SprinNG
  • Publications
    • Anthologies >
      • ETB Anthology
      • AEAnthology
      • WAD Anthology
      • CBS Anthology
      • 2020 Why I Write
      • 2019 Why I Write
    • Interviews
    • Book Reviews
  • Submit
    • Submit to Us
    • Nigerian Writers Database
  • Fellowship
    • Writing Fellowship
    • Advancement Fellowship
  • Contests
    • Monthly Bookstore Gift-card
    • Annual Poetry Contest
    • SWAP >
      • SWAP 2022 Winners
      • SWAP 2021 Winner
      • SWAP 2020 Winner
  • SprinNG Lit
  • Services
    • Resume/CV Editing Services
    • Cover Letter Editing
    • Bio/Personal Statement Editing
  • Donate
  • About
    • Annual Report
    • Quicklinks

Scent

1/3/2022

10 Comments

 
By Oluwabusayo Madariola
Picture
The young woman sniffed the riffling pages with her eyes closed. Drawing a long breath, the musty smell caressed her nostrils. She was at the fourth bookstore and had asked to see the blemished, slightly worn-out brown book slanted against the array of vertically arranged spines behind the tall, locked glass bookshelf. What seemed to be the name of the author, BY A BOSTONIAN, had first caught her attention. The title, TAMERLANE AND OTHER POEMS, however, seemed quite ordinary. “That goes for five hundred and ninety-eight thousand,” said the bookkeeper in a white knitted high-neck sweater with long sleeves. He gave her a bleak look-over. Adjacent to the bookshelf was a large circular coffee brown table with pedestal legs. Hard copy books in dark colours were stacked according to width. A single grey sofa faced the branded glass window of a huge cláirseach with metallic strings. On its armrests laid empty stockings in red and green with white and yellow embroidery loops. A cream-coloured throw pillow with the picture of a reindeer nested at a corner. “Thank you,” she said, handling the buckram-covered book back. She smoothed the pink ribbon holding her ponytail.
***
She removed the bow barrettes. Gusts of wind ruffled her mid-back blonde waves into her face. Standing on the boulders breaking the currents tumbling from the Atlantic Ocean, she observed its rich, light sky blue colour. Removing her shoes, she took steps down the granite stones. She spread her arms, inhaled deeply and stuck her tongue out. The salty ocean air, carried in by the incoming waves, dissolved down her throat. 
***
Straightening out the frayed corners of the worn-out diary, she took in a long drag of air from its gutter. Her eyes settled on the sentences highlighted in light green as she caressed the hair clips securing her hair. The tattered book was part of the personal items collected from his desk. The voice of the driver made her look up. “That’s a Nigerian hip-hop artist. Wizkid. Heard of him?” She followed his indication to the art on the pier. Underneath the bridge, the sea of heads flowed rapidly in different directions. She looked to the right. The elevated walkway was dominated by hawkers. An elderly woman sold plastic bottled water inside an oval bowl. The younger women selling fried buns on a tray called out to a toddler in dirty oversized shorts, who was running barefooted, and with outspread hands towards Santa in a rumpled red and white costume. Santa’s padded buttocks jutted out and jiggled as he danced, pointing to passers-by to check out the plastic watches displayed on the brown carton by his foot. She saw street urchins block the passenger door of the rusty yellow fourteen-seater. The bus driver was attempting to pick passengers by the side of the pavement. He had told her about this part of the city. Her mouth curved into a smile. Her eyes remained lifeless. It would be their third remembrance. The contracted driver-cum-escort glanced at her through the rear-view mirror. “British?” “Irish,” she said. Turning back to the highlighted words underneath the cursive handwriting, she read, “‘Life is a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound, and fury, signifying nothing...’ Could Macbeth be right? Maybe not, I know and understand my life, I know my place in this world.” 
***
Sunflower imprints covered the plastic body of the deep pink toddler bed. Minnie Mouse, wearing a pink polka dot head bow and a smiling face, formed its footboard. Without the hairpins securing her curls in place, her thick jet-black hair tumbled down in massive ringlets. She looked angelic with her eyes closed in spite of her dishevelled hair on the tiny doughnut pillow under her head. Their luggage was packed by the front door. A Christmas tree with wrapped presents around its trunk stood close to the door. Garlands lighted the stairs. Her husband was in the kitchen, packing some snacks when she made a last-minute dash to the convenience store. Thick smoke rose from what seemed to be the chimney of the house. Blaring lights and commotion had caught her attention from the corner street. Neighbours were outside, some still in their robes, covering their faces in horror. Throwing down the package, she ran towards the building. Police officers caught her by the yellow barricade tape with Do Not Cross in bold. Covered bodies were carried out on stretchers by sombre-looking firefighters. She tore away from the grip of law enforcement agents and ran towards the open door of the ambulance. She dove into the two stretchers, yelling their names. What smelled like burnt pork on a grill knocked her into unconsciousness.
***
She scrubbed the tears from her cheeks. Then lifted the spine of the diary to her nostrils. His scent still lingered on it. The hair clips also still had the fragrance of talcum powder. The night before the incident, he had laid on her lap. She had lovingly stroked his bushy afro hair as he told them folktales his grandmother had raised him on. Their little girl, seated on the rug, listened with rapt attention. Her light blue eyes, wide with excitement. The coroner had said it was a gas leak. That Christmas was supposed to be celebrated with his family. She would have been meeting them for the first time. She didn’t want to remember them by their last smell. From the half-opened window of the car, even on another continent, the dry harmattan festive air smelled charred.
Writer's Biography
Picture
​Oluwabusayo Madariola enjoys writing realistic fiction. Her works have appeared or are forthcoming in Writers Space Africa, The Kalahari Review, Isele Magazine, and Northern Anthology of Short Stories. She loves the serenity of any open space because it affords her the open-mindedness to conceive stories in her head.
10 Comments
Prisca link
1/3/2022 12:08:35 pm

Such a sad incidence. What was supposed to be a memorable Christmas became a tragic one. I can imagine how it would have been meeting his family for the first time. The smile on her face, the joy, the laughter in the family, the food, the gifts, and lots more.

It's a great piece. I fully understood the story towards the end of the piece.

Reply
Nkemjika, Ifeoma Deborah
1/3/2022 12:25:14 pm

This is a 'wow' ma'am. This omniscient narrative is delicately woven, the diction is 'tight' and detailed, it befits the lead character. A hearty foreigner sharing the Nigerian experience. How pro.

Reply
David Yunana
1/3/2022 01:48:19 pm

Hmmmmmm. That's what I'll start by saying!

First of all, Oluwabusayo has a good command of English as a language. She weaves and strings words elegantly. This piece is nothing short of a delight to anyone who appreciates words and their usage.

The piece is a gentle, quiet and sad journey back into the painful memories of a woman who lost her husband to domestic fire outbreak.

It is obvious that this woman became a shadow of herself; became introverted (as signified by her sudden desire to think and reminisce instead of engage in conversations).... She seemed to have been a very cheerful, happy go lucky woman before the incidence.

It also appears that life became sour and the world itself became stale , as revealed in the last sentence of the last paragraph.....

"even on another continent, the dry harmattan festive air smelled charred."

I love how the writer takes you through another character's mind and makes you see life through their eyes ..as you relive their stories.

Aren't words just beautiful now?

Reply
Boluwatife
1/3/2022 06:13:27 pm

Tis is beautiful.
Her descriptive words tops the list for me. This is a really captivating, poetic piece.

Reply
Testimony link
2/3/2022 01:42:24 am

How to react when your joy is killed.

When I am first welcomed by the minute actions in a bookshelf. I instantly knew only grief could drive such carefulness. Like the persona, I breathed in books when things were down.

I love how Busayo paints the persona in an omniscient yet human way. And when I read the catalyst of our persona's pain. I grieve with her. Christmas was never meant to be that painful.

Reply
Ugochukwu Anadị
3/3/2022 05:14:36 am

It's the little things that matter.

Most often than not, when things like this are said on social media, it's not because of its truism, but just for fun. The little things may not matter always, the little things may even be lost in the grand scheme of things and might be termed frivolous, but that is, always, when the cruise is smooth.

Loss and grief has its own way of making us look out for minute details, details that may seem irrelevant. So that when one loses her parents for example, what may matter is not the fact that they suffered to pay her school fees, but the fact that even as a grown-up, both parents still pay her head. What may matter is Dad's favourite couch in the sitting room and mum's way of laughing. Loss and grief has a way of getting us undone and redoing us.

Oluwabusayo was able to capture this effect of loss and grief masterfully in this piece. Starting the story right from that point of melancholic smelling of books and showing us how attention was paid to everyday occurrences that are mostly ignored -- things like people hawking -- is a show of expertise, this drawing of people right into the system.

The style is also something. The forth and back movement is not an easy stunt to pull because if not well done, one may end up confusing ones readers instead. But she managed it rightly so.

The picture attached to the story, the 'crime scene' yellow tape is misleading though. I thought, after seeing it, that the work is a crime fiction that I had to reread to see if someone had set the place on fire intentionally. It wasn't the case, and I don't know how the mistake came about.

All in all, this is another piece that proves that brevity is power.

Reply
Faith Aminu
5/3/2022 12:09:45 pm

Beautiful Story, tightly written, with no loose ends although the beginning part threw me off for a bit.

I love your descriptive ability, it is so visual, I was already imagining the settings of the story and that contributed largely to the emotions that carried the story plot.

Well done to the author

Reply
Mide Bankole
13/3/2022 02:10:00 pm

I didn't fully grasp the story till the end but it's beautifully written.
I suggest that there should be a better way to indicate reality and a character's thought in writing since all the reader sees is words.

The story was able to capture grief in it's littlest details and I felt I had met the character, somewhat.

Reply
Omidire Joshua
15/3/2022 01:32:36 pm

“Scent” is a sorrow-ridden story that questions the meaning of human existence by painting a series of events in a character’s life without even mentioning the name of the character. The nameless of this character reveals the universality of the concept of sorrow and how this story is about all of us irrespective of our location, race, tongue, poverty, religion, riches etc.
The role that books play in capturing sorrow cannot be underestimated in this story. The character is able to find kindred spirits or solace in the comity of books.

An amazing motif in this story is the crazy appeal to human sense of smell in understanding and expression of pain. The lady keeps sniffing the books. She is in search of home in the scent. When we go through sorrow, we desperately search for home, places, or people who understand our pain. The poetic allusions made to Shakespeare’s famous lines about the vanity of life points us to a certain kind of smell that the character in this story understands so well. She has been looking for touchstones against which she measures her sorrow.

The scent motif becomes stronger when we learn that the young woman’s life will never be the same again after that sudden flip in the script where her family is gone in the inferno and what’s left behind is the smell of their dead bodies. They smell like “burnt pork on a grill.” What a way to describe the olfactory remains of her loved ones. Only one who has been there can understand the depth of this lady’s sorrow.
The fresh smell of her husband is reinforced when she smells the spine of the diary that supposedly belongs to her husband. The reader begins to smell two things at the same time. The burnt smell of the man’s flesh and the fresh smell of his living body.
Smell is life. Smell is also death. The power of life and death is in how we smell. This is a thematically powerful short story. And the highest peak of this piece is in the scent motif.

It is easy to accuse the writer of “over description” or verbiage. The first paragraph of the story could put anyone off because at that point we don’t yet understand what the writer is driving at. Perhaps she should cut down a bit on describing so much. But how does she bring her scent motif to life if she doesn’t describe?

Reply
Elyon Jessemiel
24/3/2022 01:52:05 pm

Beautiful piece. I didn’t see the sad event coming... What was to be a sweet Christmas family time became a painful memory... Very detailed piece by the way, maybe too detailed. In your bid to capture even the minutest detail of this lady’s story, you could easily throw someone off track as to what the real picture is here. I feel you should consider your readers when giving details, cut down on the unnecessary ones so they will capture the real essence of what you are talking about and not be at sea. Again, beautiful piece.

Reply



Leave a Reply.

    The SprinNG 2023 Brochure

    SprinNG Quicklinks
    About SprinNG
    Contests
    Anthologies
    Interviews
    Book Reviews
    Nigerian Writers Database
    Recommended Literary Sites
    Writers Fellowship

      Subscribe to SprinNG Newsletters
    Subscribe

    For inquiries regarding publications email: 
    contact@SprinNG.org 
    ​and we will respond to you within 48hrs.
CLICK TO DOWNLOAD THE SPRINNG 2023 BROCHURE

Copyright @SprinNG 2023
​

  • Publications
    • Anthologies >
      • ETB Anthology
      • AEAnthology
      • WAD Anthology
      • CBS Anthology
      • 2020 Why I Write
      • 2019 Why I Write
    • Interviews
    • Book Reviews
  • Submit
    • Submit to Us
    • Nigerian Writers Database
  • Fellowship
    • Writing Fellowship
    • Advancement Fellowship
  • Contests
    • Monthly Bookstore Gift-card
    • Annual Poetry Contest
    • SWAP >
      • SWAP 2022 Winners
      • SWAP 2021 Winner
      • SWAP 2020 Winner
  • SprinNG Lit
  • Services
    • Resume/CV Editing Services
    • Cover Letter Editing
    • Bio/Personal Statement Editing
  • Donate
  • About
    • Annual Report
    • Quicklinks