Leke passed the several bars that lined Square Lane, the road which led to the village square. He did not go into any of them because they were crowded, he kept walking till he came across Monkey Tail Bar. It was empty except for a sinewy bar-man who stood behind the counter. It was just the kind of place he was looking for, where he could be alone with a bottle of kai kai.
He chose the darkest corner of the bar to sit in and ordered a bottle of the vile drink, kai kai, which most of the village men favoured. His solitude was not meant to last, the bar’s door loudly swung open and a scraggy man staggered into the bar. He stood in the middle of the room and studied Leke, then he finally staggered over to Leke’s table.
Leke stared at the man, then looked around the room and wondered whether the man did not see the other tables.
“Agbo my man,” the man slurred to the bar-man. “Agbo, give me pami.” Pami is a local wine extracted from the sap of the palm tree.
Leke watched as the man swallowed a deep draught of pami from a gourd. He stared at the man’s abnormally large adam’s apple which bobbed up and down as he swallowed. The man wiped his hand across his mouth, then belched loudly. Leke shifted in his chair and eyed him with irritation. The man stared back sleepily. He wore an old pair of khaki trousers and an old t-shirt that must have been red or pink, it was hard to tell from how faded it looked. He seemed to be in his fifties, but he must not have been that old. Most of the elderly men in the village were younger than they looked, this was only one of the scars from the war that ended a decade ago, and of course the drinking too. He let out another loud belch.
The man took one sleepy glance at Leke, then studied the whitish liquid in his gourd before gulping down the whole thing. Belch.
He started to croak a song. It was a war song that was popular among the old soldiers. Leke must have known it.
“I followed you,” the man said when he stopped to sing. “You passed the other joints where there are people, lots of drink and music and fine fine girls. Why?” Leke did not answer.
“You were walking like a zombie that is tired of living.” He laughed at his own joke till he started to cough, then he ordered another gourd of pami when he stopped coughing.
Leke only looked at him, the man stared back with half closed eyes. He brought out a broken cigarette and started to smoke.
“Agbo, this one does not talk?” he asked the bar-man.
“Maybe you should go back to the music and fine fine girls. The man does not want your company, let him be”
“Hmm, you don’t talk?” the old man asked. “Well I have a lot to talk about. In fact, a story to tell. You see, everyone has got tired of hearing my stories. Even Agbo, that skinny goat.” The bar-man only laughed.
“But you my young friend, you seem like you’ll be here for a while.” The old man said, eyeing Leke’s half full bottle of kai kai. “So story time it is.
“Where should I start?” he asked with his eyes now gleaming. “Oh, yes. Would you believe me if I told you I was once on my way to being a priest? A Catholic priest, yes, a Father. I even left my girlfriend for priesthood.” He shook his head and smiled. “She was lovely and my mother liked her. She cried herself to sleep in my mother’s room the day I told her I wanted to become a priest, her crying almost made me change my mind. My mother tried to talk me out of it but my mind was made up, she didn’t talk to me for months afterwards. You see, I was her only child and she thought I would give her grandchildren someday. My father had several other children from his many wives, so one son going to the seminary didn’t bother him. In fact, he said I was the family’s gateway to heaven.
“My mother gave up trying to change my mind after I had spent two years at the seminary, she said she couldn’t fight God, that she shouldn’t have christened me Samuel, maybe I would have been different. And she brought my girlfriend with her the first few times.
“See, it was the white Father in our parish, Father Rudolph that first put the thought in my head. I was a teacher in the mission school and he was our headmaster. I was fresh out from the Teachers’ Training College. He saw me teaching one day and asked me to see him in his office after school. I went to see him and he told me how brilliant I was, and that a young and brilliant man like me would be a good priest. He said the ‘Church’ was in need of native priests and he saw a perfect one in me. He said a lot of things that had me hooked, like I might become the first native Bishop around these parts and that he would take care of my needs, I wouldn’t have to worry and a bunch of other things. He made me believe it was God talking to me, calling me. So my poor mother and my crying girlfriend couldn’t change my mind.”
Samuel paused to light another cigarette. “Agbo, this one is still sitting here, he’s liking my story.”
“I bet you Sammy, he’ll be back tomorrow for another story.” Agbo said, laughing.
“I was a good seminarian.” Samuel continued. “That’s what everybody said. They even said I looked immaculate in my cassock, I looked priestlier than our white Father. I felt like the Holy Father, the Pope.
“My ordination was months away, I had already bought new vestments for it. Then gboom!” he slapped the table. “Just like that, the killings in the North started and before we knew what was happening the country was thrown into a civil war. It was a terrible mess, it was. People stopped coming to church because they were afraid they would get bombed, anything that looked like a large gathering of people was bombed by enemy planes. Father Rudolph left when all missionaries were asked to leave the country, I bet you he was happy to leave.” He motioned to Agbo to give him another gourd.
“Three of my brothers joined the army, no one has heard from them since. They are probably manure for some tree in the forest. When the army was no longer getting recruits, they started conscripting young men and boys. Ah! Those were evil days.
“One morning, a group of soldiers stormed the church, my door was knocked down from its hinges and a group of boy soldiers, the oldest not more than seventeen, dragged me outside. Their leader, they called him ‘Commander’, stood outside with a revolver on his belt, he was a large man with a bald head and beady eyes. Some of the boys carried rifles while the rest wielded machetes and long knives. They dumped me on the ground before their Commander. He asked me why I was still sleeping, he asked if I didn’t know the country was at war. He said...

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Please, please and a third please, structure your piece in such a way that it would be readable. What you have up there is such a jumble of words.... Enough to make people loose interest

I went to the link....

You are terrific.. .

Why is it tgat any author who writes about the civil war wins hearts?

The writer is amazing.
Luper Tarkaa is his name.

[url]Akukom.com[/url] allows for writers/the public to share their Literature/stories with the world.

nijabazaar:
I went to the link....

You are terrific.. .

Why is it tgat any author who writes about the civil war wins hearts?

This is mad interesting.. Kudos!!!