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The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) - Literature - Nairaland

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ANOTHER WEDDING.......A Play (sequel To Just Wedded) / Larry Sun,pls Post The Link To The Paradox Of Abel Here. / Sequel To "without A Silver Spoon" By Eddie Iroh (1) (2) (3) (4)

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The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by LarrySun(m): 10:28pm On Dec 13, 2012
The Prequel: The Brand Of Cain



PROLOGUE

… and he gathered all the bits of shell and stuck them together. That is why Tortoise’s shell is not smooth.
(C.A. Achebe, Things Fall Apart)


1975.

GN––Genevieve Nnaji wasn’t famous in 1975––she was still four years short of existence. Neither was Regina Askia; a mere schoolgirl. Wizkid haunted no young women’s dreams. Wande Coal, Dagrin, Darey, D’banj and P-Square––their existence was yet to be accomplished.

General Yakubu Gowon was the Head of States in 1975––he was acclaimed the youngest Nigerian leader. Nigeria witnessed her third military coup that same year.

The best-seller among African novels was Things Fall Apart (though it was actually first published in 1958).

The movies: Behind the Cloud, The Village Headmaster, Aiye.

The music: Ebenezer Obey, Dele Abiodun, Majek Fashek, I.K. Dairo, Fela Anikulapo Kuti.

It was a different time. A different world.

The Nigeria’s exchange rate of the naira to the US dollar in 1975 was sixty-two kobo.

Petrol pump price per litre was less than ten kobo.

Economic Community Of West African States was founded.

Seven federal universities were founded in Nigeria.

1975. It was the year when Cain Martins was still a young lad of eighteen.


He was drunk when his mother died.

The half-mad Cain Martins staggered into the hospital, having his gin bottle firmly stuck under his armpit. Occasionally, he would release the bottle from the bondage of his arm, uncap it and take a deep swig, he appeared not only to be drinking the gin but also bathing in it. Every of his being stank of alcohol, he even sweated alcohol. In his drunken stupor, he entered the waiting room and sat down amongst two pregnant ladies. Offended by Cain Martins appearance and smell, the pregnant women rose to occupy another seat farther from Cain. His eyes scared them; they were granite hard and restless like the eyes of a vulture. The drunken eighteen-year-old ugly boy grinned at the women and said:

“Can I help it if my face frightens people?” giving a mock grimace, “Come to think of it, it even frightens me sometimes. Especially when I suddenly find myself looking in a mirror.”

Cain smiled at his comment, and when he smiled, it was the most unbeautiful thing in the world. He said in his drunken accent that elongated vowels and blurred consonants, pointing at the women’s protruded bellies:

“Did each one of you swallow a watermelon overnight?” his voice sounded as if he had something in his mouth; an odd, strangled sound.

One of the women said, the heavier one, “I think you must be mad! No sane man could talk as you do. No man in his right mind would walk into a hospital in such a drunken state.”

Cain shrugged, “What if I am? What is wrong with being mad anyway? Why do people have such a horror of being thought mad? I don’t. I’m perfectly satisfied with the way my mind works. After all, madness is just a matter of view point.”

Sitting there for just fifteen minutes, Cain decided that he had been waiting too long. More people had come in to sit in the waiting room––waiting their own chance to visit a father who had had his appendix removed, a mother who had discovered a small lump under one of her bosoms a bare two days ago, a friend who had been struck in the chest with an invisible sledge hammer while jogging, a brother who had fallen off his bike and hit his head on the tiled road. The faces of the waiters were made up with composure; except, of course, Cain’s.

He got out and made his way to the Intensive Care Unit––where his mother was lying supine on the bed. The petite thirty-five-year old young woman who had once been graciously pretty; the voluptuous curves that had once ruled her body had now withered away. She was now shrunken, her beautiful eyes were now shallow, and her skeletal structures were now visibly pronounced. Her arms and legs were as thin as matchsticks, and this made her feeble limbs look more like a toad’s. AIDS had finally won over her body’s immunity. Pamela was shriveled and withered like an Egyptian mummy.

The room directly opposite the Intensive Care Unit was the delivery room, and two young women had just put to bed therein. And as Cain staggered into the ICU, two ladies emerged from the delivery room, each carrying a bundle of joy. Cain only just made the steps into the ICU. If he hadn’t clutched on to the back of the chair before he sat on it, he would probably have found himself sitting on the floor of the room.

“You aren’t dead yet, Pamela.” He said to his mother.

Although Pamela was Cain’s mother, she always felt a chill crawl up her spine at the sight of her own son, just like she was feeling now. “Cain, I’ve been waiting for you.” Her voice came as a low rasp.

“What do you want from me?” he slurred, and then belched.

“Have you been drinking again, Cain?”

He nodded eagerly, as if he was a little boy and his mother had just asked him if he wanted a new toy, “Yes, I have. Not drunk yet, just a wee bit boozy-woozy. It isn’t against the law to be drunk, is it? Even the Bible confirmed it. Jee-zuz said,” he slurred, “ ‘For in wine shall thou find pleasure’ it’s in First Thessalonians or Second Babylonians, I can’t remember which.”

“How more drunken can you get than this, Cain? I’ll have to go to my grave with the memory that my son is a drunkard. This way you’re drinking yourself like a fish, you may kill yourself if you keep it up, Cain.”

“Pamela, I haven’t fallen off the wagon yet. I’m mobile, am I not? And my words aren’t coming out as lisps, are they? Give me a tongue twister and I will tell you without a slight break. Besides, we both have our different tastes, haven’t we, Pamela? I’m always on the look out for a new bottle of booze while you were always on the look out for something new in trousers. Who knows to how many men you’ve distributed your virus? Now, why did you call me into this shrine they call a hospital?”

Pamela hesitated, as if what she had to say was going to be physically painful. “I have a confession, Cain?”

“And you want me to call you a reverend father?”

“No, Cain, no––I have to confess to you before I die.”

“Wait, let me get my rosary and Bible. What do you want to confess? About where you kept your money?”

“No, no––not about that. It’s about––”

“Where did you keep it?”

“It’s not about––”

“Where did you keep your money, Pamela?” his voice was louder now.

“I want to tell you about––”

“Tell me about the money now or I’ll walk out of here and you shall never see me again. Oh! How you stink so, Pamela!”

Tears flooded his mother’s face as she spoke:

“The money is in the backyard at home––inside a pouch under the water pot. I kept it there because you would have stolen it if I had put it in the house.”

Cain leaned forward, an unusual smile on his face, “How much did you keep there?”

“Everything contained in the pouch is coins. Cain, won’t you listen to my confession before I die?”

“How much do you have in the pouch?”

She said with an effort, “Twenty naira.”

“What!” Cain exploded. He stood up instantly; he nearly lost his balance and quickly held onto the table by the bed to steady himself. Because he was drunk, he was too rocked by the news to stand upright. Sweat poured out from the pores of his face, as if he were a Coke bottle that had been left too long in the freezer. Suddenly his fist clenched itself and came down on the table with a bang; his face crimsoned and two big veins stood out on his forehead. “Is the floor moving up and down or am I drunker than I imagine I am? Did you just say twenty naira, Pamela? You incompetent, useless pin-headed hoe! With all those illiterate, prissy-groined, dye-in-the-wool nincompoops and brutes you’ve been screwing, all you were able to come up with in the end is twenty naira?”

“Cain––my confession––”

“Shut up, Pamela!” he screamed, his face was suddenly vicious. “Just shut up! Lest I kill you before the AIDS do. You filthy woman! I used to think you made real money from your immoral business, so I didn’t care if you trekked up Mount Calvary, climbed the cross and screwed the Christ. Now, you’re here blabbing that all your life’s saving is twenty naira.” He was getting angrier as he spoke, “Listen to me, I know I’m the son of a b*tch––do you know what a b*tch is, Pamela?––and I’ve learned to live with that. But even in death, as you’re busy satisfying Satan and other damned souls in Hell on per minute billings, you are going to wish you had never given birth to me. That, Pamela, I am assuring you.”

He had lost control of the little sense which was still left in his mind, because he was screaming now; thundering curses and vile utterances upon his own mother. Pamela was shivering and weeping, every word from his came upon her like the stab from a knife. Cain, having depleted almost all the curses he was capable of coining, he turned to go, still cursing maniacally under his breath as he exited the ICU.

“Cain!” Pamela called after her son, “Cain––my confession! You must listen––” her shiver had resulted in violent seizures. She began to foam at the mouth. A doctor and two nurses rushed into the room. The doctor switched on the ophthalmoscope and directed the light in Pamela’s right eye.

As though the beam from the machine was a piercing needle and her life a balloon, Pamela let out an explosive breath; her last word came as a whisper:

“Cain!”

She brought her head up suddenly, looked directly into the light which shone on her eyes, slumped back upon her pillow, and died.

With the few techniques and instruments available in the ward, attempts at resuscitation of the diseased and deceased patient were made, but to no avail. Pamela had taken leave of life, and she wasn’t coming back.

As the drink-sodden baboon staggered down the corridor of the hospital he raised his gin bottle to his mouth and drank deeply, the liquid ran from the corner of his mouth down to his chin and the front of his chest, and onto the marble floor of the hospital. When he got out of the hospital the bottle was already empty. He brought it to his mouth again and sucked at air. He was surprised at this; more surprised than at the disappointing news his mother had told him. He brought the bottle up and peered curiously at it so as to be sure it really was empty; the little ram on the bottle label looked back at Cain too. Cain caught the ram’s stare and asked it where the alcohol therein had gone; the ram didn’t offer any answer. Angry at the bottle, the ram on its label, and his mother, he attempted to fling the empty bottle away but it slipped from his grasp. He had no more money to buy another alcohol. Cain swayed home to retrieve the twenty naira inside the pouch which lain under the water pot.

He did not listen to his mother’s confession.

However, Pamela was not the only woman who gave her last sigh back in the hospital. Five rooms away from where Pamela was, a young woman also uttered her last word, and her word also came out in a whisper:

“Abel!”

Both women died at precisely 4:15pm.––June 12, 1975.

2 Likes

Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by Splendblex(f): 7:46am On Dec 14, 2012
Larry is back again!cheesy waiting 4 more o...

1 Like

Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by YOUNGKAHUNA: 9:33am On Dec 14, 2012
.
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by Adinije(f): 9:39am On Dec 14, 2012
wow! I can't wait to know what pamela's confession was.
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by YOUNGKAHUNA: 9:57am On Dec 14, 2012
Nice Story, But You Need To Edit Some Spelling Errors.

One of the women said, the heavier one,
“I think you must be mad! No sane man
could talk as you do. No man in his right
man mind would walk into a hospital in such a
drunken state.”


“Is the
floor moving up and down or am I
drunker drunk than I imagine I am?


As the drink drunk-sodden baboon staggered
down the corridor of the hospital he
raised his gin bottle to his mouth and
drank deeply, the liquid ran from the
corner of his mouth down to his chin and
the front of his chest, and onto the
marble floor of the hospital.
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by HumbledbYGrace(f): 10:34am On Dec 14, 2012
Will be back wink
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by domido(m): 6:49pm On Dec 14, 2012
Larry! Larry!! Larry!!! Aw many times did i cal u? Oya,finish wat u'v started again ooo. Cant wait.
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by avicky(f): 3:33am On Dec 15, 2012
Yipeee! My Larry is back.
Don't let d suspence be too biting.
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by donifez(m): 12:41pm On Dec 15, 2012
Waiting for more updates,keep it up bro
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by donifez(m): 12:41pm On Dec 15, 2012
Waiting for more updates,keep it up bro.
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by phunmiejewels: 2:42pm On Dec 16, 2012
I will follow u anywere u go larry....
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by Iaz93: 11:48pm On Dec 16, 2012
Paradox Of Abel *dancing alanta*
Larry man!!!
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by Iaz93: 11:49pm On Dec 16, 2012
phunmiejewels: I will follow u anywere u go larry....
as in like seriously?
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by olulu(m): 12:54pm On Dec 17, 2012
Oya o, where is Chapter 1?
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by LarrySun(m): 12:01am On Dec 18, 2012
I'm very sorry guys, the internet has been waging war against me lately, and typing isn't a very easy task either...I shall post the first chapter later today. Bless you all.
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by Iaz93: 6:30am On Dec 18, 2012
Larry-Sun:
I'm very sorry guys, the internet has been waging war against me lately, and typing isn't a very easy task either...I shall post the first chapter later today. Bless you all.
Okay. Bless you too.
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by phunmiejewels: 10:35am On Dec 18, 2012
Iaz93:
as in like seriously?
Yh seriously
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by Nobody: 7:25pm On Dec 18, 2012
Hurray! Larry is back, thank God 4 ds paradox of abel, oya lets go there. But no go slow 4 d journey o.

1 Like

Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by LarrySun(m): 9:06pm On Dec 18, 2012
ONE

The morning was cold––cold! Although there wasn’t any rain during the earlier hours of the morning, the air was misty; every image beyond stood out among white clouds. Daniel pulled up the collar of his coat as he walked briskly towards the bus-stop. As he walked, he stared at passers-by. Several collided against him, going in the same direction but walking much faster. Several others were heading south, he noticed the strange behaviour of a man in his expensively cut suit, and he smiled. The man was walking with a certain kind of swagger; apparently because he saw himself as the most striking in appearance that morning, but the man was quite ugly. Large and small vehicles sped superbly by as they blew off the cloudy particles of the mist that had engulfed virtually everywhere, the smokes from these vehicles mingled with the cold raw air of the mist––giving stultifying, and almost suffocating feelings to the awaiting passengers.

Daniel thought with revulsion, what a morning––what a foul morning!

The initial beauty of Rivers––its shops, its restaurants, its well-dressed attractive women––had faded. He saw it now as a glittering world meant for Eskimos.

He felt like being back in Lagos now––he felt a quick pang of homesickness. Sunshine, blue skies––gardens of flowers in the streets, and not the leafless stems he was seeing all around here in Port-Harcourt. Dirt, grime and endless incessant crowds––moving, hurrying, jostling. Busy ants running industriously about their ant-hills. For a moment, he wished he hadn’t chosen Liberation. Then he remembered his purpose––he had come here to train as a professional footballer. But the former excitement he had had about life in Port-Harcourt had waned. He now longed to see his family again––Abigail, Richard, Antonia, Juliet, Silas, his mom and dad––and Hakeem, especially Hakeem. He would love to see that brilliant Hausa boy again; his particular fondness for Hakeem, he could not describe. The boy was just too much. How old would he be by now? Seventeen––it had been three years since the case of Cain. To Daniel, the events of that night still felt like yesterday. Most times, his mind would drift to Lot––that extraordinary detective. Daniel knew that he would at least had been subjected to a court’s hearing had Lot not cast his eyes away on that day of confession. When he thought about the shot that had sounded from the pulled trigger, and the gruesome effect it had unleashed thereafter; his body shivered in revulsion. He believed that a particular innocence in him had been diminished––and all had been Cain’s fault. Cain had forced him to cross a line of which he could not possibly cross back, he thought.

Then a momentary reluctance occurred to him, a sudden questioning of himself as he stood at the bus station: “Why? Is it worth it? Why dwell on the past? Why not wipe out the whole thing from memory? It’s been three years for heaven’s sake!”––things had changed within this space of time––he was no more that twenty-four year old police officer, he was now a twenty-seven year old footballer, but still without a girlfriend. His days of staying at checkpoints, collecting bribes, stopping a bullet in the shoulder, investigating a crime––were all over. But he still missed working with Lot.

A vehicle stopped, the conductor poked his snout out from the slit of the window and shouted where the vehicle was heading as if he were in Noah’s ark and the Biblical rain was doomed to fall at any moment. There were only enough space for three passengers, because the vehicle was already almost filled up from the previous bus-stops. Among about twenty people jostling to get on a vehicle that could hold not more than three, Daniel was lucky to get his own seat beside a girl sitting by the window. He was particularly annoyed at this struggle––and he seriously felt like being in Lagos, where he grew up, as if the South Western state was any better in passengers' struggle to get on buses. Christmas was already approaching, he knew he had just about a week left before they were permitted holiday at the stadium––and his heart rejoiced with each passing second.

Daniel looked distastefully at the crowded interior of the vehicle. People! Incessant, innumerable people! And all so odd looking! Those that hadn’t got faces like sheep looked like cows, some even like apes, he thought. Some of them chattered and fussed. Even the ladies, older and younger––some bleached and looking like pigs, some dark and looking like owls. They were also of depressing uniformity.

He sighed with a sudden longing of a good appearance of the opposite sex––it had been long since he had found a striking lady in this part of the country––

And then, suddenly, he caught his breath, looking right beside him. This girl was different. Black hair, rich creamy skin––eyes with the depth and darkness of night in them. She was succulent and fairly-complexioned. Her face was painted with a matching colour that made it glisten. Her black hair was crispy and curly and conditioned. Her belly in the black shirt from the chest cavity slipped in and joined the waist portion, even in her sitting position her upper body curved naturally in a unique agreement with her lower body. The grapes on her chest were full and jiggling erotically. Daniel was quite certain that the Miss World conglomerates would be falling over heads to get her had they set their eyes on her. Whether beauty was in the eyes of the beholder or not, Daniel firmly believed that some ladies were only facially beautiful. Some possessed only stature. Whilst some either had only magnetism or any two of the three. This one, sitting by the window, could easily be singled out among millions. She did not only possess all, she had something extra: she was full of alluring seductive qualities that made her, to him, an irresistible lady. She sat down there as quietly as the stillness of midnight and as peaceful as a dove. It was all wrong and awkward that this immensely pretty girl should be sitting in this vehicle among these dull drab looking people––all very wrong. She should be in a more exotic car, flipping the pages of a glossy magazine like Ovation, City People or Genevieve. She should be somewhere splendid, not squeezed into the corner of a battering old vehicle.

Daniel was an observant man, a few days with Lot three years ago had taught him that. He did not fail to note the shabbiness of her little black top and skirt, the cheap quality of the necklace around her neck, the flimsy shoes and the defiant note of her small handbag. Nevertheless, splendor was the quality he associated with her. She appeared not more than twenty years old, but Daniel had also learnt not to trust his intuitions when it came to guessing the age of ladies––his elder sister had taught him that, too. This lady beside him was splendid, fine, exotic––she was entirely what a man’s taste would really crave. Everything about this lady saturated his mind. Daniel found himself thinking, “I’ve got to know her––I’ve got to know her––I must know her!

Then the hardest problem occurred to him––the problem of how to talk to her.

Even with the coldness, Daniel found himself sweating.

1 Like

Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by LarrySun(m): 11:33pm On Dec 18, 2012
Remi sat squeezed up against the window and thought how very odd this morning was––she had slept last night sweating like a sacrificial ram. Now this morning there was cold––she didn’t find it unstrange. In this vehicle now there was a cold stuffiness––the pungent smell of smoke––the smell of cheap soap, and another very unpleasant smell of the body––it came, she though, from the stout woman sitting behind her. The woman smelled of anything other than body spray. Remi sniffed delicately, imbibing the odour of smoke reluctantly.

The bus conductor shouted the next bus-stop and the vehicle pulled over long enough for two passengers to alight and another two to join. Her heart began to beat a little faster as the vehicle proceeded. She though about what life would finally offer after knowing what he looked like. Would things seem right after this? Oh, yes, it would of course––what could go wrong? What?

The curve of Remi’s mouth had a grim determination, that beautiful mouth. For a moment, it looked like the mouth of a child––a mouth that knew only its own desires and that was as yet unaware of guilt.

She looked round her with the curiosity of a child. All these people in the bus––how many of them? Twenty? How strange they were––these Riverians! They all seemed so strange, and likewise proud-looking; they seemed contented with their present status. Their ignorance––their illiteracy––oh! Port-Harcourt––the treasure base of the nation indeed! With just over five million inhabitants––poverty reeked this part of the country, contrary to what her slogan spelled.

Among all, this was a handsome man sitting beside her––Remi thought he was very handsome. She liked his bright eyes and his heavy shoulders––he was meaty, but not fat. He had the graciousness of a Nollywood movie star, and his lips––oh! Those lips––the most impressively carved part of his face. She could feel herself soften as she imagined being kissed with those lovely lips––and being held in those strong hands. More to her glee, Remi could see that the man admired her. She had not looked at him once directly, but she knew perfectly how often he had looked at her and exactly how he had looked.

She registered the fact without much emotion though, but with a considerable feeling of interest. Remi grew up in a neighbourhood where men looked at women as nothing but food, and they did not hide the fact unduly. She wondered if he fell among this class of men and decided that he didn’t––he looked too innocent to belong among those disrespectful monkeys.

The conductor announced the approach of another bus stop, but nobody seemed to be getting off. At the bus-stop after that, the foul-smelling woman and two other passengers got off. Remi quickly pulled back the glass of the window which had been pulled shut by the dirty woman. Then she relaxed comfortably back on her seat and peered out the window at the streets of Port-Harcourt––the mist was already lifting and she could make out clearer images of objects beyond the horizon. She nearly did, but didn’t turn her head as the man shifted his weight closer to her as another passenger came into the vehicle to sit beside him. Remi could feel his strong thigh as it slightly brushed hers––and she wondered if this handsome man was feeling what she was feeling.

She continued to look pensively out of the window, masking her nervousness the only way she could.

Daniel Oliver Famous said, “Would you mind shutting the window a little bit? The cold is too much.”

Remi pretended not to hear him. A pleasant voice, she thought, it has an arrogant lustre in it though, but quite pleasantly warm, strong and bold. He is attractive––very attractive.

“Young lady, I’m talking to you.” His tone was hard. His tongue had been too fast for his brain. This is bad, he thought, he should not have said this––he felt like kicking himself.

Remi replied demurely, “On the contrary, the heat in this vehicle is enough to bake a bread.”

Daniel smiled, the lady spoke English perfectly––he was impressed at that, unnecessarily impressed also by her use of metaphor.

He said, “But today is very cold.”

“Oh, yes, it is indeed cold. But this vehicle does not register that fact, it is so––so uncold here.”

Her sonorous voice poured on him like a soothing hot bath on a cold day.
Remi had not been brought up to believe that it was abominable to talk to strange men in buses. She even found it impolite when ladies ignored men who approached them for a little chat.

If this man had experienced such turn-downs by one of those arrogant ladies he might have felt ill at ease at entering into conversation with a young girl. But Daniel was a friendly soul who found it perfectly natural to talk to anyone, if he found his voice.

He smiled without any self-consciousness and said, “Port is a rather terrible place, isn’t it?”

Remi smiled warmly, “Now we’re having a melding of the minds. I don’t like this place at all.”

“Nor do I. aren’t you an indigene of this state?”

“No, I’m not––but I grew up here.”

“Then you should like it.”

“I should, but I don’t. What about you? Are you an indigene?”

Daniel was appalled, “Me? No, I came here about a year ago.”

“Work?”

“I’m here training as a professional footballer.” He wanted to tell her that he was a policeman, he thought better of it and kept his mouth shut there. Nigerians did not take kindly to policemen. They would rather welcome robbers in their homes. Having served in the Force for years, Daniel knew better now. Things had changed.

“You’re a footballer?”

“I’m training to be one, yes.”

“At the Liberation Stadium?”

“You know the place?”

“My father works there––he tends the grass.”

“Where are you going now?”

“Lagos.”

Daniel was taken aback, the mention of Lagos raced his heart, “Lagos? You know someone in Lagos?”

She smiled again, “I have people in Lagos. My grandfather, my mother, and the rest of my family members––they’re all in Lagos.”

“But your father is here in Port-Harcourt.”

“But my father is here in Port-Harcourt.”

“Would you be coming back?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re leaving your dad?”

“My parents are divorced. I’ve been living with my father since five. Even during those years, I never got to really know him. His work takes most of his time––he would go for days at times, leaving me with neighbours. I’m tired––I’m not a kid anymore. I’m already twenty years old––”

Daniel sighed––he’d guessed right, and he smiled to himself.

“––after fifteen years, it’s high time I saw my mother. And my grandfather, I learnt that he’s a very rich man. I want to see how they all look like––my family. But most importantly, I want to go and live with my mother. I don’t care if she’s remarried.”

Daniel was now getting uncomfortable. This girl was now telling him, more or less, her family secret. He could not help asking, “Why are you telling me all this? You don’t know me.”

Smiled again she did, “I’m telling you because I don’t know you.”

“Oh!”

“At least, it's a little bit comforting to tell someone about all this.”

“You didn’t even tell me your name.”

“What’s yours?”

“Daniel––Daniel Oliver Famous.”

“Pretty names––I guess Famous is the surname.”

“And Oliver.”

Remi carried, for the first time, a puzzled expression, “How is that possible?”

“It’s a long story. Now, what’s your own name?”

A smile, she smiled easily, “I won’t tell you.”

“But––that’s not fair!”

She knew very much how mad some men could get when ladies refused to divulge their names. But this man wasn’t angry––just a little bit disappointed, and funnily, he was trying hard to mask his disappointment.
“I know it’s not fair––and I’m very sorry about that. I’m only being honest with you, I don’t want to give you a false name.” she continued, turning to really look in his handsome face, “But you know what?”

“What?”

“If by chance we ever meet again after today. I will tell you my name and any other thing you may want to know about me––I may even marry you.” She laughed out loud, “You’re very handsome.”

And Daniel Oliver Famous––ex-police-officer, footballer in view––found himself blushing hotly, and all he could bring himself to say was, “You’re not bad yourself.”

The bus conductor shouted suddenly again, breaking up the chain of affectionate revelry between Daniel and Remi. The vehicle stopped, this was the bus-stop where Daniel was to get off the vehicle.

He reluctantly got down, not taking his eyes off the fair lady that had caught his attention. The conductor noticed this and smiled, the driver noticed it and smiled, the passengers noticed and smiled too––love was in the air.

It took Daniel a lot of efforts to stop himself from running after the vehicle. It had been three years since he had last felt like this. He longed to see the girl again––he did not have her name, not even her phone number. The chance of seeing her again was slim indeed. But Daniel was determined––he decided that he would pray to God every night to make their paths cross once more, and he would not let her go again.

But Daniel had no idea about how later events would shape the totem of his destiny with Remi.

1 Like

Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by Obinnau(m): 5:46am On Dec 19, 2012
oga larry fire on! More energy to ur typing fingers!
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by Iaz93: 8:29am On Dec 19, 2012
Oh boi! This Paradox go sweet die...
Larry fire on... Interesting...
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by semid4lyfe(m): 2:48pm On Dec 19, 2012
Reminds me of the John Cusack & Kate Beckinsale movie. . Serendipity

Larry, fire on. . .I dey with you all the way
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by avicky(f): 7:03pm On Dec 19, 2012
I want some more.
More parrafin to ur fingers.
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by Nobody: 8:02pm On Dec 19, 2012
Am loving ds story, its making me long 4 more,more grease 2 ur fingers.
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by LarrySun(m): 3:26pm On Dec 21, 2012
However, a decade earlier, in various newspapers were news that a boy was reportedly killed by armed robbers.

Mark sat silently beside the driver as they made their trip to the bank. The bruise on the left side of Mark’s face was now swollen and needed medical attention. But what was hurting the seventeen-year-old boy was more painful than the injury inflicted on his body.

Earlier, the driver had felt so much pity on the boy that he tried to start a conversation by cracking a very dry joke, but the cold glare Mark rewarded him was enough to hold his tongue where it belonged. If other boys of the same age were in Mark’s position, they would have cried, perhaps even fled, to save themselves from the kinds of punishments unleashed on Mark. Although only seventeen years he was, Mark had been gifted with the mind of an adult. Even his thoughts were considerably matured as he always did his things with remarkable aplomb. Those times he had been forced to lie on tables with his buttocks bared, those times he had been savagely flogged thereupon, and those times he had served corporal punishments for hours nonstop––Mark had never cried out or pleaded for mercy. He took everything life offered him with surprising air of detachment. Mark wasn't one who talked a lot; a boy of few words he was. Whenever he wanted to say No, he would move his head from left to right; when he acquiesced, he would nod, so slightly that one would hardly see the undulation of his head.

He looked at the cheque in his hand. He had always wondered how such small pieces of papers could be used to claim large sums of money. He read, for the sixth time in two minutes, the sum of money written therein––fifteen million naira. Mark had never seen a million naira in cash let alone fifteen––if his spirit had not been broken from this afternoon’s severe beating, his hand probably would have trembled as he held the check, with the anticipation of carrying such a large sum in a bag. Now though, he saw the cheque he was holding in his hand as plainly as a worthless piece of paper. In his current state of ire, if he was pressed and found no tissue around he would use the cheque to wipe himself. And he would never feel any guilt for his action.

They had reached their destination. The DreamBank stood out among every other building in the area; its tall edifice looked like the one Superman would have loved to fly over, had Clark Kent been a Nigerian. This particular bank had the reputation of being the richest bank in the country, with close to a thousand branches located all around the states of the nation. It was likewise known that wealthy business syndicates, oil barons and rich politicians all around West Africa had chosen DreamBank as their first choice. In short, DreamBank was Africa’s Cayman.

Mark got out of the car, carefully shut the door, and made his way to the bank. He walked past security and nobody stopped him for questioning, perhaps they thought that a lone seventeen-year-old was incapable of executing a successful bank heist. Mark went into the bank and sat down among other customers to await his own turn. The bank was crowded today, and this was because it was a Friday; an approach of another weekend. It was about half an hour before it was Mark’s turn to cash his own cheque. Because of the large sum of money Mark was cashing, it took another hour and thirty minutes to have the money packaged in a big bag. Afterward, he carried this money in his hand and made his way back to the car.

He had barely stepped out of the bank’s threshold when he saw the five robbers alight from their car––they were armed to the gum. They were walking towards the bank! Towards Mark! Their walks were with full confidence as if there wasn’t any possibility of anything foiling their mission. Mark had never witnessed a live bank robbery; he had only seen this in the numerous Nigerian home videos he had watched. This was real, not a fiction. A trickle of sweat ran very slowly from his hairline down to the tip of his nose. By the time the sweat dropped from his nose and landed on the floor, the driver was already out of the car and running towards him. Even amidst the chaos, Mark could not help noticing the driver’s act of carelessness––he had not bothered to shut the door of the car. If Mark was in the driver’s position he would not attempt coming out from the car––he would rather sit back in the driver’s seat, relax and enjoy the show as the robbery went on. Like another crime film, Mark would watch it with total concentration. The boy enjoyed violence; that was part of the reason he didn't compain when beatings were being administered on him. He could still remember when last he had hit another person, physically attacked another human being. If his flashing memories were correct, it was far back in junior secondary school. A boy named John Somebody-or-other had hidden his best friend's food, and because his friend was small and John Somebody-or-other was bigger than his best friend, Mark had challenged the bully. Unfortunately, in his anger he had beaten the boy named John so severely that the principal sent for Mark's father, and his father had beaten him so severely that he passed out, he came about only when cold water was splashed on him and the flogging resumed. Mark never cried out all through the moments, and this had always scared his father.

But if circumstances subjected him to come out, Mark would certainly, surely and firstly detach the keys from the ignition, wind up the windows before he shut and lock the door. He could even wedge the tyres with stones.

The driver was running towards Mark and screaming something the boy could not understand. Mark stood there rigid, he could not move––he continued watching the driver running, and from the corner of his eye he could also see the robbers. Then one of the robbers raised his gun; he seemed to be pointing the gun at Mark but when he fired, it was the driver who slumped and fell down dead. The bullet had shattered the lower part of the back of his head, bringing out splinters of bones, blood and a tiny bit of the brain tissue that might have cared.

The it was all pandemonium thereafter––everybody began running heltery-skeltry; some people ran at the sight of a man being shot, some other people ran at hearing the sound of gunshot, while most people ran only because they saw people running. But in an instant, the road was cleared. The robbers opened the small gate and stepped into the premises of the bank, the two security guards therein tried to act heroic but they were killed with the simplicity of killing beetles. The first guard caught a bullet in the chest and the second had three in the back. This is different from the movies, Mark thought disgustedly, because in the movies most men who were being shot never died as instantly as these ones. The ones in the television still usually possessed enough strength to fight their adversaries, overpower and kill them before realizing that they had been shot. Sometimes, they would even already be having their lunches with the rescued damsels before the wound from the gunshots would begin to give pain. The movie producers are liars, he decided.

Mark was conscious of the bag he was holding in his hand––the bag containing fifteen million naira. He clutched the strap hard. He was not ready to relinquish the money. If these robbers were particularly interested in his money, they should as well kill him before getting it––he was not going to give up the money, not in this life. Mark had chosen the money over his own life. He stood there in front of the bank’s entrance as the robbers approached him––he did not move an inch away from his position.

The robbers were now at the entrance.

1 Like

Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by Obinnau(m): 3:48pm On Dec 21, 2012
fire on jare. Who says u r not good.
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by LarrySun(m): 7:09pm On Dec 21, 2012
It should be noted here, however, that these are barely the initial drafts...I have not done any self-edit on this one...like I have on its prequel. These ones come out in their initial virgin states. There are still so many changes that will be subjected to changes; typos, spellings, expressions and descriptions. The only part that, perhaps, will remain constant is the plottings.

Forgive me for any error in the subsequent stories thereof...I'm posting this due to popular demands and the overflowing mails I got over its prequel (The Brand Of Cain). Pardon me if the work looks jejune or if the texts seem puerile. But one solace I'm proudly giving is that there are much more twists and surprises contained in The Paradox Of Abel than you may think.

Bless you all.
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by Iaz93: 8:40pm On Dec 21, 2012
Interesting. Ride on Larry...
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by semid4lyfe(m): 4:46am On Dec 23, 2012
Larry-Sun:
It should be noted here, however, that these are barely the initial drafts...I have not done any self-edit on this one...like I have on its prequel. These ones come out in their initial virgin states. There are still so many changes that will be subjected to changes; typos, spellings, expressions and descriptions. The only part that, perhaps, will remain constant is the plottings.

Forgive me for any error in the subsequent stories thereof...I'm posting this due to popular demands and the overflowing mails I got over its prequel (The Brand Of Cain). Pardon me if the work looks jejune or if the texts seem puerile. But one solace I'm proudly giving is that there are much more twists and surprises contained in The Paradox Of Abel than you may think.

Bless you all.

Less talk, more story. . .
wink
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by Nobody: 8:39am On Dec 23, 2012
semid4lyfe:

Less talk, more story. . .


tru talk wink
Re: The Paradox Of Abel (The Sequel) by Iaz93: 1:24pm On Dec 24, 2012
Larry how far na??

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