Send Your Stories


We appreciate all of you for your positive feedback to The Intruder series (in case you haven’t read it, click here). We assure you that more interesting stories are coming. And we hope you won’t be disappointed.

However, a lot of people have suggested that we post stories from our readers as well. We’re very happy to oblige. So, send your stories, articles on screenwriting and movie reviews to [email protected] We’re looking forward to posting them.

In the meantime, here is a story  from one of our prominent readers, Chike David. Tell us what you think. Cheers!

The Street Boy: Part One

I sat there speechless, hot tears caressing my smooth cheek as I watched my parents throw punches at each other. My father had returned late that night. Like he always did. He would never tell us his whereabouts.

It did not take long, he started quarreling my mom. Such quarrels had become part of my home. I grew with them.

“You good for nothing man! Come and carry me and eat. Anumanu!. Did you keep anything in this house before leaving?” That was my mother’s angry voice which made me jolt off my lying position and assume a sitting position.

My father bolted the door, his countenance looking like that of the devil himself. Perhaps, he was. My mother always called him a devil. And he never showed me any fatherly love. I was only ten but I was able to identify my father as one who was very irresponsible. He would always yell at me whenever I asked for money to buy exercise books.

“My friend get out! Go and ask your mother. Stupid boy!” He would yell.

Most of the times, I wondered if I was truly his child. He treated me like I was his enemy. Sadly, this maltreatment I got from him was not even close to half of the physical abuses he dished out on my mother on daily basis.

“You will kill me today o! Devil! Ekwensu Chukwu buru onu!” My mom would cry.

I couldn’t help her. How do I start separating a fight between two adults. I was too small. Besides, I was afraid of my father. His fists were like hammer. I could only sit there and cry for my mother.

This particular night he was hitting her again. As usual, I was helpless to stop it. It was our neighbors who forced themselves in and separated them. While they scolded him and comforted my mother, he ignored them. He simply opened the door and left. That was the last time I set my eyes on a man who called himself my father.

“Look at what marriage has done to me, I married a devil in human flesh…” my mother continued to sob and lament bitterly.

I drew closer to console her, but she pushed me away.

“Don’t touch me, you son of a devil!” she cursed.

The next day, I woke up to find that my Mom had packed some of her belongings and left the house. This marked the beginning of my suffering as a street boy–an unfortunate child of irresponsible parents.


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