A Box Of Chocolates

About the Book

A box of 18 chocolates; each on carefully made, painstakingly wrapped and methodically packed. Each chocolate with a unique taste, each one representing a different story. In the box, sits a plethora of colours, a myriad of aspirations, a landscape of experiences.

A Box of Chocolates is a collection of short stories that transports the reader into the lives of various individuals, trapped in different psycho-social situations, who require serendipity and a touch of the spiritual in order to obtain freedom.

It travels across the fields of love, hatred, oppression, corruption, homosexuality, AIDS, rebellion, spiritualism, slavery, migration, life and ultimately death as it seeks to capture in one snapshot the reality of the helplessness of man when confronted with the unpredictable nature of Fate.

Borrowing from Shakespeare "All the world is a stage. And all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and entrances; each man in his time plays many parts." This in itself captures the essence of this collection.

About the Author

Born and raised in the teeming tropical metropolitan city of Lagos, Nigeria, Jude Idada immigrated to Canada in 2001. He holds a B.A. in Theatre Arts, A P.G dip in Human Resource Management and is currently working towards a Masters degree in Business Administration.

He has published some of his short stories in several journals in Nigeria and his poem "Gracias O Canada" is included in an anthology published in the U.S. He was a finalist in the MNET New Direction scriptwriting competition and the Goethe Institut Afrika Projekt.

Jude Idada is a prolific poet as exemplified in his yet to be published anthology of poems "Meditations of a Travelling Mind" and has penned two screenplays. He has also written three plays. He acted in several in Nigeria and was part of the Toronto premiere production of Wole Soyinka's "Death and the Kings Horseman"

He lives in Toronto, Canada.

Table of Contents & Excerpts

STORY ONE

It wasn't the blinding sunlight that made the afternoon scorching hot but the power outage that had made Emeka's ceiling fan immobile. The blades were motionless. A continuous stream of steaming air flowed through the wide open window, that stood like a gaping wound in the back wall of the shop.

The perspiration from the moving traffic of people that sashayed in front of the shop didn't make the heat any better as Emeka, with rivers of sweat digging canals down his face, threw his voice above the din that enveloped the market, trying desperately to attract bits of the crowd to his displayed wares. He looked at the weather beaten plastic wall-clock. Desperation seizing his already jarred nerves as comprehension sunk in. 3.15 p.m. He hadn't made any sales yet.

"Buy your African carvings..." he screamed

"Original.." The crowd continually flowed on

"Cheap..." No one stopped

"Ancient Bini bronze masks..." His voice was rising

"Terracotta heads..."

"Wooden Efik gods..."

Pure carved ivory..."

Anything you want..." He was moving closer to the fringe of the human flow.

"Buy something African for your friends back home..." His eyes were darting at the bunch of white folks that populated the crowd.

"Good afternoon Madam..." He caught her eyes

"Bonsoir Monsieur.." She replied with the popular tourist smile

"Je ne parlez française," he replied fluently, his eyes greedily sucking her to him. She unconsciously stepped out of the moving crowd.

"There it is" Habib quietly said, pointing at the white giant that stood bobbing on the tepid waters of the quay at Apapa.

Akeem gazed at it, his eyes darting from stern to bridge, back to starboard then finally resting on the flag that stood gyrating against the cool, westerly wind whistling over the quay that Thursday morning.

"Is Liberian?" Akeem asked, referring to the flag it was flying.

"Yeah. But it's heading for America." A faint smile was dancing around Habib's lips as he spoke. He could see from the constriction of Akeem's brow that he too was interested. The thought sent the smile spreading across his face.

"When does it leave?" Akeem was now staring intently at Habib. His eyes questioning. He wasn't about to trust someone he had only met a fortnight ago.

"Tonight," came the reply.

"When do I get on board?"

Say around 10 p.m. That is, as long as I get the money early."

"I told you I ain't paying until I see myself on board"

"Heard you." Habib was getting fidgety, the thought that he'd lose all if he didn't tow the line, sent his pulse racing.

Akeem looked at the lumincescent dial of his Casio wristwatch. It said 11 a.m. He turned, walking back towards the seamen's quarters, an over excited Habib trudging behind him, eager to hear his decision.

"I'll be back by 9 p.m, complete with my gear and your money. I'll meet you by the mosque but before then I want you to find out the nationality of the crew and what the cargo is." He stopped abruptly and spun around, blocking the path of Habib, his eyes glowing.

"Habib, I do not intend to fail. I want no mistakes, all I need is a safe passage and by 9 p.m, that passage should be ready or I will not board that ship."

Story Three

The nightmare began at nine forty-five p.m. on a cold, starry, Sunday night on the fifth day of May in the year of our Lord, one thousand, nine hundred and ninety seven.

I had gone over to an Uncle's house in Ikoyi. A choice residential area in Lagos, to collect the money he had promised me and was returning via the third mainland bridge when the commercial bus in which I was riding in suffered a burst tire. After a chilly passage of fifteen minutes, the conductor announced in his usual arrogant way that the spare tire itself had already suffered a puncture and had to be vulcanized.

We fumed and everyone argued for a refund. They refused, agreeing instead to put us into a sister bus that would come by at a time they could not ascertain. This brought about a renewed outburst, both verbal and physical from the passengers as they proceeded to force a refund out of the battle-ready driver and his pig-headed conductor. It was in this situation of bedlam that a dark blue Mercedes Benz 230e pulled up in front of the crippled bus.

No one save I noticed the four, dark, heavily-built men step out of the car and confidently make their way towards us. There was an air about them that made my hair stand on end and my composure stiffen as they positioned themselves, one at each side, surrounding us. Just then, everyone went quiet. The hullabaloo died down. My fellow commuters had noticed that we now had august visitors. The tallest, meanest looking and best dressed of the quartet stepped towards the conductor and spoke first.

"Went in bi di wahala? His voice was hoarse but still a frightening baritone.

"Evening sir, welcome sir, yes sir." The conductor began prostrating, quivering like a leaf. His fright was infectious, everyone sensed trouble. We slowly started backing away, but we were halted in our steps, as the man drew out a shiny black metal object. A gun!

Armed robbers! A woman of large proportions, robust, heavily dressed and bejewelled, immediately went down on her knees pleading in tears. Others followed suit. I watch transfixed.

Story Four

I often wondered what it was about the fifth convict that so strongly attracted me to him. His aura was like an electrified magnet, a human Bermuda Triangle that pulled everything in it's immediate environment towards itself.

I had watched him stealthily from the window of my first floor office as he trudged along the deserted courtyard towards the condemned convicts block that was to be his final abode. He walked as though in a trance behind two others, while eight convicts followed. Heavy chains shackled his hands and feet. His head was bowed, shoulders slumped, body clad in the dark grey uniform that denoted a man sentenced by the court of law to die for an offence committed against persons or state. His was the latter.

To be candid, I wasn't at all ignorant as regards to his identity. Owing to the fact that I had heard countless stories about him and greedily consumed the numerous write-ups the newspapers had excitedly fed Nigerians as breakfast, lunch and upper for the past months.

His name was Colonel Matthew Agu, a brilliant artillery officer in the Nigeria army. Thirty-six years old, farther of four, arrested along with twelve others for plotting to violently overthrow the military government of General Sarki Bello.