cat. That evening, he said to me after vesper: “Boy, God manifests himself in little things, this I know and confirm when His holiness the pope shook my cat and I felt her leap for joy in my hand”.

The next day, Fr Roberto didn’t carry his cat around, when asked, he said he feels she’s with a child. The holy handshake. There will be an immaculate conception, soon. His face glowed the whole day, and the grey patch on his head became even whiter than his cassock.

All through her supposed immaculate conception, Fr. Roberto made sure his cat was placed comfortably far left of the altar during mass, where his eyes could watch over her. This continued until Fr. Roberto traveled to meet his Lord. Even after his death, to honour his memory, the next head of monastery told me – being closest to Fr. Roberto and guardian of his cat – to always place her in her cot, by the altar. Seeing her there during prayers made us nostalgic and fond memories of Fr. Roberto would come to mind.

Five hundred years later, the walls of the monastery still stands but dust of time has reduced its shimmery brilliance, and a cat is still placed in a cot far left of the altar during mass and other prayers. Some altars even have molded cats! Who will tell these young monks that this ritual is not in the book? Who will bear to them that there is no place of cats in the liturgy?

Certainly not me, for I am now a ghost living in the wall.