Hello readers! Welcome to another GUEST POST WEEKEND here on A Loco Viva Voce. Today's Guest Post is a short fiction story written by Emeka Ubiesie.

Emeka is a young Nigerian writer and a member of Nigerian Institute of Management (NIM), Institute of Public Diplomacy and Management (IPDM), Chartered Institute of Purchasing & Supply Management of Nigeria (CIPSMN) and The Royal Life Saving Society of Nigeria. He is currently working on his first short African fiction novel.

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Read Emeka's short fiction below and enjoy!

One Saturday afternoon at exactly 1:00pm, I lay on my bed, reminiscing on how I had spent seven years, reading a course of five years in one of these miserable Universities in Nigeria and the panorama of all my activities in the institution within these years were flashing one after the other in my memory just like the big round-headed torchlight of my village palm wine tapper, Mazi Okigwe. The nook and cranny of my Odenigwe lodge arena was covered with an absolute tranquility, as most international and indigenous students had transmuted to their various countries and homes after the first semester examination.

Standing in front of me was my long tiny neck fan, which sat on its round leg on the floor for hours, moping at me like a figurine without blowing a single air towards my direction because, we hadn’t had power for about five days now. The weather was hot; I mean very hot, that my black skin almost baked like an Agege bread. Incessantly, I rolled like an Avu ani snake, from one edge of my bed to the other searching for solace and panting profusely, but the heat's intensity doubled as the hands of my wall clock moved, ticktock, 'I have cooked.' I bawled, staggered, as I climbed down from my long bed. At the same time, i reached out my hands to split the pieces of curtain that covered my window, so as to allow the free flow of air in and out of my self-contained apartment. Suddenly, my eyes caught a figure that stood outside through a miniature space on my window, and I needed no prophet to reveal to me who owned that figure eight shaped body standing out there. I shrieked almost immediately, ‘the African goddess.’ She turned, smiled back at me while relaxing on the minuscule handrail that was affixed on a long balcony in front of our bungalow lodge and gradually, she moved in reverse, cracked open the handle of my wooden door, walked majestically into my room and sat in front of me with her legs widely open. She was wearing a tight skinny blue jean that reminded me of Baba Fela’s pants in his Lagos shrine, way back in the early ninety’s.

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http://alocovivavoce.com/2015/09/12/the-lost-african-goddess/