Dimga’s Place: by Nduka Dike

Photo credit: Edsel Little via Flickr

She was the first thing he saw as he entered Dimga’s place. She was standing by the catfish tank, staring intently at the fish. A waiter stood beside her pointing at the fish, willing her to make a choice. She had her back to Ebube, but he was sure she was beautiful – there was something about the way she stood. Her hands were on her waist and her head was slanted to one side, like a model on a runway. Her short hair dyed light brown – a couple of shades lighter than her skin – glittered in the orange, evening sun. She wore a black singlet tucked into a loose fitting pair of ankara shorts.

He tore his eyes away from her and allowed them rest on the compound. “Dimga’s place is always full”, his friend, Ade, had told him “you might not even find a table”. He looked around the tables scattered across the compound, they were all taken, all but one. He made for the table and sat down. He noticed the book on the table after he had sat down, it appeared that the table was taken. He hoped it was only one occupant, he would ask if he could share the table. He picked up the book, Sefi Atta’s Everything Good Will Come, and he was certain it belonged to her. He was proven right when she joined him at the table.

“Do you mind if we share this table?” he asked as she sat across the table from him.

“No”, she smiled, “not at all”. Her face was perfect, her long lashes, her carefully carved brows, the dark purple lipstick, even the pimple that sat on her short nose was perfect. He averted his eyes and called for the waiter standing nearby.

“Good evening, what do I get you?” the waiter asked when he came

“A plate of Nkwobi”, he answered, “do you have orijin, the small bottle?”

“We don’t, it’s the big bottle we have”

“You should have the palm wine”, the girl said

“Palm wine?”

“Yes, it’s very fresh, it was tapped today”, she assured him. Ebube wanted to ask how she knew when the wine was tapped, if she worked at the bar, but he said instead “I will have palm wine”.

“Okay sir”, the waiter nodded.

“Wait, how do you sell it, in bottles right?”

“Yes, in bottles”

“Just one bottle then”, Ebube said, then added “I hope they are not very big bottles”

“You can finish one bottle sir”, the waiter laughed, so did the girl, a light chuckle that ended with a grunt, a very faint grunt. He loved her laugh.

“Aunty, you nko?”, he asked the girl

“My point-and-kill is on the way”, she answered. The waiter nodded and walked away. A saxophone solo filtered through the evening air, the girl shut her eyes for a moment and swayed to the music. Ebube smiled when he realized it was Fela Kuti’s Gentleman and he found himself moving his head to the afrojazz tunes.

“Why Nkwobi?”

“Eh?” Ebube asked, taken aback by the question.

“Why Nkwobi?” The girl repeated her question “Dimga’s place is popular for the point-and-kill, not the Nkwobi you just ordered”

“I was assured the Nkwobi here is very good”

“It is, but the point-and-kill is way better”

“I don’t eat fish”

Maka gini?”

“Nothing really”

“Does it do anything to you?”

Ebube chuckled “it doesn’t, I just don’t like fish”

“You will like this one”

“Do you work here? Or perhaps, does your father own this place?” Ebube asked “you are doing a great job selling it”.

She laughed, not a light laugh this time, a deep, throaty laugh. “I live in the next compound”, she pointed “I come here when I have enough money to spare. Trust me, the point-and-kill here is pure heaven, especially when taken with the chilled fresh palm wine”

“I hear you” Ebube said, “it…” he continued, but she cut him off.

“Hold on, I love this part of the song so much” she declared and sang along “Africa hot, I like am so, I no want wear… , but my friends don’t know. You put on socks, you put on shoe, you put on pant, you put on singlet, you put on trouser, you put on shirt, you put on tie, you put on coat, you come cover all with hat, you be gentleman. You go sweat all over, you go faint right there, you go smell like shit, you go piss for body you no go know. Me, I no be gentleman like that, I be African man , original…”.

“You are dressed for the heat”, he said when she stopped singing along.

“You too”, she said. He was wearing a shirt and shorts, the heat had been so much he hadn’t bothered to wear a singlet. “It is too hot”, he said.

The waiter returned with Ebube’s order in a tray. He placed the small mortar containing the pieces of meat drenched in spicy oil paste and palm wine contained in a small eva water bottle.

“Your point-and-kill is almost ready, aunty”, the waiter said as he filled a basin of water for Ebube to wash his hands. He left afterwards.

“Join me”, he said to her as he washed his hands “before yours comes”

“Thank you, but I do not want to spoil my appetite”, she said “and it is just one plate”

“I will order more”

“You should try the isi ewu”. He smiled at her then dipped his fingers into the mortar and emerged with a large piece of meat covered in oil. The aroma filled his head and his mouth watered. He bit into the chunk of meat and tore flesh off the bone. His eyes closed involuntarily, his taste buds came alive as he chewed the meat, crushing an onion ring too. The pepper set his tongue on fire so that when he swallowed the piece of flesh, his mouth missed it so much and so he tore another and another till all that was left was an inedible piece of bone, sucked of all the oil and sweetness it was prepared with. He opened his eyes and she was smiling at him.

“This is the best Nkwobi I’ve ever had”, he said

“Wait till you taste the point-and-kill”, he shrugged and took another piece of meat to devour. The waiter came again with another tray and carefully placed the catfish pepper soup before her and her bottle of palmwine.

“Can you bring another spoon?” She asked the waiter, “he’s going to be eating with me”, the waiter nodded, Ebube poured himself a glass of palm wine.

“Do you have isi ewu?” he asked the waiter. The man nodded, “bring us a plate”.

“Us?” she asked.

“I am eating your fish with you”, he said as the waiter left, “it’s only fair”.

She nodded, then hummed along with Fela’s sorrows, tears and blood.

“It’s my birthday today”, Ebube said. He had not planned to tell her, he just wanted to say something to her.

“Oh really”, she said “a toast is in order then”, she poured herself a glass of palm wine and raised it up. He noticed then her dainty fingers and her black nail polish. He admired the bracelets on her wrist, they were handmade, the kind that spelt names, the first one spelt YUGEE and the second MMA. He knew she made them herself.

“To”, she was saying “what’s your name?”


“To Ebube”, he raised his glass too “I wish you long life and prosperity, I wish you happiness and joy, good health and strength and many more years”, their glasses met. Ebube sipped the cold, sweet wine and he knew he would keep coming back to this place.

“Are you Ugomma?” He asked pointing at her bracelets

“No, Ugbomma”, she said and took a spoonful of her fish pepper soup.

“Ugbomma, that’s a beautiful name”, and she smiled, the kind of smile that told him that she had heard that so many times before.

“I’m sorry if that sounded a little cliché” he said as he sipped more wine

“It was terribly cliché”

“But your name is beautiful”, he repeated

“Thank you” and she chewed the fish. The waiter came and handed Ebube the spoon. He rinsed his oily hand and took a spoonful of the steaming soup, “Don’t just take the soup, take the fish too”, she said.

He obeyed, and as he chewed the fish, she watched him keenly, expecting him to maybe have an epiphany of sorts. He did enjoy it, the way the fish melted in his mouth, the taste that he could not compare with anything else he had ever eaten, he nodded, “this is so good”.

She smiled, fulfilled, “I told you so” she said as she finished her glass of wine and poured another. Ebube took another piece of his Nkwobi.

“So, it’s your birthday, eh” she said a few minutes later “why are you here?”


“Here and not at a party or perhaps the mall’

“The mall is such a pedestrian thing to do on one’s birthday”, he said dismissively. She smiled and put her spoon back on the plate then kept her head on her hand.


“Everybody does that, go to the mall on their birthday, roam around the shops, buy cake and maybe ice cream, take a gazillion selfies and flood Facebook with the photos”

“Hmm”, she nodded slowly

“Don’t get me wrong”, he said “I love the mall, I go when I can, mainly to the cinema or to coldstone, the ice cream is to die for. But to go on my birthday, like there is something special about malls, is not something I want to do”

“So, you are here”

“Yes”, he said and poured himself another cup of palm wine, only to find out that he had finished the bottle, he became disappointed, he wanted another one “as for the party, I am sure there is one waiting for me at home, my roommate is trying to surprise me. Discretion is not really his strong suit”. She chuckled.

“So you’re a student”, she said

“I am, at Umudike”.

The waiter came again with a large mortar containing a goat head soaked in oil like the Nkwobi and garnished with onion rings and vegetables.

“Can I have another bottle of pammy, please”

“Me too”, Ugbomma said, the waiter nodded and left.

It was already dark now, night had crept up on them. The compound was now lit by coloured bulbs on the trees, there was a green bulb in the tree just behind Ugbomma and Ebube marvelled at how beautiful she looked, even in green light. Fela’s ITT saxophone solo filled the night air, a couple danced close by.

“What are you studying there?” she asked

“Mechanical Engineering”

“Really?” she asked, she drank her last glass of wine “I was expecting you to mention an art discipline, that is exactly how you sound”.

“You don’t look like one to stereotype”

“I know right”

“Well, I write too”, he said as he picked the last piece of meat from the mortar.

“That’s awesome, what do you write?”

“For now, short stories, spoken word”




“I have a burden, I feel that every young African should know, that Africa is moving forward. That our place is not in the rear, that it is time we stop running away and wear Africa proudly, that it is time we stop conforming and be who we are supposed to be, else we might be left behind, because the change is inevitable. So it is a subplot or the main plot in many of my stories, Africa”. He dumped the last bone in the Nkwobi mortar and faced the goat head.

“That is just beautiful”, she said, her eyes expressing her awe.

“I must read something of yours”.

“I have a blog”

“Great, send me the link on WhatsApp”, she pushed her phone to him “type in your number”. He smiled when he saw her Game of Thrones wallpaper. He typed with his free left hand and pushed the phone back to her.

The waiter came back with their bottles of palm wine and left after placing them on the table.

Ebube’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

“That’s me calling”, Ugbomma said as he reached into his pockets “save my number”

“What do you do?” He asked after saving her number.

“I am a student, computer science at Ife” she answered “I am an artist also, I paint”.


“Let me show you some of my work”, she took her phone and opened its photo gallery, then showed him a picture of a painting. It was a painting of a road, a busy road, with cars and buses littered all over and people struggling to get across. It was chaotic, beautiful chaos. In the background was the large façade of a building, on the top were three letters REX.

“I know this place, it is Aba, it is park, Aba”

“Yes it is”

“This is so beautiful, so realistic, I feel like I can touch the man in red shirt”

“This painting is on display at the National Art Gallery”.

“Wow, that is awesome, congrats”

“Thank you” she said. “What rules your mind, your machines or your stories?” She asked later.

“Africa, how I can contribute to her greatness, be it by my stories or my machines”, he replied. “And you, computers or the canvass?”

“Computers, they are such intricate beings, there is so much sophistication to them in the way that can be so small and yet so big at the same time. They enthrall me. The canvas comes second, a close second”.

Ebube nodded and tore flesh away from the goat head and ate, it was divine – the goat meat flavour, different from that of any other meat, coated in the spicy oil.

“This is better than the Nkwobi, even better than your point-and-kill”, he said.

She chuckled and pushed away the now empty fish pepper soup plate and tore a piece from the goat head and ate. “It is very good, almost as good as the fish”, she said as she chewed. “You know that they boil the brain, then mash it and mix it with the oil paste, it adds to the unique taste”.

The long intro of Fela’s ITT was playing as they ate the goat head until there was nothing left. They drank and talked and talked, about books, movies, Game of Thrones, school, aspirations after school and the future.

“You know Olanna is premiering this weekend”, Ebube mentioned

“Yes, Genevieve Nnaji and Nwokoye, my two favourite actresses. The trailer almost brought me to tears”

“Kunle Afolayan cannot disappoint”

“Very true”

“You want to go see it with me?” Ebube ventured, “On Friday”

She smiled, “of course”, Ebube smiled too, his heart returned to its normal pace, he hadn’t realized it was racing.

“What’s with the Fela songs?” Ebube asked a moment later as ITT ended

“Dimga is obsessed with very old songs” she said laughing “he claims that it adds character to his establishment.

“It does though”

As if Dimga had heard Ebube’s question, another song filled the night, this time Onyeka Onwenu’s Iyogogo. Ugbomma laughed loudly as the afro beats rose into the air, “I love this song”, she said and danced in her seat.

“Do you want to dance?” Ebube asked. He didn’t know when the question left his mouth, the palm wine had pushed them out. She nodded and he stood and stretched out his hand to her, she took it and they walked to the middle of the compound. They danced and danced and danced, till their feet ached and they were lost in the sounds of their laughter.

Ebube did not hear Dimga’s gate being rudely pushed open, his ears were filled with Ugbomma’s laughter as he unsuccessfully tried to sing along with Sir Victor Uwaifo’s Joromi. He had his hands on her tiny waist as they danced to the song, Ugbomma twisting her waist this way and that. He let out a shriek as a blow landed on his shoulder and he immediately turned to see where the blow had come from.

“Take your hands off my daughter, osiso”, a heavy set woman standing before him barked. Ebube, saw the resemblance even in the dim lights, the short nose and the dark eyes. Only that this woman’s eyes looked tired, like the many stories they had to tell weighed them down. Ebube removed his hands immediately from Ugbomma’s waist as the woman raised her hand to hit him again. She looked like a raging bull wrapped in many layers of cloth. She wore a long skirt that would have been sweeping the ground if she hadn’t pulled it up to her stomach, an unflattering shirt that seemed to want to bury her and a head scarf that swallowed her hair, ears and most of her face. Ebube decided she was coming from church.

“Mummy, good evening”, Ugbomma greeted as if she did not see the rage that burned in her mother’s eyes.

“What are you doing here? Why didn’t you come to prayers, eh?” The woman bellowed.

“We were in church yesterday, and the day before, and the one before that”, Ugbomma said looking around, carefully avoiding her mother’s gaze, then adding under her breath so that her mother won’t hear “if Jesus wanted us to live in his house, he would have said so”

Eh?” Her mother asked “What did you say?” Ugbomma didn’t say answer, “instead of coming to church, you are here frolicking with some boy”, she threw Ebube a dirty look, then grabbed her daughter’s wrist “Oya let’s go home”, she dragged her “you always feel like you know so much, stupid girl”

“See you Friday”, Ugbomma said to Ebube as she allowed her mother drag her away. Ebube stood transfixed as he watched her being pulled away. He missed her immediately.

“And what is this you are wearing?” He heard her mother ask.

“It is very hot, mum, I would melt if I was to dress like you…” she said and her voice faded into the night.

Ebube discovered then that Sir Victor Uwaifo’s Joromi was still playing, albeit coming to an end, that only a few people had taken notice of the little scene that had just played out, that he had found that little scene very amusing, that he was still smiling, that he would always come back here to Dimga’s place, to eat Nkwobi, isi ewu and even point-and-kill and drink Palm wine, and that Ugbomma would never leave his thoughts.


Nduka Dike (@DikeNduka) is a story teller and Computer Engineer currently living in Aba, Nigeria. Nduka believes that more African stories need to be told, because stories are empowering and powerful.

This story was published in collaboration with Writivism. Writivism is a Kampala-based initiative that supports and promotes African Literature, they are also the organisers of East Africa’s leading literary festival. You can follow their work on Twitter: @Writivism.

Related country: Nigeria

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