Someone once said the human flesh tasted like chicken. I remember reading that Article on Sunday Times, where the writer attempted to describe the juice as bordering between the taste of a well cooked pork and succulent chicken. I remember laughing at that article. Total rubbish.
The human flesh tastes better than either, and I will know; I am eating one as I write this.

My taste for the human flesh was not borne as a result of some obscene anomaly of my mental. Neither did I intend to be, as the media has recently unfairly described me, a raving mad serial cannibal. On the contrary, my mental state dictates survival and preservation of my being, and it was as a result of that, that I found myself with no other option than to make a feast of what is bountifully available, to the point that we become overpopulated with this resources.
You may want to be informed that the human flesh is the most nutritious, and dare I say the best cared for type of meat there is. I prefer the dark skinned; you know, the well tanned lean and a bit muscular. That has become my favourite. But the fair skinned, fatty and altogether blobby in the pot. Well I guess it’s a case of one man’s meat. Of course either way, you wouldn’t really enjoy it if it wasn’t well washed of the thousands of dirt and natural diseases that flesh is heir to.

The story I am about to tell you, I jot not a notch from the truth. I would like to tell you it is a story of survival, where I had no choice in the matter, and in fact tell it in such a way as to be the hero. But I can't and won't dare insult your intelligence.
Where are my manners? A little introduction. My name is Sam. Samuel Babatunde Olorode. I lived under the Bourdillon Bridge, outer Marina, Lagos. That was our home- Emeka and I. We didn't have much, but having a place to go to after the days struggle was a feeling you will fight fo. We had gathered metal sheets from here and there, some cardboard, and planks, leaned them against the wall, and with those made an apartment for ourselves under the bridge. With a minimum of Five hundred Naira a week, paid to Fine-Touch, nobody in Lagos could find us. Fine-Touch was the Landlord under the bridge, and only he knew how to reach us. Only he knew that when you got to the end of the footpath, you will need to cross the small canal to the under-bridge, with a long plank kept in the grass a few feet away, and then looking to the left corner, behind the heap of abandoned construction stones in the dark, you will find our luxury two person sized apartment.
Only he knew when we returned from the car-wash.
I heard him drag the plank, and throw it over the drainage. Emeka was asleep now. He snored loudly when he slept, and for the three years I’ve known him, when he snored in his sleep no Bang! could wake him. Especially when he slept on an empty stomach.
I sat up, knowing who it was. I heard his footsteps crunch on the gravel, closer as he made his way towards us. It was getting dark down here. Consistent blaring of vehicle horns overhead indicated traffic build-up.
‘Who dey?’ he called. It was dark, but he knew we were in, so he needn’t ask.
‘Oga FT, how far’, said I, in greeting.
I stepped out of my accommodation, rubbing my eyes as if I’ve been sleeping. I was too hungry to sleep.
‘How you dey na? Where your second?’ he asked, inquiring about Emeka.
‘He done sleep. How far?’
‘I suppose ask you na, where my money?’ he asked for the rent as if he built the bridge. He was supposed to be paid yesterday, being the 15th as I had promised, but coming up with 1,500 Naira in these harsh economic times.
‘Why you dey rub your head, na there my money dey? You want make I help you comot am?’
FT was a huge man, rough and always smelling of weed. He has a large scar which ran from a few inches beside his left eye down his cheek to his chin. We hear the man who inflicted that injury died apologizing, within minutes.
‘Oga Fine-Touch, you know as e dey go na. People no dey carry cars come give us. Dem dey wash am diaself. I no even-‘
‘If I tear you slap,’ he interjected. FT had that kind of palms that if he rubbed it together for too long, it will start a fire. ‘You dey mad? Wetin make I come do? Na me swear for you? Okay, oya pack your things comot for here.’
‘Oga FT, take am easy na. We go give-‘
‘I say comot from under my bridge!’ He moved closer.
‘Oya, I no comot. Wetin you wan do sef? Are we mad? Which Money? I no get anything!’

Now let’s take a pause here. Need I explain that there comes a point when there is the confluence between frustration and hunger, that the stream of reason becomes so polluted that you simply just don’t see any point of anything anymore. That’s when you realise you have nothing to lose. You have been acting within the parameters of civility for so long, and it brings you nothing as returns. When you got to the bottom of life, eating and living in scraps, you had promised yourself that you will keep your mind because it’s all you have left. But then the time comes when you will have to lose it, in order to survive. And then you have nothing left.

‘I no well o!’ I declared, and I meant it. ‘I no well o’, I said as I pranced around in the dark, groping on the wall, scattering whatever my hands came across. ‘Wetin you want sef?’
I could hear FT chuckling, his arms folded across his chest, wondering what the little man was doing.
I found what I was looking for; he didn’t see me coming. With a loud wail, he held his head and fell with a thud.

‘Wetin we go do now?’ Emeka said. He was very awake now. It’s been an hour and we both couldn’t sleep. Three hours ago, the discussion was about how we both hadn’t ate anything all day, and how we hoped they wouldn’t find our corpses weeks after we had died tonight of hunger. We sat by the wall, our legs folded to our chests, staring at the lifeless body of FT a few feet away.
‘Wetin we fit do?’ I asked. We were both weak and too hungry to hold long conversations.
It had started raining. Cold wind blew, and the concrete floor got colder. We had only cardboard to sleep on, and a few dirty clothes as pillows, so sleep was not very inviting at the moment. We gathered a few planks, and set up a fire. We sat beside the fire, staring blankly into the flames.
‘Hunger’, said Emeka.
‘Meat,’ I responded, dreamingly. He understood.

I remember how the rain thundered down heavily, and the water streamed in the overflowing drainage. We both didn’t talk; even if we did we wouldn’t be able to hear each other. We both didn’t think, we just ate FT in silence.

TBC

Following...

Hmmm. Hope na only ft una go eat ba.

Thumbs up bro branggante,buh is dz a fiction or non-fiction#jst wanna knw ni o

Contd.

I was born in Ilesha; and for reasons I wouldn’t want to bother you with, I left home and moved to Lagos seven years ago. In retrospect, I had thought that getting to Lagos, even without any further acquaintance with formal education other than ABC’s, 123s and fluent pidgin English, I would pick gold from the streets of Lagos. Berger Bus stop was my first point of arrival from Ilesha, and it was there I was welcomed properly to Lagos.
I remember not knowing what to do or where to go. I sat on a bench under a shed, with my small pouch, which contained my belongings of two shirts, a toothbrush, a comb and toothpaste, between my legs as I observed the business of the bus stop. It was crowded and very busy. Everyone was in a rush. I observed however, that some boys, about my age or older made a trade of the rowdiness, helping themselves to wallets, phones and other valuables they could pilfer. They must have been at the trade for a while, for they transacted their crimes with much ease. Were it not for my keen observation, I wouldn’t have noticed. I must have observed too long and hard, because I did not notice one of them approach me from behind, and smack the back of my neck.

‘You dey craze?’ said he. He was a lean one, and from my critique of their gang, he wasn’t up in the hierarchy. He wore an oversized long sleeved shirt, with the collar sagging around his wiry neck, and a brown three quarter chinos which exposed a pair of stick-sized legs. He looked hungry and I pitied him very much.
‘Wetin happen?’ I said, making my voice as hoarse as possible.
‘Wetin happen? You dey mad?’ he enquired. ‘Na me you dey follow up? E ma wo were yi sha.’ He held up a fist, as if he would send a punch soon, as he shifted his weight from a foot to the other, a gesture I later adopted as a fearsome ready-for-a-fight stance. ‘Where you come from?’
‘Baba, e take e easy. I just dey sit dey observe.’
‘You dey observe. I sabi all police for this area, you be police? Na we you dey siddon observe, you dey mad?’
‘I resemble police?’
‘Dem dey write police for face?’ he said with a side smile. ‘Where you come from?’
‘I just dey enter Lagos from Ilesha.’
‘You just dey enter Lagos. Who you find come Lagos?’ To that I didn’t answer, because I knew no one, except this here my first acquaintance. ‘You get wetin you go dey do?’ I shook my head. ‘You done chop?’ I shook my head. ‘I wan go chop, if you wan chop you fit follow.’

I stood and walked with him, and that was how I met James. James was from the eastern part of the country, but had stayed long enough in Lagos that you would not believe he wasn’t born here. The street was his home, and like the rest of the boys I got to know with time, he waited for his big break.

After three months at Berger bus-park, I was as rough as James. I learnt a lot from James: how to pick pockets, how to assist travellers with their luggage while helping myself with a valuable or two, how to tell sad stories to commuters to extract pity and contributions, how to eat at restaurants without paying, how to make shop owners pay for the security of their goods to prevent their wares being stolen by us, how to always be on stand-by anytime the Local Government Chairman needed some extra hand to do a dirty job, and how not to get caught doing all these. James knew the catechism of his profession adroitly, and I learnt from him within a short time. He was respected too, yes he was.

With each day, my toughness grew and I perfected the art of selflessness on the street. Being in the streets, we termed it hustle and considered it as paying our dues to the streets and with time we will be paid back. As an example, I had barely spent a week with the boys when Bantawo left us. I heard he was now employed by his state governor, as payment for his loyalty during the last general elections. He used to sleep with us on ripped cardboards in the park, in front of locked-up shops, but now he slept on soft beds in rooms with electricity. Individually, we harboured that dream, even though we rarely spoke of it, because speaking of our aspirations made us look soft. It was our only comfort, after twenty hours of the blazing heat, hunger, thirst, car exhaust, noise and dust, it was the only time we could look forward to; to dream our private dream and have hopes that one day this struggle will be over. No matter how tough, rugged and dirty it got on the streets, we waited for that one day when we would meet our breakthrough.
James was praying in whispers.
I looked at the yellow moon, watching the blue clouds soar past. My brother once swore he saw the image of a tortoise in Agbada on the moon, and as much as I tried to find it, I couldn’t. Tonight’s moon was beautiful. James was not the sort to admire beauty, except it was in a skirt and roundly shaped, so I didn’t invite him to the sight.
We smoked the remaining weed we had for dinner, had a few laughs and slept.

James was killed the next morning. I watched the mob pummel him with all sorts of weapons, and then threw used tyres around him before dousing him with petrol. While a woman emptied the keg of fuel on his naked body, a man struck him with a huge tree trunk behind his head. His blood mixed with the fuel, washing on the asphalt. He laid there, his eyes and mouth open, staring at me. His eyes were empty and I couldn’t tell if he could see me, or how much of him was left in there. In retrospect, now that I think of it, what I saw in his eyes that day was what we all struggled for: Peace.
The crowd stood away, as a lighted match was thrown at him. He yelled....

TBC

Bro, I ain't read much around here, but this is by far the best piece I've seen in here.

Kudos. Following

Good piece of literature. The depth of realism is very good. continue letting it flow. Don't try too hard. More blood to your typing fingers.

Y jamez naw
D nigga is jst trying to make a living nah
4llowing u brov
Mre MB to ur fone/laptop

please do no kill this pen. come and see @divepen @royver @flakkydagirl @classcaptain
please this guy is talented.

Nice one

This piece is captivating....
I'm sticking around.....

this is intriguing and thought provoking. Bravo.....in fact, brava!

this is intriguing and thought provoking. Bravo.....in fact, brava! Nice choice of words, which gives a master class imagery.

Flakkydagirl:
This piece is captivating.... I'm sticking around.....

thank me for calling you?

Flakkydagirl:
This piece is captivating.... I'm sticking around.....

thank me for calling you?

Thanks a bunch.

segunoz:

thank me for calling you?

;DThanks a bunch.

segunoz:

thank me for calling you?

I think I'm gonna lyk dis...

I know I'm gonna lyk dis...


Following on gud conduct