• Blog Stats

    • 453,692 hits
  • Follow MY MIND SNAPS on WordPress.com
  • Walt Shakes

    Walt Shakes

    Walter Ude (@Walt_Shakes) is an award-winning Nigerian writer, poet and veteran blogger. He is a lover of the written word. the faint whiff of nature, the flashing vista of movies, the warmth of companionship and the happy sound of laughter. He blogs at mymindsnaps.wordpress.com.

    Verified Services

    View Full Profile →

  • WHAT CAN WORDS DO (poems)?

    What Can Words Do?

    Buy your copy of Nigeria's best selling collection of poems. Contact 08060109295 or click image to buy on Amazon.

  • Follow me on Twitter

  • Cannot load blog information at this time.

  • Advertisements


There was no presentiment for what happened. No warning that my life was going to soon change forever. Perhaps there should have been. Sketchy images in a dream. A sudden flash of foreboding in my subconscious. A frozen moment with eyes staring vacantly into a fleeting film of the future. Anything. Something to prepare my thirteen-year-old self of the twist that swooped down on me like a hawk bolting down from the sky and snatching at the chick nearest to its claws.

“I will go with you,” Mum insisted on the evening after my uncle, David, called from the village with news. Papa had fallen ill and Dad’s presence, seeing as he was the eldest son in the family, was urgently needed.

“But I thought you are doing something at the Local Government office,” Dad said in protest. “You should finish your business with the government people before coming down to the village. You know how the idiots at that place behave sometimes.”

Dad was right. Those people at the Local Government office were first class idiots. They didn’t think anything of sacking or penalizing anyone who intentionally or mistakenly did anything that could hurt the progress of the government. Just last week, fourteen people were announced “sacked” on the radio from the Local Government headquarters, bringing the tally of sacked civil servants there in three weeks to something close to forty. The idiots were quite simply heartless; they handed out sack letters the way Mrs. Onyekwelibe handed out assignments every time at the end of her class.

And Mum was the secretary of the Local Government chairman. She often said that she was lucky to still be service. And I agreed with her. She was just lucky. Being hardworking or highly disciplined and all didn’t guarantee you longevity at the LG. depending on how badly you’d erred, you wake up one morning, drive to the office and find a neat envelope on your desk, waiting patiently for you. Your sack letter! According to Mum, when you got the letter, you didn’t ask why. You were simply expected to grab your personal items and head in the direction of the gate.

“I’ll call the office,” Mum was saying. “I’ll ask Odinaka to. . .”

Dad didn’t let her finish; he waved her remaining words away with his hand: “You know that’s not how it works over there. They can still penalize you for being absent or worse, sack you.”

“God forbid!” Mum hissed with a snap of her fingers. “Please, don’t say that thing twice, Ndubuisi. And I don’t care what you say, I’m following you to the village to see Papa.” Her voice was firm and brooked no argument.

Dad shrugged in acknowledged defeat. Then he mumbled something in jest about wives who were deaf and stubborn. Mum and I laughed at his joke. And I was filled with the warmth of that moment she shared as a family.


It was their voices that woke me up the morning it happened, the next day. It was a cold Saturday morning and I was still in bed, under my warm blanket, dreaming of a place that looked like Disneyland.

Then the voices came abruptly, barging into my delightful dream and rudely yanking me into wakefulness. I blinked my eyes open, a little disoriented. At first, the voices sounded incomprehensible and unreal – the kind of voices you only hear in movies that were designed to be nightmarish.

Then, slowly and steadily, they began to sound real. Human. I recognized them – the voices were my parents’. Loud. Harsh. Snarling. It wasn’t the way I was used to hearing my parents communicate with each other. I sat up in my bed, feeling my heart pound a little faster. What was going on? I had to find out.

I climbed down from the bed, my soles touching the cold, tiled floor, and I felt an iciness run up my feet. I wondered why Dad and Mum were talking so early in the morning, and in such loud, unfriendly voices. I tried to make out something from their words but couldn’t. I walked out to the corridor, and went to the door that opened out into the living room.

I placed a hand around the knob.

And then I heard it – a crashing sound, as though things were falling to the ground, and glasses smashing. I stiffened. Fear rose unreasonably and wildly within me. What on earth was happening?

Like a canon shot, a voice that was unmistakably Dad’s struck my ears with the words malevolently distinct: “You witch, so it was you, eh? So you are the one that poisoned by father? So it was you?” Dad’s voice boomed like thunder. “I never knew that I married a witch for a wife. So it was you?!”

Oh no! I thought hysterically, what on earth was happening? Why was Dad. . .?

Mum’s voice, piteous and pleading, cut into my thoughts: “I didn’t do it, Eric . . . You have to believe me! We both know that I can’t hurt someone! I didn’t poison . . .”

“Shut up!” Dad roared. “Are you calling the native doctor a liar? Shut your mouth, you witch!”

Mum poisoned Papa? Mum was a witch? It sounded ridiculous, yet the accusation curdled my blood.

I was about to turn the door knob when something fell with a thud. It sounded like a body, and the fall was followed with Mum’s whimper. Dad shouted, “I will kill you before you kill my father!”

“Please, Eric. I didn’t. . .”

More things crashed. I’d heard enough. Things, it seemed, were already out of control. I shoved the door open and dashed into the living room – and stopped in my tracks, my eyes widening with instant horror.

What I saw in the living room made me scream.

There was blood everywhere, spattered on every surface my eyes fell on. On the sofas. On the TV and DVD stand. On the stools. On the rug that covered the floor. Blood was everywhere, splatters of it here and there. The glass table in the parlour was shattered to pieces. And Mum was lying on her back, on those scattered pieces of glass. She was in her night dress, the cloth ripped and drenched with red. The red of her blood.

At my horrified scream, Dad, who was standing over Mum’s body, swung around to stare at me. He didn’t look like the man I knew to be my father. His face was as hard as stone, his eyes bloodshot and mad, with a tic working on the right part of his face. Tiny bubbles of froth forming at the corners of the mouth, and his fists were clenched around a pestle. The pestle too was bloody. I needed no one to tell me that he had used it on Mum. My whole body shuddered. I felt nauseous.

“What are you doing there, Chika?” he thundered.

I shuddered again, the shivers running repeatedly over my body. My scream died down, and my throat worked as I retched.

“I asked you a question, Chika. What are you doing there?!”

“Leave my daughter alone, Eric. . .” Mum muttered weakly in agony, gasping out blood.

“You witch!” He rounded on her. “You and your daughter are witches! You want to kill my father!”

“David consulted the wrong native. . .” She stopped to cough out blood. “He met the wrong native doctor. I would never. . .”

“Shut up!” Dad roared violently and lifted the pestle, his expression manic as he did so.

“NO!” I choked out, stumbling forward. “MUM!” I screamed.

The pestle cut through the air and rammed into Mum’s forehead. There was a sharp crack as her skull caved in. Her head flopped sharply backward and her body dropped back on the ground. She lay still. Dead.


I plunged forward still with tearful eyes. Dad raised the pestle again, to strike her again. And then I pounced on him. I attacked him with everything I had. My feet. My teeth. My fingers. Everything.

The slap that landed on the right side of my face instantly made me dizzy. I was sent flying back, onto one of the bloodstained sofas. Dad made towards me, pestle in hand. I lay helplessly, staring death in the eyes.

Slowly, he raised the weapon he clutched so firmly. Murder masked his face. Demons danced in his eyes. I held my breath. I was young, and I wasn’t supposed to know such ugliness at my age. But there it was.

Then he flinched and screamed. The pestle dropped from his hand to the floor. He jerked his right leg up, clasping his hands around the ankle above the piece of glass that had sliced into the flesh of his sole, sending blood pulsating from the wound. This time, his blood was flowing.

I knew I’d gotten a reprieve, and I seized the chance. I leaped up from the sofa, and snatched the pestle up from the floor. My tears blinded me, and I assumed my face must have some of the madness I’d seen on Dad’s face etched on it. I swung towards him, my father, the man who’d just been about to kill me. He was limping to a seat. He saw me with the weapon and stopped. Abruptly, he fell on the sofa where I previously was.

“Chika, wait a minute, what are you doing?” The demons in his eyes were suddenly gone. What I saw now was fear.

“You killed Mum!” I screamed through my tears.

That was all I needed to hate him and do what I knew I had to do. He’d killed my mother. I advanced. He did nothing. Perhaps he thought that I too would do nothing. But the rage and misery had blinded me and blocked out any hesitation.

I swung my hands, and I struck. He didn’t duck. And the world paused. The silence stretched for a breathy second. Then the pestle crashed down on his temple. Blood squirted from his nostrils. Screaming, I swung again. The blow connected with the top of his head. His skull appeared to collapse. And his lifeless body dropped back on the sofa.

Shaking and crying softly, I threw away the bloodied pestle, turned and ran from the living room, from the house, and into a morning that was still dewy and fresh, with dawn-softened skies that promised a beautiful day ahead. discord 11

Leave a comment


  1. Syrene

     /  February 25, 2014

    All the while I kept thinking…

    Who is going to clean up all that blood? And brains…I suppose there would be pieces of brains lying around.

  2. williams

     /  February 25, 2014

    This story has made me sick.

  3. Aliga Cordelia Ojiugo

     /  February 25, 2014

    hmmmm…so painful…

  4. anyibaba

     /  February 25, 2014

    This is very Jack Torrance. I LOVE it

  5. i know you to be an “okay” person Walter, but this in not ok at all!! am beginning to doubt you sanity.

    • anyibaba

       /  February 25, 2014

      Oh please, this is very OK. Explore the dark side of human emotions. Embrace the rage, imagine there is a demon that took possession of the man and then after the deed was done, took possession of Chika. The serenity she felt as she walked out to what promises to be a good day. Oh boy! That last sentence was in contrast to all the gore. This is tantalizing, tasty *smacks lips*

    • Hahahahahahaaa!!!

  6. Almost threw up my breakfast while reading this

  7. I love this! Pls don’t call me crazy buh I’m glad she hit “the man” 😀 ok ok its fiction shey?

  8. MztaPaul

     /  February 25, 2014


  9. Nancy

     /  February 25, 2014

    Omg.Homicide,violence,blood and native doctors.Where ll chika run to?………I love the transfer of demons from dad to daughter….it’s in d blood

  10. Oh boy! Lots of blood and brains on the floor! Native doctor said? In these modern days,kwa?

  11. Grace oruitemeka

     /  February 25, 2014

    Omg! He killed his wife n turned his dawta into a murderer! Wait a sec..
    Walter did u say she’s thirteen? Darn! D tins dt ppl do =shuddering=

  12. The things consulting the wrong people will cause *heavy sigh* but I love this because it’s a reminder of how fast things can change from chummy to bloody.

  13. abikoye

     /  February 25, 2014


    Evil dangling in the air,

    Bodies on the floor and a damaged thirteen year old.

    Correct Testament of rage.

    This is really juicy, didn’t have to read much to have all my imagination bloody.

  14. Yemie

     /  February 25, 2014

    Eeeeeeewwwww! Gross! This is one creepy episode that noone should ever have to experience. The mind is one very delicate organ. All it takes is one seed and the build up of fury as the seed germinates by the second. Demonic possession takes central stage and will not depart until the unthinkable’s perpertrated. And after all said and done, ‘Chika walks into the morning, that was still dewy and fresh with dawn-softened skies that promised a beautiful day ahead’. Seriously??? She’ll never experience another beautiful day again in her life with what’s just gone down, its a reign of nightmares and trauma from here on out. Sad!

    Walter, this is horrifying and eerie! The sudden and sharp transformation from ‘Happy Dappy’ to ‘Hammer House of Horror’ is astounding! Ingenius piece of mystical writing. Is this the part where I start getting worried ’bout your state of mind though? Kudos, you ‘killed’ this piece, absolutely!

    • anyibaba

       /  February 25, 2014

      How do you know she’ll never experience another beautiful day? She just might have received clarity after that killing, found herself.
      Worry not for Walter, he is finding himself. Exploring his gory side and probably living it. Jenny Nnaji would be so proud of him now

      • Yemie

         /  February 25, 2014

        Anyi, you’re kidding me; right? Infact, I’m more worried ’bout you right now than I am ’bout Walter and the fictitious Chika. Stories like this just gives you the kicks, don’t they? And that’s quite worrisome. It also happens that Chika has just discovered her talent and calling in life as a crazed maniac, who’ll live in eternal bliss as a serial killer unleashing terror on unsuspecting victims, abi? The way your mind works is simply amazing. *creeped out*

      • anyibaba

         /  February 25, 2014

        Don’t be creeped out dear. Now come to Papa, i promise i won’t stab you much

  15. darl

     /  February 25, 2014

    yikes! eeish! *face all scrunched up*

  16. Wendy

     /  February 25, 2014

    Hmmm…. This kind story…

  17. ifeanyi samuel

     /  February 25, 2014

    oh God,my blood has frozen up

  18. Gory but beautifully scripted

  19. Emeka

     /  February 25, 2014

    So sad. Pls hope thise never happened real. Chills all over me

  20. Uju

     /  February 25, 2014

    And all the while I kept waiting to read something like,”I woke up with a jerk, bathed in my own cold sweat, it was a dream”. Hmmmmm.smh.

  21. Wow.
    Something missing though, when did the native doctor report reach the man? It couldn’t have been from the phone call, cos after the call, everything was still normal.

    • Uh, there couldn’t have been anoda phone call sometime in the morning, unreported by the narration?

      • But we should be let in on it…since she overhead their arguments, you could have snuck it in somewhere

      • Topazo, read the beginning. The narrative was no obligated to let you in on anything. The whole story hinges on the abrupt shift from normal to chaotic. Fiction doesn’t have to say everything to the reader.

      • True words…I’m particularly amazed at how you described the events vividly and held the reader till the last word…

  22. Vester

     /  February 25, 2014

    Bia waltz kpachara anya gi o!Had it been that the glass didn’t slice through eric’s sole,so you would have let him murder chika?
    Waltz i read this post 22 minutes after you mentioned me on twitter but was too shocked to post a commen
    Waltz there is no beautiful day ahead for chika,cos the replay of this homicide will be permanently etched on her mind,rolled out like a tapestry and haunt her forever. She’s now psychologically maimed.
    Oh what a gory sight!
    Nwannaa,are these truly your imaginations or a true life story of someone?
    I know that Seetha,sisirith and their cohorts were sitting comfortably watching and taking high-five! evuls. Lolz

  23. Olisa

     /  February 25, 2014

    Topazo, Chika was asleep when the call came. The violent result of the call was what woke her up.

  24. ewwwww!!!!!
    All that blood on d floor…
    Walter, are u d one dat wrote dis?

  25. Boy what have I just read!

  26. More like the opening of an indie horror movie.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: