The Die Is Cast
By
Femi Olawole
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SMASHWORDS EDITION
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Published by : Femi Olawole on Smashwords
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The Die Is Cast
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Copyright © 2011 by Femi Olawole
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Smashwords Edition License Notes:
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
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Dedicated to my parents: Sarah and James Olawole.
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CHAPTER ONE
JULY, 2000.
The scorching New York summer heat had taken its toll on Sandra Brown as she sat quietly in the back of a cab. On this afternoon, the amiable lady was sweating profusely, a victim of the sun-influenced molten air. Incidentally, she could see a patch of blue sky lurking far in the horizon. But she was realistic enough to accept that the blue patch in the sky was of no help under the circumstance. It was too far away to dampen the spirit of the sun as it glistened furiously like a ball of hot snow up above the sky. Not even the air-conditioning unit inside the cab would provide the wearied lady with a much-needed relief. Rather, she was feeling as if her body was heating up inside the cab like a loaf of bread in oven.
Sandra however heaved a sigh of relief when the cab pulled up by the sidewalk adjacent to her Manhattan apartment building. Diving hurriedly into the looming building with her shopping bags, she was just on time to board a departing elevator.
Although happy to be back at home, the now almost dehydrated lady grimaced uncomfortably as she glanced briefly at her body. Thanks to the accumulated sweat, the blouse on her was a mess as it glued to the body. And without much ado, she made a dash for the bathroom in anticipation of a refreshing shower.
By the time she emerged from the bathroom a few minutes afterwards, her skin had regained its luscious glow. And a moment later, she stepped into the living room, clad in a flowery short-sleeved shirt and slacks.
* * * * *
CHAPTER TWO
All along and oblivious to Sandra Brown’s ordeal, Ginger, the pet canary of the Brown’s household, squawked repeatedly inside its silver cage that hung by a corner in the living room. As usual however, Sandra ignored the yellow bird. She had never liked it anyway. There was something about the bird that she considered weird and ominous. At dusk, when most birds were mellowed, preparatory to sleep, Ginger would go on with its shrill noise all through the night.
Over the past couple of years, Sandra would step out briefly from the bedroom in the middle of the night. And there, in the dark living room, she would be confronted by a suddenly silent bird with its pair of little brown eyes peering sorrowfully at her. This scene had never failed to send a chill down Sandra’s spine. And besides that occasional morbid encounter, the lady believed that having a canary for a pet, in the year 2000 Manhattan apartment, was not something she considered cool. She might however tell that to the marines. George Brown, her husband, loved the strange little bird to death.
At the moment, the lady decided to give herself a moment to take a nap in the living room. But she had barely gotten a couple of minutes rest on the couch, on which she lay sprawled, when her attention was attracted to a little piece of paper. Impulsively, she reached for it. It was a short note written by her husband.
Honey,
Did you empty the store?
I’ve gone out on some errands…
Should be back soon.
In the meantime, I have something for you.
Look under the pillow.
GB.
* * * * *
GB was George Brown. A trim, handsome six-footer with a permanent tan, In Sandra’s view, George would have made some great impressions on Hollywood producers if only he had the inclination for show business. The man, however, was not interested in show business. He considered himself too academic in outlook and too much of an introvert to be an actor. Armed with a PhD in English from Harvard University, George got a job teaching creative writing at State University of New York. After a few years of teaching though, he got bored with what he considered as having too much leisure time in his hands. To keep himself fully occupied therefore, he took up another career in freelance journalism.
Reporting for the New York Times under the assumed name of John Sparrow, he covered extensively the various political scenes across the nation. One year later, he got his break as a columnist for the same newspaper. And after a couple of years, his column became syndicated while at the same time, he was appointed by Newsweek magazine as a contributing editor. One thing however baffled his wife and, indeed, his editors at the New York Times. It was George’s decision to stick to his pseudonym.
“George…” his wife stated in exasperation one day. “This is an opportunity for you to immortalize your real name.”
“Yeah right.” the man sneered in a nonchalant response. “That’s just another vanity I can do without.”
It had been about three years since Sandra and George got married. Three years of great matrimonial bliss. Friends and well-wishers would fondly refer to them as the only ideal couple in New York City. The man was a marvel in excellence. In spite of his movie-star appearance, George was a soft-spoken, unassuming gentleman. A great cook, George made it known from the beginning of their relationship that his entire life revolved around his wife. And for this reason, he treated her like a Queen.
Sandra was not bad either. A pretty, tall and slim brunette, she had the appearance of a fashion model and the brain of a genius. She was a doctoral candidate in English at the University of California, Los Angeles when news of her creative talents got to Stallion Communications, Inc.
The New York advertising agency did not have any problem in persuading the young lady to abandon her academic pursuit. The agency simply offered her a mouth-watering remuneration package. And by dint of hard work, she had since risen from being a copywriter to the position of a vice president.
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CHAPTER THREE
Presently, Sandra read the short note again and smiled. It was one of their many games. This time though, the game clashed with her much-desired, cherished nap. Grudgingly, she rose up to enter the master bedroom. There, upon lifting up one of the pillows that adorned the king-sized bed, she found a large, brown envelope. In the belly of the envelope was a beautiful birthday card.
“Wow…isn’t this cute?” Sandra stated in excitement as she retrieved the card to read. In addition to the prototyped message was a poem in George’s impeccable handwriting:
Her name is Sandra Brown.
She dazzles in sizzling heat
like a carnation in bloom.
Attractive in splendor,
sensual in disposition.
No wonder, she is gracious…
Carnation is for graciousness.
GB.
PS: Honey, this poem is for you. As for your birthday gift, check inside the oven
With a pleasant smile, Sandra headed for the kitchen. There, she opened the oven to see another piece of paper. Once again, she retrieved the note and read:
Surprise! Surprise!!
Where are you?
In the closet, there I lay.
Precious stones are not to shine
in a dungeon meant for dirt.
Surprise! Surprise!!
Where are you?
In the closet, there I live.
Gentle lambs are not to graze
in a forest meant for wolves.
GB
PS: Honey, your birthday gift is too precious
to be in the oven. Check the guest room closet.
“Now wait a minute.” she moaned wearily, sotto voce. “I’m too tired for more trips, please…”
From the kitchen, she trudged on through the living room and into the guest room. There, in the closet, was a vase of flowers and a wrapped gift.
“At last.” a smiling Sandra sighed deeply as she gently reached into the closet, one hand grabbing the vase and the other, the wrapped gift. She returned to the living room.
Excitedly, she set the vase of flowers on the center coffee table and then tore into the gift wrapper. There, she saw a small black case which she snapped open. Inside was a gold wristwatch.
“Wow.” she shrieked in absolute excitement.
In silent admiration, Sandra proceeded to reflect on the occasion.
“What a fortunate woman I am to have such a great guy?” she soliloquized, nodding her head solemnly. “I am the most fortunate woman on earth.”
She was lost in the pleasant reverie until her husband returned home. Dressed casually in a silk shirt and a pair of jeans, George moved to join his wife on the couch.
“Hey baby…” she says with a smile. “Thanks for the lovely gift and card.”
“You’re welcome, honey.” the man said.
They kissed.
“Happy birthday.” he added as he broke off briefly.
“Thank you, baby.” she whispered with a smile.
And they kissed again.
“Ready for dinner?” George asked. “I cooked dinner before I went out.”
“You did?” she asked curiously.
“Uh-huh.” he stated, getting up to set the table.
“You are too much.” Sandra remarked gratefully. “You are the greatest husband in the whole, wide world.”
“Oh, please.” George blushed as he waved off the huge compliemnets.
* * * * *
CHAPTER FOUR
In the hours that followed, the happy couple had hors d’oeuvres, dinner and desserts. All the while, the two reminisced joyfully about the early days of their relationship, the short courtship and the quiet wedding that followed. They were almost through with the desserts when George placed his plate on a coffee table. He collected his wife’s empty plate as well and placed it on the same table.
Subsequently, he took her hands in his.
“Honey, I’d like to have a word with you.”
Sandra stared at him curiously.
“What about, baby?”
George took in a deep breath of air and stated almost in a whisper.
“It’s about time we started a family.”
As though the man’s hands had suddenly turned into a red, hot iron, the woman dropped them indignantly, her face turned away. This was not a new argument in their marriage. The issue of kids had turned up soon after their wedding.
Way back then, Sandra had expressed support for the idea. She however stated that she needed to have about two years to solidify her blossoming career. Grudgingly, her husband agreed.
And now, the two-year moratoria had expired.
“Honey…” George pressed on firmly for advantage. “We are not getting younger…”
“I know…” Sandra was about saying when her husband interrupted.
“Okay, since you know…” an exasperated George stated with a hint of anger in regard to the issue. “Then, it’s time we started a family.”
“Oh, really?” Sandra retorted in anger, her eyes glaring at the man. “Okay George, then it’s also about time we visited your family in Benton.”
Suddenly, the man recoiled in horror like a startled snake.
* * * * *
The first time this matter of Benton came up for discussion, George had glared nervously at his wife as though she had proposed a trip to hell.
Benton, a city in the state of Illinois, was George’s hometown. Earlier in their courtship, he had told the young woman that he lost his parents in an auto accident and was brought up by a poor, divorced aunt.
The aspect of a poor, divorced aunt however turned out to be the nemesis of George Brown’s grand story. A mentally-alert Sandra would not swallow such a cheap story-hook, line and sinker. She promptly punctured the story with a question on how a poor, struggling orphan could afford a Harvard graduate degree without a scholarship?
“And George…” she had pointed out at that time. “You never told me, at any time, about working to pay your way through college.”
This poser, in terms of delivery, had been so casual and innocent that it left the man stunned and disoriented for a few seconds. Aware of the seeming contradictions in his story therefore, George had to change it. He came up with a new story that his parents divorced shortly after his graduation from high school. According to him, he resolved to sever relationship with the parents in a bid to show his disapproval to the divorce. To Sandra however, this new story was not only belated but also was too grandiose to be taken seriously.
“In the first place…” she had asked him. “Why did you lie to me?”
“Honey…” he smiled sheepishly. “I had to cook up the first story just to avoid the embarrassment of the second story.”
“Oh, please.” Sandra waved her hands in exasperation. “What embarrassment? Were your parents the first couple in America to divorce?”
Seeing no sense in arguing back and forth on the issue and merely for the sake of letting the sleeping dog lie, Sandra decided to accept the fable. All this took place shortly after their wedding. Since that time however, she had been wary and curious about her husband’s mysterious past.
* * * * *
For an old-fashioned lady such as Sandra, family ties were too important to be reduced to such a triviality as did her husband. She was the second child in a close-knit New Hampshire family of five. Although they were now spread over the east and the west coasts, Sandra and her siblings made it a point of duty to hold regular phone conferences once, every month of the year.
Now, a puzzled Sandra stared hard at her husband.
“Baby…what’s really the problem between you and your parents?”
“Now, honey…” George answered impatiently. “I thought I had clarified this matter over and over in the past…I’m through with my parents.”
“Fine.” Sandra shot back, her eyes locked with his. “But that shouldn’t stop me from getting to know them.”
“But whatever for?” George yelled this time. “For heaven’s sake, why are they so suddenly important to you?”
Sandra was momentarily speechless.
“George, did you have to yell?” she stared at him curiously.
For a man who claimed to be an only child, his negative reactions to the issue of his parents were quite contradictory and confusing. When she remained silent, her husband continued to talk, more out of desperation than to convince.
“Listen honey…” George pleaded passionately. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. But for heaven’s sake, aren’t you happy with what we have between us?”
“Of course yes.” Sandra snapped. “But…”
“Then why upset the apple cat?” he interrupted her mid sentence. “Why stake everything on a wild goose chase?”
“A wild goose chase?” Sandra shrieked as she stood up. “Is that what my knowing your parents amount to?”
In anger, she got up from the couch and stormed out of the living room. Seeing his wife head toward the bedroom, George Brown shook his head sardonically.
“The die is cast.” he muttered dejectedly.
* * * * *
The following morning, it was Sandra that broke the ice by announcing that she had a compromise. Her husband listened contemplatively.
“Baby…” she spoke softly.” I do agree with you about starting a family.”
“Really?” the man asked with a tinge of pessimism.
“Uh-huh.” Sandra nodded. “Actually, I’d removed my diaphragm since two weeks ago.”
“Great.” the man stated excitedly. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about. Really, it’s about time.”
His wife nodded without another word.
“But so…” George asked quietly. “What’s my part of the compromise?”
“Yes…” Sandra answered calmly. “All you need to do is take me on a trip to visit your parents…that way, we’ll meet each other midway on the two issues.”
George was silent.
“Listen baby…” Sandra continued to speak excitedly. “We’ll check into a hotel and you can stay back while I go see your parents, is that okay?”
“I guess that’s fair enough.” George managed to say with a shrug of his shoulders.
* * * * *
CHAPTER FIVE
On a bright Saturday morning a week later, both husband and wife were on their way to LaGuardia Airport en route Chicago. All through the flight, George was all quiet and withdrawn. And as though the feeling was infectious, Sandra was also held incommunicado by anger and a guilt-ridden conscience.
On the one hand, she could not understand her husband’s negative attitude to this trip. And on the other hand, she felt like a butcher leading a reluctant cow to the slaughter house.
At Midway Airport in Chicago, the couple took a cab to Benton where they checked into a local hotel. Without beating about the bush, Sandra stood up, her palm clutching a piece of paper. On it was written the address of her quarries. Just before she left the room, George stood up to give her a surprise hug.
“Honey.” he stared hard at her. “I want you to know that I love you.”
“And I love you too, baby.” his wife said with a smile.
Gently, Sandra broke out of the embrace to open the door.
“Honey…” George called out again, this time, his voice quavered. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” a baffled Sandra asked with a puzzled expression. “Whatever for?”
“Nothing really…just sorry about all this trouble.” he shrugged his shoulders sadly. “I guess the die is cast.”
Initially, the woman was puzzled by her husband’s strange speech. She however quickly dismissed any major concern. The man, she rationalized, must be nervous about the impending reunion with his parents.
She left the room.
* * * * *
“2014 Almond Drive.” Sandra bellowed to the driver of the cab that pulled up beside her.
“Yes, ma’am.” the driver replied enthusiastically, pulling back onto the quiet road as the fare settled down in the rear of the car.
For a New Yorker, Sandra could not reconcile the hustle and bustle lifestyles of the people in the big city with those in Benton. Looking through the window at the deserted road, she wondered where all the residents had gone at this particular afternoon. She was about to ask the cab driver how far they still had to go when the man pulled up by a sidewalk.
“Here we are.” the man announced. “The meter says five dollars.”
“That was quick.” she remarked excitedly.
Digging into her pocketbook, Sandra grabbed the first available five-dollar bill and gave it to the driver. Shortly, she was out of the cab to behold a magnificent building. Standing on what she estimated to be a fenced acre of land, the house had a soothing, attractive landscape that beckoned lustily to every passerby.
Glad to be at her destination, Sandra took a few steps in the direction of the gate and then pressed the bell by the entrance.
Soon, a middle-aged apron-clad woman, obviously a housekeeper, walked toward the gate to behold the visitor.
“Good day.” she greeted the visitor curiously. “What can we do for you?”
“Hi.” the visitor answered with a smile. “I’m Sandra Brown and I’ve come all the way from New York…”
“Oh, you’re here for the birthday party?” asked the housekeeper.
Sandra screwed up her face.
“What birthday party?”
“Mrs. Brown’s birthday…”
“Eh…I don’t know about that…but can I see the couple please?”
“Oh, please do excuse me…come on in.”
The housekeeper opened the gate to admit the visitor and, together, they walked on a gravel-filled path toward the house.
There was a long, narrow bed of flowers that partitioned the sidewalk from the driveway. Both the sidewalk and the driveway however were sandwiched by a large, well-cultivated garden.
Sandra soon found herself ushered into a large, noise-filled living room. There were about two dozen pairs of curious eyes that turned simultaneously in the visitor’s direction as her presence was announced.
The visitor returned the stare until an old man, probably in his seventies, approached her. .
“Hello.” the old man said warmly. “I’m Richard Brown…did you just say you were Mrs. Brown?”
“Yes.” Sandra thrust forward her right hand to shake that of the man. “I’m Sandra and I’m married to your son, George.”
There was a sudden jolt in the man’s demeanor. He stepped back in horror as though the visitor had been transformed into a monster.
“I…I beg your pardon?” the old man shrieked in shock.
* * * * *
CHAPTER SIX
The reactions of guests were equally sharp as they sprang up to advance toward the distressed old man. They were however stopped in their tracks by the ringing voice of a gaily-dressed woman. She was the celebrant.
Richard…what is it?” she enquired.
“This young woman says she is George’s wife…” he pointed at the visitor.
“What?” the old woman screamed in shock and slumped into the hands of her husband. In the ensuing commotion, some guests assisted Mr. Brown in carrying his wife to a nearby bedroom.
Sandra was dazed.
“Hey.” she wailed in astonishment. “Will someone please tell me what’s going on here?”
In place of a response, Mr. Brown and four other old men invited Sandra to another living room, smaller to the venue of the party.
“Excuse me.” she wailed again. “Will someone please tell me what the heck is going on here?”
In response, Mr. Brown walked to a wall on which hung several framed photographs. Pointing to one of them, he asked:
“Is this the man to whom you’re married?”
Without hesitating, the visitor nodded her head in affirmation.
“Yes, that’s George…although he looks much younger here.”
“But that’s preposterous.” Mr. Brown roared in her direction.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Brown…” the visitor stared at the old man curiously. “You’re confusing me…”
At this moment, Mrs. Nancy Brown walked quietly into the living room.
“Nancy…” her husband rushed to her side. “Are you alright?”
“I guess I am…” she looked first in the direction of Sandra and then turned to her husband. “Now Richard…tell me this farce has been a joke after all…”
But her husband was silent as he stared contemplatively at the visitor.
“Young lady…” he shook his head. “There must have been some mistaken identity here.”
“No sir.” the visitor insisted, pointing at the framed photograph on the wall with absolute confidence. “That’s George, my husband in the photograph.”
The old couple exchanged looks.
“Richard…” the celebrant said slowly. “I guess you’ll have to tell her…”
* * * * *
The visitor looked from one to the other.
“Tell me what?” she asked impatiently. “For heaven’s sake, is George your son or not?”
“Yes, he was…” the man finally blurted out. “But he passed away about eighteen years ago.”
Suddenly, the entire room was dead silent. The silence was so much that a pin would have landed on the ground with a loud thud. Sandra was the first person to break the silence.
“Excuse me?” she screwed up her face in confusion. “Who passed away…George?”
“Yes…” the old man nodded solemnly. “He passed away eighteen years ago.”
Once again, a stunned Sandra Brown looked from one person to the other until her gaze finally rested on that of the older Mrs. Brown. The woman nodded her head pitifully.
“No…” Sandra shook her head with a wry smile. “No way…George and I arrived here together this afternoon.”
“What?” everyone in the room yelled in unison.
“But in that case…” the older Mrs. Brown asked nervously. “Where is he at the moment?”
“I left him in our hotel room.” the visitor replied. “He is waiting for me.”
There was a hushed silence.
“Alright.” Mr. Brown said, breaking the silence. “Let’s go to the hotel. The rest of you ladies can wait while some of us men go check out the story.”
* * * * *
CHAPTER SEVEN
Back in the hotel, Sandra Brown scrambled up the stairway while the five fact-finding old men came along at an amble.
Soon, she got to the door of her room and opened it.
The room was empty.
Joining her, the old men looked around nervously while Sandra checked the bathroom. She stepped out to see their eyes focused on her as though asking for some explanation.
“Maybe he has gone out for a walk or something…”she blurted out in obvious uncertainty. “I’ll go ask the floor receptionist.”
The old men watched cautiously as the young woman left.
In the lobby, the reception booth was right by the bottom of the stairway. Sandra approached the man at the booth to ask if he had seen her husband go out of the hotel.
“No.” the man stated, shaking his head. “Except for you and a couple of guys, no other guest has left the hotel so far.”
“But my husband is not in our room.” she stated frantically.
The receptionist stared at her briefly, not really knowing what to say.
“Ma’am, have you checked the bathroom?”
In annoyance, Sandra stormed out of the man’s presence. She returned to the room, this time, to be confronted by a ghastly sight.
In the center of the room was a sobbing Mr. Brown. Even though they were also reeling in shock, the other old men were trying to console their sorrowful friend.
“What…what in God’s name is going on?” Sandra asked nervously.
In place of a response, Mr. Brown looked at her sadly and then thrust a piece of paper into her hand.
“We found this note on the bedside table. It’s…it’s for you…”
She looked into the paper. The note was a poem written in George’s handwriting.
The Die is Cast.
Here I go again
like a comet in torment.
With emptiness alone,
to keep company,
my wearied soul,
I ask, when will loneliness
Let me be?
GB.
PS: Sandra, I’m sorry. But I did warn you not to upset the apple cart.
Mr. Brown and the other men gazed at Sandra as she read the note quietly. Then he observed her body begin to tremble like a victim of Parkinson’s disease. Soon, a pair of tears began to cascade down her trembling cheeks. Impulsively, Mr. Brown reached for the woman’s arms and began to pat her shoulder.
“Young woman…” he stated with a trembling voice. “In all of my years on earth, I never thought I could experience this kind of tragic phenomenon.”
Sandra turned slowly to stare at the old man.
“What the heck is this? Please tell me…is this some crazy nightmare?”
The old man had no answer to her question.
* * * * *
EPILOGUE
It had been several days since the phenomenal incident took place in Benton, IL. Now back in the Manhattan apartment, Sandra Brown and her kid sister, Christie Benjamin, tip-toed over several cardboard boxes that littered the floor of the living room.
Christie Benjamin travelled all the way from the west coast to New Hampshire as soon as she heard the bad news. The mysterious news about George Brown had dealt a severe blow to the psyche of the close-knit Benjamin family. When Sandra left Benton, she had gone straight to New Hampshire where her parents and siblings rallied to console her. After getting herself together emotionally, she and Christie flew to LaGuardia Airport in New York and together, they had arrived at the Manhattan apartment.
Thinking she had seen the last of strange phenomena, Sandra stepped into the apartment to be confronted by some more strange sights. The wedding portraits of both herself and George that hitherto hung on a wall in the living room were all seen on the floor. Their glass screens had been smashed to smithereens while the photographs themselves had been torn to shreds.
These weird sights had left a terribly unsettling effect on the nerves of both Sandra and her sister. Already a nervous wreck, Sandra was therefore advised by her sister to take a brief rest in the bedroom.
“Okay…” she answered. “But I need to call the pet sitter about picking up Ginger.”
“Your pet?” Christie asked.
Nodding her head in affirmation, Sandra picked up the phone to call the pet sitter. Suddenly, Christie saw her sister’s face turn ashen. Then, she saw her hang up the phone quietly and then turn around.
“What now, Sandra?”
“The pet sitter said George had come to the shop to pick up the bird on Saturday.”
“The same Saturday you guys were supposed to be in Benton?”
“Yes…but he picked up the bird in the evening…around the same time I saw his note in the hotel.”
“Oh, my God…” the younger woman exclaimed. But quickly, she got herself together as she insisted that Sandra take a bed rest.
The distraught woman was now on her way to the bedroom when she suddenly screamed in fright.
“Hey, what again?” Christie asked in exasperation.
Sandra Brown gestured in the direction of the silver cage. Ginger, the canary was lying face up, its body bloated on the floor of the cage. It must have been dead for several days.
“What in God’s name is this?” asked Christie. “Was this not the same bird that was supposed to have been picked up by George?”
“Forget the question…” Sandra said as she pointed in the direction of the silver cage. “Take a look at the note stuck on the cage.”
Nervously, Christie stepped forward to read the note. It was in George’s usual impeccable handwriting.
Honey,
I have taken Ginger with me.
We have always been two poor, inseparable souls.
GB.
“Christie.” Sandra Brown shrieked nervously. “Let’s get out of here now!”
“You can say that again.” Christie added. “But first of all, we have to pack.”
And so, they packed.
* * * * *
About the Author
Femi Olawole is a man of many parts---author, poet, freelance journalist, accountant, banker and law enforcement officer. He once contributed to The News Journal as a member of the Community Advisory Board of the Delaware’s top-most newspaper. A social commentator, Olawole has contributed to journals, anthologies and the online/print media across the world. In 1993, he received The Nigerian Media Merit Award in Business Reporting for Sailing on Dark Waters, a special report on the travails of Nigerian entrepreneurs in their search for seed capital. Olawole is in Delaware, United States and can be reached at his website www.femiolawole.net