I opened this thread to cast in every flash-fiction that pops into my head. Feel free to pick my brain...figuratively of course!

Unveiled

The events of the first Mmanwu I witnessed as a child would forever remain stamped on my consciousness. Among the thirteen masqueraders that entertained the crowd that hot afternoon, the acrobatic displays of the Agaba was nonpareil; even the other twelve seemed to be mere followers of Agaba. The crown of its head – like that of a peacock, or the tail of a thoroughbred – swung majestically as it danced and we cheered. Unlike the others that would occasionally take some few steps towards terror-stricken children and cause them to dash off like major Temple Run characters, the Agaba’s interest was to impress the crowd with its warrior-like prowess and magical manifestations.

The most amazing feat Agaba performed was its demonstration of the impossible; it crossed the river to the other side and back absent canoe. Agaba walked on water before our very eyes! This was something no other masquerader had ever done in the history of our village. The crowd roared with surprise and admiration as they clapped their hands. I remember the chief priests nodding proudly as if they were the ones who performed the miracle.

Agaba returned just as dry as it was before making the sensational display. As if that was not enough to scare the broad daylight out of us children – out of me particularly, something else we didn’t see coming sufficed. Just out of nowhere, fire caught Agaba’s clothing made chiefly of bamboo rafters. No one knew how it happened but later rumours revealed that one jealous masquerader from the other twelve had betrayed Agaba by setting fire on him through sorcery.

Agaba’s power was probably not strong enough to douse the fire; and so there before the hundreds of people watching, the masquerader pulled off its coat.

Behold, Agaba was the village’s Catholic priest!

And the king is back himself, stronger!. 'Agbada', what a funny name

Destroying Angels

Papa Ada was a hunter; he had killed a big python and brought it home to his family. Everybody had rejoiced for there would be a feast this night. The excited Mama Ada had gone to her farm to get tomatoes and pepper for a snake soup. On the farm, she saw a bunch of mushrooms and plucked. Her husband would love it; mushroom soup was his favourite. It was already getting dark; she gathered enough mushrooms and went home to prepare the meal.

She called Ada to go and wash the plates and pots but the ten-year-old girl refused. Ada was the youngest member in a family of nine. She was a stubborn child. Her mother decided to punish her for her disobedience; Ada would go to bed supperless. The little girl went out in anger and fed herself with the pawpaw in the compound.

The food was finally ready; a mushroom soup garnished with fish and the snake Papa had killed. Mama Ada pitied the stubborn girl and served her a plate of the soup with a wrap of fufu. Rather than being thankful for the kindness, Ada kicked the food away in anger, saying that she was not interested in their useless food.

The whole family member chastised the girl rudely and sent the black sheep to the Coventry. Ada felt rejected and sat alone outside the house while the rest of the family dined happily.

A few hours after the meal, all the family members – except Ada – began to vomit and convulse; they all died before help could come. Ada, who had refused to eat from the meal, was the only surviving member of the family.

Mama Ada had mistakenly cultivated poisonous mushrooms known as Destroying Angels and fed her family.

Larry Sun,

September 2016

Welcome back Larry.

Sir Larry,

Permission to post a friends flash fiction link here

royalkeed:

Sir Larry,

Permission to post a friends flash fiction link here

Free world, sir. You're permitted.

Hello Friends, here's the LINK for the ETISALAT FLASH FICTION AWARD, please VOTE for a friend..,

HOW TO VOTE

1. Use the LINK

https://prize.etisalat.com.ng/flash-fiction/voteall.php?id=2471

If you've voted for someone before you can still vote

2. Use WEB BROWSER, FIRE Fox, UC browser or CM browser (preferably) to VOTE.
If it says the connection is insecure, please continue it won't affect your device.

4. Tap the blue bar showing the no of votes

5. You'll be prompted to Log in to your FACEBOOK then click continue.

6. When the no of votes changes then, you've voted.

Thanks as you vote

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Cc
All Nairalanders

[b][/b] All hail the king of nairaland

The great Larry Sun himself. Egbon, how far na?

I wanted to vote for you this afternoon; there was error. I will try again tonight. You story came late though.

oga sun

Gbenga always knew the right time to come knocking on my door. No matter what time he came, it was always the right time. However, his impressive appearance was always motivated by the wrong reasons. That was the trademark of the iconic Gbenga. It was either he indulged himself in wrong ventures at the right moment, or did the right thing at the wrong time.

He had come this night for no other reason than to refuel the stomach. Gbenga was a young boy with a large appetite. I had always considered myself a proud glutton until I caught Gbenga behind a bowl of eba, then I knew that I had always been observing the fast.
I had disobeyed my mother that night and she had firmly assured me that I had no food to eat at home that night. And so Gbenga’s invitation to go out and have some fun was a sweet song to my ears; for I knew that my friend’s only amusement park was in a restaurant. And in this case, he suggested we go and sample some Ghanaian cuisines instead of visiting our usual ‘amala joint’. Unlike our usual spot where we could get a plate of hot amala and egusi soup for a decent price, the Ghanaian restaurant sold expensive plates; a single plate of a regular dorkunu could afford five plates of amala. This was the song I sang to my friend when he suggested we taste a foreign dish, but he volunteered to foot our bills. Right there, I knew that Gbenga had assaulted his mother’s purse. But who was I to chastise Gbenga? I occasionally stole from my mother too.

It was about nine in the night when we arrived at the restaurant. The vendor was one huge black man with nose as puffy as a clown’s. We each ordered a plate and carried our food into the restaurant to settle down and eat like civilized people, which we were not. To my surprise, we found the place empty; we were the only two customers dining in the restaurant. We sat down and began to eat.

That was my first time of eating a Ghanaian food. It tasted weird in my mouth. I could barely swallow each morsel. I wish we had chosen our amala joint instead; this dorkunu tasted like palm-wine. But because I had been promised a foodless night by my mother for my minor contretemps, I forced the food down my throat. Gbenga, however, attacked his food with gumption; he wolfed down the food voraciously, as if he had grown up in Kumasi. He had requested for two more plates before I could finish my one plate.

After the food, I picked up two toothpicks from a case. This was always my usual number because the first toothpick always broke. Unfortunately, when I thought the night was a perfect one, Gbenga pulled a silly stunt. Seeing that I picked more toothpicks than his what he did, Gbenga assumed it was a competition, so he packed the rest of the sticks in the case – the whole ninety-seven toothpicks. I implored him to give up this silly act but he would not listen to me. He had considered himself a winner in this kind of barbaric game as he stuck the stick into his pocket.

Another diner came into the restaurant just as we were stepping out. We stayed outside as Gbenga paid for our meals. The huge vendor was still searching for change to give my friend when the diner inside ordered for toothpick from within. That was when I knew that Gbenga had again dragged himself into a little pile of trouble. The vendor was confused at the complaint since he was certain that he had just placed a full case of toothpicks on the dining table we had just used. He was visibly appalled to find the case empty.

We should have run but Gbenga still wanted to collect his change. The man rushed out fuming with anger and demanded to know what had happened to his poor toothpick. My friend feigned ignorance of what the vendor was talking about. Without wasting time, the man began to frisk me. He searched my pockets and found no toothpick, except the one I had in my mouth – the other one I had expertly flung away as soon as I sensed trouble brewing. My friend was frisked and the missing toothpicks were found in his pocket.

What happened next was almost beyond description. The huge man rewarded Gbenga’s pilfering effort with a loud slap that molested the silence of that night. Such slap from such man would have deafened an average boy, but Gbenga was not an average boy, he had been slapped before by almost all species of the human race – he was an average idiot. The Ghanaian’s slap was first among equal. My friend was spun around twice before he landed on his buttocks. Rather than being deafened, he was temporarily blinded. He had later claimed to have seen his long deceased grandmother when the slap hit him. We forfeited the change and wobbled back home with the little dignity we had left.

As I assisted my sightless buddy home, I suddenly suspected that the tragedy had occurred because Gbenga had stolen his mother’s money to buy dorkunu.

Crazy and hilarious at the same time. Beautiful write-up sir.

Larrysun my niqqa


Nice one brother

Lovely... Larrysun himself with an expert Nigerian touch in his writing...

You rock, Sir!!!

Another Chronicle of Gbenga

My friend, Gbenga, was the first child of his mother but not of his father. His parents were separated. His mother left his father to marry another man whose wife left to marry someone who left his wife. It’s such a silly maze of familial absurdities. Anyway, this Gbenga’s new step-father was a weird man. He had a moustache that could keep the streets of Lagos clean, and, most strangely, he was a helpless porn addict. He had loads of video cassettes filled with porns. The first time Gbenga invited me to his home, I thought I was in paradise on seeing so many video tapes. I thought they had a lot of movies, but they were safely locked in a glass shelf. Titles like ‘War Dolls’, ‘Angel Got Shot in the Eye’, ‘Hammer Smashes the Hole’ always made me picture action movies with lots of gunshots and fights with Chuck Norris jumping off buildings and Stallone blowing up warehouses, and that was what Gbenga thought too, because his step-dad never allowed him to see one scene. He always took his time to turn the posters of the porn to the other side so that Gbenga would not have to see what the action movies truly were.

One afternoon, the step-dad went out leaving the key of the shelf behind. We were overjoyed. The day was going to be a great one. Gbenga slotted one cassette into the VCR and came to sit beside me. If we were lucky, we might watch two movies before the man returned. My friend sat beside me and proudly navigated the remote control. When he pressed the PLAY button, what met our eyes was unbelievable. The most shocking thing was that my friend’s step-father was a Deacon in the church. At first, we were confused about what to do. That was our first experience with porn. It seemed wrong at first but we slowly became fascinated by it and later fully interested. We were soon enjoying what we were seeing. This was a new kind of movie. The scenes of that day marked the beginning of our naughtiness.

We were gradually becoming like my friend’s step-father because we always wished he would go out leaving the key to the shelf behind once again, but it never happened. Then we devised another means. I taught Gbenga the trick of making the impression of the key on a soap bar, I knew a blacksmith who would carve a duplicate for us. All my friend had to do was make the impression. By the third day, a duplicate was ready, and once again, we gained access to our favourite movies. Occasionally, I would take some tapes home to watch in the absence of my own parents too; some I did not even bother returning, and the man did not notice because they were too many to keep record. The deacon surely had a mansion in hell.

Hell broke out when we thought we would never be caught. We were too mesmerized by the actions we were seeing to notice the presence of the deacon in the room.

“Well done, boy,” the voice goosed us like a loose spring. The man was standing there at the entrance and looking at us as if he were Jesus Christ himself. I looked in my friend’s face and I knew I would have to buy some flowers to put on his grave the next day.

I ran out of the room, leaving the two steps to deal with each other. I knew one would kill the other, and I had the perfect picture of who the victim would be. I should have stayed with my friend but I did not want suffer brutal flagellation from a sinful deacon.

I was expecting to see my friend’s obituary the next morning, but he appeared all puffy and bruised. His cheeks were so swollen that I thought his step-dad had cut his balls and stuck them in his mouth. But even this didn’t stop us from moving further on our discovery. We watched porn in multitude, and the deacon never stopped catching us red-handed, and he continued to beat my friend black and blue. It later got so out of hand that beating meant nothing to Gbenga anymore. So, the man devised a new plan to curb our rising and uncontrollable interest in porn. He started by retitling the cassette with religious titles.

He named one ‘Pastor Adeboye’s Sermon’, and for a long time, we thought Pastor Adeboye was a porn star. We used to think a lot of other popular preachers were into pornography.

To be continued…

Larry Sun, 2017

Hahahahahahaha, Larrysun you SHA-SHAN'T kill me with laughter, not only pastor Adeboye's sermon it's Pope Bernedict's Miracle. Hahaha larry you're a great comedian. WEHDONE SIR

The Man Behind the Mask

It is not everyday a man in a black mask approaches you and offers you a million naira to deliver a package. That was exactly my experience. I didn't take him seriously at first until he demanded for my account details and sent half a million naira to me. All I had to do was simple. I just had to move a package from Point A to Point B. How hard could that be. The mysterious guy in mask collected my phone number and assured me that the instructions would be sent to my phone. I watched in awe as the short masked man limped away.

I received the instructions via WhatsApp that night. I was to be at Maryland bus-stop by 10:00am prompt. A certain Mr Thomas would give me a package to deliver to Mr Azuka at a certain address in Ikeja.

I was standing at the precise location at 10am the next day when a man I recognised from the photographs sent to me approached me and handed me a small travel-bag.

"Remember, do not open the package!" he warned before disappearing among the crowd.

I grabbed the bag firmly and boarded the next available bus. I was in Ikeja in half an hour. But I still had to take a bike from Ikeja bus-stop to the site of delivery.

A hand suddenly snatched the bag as I waited. I quickly turned around and beheld a short man in black clothes making away with the bag. As he ran, I noticed that he was limping. I took chase immediately. I ran after the thief as I had never done before. Realising that I was catching up, the bolting villain turned a corner and dropped the bag before he disappeared across the bend. I had no reason to pursue further since the bag had been dropped.

I boarded a bike to the final location. I couldn't wait to make the delivery and collect my balance. I was beyond shocked when the motorcyclist dropped me in front of a police-station. He claimed it was the address I gave him. I slowly dismounted from the bike and wondered why a police-station would be chosen as the point of delivery.

"What do you want, Oga?" Two armed policemen walked up to me.

"I was asked to deliver this bag to someone," I replied politely, looking around for Mr Azuka. He didn't seem to be around.

"A bag?" the men exchanged glances. "Who were you asked to deliver it to?"

"One Mr Azuka," I answered. I could feel a trickle of cold sweat run down my spine.

"I am Officer Azuka," replied the taller policemen. But this man had no resemblance whatsoever with the one in the photograph I was sent.

"Open the bag." The other officer ordered.

"I was told not to open the package." I sounded stupid.

"My friend, open the bag!" Officer Azuka barked.

I slowly bent down and unzipped the bag. What it contained was hideous. There was a human head, bloody and aweful, balanced in the bag. There was a mask covering the face. It was the same mask worn by the man who had approached me.

The policemen aimed their guns at me immediately. "Remove the mask!" Other officers had joined them.

My hands shook as I gently pried off the mask.

The man behind the mask was the same man whose picture was sent to me: Mr Azuka.

Larry Sun
October 2018

This isn't funny at all. Should've known it was a bad business, the pay offer war ridiculous.

Larrysun Is The Boss.

THE FALCONIAN MISSION

One thing about spies is that you never really know who they work for. And indeed, sometimes, even spies themselves don’t know who they really work for.
It had been over twenty-four hours since our cover was blown. A lot of pains had been inflicted on us, but somehow, it seemed as if they were not going to kill us. There must be a reason they were still keeping us alive; for I knew that being caught as spies meant instant deaths, but here we were, still alive for an unknown reason.

The door of the dark room we were kept in suddenly opened and three armed soldiers stepped in; their faces were shielded in black stocking masks – this was done to hide their identities. The light from the corridor gave me the chance to see my partner who was held there with me; he had been beaten so bloody that he was almost unrecognizable. TJ was a strong soldier who could take more beatings than any other soldier I had ever known; but he seemed to have taken too much of that now.

As the three soldiers stepped into the room, I thought they had come to finish what they had started; they must have been sent by their superiors to shoot us dead. There was no point keeping us alive anymore. But we were not shot. Instead, I was grabbed by the men and taken out of the room. At the entrance, just before being dragged away, I looked towards my partner and raised my little finger at him. I was relieved when he managed to return the gesture. None of the soldiers noticed this brief communication between us. Between me and TJ, the middle finger was our code for everything is fine. Two soldiers dragged me down the corridor while the third soldier stayed with my partner in the room. I prayed the soldier wasn’t going to shoot my friend.

I was taken into a brightly-lit room where the mean Colonel Danjuma sat. This man had been behind a lot of bomb attacks in the country. Our mission had been to infiltrate this cabal and kill the Colonel, but we were caught before TJ and I could carry out the mission.
The Colonel sat comfortably behind a large desk and two armed but unmasked soldiers stood guard on either side of him. He was smoking a large cigar and blowing an equally large smoke.

“You are Santana, right?” he asked, his expression deadly, “The spy who was sent to kill me?”

Rather than reply, I glared at him. I wasn’t going to appear weak before this killer. There was nothing I could say anyway; my cover had been blown. All I could do now was to await my ultimate judgement.

“Anyway,” said Danjuma, “I have my own assignment for you. This is midday, in six hours’ time, I expect you to bring me the head of the Falcon.”

I looked up in shock. Falcon was the code-name for our superior. He was the person who recruited me and assigned this mission to TJ and I. Because Colonel Danjuma had always remained elusive to the authorities, the Federal Government had required the stealth service of the Falcon to help in killing Danjuma and end all the attacks.

“I’m not going to do that,” I said, “Nothing will make me do it.”

Danjuma smiled unkindly, “I knew you were going to say that, but you have limited choices. The only way to avoid being brutally killed by my soldiers is by doing what I demand of you. If you refuse or disappear, your partner will be killed; and I know you won’t try to disappear because your partner means a lot to you. He’s like a brother to you. You have to decide: the Falcon or the partner. You have six hour to carry out the mission. Good luck.” The soldiers took me away.

I took an hour to think about the mission. If I refused to kill the Falcon, the Colonel would kill me and TJ. I wasn’t afraid to lose my life but I couldn’t bear losing TJ; his life now hanged in the balance. TJ was more than a friend; he had become a brother. He was the only person in the world I cared about. To keep my brother alive, I had to kill the Falcon. I had no choice. The Falcon was a title though; if he was killed, another would replace him. Besides, if I didn’t kill the Falcon, Danjuma would just send another mercenary in my stead; especially now that our cover had been blown and he knew who his enemy was. The Falcon was already dead, anyway, whether I carried out the mission or not.

And so I returned to the Falcon, killed him and brought his head back to the Colonel just before my six-hour ultimatum elapsed. The Colonel was pleased.

“You are a true soldier,” he said excitedly, “you belong under my wings.”

“Where’s my partner?” I asked. All I wanted was to take TJ and get the hell out of there.

“Oh! Your partner,” he signaled to the three masked soldiers, “Take him to his partner.”

TJ was still in the same position he was when I was taken away; his face was still bloody but there was a bullet hole on his forehead. TJ was dead.

I screamed like a burning witch. I roared like an enraged lion. I nearly ran mad with anger. Then something totally unexpected happened; one of the soldiers was raising his little finger at me. The little finger! I took a closer look at the corpse in the chair – he wasn’t TJ! I immediately knew what had happened. Without waiting a second later, I attacked the soldier closest to me, and my ally shot the other soldier in the face. It was a joy to see my partner remove his mask and reveal himself.
“Hello buddy,” he smiled at me.

I looked at him sadly, “I’m sorry. The mission is off. I was made to kill the Falcon.”

TJ shook his head and said, “No, the mission is still on.”
“The Falcon is dead!”

“Is he?” he asked as he removed his left boot and revealed his bare foot to me. On his foot was the tattoo of a bird...a falcon!

“You’re the real Falcon?” My astonishment knew no bounds.

“I am,” he replied as he handed me one of the soldiers’ guns, “Now let’s go and kill all the bastards, starting with Colonel Danjuma.”

Partner B4 mission Nice.

The Stone Wall

Living life is like playing tennis with a wall – you get served back by what you serve it. I have no one to blame but myself. I threw – no – I smashed the metaphorical ball against the stone wall and it bounced back to hit me on the face. Karma is the stone wall.

Martina had died because I had caused her death with my action; and the regret would live with me for the rest of my life. However, let me narrate my tale of doom from the beginning, maybe some other persons would learn not to long for my kind of shoes just because they looked fanciful.

It happened two months ago when I met Martina for the first time. I had just been offered the job of a surgeon in the only private hospital in my community, and so I had deemed it proper to celebrate this by having a nice time at the cinemas. I had treated myself to an emotional movie and lots of popcorns when I saw her sitting two rows away from me. I couldn’t reach her. I had to wait till the end of the movie. Coming out of the cinemas after the movie, I sighted her at the other side of the road. Everything about who I was – my original personality – had evaporated at the sight of her. She was absolutely stunning, and all I could think about was how to talk to her.

Then just as I was about to cross the road, I saw a middle-aged man collapse beside me. He had a teenage son of about seventeen years old with him. The elderly man was having what seemed like an asthmatic attack. This teenage son was weeping and screaming for help. People circled round the suffering man and his weeping son; no one knew what to do, and rather than helping, some were taking shots with their phones. I knew I was the only person there who could save the man but I was in a quandary. I had the choice to either save the man and lose the chance of meeting the lady, or go after the lady and leave the man to his unfortunate fate. I had to make a decision fast, time was running out. The lady was about to get on the bus and the man was losing consciousness. I had to choose between my civic duty and my pursuit of love – morality versus emotion. I took a selfish decision and crossed the road.

Well, my action paid off. I caught up with the bus just at the last moment it was about to pull out. I was lucky to find a space beside her and pitched a romantic tent there. That was how the love story of Martina and I had begun. I was the perfect guy for her, and she the right woman for me. By the time we got off the bus, I had forgotten about the man I had refused to help.

I resumed work the following Monday feeling as lucky as ever; my life was finally complete – I had found both my dream job and my dream woman at almost the same time. In a few years, Martina and I would live in a grand home and reproduce like rabbits. Life could not be more pleasant. Getting on the bus appeared to be the best decision I had ever made. I knew I only had to jump and I would be flying. My first day at work was splendid, I carried out my duties effectively; I performed successful surgeries on few patients, but unfortunately, I couldn’t work on those who couldn’t afford to pay for their treatments. I wished there was something I could do about them but there wasn’t. That was the rule of the hospital; you had to pay first before getting treated.

Then two months later, a hit-and-run victim was wheeled into the hospital in the evening of a Saturday. She was severely wounded; I almost didn’t recognize her – she was Martina, my Martina! I felt coldness play xylophone with my spine, rage violin with my arteries, and fear talking drum with my heart; I was a biological embodiment of a musical paranoia. I couldn’t think straight. I was in a panic, close to losing my equilibrium. I could not stop the trembling in my hands, or halt the progressively obvious tic that drew down my lower lip in short, abrupt spasms. I was close to losing my temper, if not my sanity. Who had done this? But now wasn’t the time for questions. All I knew at the moment was that kind passers-by who had witnessed the accident had brought her. I settled her medical bills as quickly as I could and rushed into the theatre but I was prevented from treating her on the basis that I was emotionally unfit for the job.

And so, instead of me, Doctor Thomas – a very clumsy surgeon – was assigned to carry out the surgery. I was outside looking through the window, watching as the doctor did a poor job on my Martina. And of course, the operation was unsuccessful. Martina died during surgery. I watched her lifeless mangled body and cried bitterly. I had met her at a movie theatre and lost her in an operating theatre.

The next day, the hit-and-run driver was caught. It was the teenager whose father was having an asthmatic attack. He had driven his father’s old pick-up truck to sell it to another man because that was the only way he could afford his father’s medical bills; and he had left Martina’s battered body in his wake.

Two days after Martina’s death, I was called back to the hospital to treat a patient because Doctor Thomas was on leave. The patient was the unconscious man I had refused to help two moths earlier. His bills had been paid and I had to treat him.

I didn’t even deserve to mourn my loss.

Bipolar

The first person Bantu visited was his grandfather who was serving a life sentence in Alagbon Prison; he needed to prove to them that he was different. He would break that chain. But his grandfather had only laughed at him when he said these words.

Then he visited his father in Kirikiri Prison. His father had basically said the same thing Granny had said.

'You are a demonic child. You were meant to die!'

The vile words had rung in Bantu's ears as he went home. He was thirty years old.

Bantu woke up one night and slaughtered his family - his three children and his wife.

His grandfather had wiped out his family the same way, too, but the last child (Bantu's father) had survived. His father had done the same thing but Bantu was the last survivor.

Bantu, too, was sentenced to life imprisonment.

Unfortunately, his last child survived.

FAMOUS STRANGER

'Mama, when will Papa return with my clothes from the market? It's been a whole year!' Junior asked.

Every time he asked this question, his mother always cried and replied, 'Soon.'

The eight-year-old boy was shocked when, this time around, Mama replied, 'He's never coming back.'

Junior refused to believe his mother. He knew that someday, he would meet his daddy. His father was famous - a renowned writer.

Three years later, after waiting for so long, Junior met him. He was overjoyed.

'Mama! Mama!' he called excitedly, 'Papa is back!'

The strangest thing happened instead. His mother was crying.

'He's not back,' she said bitterly.

But Junior disagreed. They had been waiting for Papa four years in the same house. Now Papa had returned.

He ran towards his father. 'Welcome Papa! We have missed you!'

But to his surprise, he couldn't feel his father. It was like the man didn't know he was there. There was another woman with Papa, and another boy whose name was Junior, too.

He was confused. What was happening? Then he felt his mother's hand on his shoulder:

'You are a stranger here. We are ghosts. Let us leave. Papa has not returned.'

FAMOUS STRANGER II

The job was simple: Grab the Minister's daughter and bring her to the hideout.

We had been tasked by an anonymous client to help kidnap the famous Jennifer.

But we were a minute too late. She had run out of her apartment, got into her car and sped off. My men had given a chase in their own car but I knew that was useless; we had been warned that Jennifer was a very clever girl. She would not be caught.

Then I had hardly driven a kilometre when I heard a bang in my booth. I opened it and beheld the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

She was not Jennifer. This was a total stranger. I wondered what she was doing in my booth.

She told me some men were chasing her. I was confused. Could it be that some other kidnappers were after this one, too?

I took her safely to her location. Her dad was waiting for her.

'Thank you for bringing my daughter safely,' he said. The voice! He was the same person who sent us on the mission.

The girl I saved from us was Jennifer without her makeup!

As I walked away, I wondered who my partners chased.

30-Day Flash Fiction

Day 1
Xenophobia

My name is John; Peter and Paul were my two friends. We were poor and jobless, but fortune smiled on us in a xenophobic manner, so to speak.

We heard about the looting of the South African stores in our neighbourhood, and since we were desperate for a means of livelihood, we joined in the fracas. Street guys had stormed the stores. People were carting away goods worth hundreds of thousands of naira.

As Lagos boys, we dived in with the looters. We had to grab whatever we could before the police came. We went to different stores. We had arrived too late; nearly all the shops had been cleaned out. We were desperate. It couldn't be. On our way coming we had seen a man leaving with a plasma TV, another one was carrying a fire extinguisher - whatever he needed that for. We, too, must not leave empty-handed. There was only one more fire extinguisher hanging from the wall.

Then I spotted the travel bag at a corner. It had been kicked around many times by looters during the fracas. It was dirty and dusty. Having nothing else to search for, I went to this bag and unzipped it.

I was greeted with bales of dollars. I immediately called my friends. I had found the solution to our problems. We would never be poor again.

Then we heard the sound of approaching sirens. The police! We must not be caught here. We had to leave very fast.

I didn't see the blow coming. Peter had hit me at the back of the head with the fire extinguisher, and Paul had grabbed the bag.

I watched helplessly as they escaped, leaving me behind. Before I could rise, armed men in police uniform had entered.

They were coming for me. I was sunk!

#xenophobia
#xenophobic
#Shoprite
#flashfiction

30-Day Flash Fiction
Day 2
Mission Nary
Dedicated to Jushua Denanie

The job was a very simple one. And the price impressive. We had been called by an anonymous person who asked us to kidnap a girl for two million naira.

We were four. We came from rich backgrounds. Our parents were politicians. Two million naira was nothing if each of us asked our parents, but we were tired of asking. We wanted to make our own money. So, when the unknown man called us and offered two million naira each, it was hard for us to say no.

Before the commencement of the job, we each received an alert of one million naira. The rest was promised to be paid as soon as the package was delivered.

The name and picture of the girl we were supposed to kidnap was provided to us on phone. We were informed about where we would see her, and the location of delivery.

We were too engrossed with the thought of receiving the remaining balances to bother ourselves about what they wanted with the girl.

On the appointed day, everything went on smoothly. We grabbed the girl from the roadside and put her in our car. The girl cooperated. She didn’t even shout or struggle. She wisely resigned her fate to the inevitable.

As we drove on, we imagined what we would do with our money. It would last us a week of paradise.

In less than an hour, we arrived at the delivery location. It was an abandoned warehouse. A quiet and serene environment. As we drove in, we saw armed men come out from their hidings. This was when I started having the premonition.

We brought the girl out of the car just when the leader of the gang was coming out to meet us. I recognised him immediately. He was the popular notorious kidnapper who had been elusive to the police for years. I couldn't believe that we had just kidnapped an innocent girl for this man. But it was too late to back off now.

But that was not the only shocking discovery.

Our captive, the girl we had grabbed, suddenly left us and went to hug the kidnapper.

"My plan worked, Daddy," she said to the man.

"Yes, it worked."

As the armed men grabbed us, I understood what had happened. We were the victim. We had walked into the trapped ourselves.

We were being kidnapped.

"Tell each of their parents to pay fifty million naira if they want their children alive," the man told the armed guards as he walked away with his daughter.

#kidnap
#kidnappers
#kidnapping

Reserved

Terminal Disease

Emeka and Nneka had come from the same village but they had met on a bridge in the city. It was love at first sight, but it was delayed by the sanctity of friendship. Their love story took a turn.

"I love you, Nene!" He told her after three months of maintaining friendship. Nene was the name he gave her. "You are the lintel of my soul. No one else can compare to you."

Tears ran down her face. These were the words she had wanted to hear him say for months.

"I love you too, Emeka," she replied, "I have always loved you since we met on that bridge. But it's too late now. Our love doesn't matter anymore."

Emeka stared at her. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm terminally ill."

"I don't understand."

"I have cancer."

"What!"

"I got the test result yesterday. I have only three months left."

Everything suddenly became dark. The world lost its colour. He was paralysed with shock.

"No!" he screamed, "You're not dying on me! You're not allowed to die! You will fight this and you will survive it. If anyone can beat cancer, it's you. I know you won't leave me."

The following week, the lovers returned to their hometown to seek traditional cures. In the same month, Emeka and Nneka got married.

But the test result had not been accurate. A week after they were wedded, the cancer won.

Emeka simply left the village and returned to the city, to the exact place where they had met. Life was useless without Nneka.

He climbed the railing of the bridge and stared at the dark water hundreds of feet below. He knew they didn't belong in this life. His Nene was waiting for him, she was in the afterlife. He must not keep her waiting.

He jumped.

Too Young To Fight

We have an adage in my village: 'Anyone can know the beginning of a war, but no one can know the end'. I have always heard this proverb since I was old enough to catch people's words. I never used to understand what it meant.

I was born into the world of war; peace was a strange concept to me. As far as I can remember, the sounds of guns had always been a normal phenomenon. In fact, when there was no gunshot sound for an hour, the whole community is thrown into a state of upheaval. The cracking sounds of gunshots meant there were still people alive to shoot at, and that gave us a sense of hope that our relatives might be alive.

The Nigerian Civil War left in its wake destructions and deaths. All the grownups in my village had been picked and dragged to the battlefield. Our village had been so decimated that we were left with only old people, women and children.

I was only twelve years old when I was taken to join the war. My father and all my brothers had been taken the same way and they never returned. I was given an oversized uniform and a gun I never knew how to shoot. As I was taken away, I saw my mother wailing as she had done when all the others had been taken. She knew this was the last of me she would be seeing.

The day I was drafted to go into the wilderness and fight soldiers with more sophisticated weapons, it was announced on the radio that the war had ended.

Although I am no longer on the battlefield, till this day, we are still fighting the war of fifty years ago.

Retribution

"If there is anyone who objects to this union, let the person talk now or keep silent evermore."

Jessy sat in the crowd with tears streaming down her checks.

The venue was the most expensive, and indeed, the grandest. Everyone had looked forward to the date. The coming union between Marcus Coker and Jenny Loveth was the talk of the town. Creams and sauces of the country and beyond had marked their calendars; they must witness this beautiful wedding everyone had been looking forward to. Now it had come.

But as news about the wedding plans filled up tabloids and the media in general, Jessy had locked herself in her room and wept uncontrollably. She was still finding it very hard to believe. No, it can't be Maxwell! Oh, it cannot be!

She had not believed her friends when they told her they'd seen Marcus with the Minister's daughter. She had laughed, and when she saw that they were serious, she had insulted them and ended their friendship. It was impossible. Maxwell could never leave her for another woman. Besides, he was not supposed to be in the country. Her friends must definitely be out of their minds.

It was when she saw the notice in the television that it dawned on her that her friends had right all along.

"If there is anyone who objects to this union, let the person talk now or keep silent evermore." The priest announced again.

Jessy raised a hand.

There was a loud roar of shock. Suddenly cameras started flashing lights on her, people took out their phones and took her pictures. Some recorded the video.

Then Jenny's phone rang. Amidst the confusion, she placed the phone against her ear.

"Hello Jenny."

The caller was Maxwell her fiancé, not Marcus the groom.