My Name is Hope: A Short Story

January 13, 2024
23 mins read

My Name is Hope

By
Vivian N. Ogbonna

Monday, March 16, 2020.

Part 1

I was born in Nigeria by
Nigerian parents, and have lived all my life in Nigeria. I was born healthy and
handsome and my parents were over-joyed because they had been married for
several years before I arrived. However, I was born with both male and female
reproductive organs, but this didn’t seem to bother my parents very much.

I was given the name Hope
two weeks after my birth. My father’s mother had arrived from the village,
laden with all manner of foodstuff, condiments and local herbal remedies which
she said were good for nursing mothers. The next day, as she prepared to give
me a bath, she noticed I had both male and female sex organs and she burst into
tears; copious tears that didn’t stop flowing for hours. My mother became scared
that my grandma might drown me with her tears so she took me from her arms and
laid me on the bed, the bed that I shared with my parents, while waiting for her
to quieten down.

After she had been consoled,
grandma asked tentatively, to no one in particular-

“What sort of life will
this child have? It’s neither male nor female?”

My father looked up from
the newspaper he was reading and said to her, “It doesn’t matter, Mama. The
baby is healthy. That’s what is important.”

“Have you thought about
all the difficulties this baby will face in future? Will it be dressed up as a
boy or girl? What about school and hospital records? Will they read male or
female?”

“God will take control,
Mama. We don’t want to worry about that now,” my Father said.

The next day, after my
Grandma had eaten a huge meal of yam porridge and vegetables, and had drank a big
bottle of stout, she belched loudly, wiped her mouth, patted her stomach and
announced that my name would be Hope, not Kingsley, or Shirley, or Musa, or
whatever else my parents had suggested.

“How can you give your
baby any of those names?” she wondered. “They are gender- specific and your
baby has no specific gender.”

Gradually,
members of my family became used to my being both a boy and a girl. Outwardly I
looked like a boy so my mother dressed me in male clothes with a very strict
warning that I never take them off in public. I obeyed her. I was a happy child
and didn’t know there was anything unusual about me.

 I grew into a good looking and well behaved teenager.
I did very well in class and excelled at sports. In spite of it, I found it
difficult to relate with people outside our home. You see, word had filtered
out that I was both a boy and a girl and people didn’t understand why I was
that way. They thought it conveyed special privileges on me. And they didn’t
like that, not at all. So, everywhere I went people mocked me, and bullied me
and asked me very embarrassing questions.

Two of my friends cornered
me one day in the school toilet and asked me to take off my clothes so they
could see for themselves all they had heard. I refused bluntly. And they jumped
on me and beat me up.  I put up a strong
resistance but it was two of them against me. Somebody alerted the Sports
Master who came running towards us just as the bullies tried to stuff sand into
my mouth. When my persecutors sighted him they loosed their hold on me and took
to their heels. I fell down to the ground and cried as though my heart would
break; these were my close pals.

Later that evening – I
think my friend Daniel told my parents that I’d been in a fight with two other
friends – my father wanted to know what happened but I was reluctant to give
him the details. I was very heart-broken. My mother came to me when my father
had gone to bed and coaxed me into telling her about the fight. In between
tears I told her what happened. As I spoke, she held my hands, wiped my tears
and cried with me. Thereafter, my parents decided that I would go and live with
my grandmother in our village. There I would be happier and safer, people would
not be as intrusive and judgmental about me and I’d have a better chance of
growing up without any emotional trauma or complex. I sat through the
discussion with a mixture of sadness and excitement. I was excited at starting
a new life elsewhere, but I was going to miss my parents so much.

My father and I prepared
for our journey to the village. They bought new clothes, shoes and a new school
bag filled with school books for me. I even had a hair cut at the Barber’s, who
also cut my finger and toe nails. The morning of our departure, my mother woke
me up and hugged me. I felt her tears on my face as she held me close, prayed
for me and promised to visit every month.

Our journey started.

Suddenly, I heard
screaming. It was a woman’s voice and I thought it was my mother’s. When I
opened my eyes I found myself in the midst of chaos. Our bus had been involved
in an accident. There was flesh, blood, broken bones, mangled metal and the
smell of melted plastic all around me. I saw the driver lying in a crumpled
heap by the road side, coughing out what looked like blood, more blood running
down his forehead, his clothes torn in places. The woman with a baby who had been
sitting on my right was lying prostrate on the ground. Her baby lay close by
and I wondered if she was alive or dead. I looked around for my father and saw
him sitting near the driver, his head in his hands, his hands and face
lacerated with cuts, his shirt torn into several shreds. Other passengers were
either lying down by the side of the road or struggling to stand up. There were
sounds of groaning, crying, cussing and loud praying from these people.

I looked closely at this
scene again. Eighteen passengers had embarked on the journey but I could only
count seventeen now. Gradually it dawned on me that I was the eighteenth person,
but now I was standing outside the scene and observing all that was going on.
As I stood there taking in the confusion, I felt a touch on my left arm and I
looked around. Somebody stood there looking at me. I wasn’t sure how old she
was but she looked very young, about my own age. She was dressed in a long
yellow dress that flowed to the ground, which had long flowing sleeves and a
white sash at the waist. She took my left arm and said in the kindest, softest
voice I ever heard –

“Come on, let’s leave this
place. It’s not a pretty sight.”

“No,” I said, shaking off
her hand, “who are you?”

She smiled but didn’t
answer. I looked behind us and saw a huge beautiful gate. It was made of a
material like metal and painted a very brilliant white. On it were carved an
uncountable number of human beings of different sizes and races, animals and
birds, trees and flowers, mountains and hills, and everything in nature.  It shimmered and glistened as rays of
sunlight flashed on it, dotting the white color with streaks of gold and a
million other colors. I squinted in the brightness of it all. This person, who
had met me at the huge gate, pushed at it very gently and it opened wide enough
for us to walk through.

“I want to go and be with
my father,” I told her. I was annoyed and started to walk back towards the
gate.

“You can’t,” she said very
gently, her eyes filled with compassion.

“Why?” I asked.

She smiled. It was a
barely-there widening of her lips that didn’t convey any emotions.

“Because you are dead,”
she replied. Now I saw a hint of wetness in her eyes.

“Dead?” I asked in anguish.

“Yes,” she said. “You are
dead. You belong here now. Just like me.”

“Is this a joke or
something?” I asked again. I hoped this was a silly hoax. Today was the 20th
of April, so it wasn’t April Fool Day. My shock had turned to annoyance. “I
said I want to go and see if my father is okay and you tell me I can’t?”

“Yes, you can’t. You don’t
have life in you anymore. This is your home from now till eternity.” Her voice
was firm.

“Who are you?” I asked.

Everything felt surreal.

“I was a human being just
like you but I died and found myself here,” she replied.

“What is your name?” I
asked.

“My name is Peace.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Peace cleared her throat.
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. She sniffled.  And then she started to talk.

“One day, very early in
the morning just before the call to prayer, a car bomb exploded in our
neighbourhood. I was only three years old at the time. Hundreds of people died
in that explosion, houses were burned to the ground, cars were destroyed, trees
and all forms of vegetation was scorched in the inferno that followed. A piece
of concrete hit me on the head and I passed out. At the hospital, the doctor
said I couldn’t be revived. However, I could hear and see him talking to my
distraught parents as I lay on the gurney. Then, I saw myself standing in front
of the huge white gate where I met you. Somebody came outside, took me by the
hand and led me in, as though I was being expected. He dressed my wounds, gave
me a bath, a change of clothes and food to eat. And since then I have been
here. I have tried so many times to leave the big gate but it wouldn’t open. I
was miserable initially but over the years I have grown used to it and now I
actually enjoy it here.“

“O my goodness.” I said.
Tears welled up in my eyes and ran down my cheeks.

“Do not despair.
Eventually you will start to like it here.” Peace assured me.

“How long have you been
here?” I asked.

“I can’t say for sure.
There are no clocks or calendars here and so we don’t have any concept of time.
Let me show you something.”

She took me by the hand
and led me towards a beautiful house. It was painted a light yellow on the
outside and had lots of gardens round it. We walked inside the house and stood
in front of a window draped with white curtains. Peace drew back the curtains
slowly. I expected to look out unto the beautiful gardens around the house but
instead I saw my parents sitting outside our house. My mother was wiping her
eyes and blowing her nose, while people stood in groups talking loudly, some
gesticulating, others with their arms folded over their chests, their faces
tense and worried. I started to hear their voices and make out their words.

Somebody asked if I was
dead and where was my corpse. My father said he wasn’t even sure what had
happened.

“After the accident, I
looked around but I couldn’t find Hope. Nobody at the crash scene saw his
corpse. We don’t know how, but we lost Hope.” Then he burst into tears.

 “What exactly do you mean?” my mother’s sister
asked, visibly angry. “Is Hope dead or lost? If he’s dead where is his corpse? And
if he’s lost, you must tell us how it happened.”

My heart broke into a
thousand pieces, seeing my father sob like a baby. I hid my head in my palms
and cried. The pain of separation was so deep. Here I was looking at the people
I loved most in the world, hearing their voices, longing to touch them and hug
them, but not being able to.  It seemed
so unfair.

Peace closed the curtains
and turned to me.

“It’s okay Hope. Wipe your
tears.” She handed me a white handkerchief that smelled a bit like my
father’s.  Or was it just my imagination?

“I know it’s a tough one
but you’ll get used to being here. You see, this place is so much better than
where you’re coming from. Here, life is like paradise. We eat well balanced
meals every day. Our hospitals are better than the best in the world. Our roads
are smooth and our streets well-lit at nights. We have electricity all the
time. Here, there are no criminals and sometimes we go to bed without locking
our doors. We may even sleep in the open air in those gardens if we wish; the
air is so fresh and clean. The internet and telephone services are also without
comparison. This is the ideal place to live in, believe me.” She stopped, took
a deep breath and exhaled.

It didn’t sound like a bad
place after all; it was certainly better than where I was coming from but I said:

“Peace, I really would
love to go back. You see, I haven’t yet told you that I’m the only child of my
parents and the separation will kill them. I am also the only person in my
country who’s called Hope. Every other person that was named Hope died in
infancy. My grandma gave me the name Hope because she said it’d give me courage
to go on living in spite of the bad experiences I would most certainly have in
life.  You may also be surprised to know
that I was born with both male and female sex organs.

“I know.”

“How did you know?”

“I can see everything that
happens over there from this window? I knew you were coming here some day because
people called Hope live very short lives in your country.“

 “Like my grandma predicted, being this way
came with many challenges. And so my parents decided I should go live with her.”

“And you died on the way
to your Grandma’s!”  Peace said this with
a hint of annoyance in her voice.

There was silence as we
both became lost in our thoughts.

“What a cruel fate.” Peace
resumed talking. “Why then do you want to go back?”

She had been kind all this
while but seemed to be sneering at me now.

“I’ll tell you something
else. The system in your country insists on destroying everything that makes
life worth living. Look through that window again and observe your people.

They’re so angry and
bitter and cynical. Most of them do not believe any good thing can come out of
your country any longer. And that is because your governments have failed you
over the years. Besides, your people talk about things that are wrong but only
few people are ready to right those wrongs. They have placed themselves at the
mercy of the system and nothing matters to them any longer. They have lost
Hope. But this shouldn’t be. Hope can be restored… Hope can be restored.”

 I looked at Peace. She was right. A sense of
hopelessness wrapped me like a blanket. I was lost for words. My tears had
dried on my cheeks. I kept on replaying her words in my mind. She said this was
a better place than where I was coming from but I felt no consolation by her
words.

At that instance I heard
the sound of music playing at a distance. It sounded like Nyanya’s Kukere. Was there a party going on
somewhere? Peace laced her fingers through mine.

“Let’s go and find out
what’s happening,” she said as we walked away.

PART 2

Hope and Peace explored
the nooks and corners of a new world that was Magical and Enchanting. Majestic
hills stood out of the mist and touched the blue skies; rivers and streams
flowed in graceful curves through lawns and fields; trees hung heavy with ripe,
succulent fruit; exotic plants dotted the landscape in vibrant hues, their
sweet perfume wafting through the breeze; birds and butterflies flitted around
the gardens like pieces of brightly colored paper; animals frolicked and
gamboled in abandon. They heard sounds of music, sounds of laughter, sounds of
animals and trees and birds speaking to one other. They met people of all
races, nationalities and tribes, the young and the old.

They returned to the
beautiful house and crept into bed, but Hope was restless and couldn’t sleep.
He was sad and longed to see his parents once again. He tiptoed into the room
where Peace lay sleeping. She looked calm and beautiful. He ran down the
corridor, quickly, careful not to make a noise, and into the room from where he
and Peace had observed his parents. All the windows looked alike draped with
white curtains.

 He ran to the first one and pulled the
curtains open.

“My Goodness,” he
exclaimed, covering his mouth with his hand.

 He was looking right into the palatial living
room of High Chief, Sir, Dr. Olowo Oriade, JP, the wealthiest, most flamboyant
politician in town. He was surrounded by members of his family, party
stalwarts, neighbours, friends and business colleagues. The mood was jubilant
as they clicked glasses of champagne and toasted to Chief’s recent victory in
the state’s governorship elections. Hope shuddered. The name of High Chief
Olowo Oriade elicited fear in his heart. His father had told him that Chief
Oriade was found guilty of murdering a young journalist who had unearthed some
terrible secrets about him a couple of years ago. High Chief Oriade had served
only one month of the jail term. He left the maximum security prison amidst
pomp, pageantry and a long convoy of exotic cars, after which there was a
lavish party to celebrate his release. It was rumored that he had bribed the
judge in charge of the case with choice property in the Maitama area of Abuja
and more in Dubai. The following month High Chief Oriade had married two wives
on the same day. The women were sisters and their father was his Campaign
Manager.

As Hope looked on, a woman
with huge breasts, massive buttocks and several gold teeth flashing in her
mouth stood up and addressed the High Chief in a very loud and hoarse voice.
She was the Woman Leader of his campaign organization.

“Congratulations on your
victory, my oga at the top. You are this best man for this job. We know you we
deliver the dividends of democracy to the teeming masses of this state. We are
forever loyal to you, sir. God will continue to bless you.”

High Chief Oriade nodded,
raised his hand in salutation to the her and belched loudly. He tried to stand
up and make a speech, but couldn’t. He was tipsy, having consumed four bottles
of

Champagne in the past one
hour. He dug vigorously inside his nostril, brought out a slimy lump and
inspected it closely before flicking it off the tips of his fingers.

“Our Woman Leader has
spoken well. Mama Orobo. Iya Ikebe. Carry go jare. You are the mother of this
great party. May God bless you,” shouted a very light complexioned man with
blackened cheekbones and knuckles. His voice was so guttural it was almost
intelligible. He wore an embroidered kaftan made of a bright yellow brocade
fabric and a pair of bright green patent leather shoes. He stood up and walked
over to the Woman Leader and they exchanged a high- five.

“Mama. You are a money
spender,” he hailed her.

“And a cheerful giver,”
another party supporter chorused. Everybody burst out laughing.

Stewards appeared with
more bottles of champagne, steaming plates of food, small chops and asun,
pieces of goat meat cooked in peppered sauce.

Hope turned away from the
scene, embarrassed.  He made his way to
the next window. Perhaps he would see his parents through this one. He pulled
open the curtains and his eyes filled up with tears. Uncle Innocent, who used
to live on their street, was walking down Liberation Avenue, the longest road
in town. The sun was harsh and relentless. Every now and then he would wipe his
face with a piece of cloth and stretch his hand into the road to flag down a
bus. A woman walked ahead of him carrying a baby on her back and a toddler in
one arm. In the other hand she carried a plastic basket. Uncle Innocent walked
up to the woman and said –

 “Madam, let me help you.”

She looked at him tiredly
as he took the child in her arms. She thanked him profusely and asked, “When
will this NUPENG people call off their strike sef? This sufferhead don too much
o! Look at me carrying two children, trekking for almost one hour. This
Government should help us. We are really suffering in this country.”

She sighed as she adjusted
the baby on her back. Uncle Innocent didn’t say a word and kept on walking.

Hope hurried to the next
window and parted the curtains. The face of Sylvanus Toby, reading the late
night news on Nigerian Television Authorities, stared back at him.

“In the early hours of
Saturday morning, gunmen suspected to be members of the Boko Haram sect
abducted 77 students of Danbaki Girls’ Secondary School, in Danbaki, Bornu
State. The girls were returning from an excursion to the Baki Dam, located in
the village of Danbaki, Borno State. 
Details after the commercial break.”

Hope stood rooted to the
spot, confused. He remembered that six months earlier, members of the Boko
Haram sect had released every person in their custody. The day the released
hostages arrived Abuja, from where they had been held in Guzama forest, was
declared a Day of National Jubilation. People danced and celebrated on the
streets all over the country. As Hope contemplated this piece of news he heard
Cyril Stober say again –

 “In another report coming into our studios, a
group of Niger Delta Militants abducted twenty seven expatriates working for
Tech-field Oil Services Company, as they travelled from Port Harcourt to
Brass.”

This is ridiculous, Hope
thought, moving away from the window. Didn’t his father say the government had,
through series of negotiations, persuaded the Niger Delta militants to stop all
kidnappings?

Hope closed the curtains.
He felt like a voyeur, peering into people’s homes and lives. Now he understood
why peace had warned him not to open those windows. He should have obeyed her.
But he was determined to see something that would lift up his spirits. And so
he picked up courage. It gave speed to his steps. He rushed over to another
window and pulled the curtains open with such force that the rods on which they
hung shook as though they would come off the wall.

The scene before him made
his heart beat furiously. His throat tightened and he gasped, as though for
air. His body started to shake and he felt the urge to urinate. He closed his
eyes as though to blot out the image, but curiosity overshadowed pain and he
opened them again. In horror he watched as people tried to escape the scene of
a bomb blast while Fire fighters battled to quench the fire that engulfed the
building. Rubble, charred cars and body parts littered everywhere. Attendants
carried the dead, the maimed and the wounded and placed them in ambulances
which screamed away to hospitals. Passersby rushed over to help. He looked on
as a policeman bent over a wounded man dressed in a business suit, pull out a
wallet from the man’s suit and slip it inside his own pocket. He then called
out to a volunteer and they lifted the suited gentleman into a waiting
ambulance. He heard a soldier shout frantically into a cell phone, “Bomb blast.
Yes, I said bomb blast. I need more men. Yes! Yes! Now!”

He closed the curtains and
fell down to his knees. He was angry. Is this how much value there was to human
life? He buried his face in his hands and the tears, which never seemed to be
far away these days, started to flow. After a while he felt a presence over
him. He looked up and Peace stood there, her eyes moist with tears. She offered
him her hand and he stood up shakily.

“Oh God,” he gasped, “I
didn’t know you were here,” Hope said, sniffing.

“Hope, you promised not to
look through that window again,” Peace said.

“I couldn’t help it. I was
so sure I’d see my parents again. But the things I saw make me very unhappy.”

“That’s why I warned you
not to go there. The pain you’ll feel is more than you can bear. Can you deal
with it? Tell me. Even if you go back to earth can you change any of the things
you’ve just seen?”

“I think I can. I will do
my best,” Hope replied.

He stared into Peace’s
face, his expression full of hope. Then he continued-

“Peace, you know…it’s not
so dark and dismal on the other side. There are many bright lights there, but I
can hardly see them from here. Why is that?”

“That is the way of life,
Hope. We see situations in their true colours when we stand outside of them.
And yes, if you must know, I see the bright lights too, but the darkness
threatens to over shadow them.”

“What can I do then?”

“I can’t tell you what to
do. You have to work out the change you want; change that will endure. You have
to keep the lights shining too. If not, they’ll burn out. And you’ll be left in
perpetual darkness, forever.”

Hope started to sob again,
his head resting in the crook of his elbow. With the edge of his sleeve he
wiped the mucus from his nose. Peace put her arms around his shoulders.

“Anyway, it’s time to
leave,” Peace said gently.

Hope looked up sharply.

“Leave? I don’t understand
you.”

“It’s time for you to go
back to earth.”

Hope rubbed his eyes with
his knuckles. This was a dream, surely.

“But you said I was dead.
You said I would never leave this place,” he blurted out defiantly. Why had
Peace lied to him?

“Yes indeed, I said so.
But The Master wants to breathe life into you and send you back.”

“Why?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?
You are miserable in this place. You are just like Lot’s wife who preferred the
pleasures and pains of the past to the hopes of the future. Besides, The Master
says you’ll be more useful in your country than you can ever be here. You have
to go back.”

Peace took Hope by the
hand and led him gently outside. When they got to the big gate Hope hesitated.

“Go. This is what you
wanted, isn’t it?” Peace nudged him forward. There were tears in her eyes. Hope
looked back at the beautiful house, still holding on to Peace’s hands.

“This is so sudden, Peace.
Can’t I leave another time? I’d like to say goodbye to the others.”

“No! There’s no time. You
must leave now.” Her voice was firm.

“But, how will I find my
way back?” Hope sounded fearful.

“Two men are waiting to
lead you back.”

“Two men? How will I
recognize them?”

“You won’t need to. They
will find you.”

Peace pushed gently at the
huge gate and it yielded.  She tried to
push Hope through but he placed his body in between the gap. Tears rolled down
their cheeks as they looked at each other. There was so much to say, but the
words wouldn’t come.

“I’ll miss you, my friend.
You are a good teacher.”

Gently, Peace pushed Hope
away and stepped back. The huge gate closed without a sound on his face.

 Hope looked upwards. The gate was ablaze with
bright sunlight and beautiful colours. He shielded his eyes with his hands. It
seemed that more human beings, animals and birds,
trees and flowers had been carved on the gate since the day he walked in.

Peace had said
that each time a living thing died, its image became engraved on the gate. Now
he believed her.

He turned away
and stepped into the road leading back to earth.

***                                                    

Dr. Oma Atete ground his
teeth noisily as he looked at the young man lying unconscious on the bed. His
wounds were very severe and his neck was at an angle that suggested it might be
broken. He took a stethoscope from the matron and listened to the patient’s
chest cavity and heart. He picked up his wrist and checked the pulse. They
would have to move him to another hospital.

Matron Vicky stood timidly
before him.

“Two men brought him here
around 6.30am. They were on their way to church when they saw him lying in a
gully inside a bush. They thought he was dead, but when they came close they
noticed he was breathing. I told them to go and make a report at the Police
station,” Matron Vicky said.

“Are you sure their story
is true?” the Medical Director asked, his face swollen with displeasure.

“I think so, sir. The
policemen came back with them to see the boy. The DPO confirmed there was a
ghastly motor accident yesterday morning along Jubilee Express. He said a boy
of about sixteen years, who was travelling with his father, got missing. They
think this may be the boy.”

Nurse Vicky was scared. In
spite of the Medical Director’s instructions that they never admit a patient
who wasn’t accompanied by somebody to pay the bills, she had admitted the
wounded boy.

“So have they contacted
the man to come and see if this is his son?” He glared at Matron Vicky.

“I don’t know sir,” she
said and stepped back nervously, bumping into a nurse who had walked in
carrying a kidney dish with dressing forceps and other items to dress the
patient’s wounds.

“Give me the DPO’s number.
Do you have it?” He asked.

“No sir. I think Manager
does,” she replied.

Dr. Atete turned to walk
away and she followed him.

“Err, please sir, the
Police men also collected money from me when they came here. They said we have
to give them something so that they can start investigations, and also for
their fuel.”

“What kind of
investigations are they doing? Is this a criminal case? And haven’t I told you
never to admit anybody who was involved in an accident?”

Dr. Oma Atete was angry.
He wiped the sweat from his face.

“Sir, the boy was
seriously wounded and his pulse was very faint.”

“Matron, I don’t want to
hear that rubbish. Next time you will obey my instructions. I won’t refund that
money to you.”

He stormed away. At the
entrance, he bumped into three men who were accompanied by two Police men. One
of the men had his arm in a sling. His face was covered in stitches and
plasters. He walked slowly and stiffly.

“Sir, these are the two
men who brought the boy here this morning,” Matron Vicky said.

“Good morning, Doc,” the
Divisional Police Officer said effusively. This doctor looks wealthy, he
thought.

“Good morning officer. The
Matron has told me everything. Thank you very much.”

Dr. Atete shook hands all
around. He was relieved to see them.

“And this is the man whose
son went missing after the accident. He wants to see if it’s his son lying in
the ward,” the DPO said, pointing to the man whose hand was in a sling.

“Oh that’s good. Matron,
please take them to the ward. I’m in the office. I need to make an urgent phone
call.”

Dr. Atete studied the
wounded man who wore a faded checkered shirt over a pair of oversized corduroy
trousers and bathroom slippers. This kind of person will not be able to pay my
bills, he thought. They have to take the patient away immediately.

He walked away, leaving a
trail of expensive perfume behind him. Vivian U. Ogbonna is an interior decorator
who lives and works in Lajos and Abuja, Nigeria. She studied English Language
at the University of Nigeria Nsukka. She loves the written word and hopes to be
a published author in the future.

My Name is Hope: A Short Story

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//set data for hoidden fields
//transfer();
var viewMode = 1 ;
//============================================================================
//HTML Editor Scripts follow
//============================================================================
function exCom(target,CommandID,status,value)
{
document.getElementById(target).focus();
document.execCommand(CommandID,status,value);
}

function transfer()
{
var HTMLcnt = document.getElementById(“ctl00_MainContent_txtComment_msgDiv1”).innerHTML;
var cnt = document.getElementById(“ctl00_MainContent_txtComment_msgDiv1”).innerText;
var HTMLtarget = document.getElementById(“ctl00_MainContent_txtComment_HTMLtxtMsg”)
var target = document.getElementById(“ctl00_MainContent_txtComment_txtMsg”)

HTMLtarget.value = HTMLcnt;
target.value = cnt;
}

function hidePDIECLayers(f,p)
{
//e.style.display = ‘none’
f.style.display = ‘none’
p.style.display = ‘none’
}

function toggle(e)
{
if (e.style.display == “none”)
{
e.style.display = “”;
}
else
{
e.style.display = “none”;
}
}

function ToggleView()
{
var msgDiv = document.getElementById(“ctl00_MainContent_txtComment_msgDiv1”);
if(viewMode == 1)
{
iHTML = msgDiv.innerHTML;
msgDiv.innerText = iHTML;
//alert(viewMode);
// Hide all controls
Buttons.style.display = ‘none’;
//selFont.style.display = ‘none’;
//selSize.style.display = ‘none’;
msgDiv.focus();

viewMode = 2; // Code
}
else
{
iText = msgDiv.innerText;
msgDiv.innerHTML = iText;

// Show all controls
Buttons.style.display = ‘inline’;
//selFont.style.display = ‘inline’;
//selSize.style.display = ‘inline’;
msgDiv.focus();

viewMode = 1; // WYSIWYG
}
}
function selOn(ctrl)
{
ctrl.style.borderColor = ‘#000000’;
ctrl.style.backgroundColor = ‘#ffffcc’;
ctrl.style.cursor = ‘hand’;
}

function selOff(ctrl)
{
ctrl.style.bo

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