Connect The Dots.

Alright guys.Here's a story i wrote when my beard was still a marching column along my chin.Feel free to criticize us,I and the story lol.

                                                     I
It was harmattan  and although it wasn’t supposed to rain in harmattan, Pureh wasn’t so sure as he looked out of the window at the angry sea of roiling scudding nimbus. The god of Thunder raked silver fingers across a dark sky and unconsciously Pureh gripped the burglary proof that framed the window as the god’s inevitable bellow followed.

He coloured as he heard his uncle’s sneering voice. He wasn’t aware he was by the door.

‘Fear-Fear boy. If that were a woman’s voice I’m sure it would have had you reaching for your groin.’

Pureh was a notorious skirt chaser. He was also an albino which explained the blush.His secondary education had been in a seminary in his village in Bayelsa  state. For obvious reasons he had not made the cut for priesthood.
His uncle strode into the room. Pureh half turned  and stuttered ‘I-I-didn’t know you were there Uncle Ikachi’. Uncle Ikachi was his mother’s elder brother. He was nearly six foot three with a bulky gait. His neck was thick and sturdy. It had to be, Uncle Ikachi had a very big head.
Although Pureh was only nineteen, he was already as tall as his uncle, but compared with his uncle’s massive girth he was a bamboo shoot.

Uncle Ikachi studiously swept his gaze across the room. A wet towel lay on the bed. The sheets were bunched up, at the head of the bed a rolled up jean trouser took the place of the pillow which was probably underneath. The wardrobe door creaked on its hinges, clothes were in different stages of descent from the edge and the floor rug was a repository of grit.
His uncle was a stickler for tidiness, everything in its place and a place for everything. Pureh winced as the large head tuned on him and said in a voice that belied the disdain,

‘Take’.

It was a cheque for seventy five thousand naira. Pureh periodically ran errands to the bank for his uncle but last Thursday was the first time he had been asked to cash anything over forty thousand. Today it was seventy five thousand. He knew this showed his uncle’s increasing confidence in him and prayed that nothing untoward happen.
He collected the cheque. His uncle began the now familiar ritual.

‘Where am I sending you?’

                                 
                                                                               II

‘To the bank uncle’
‘Which bank?’
‘Citizens on Olu Obasanjo opposite the Police station’
‘Do you know Princewill ventures?’
Pureh shook his head.
‘Please show me the way to garrison?’
He shook his head again and laughed. However the laughter caught in his throat at his uncle’s next harsh words.

‘The day you lose my money to tricksters there won’t be any showing of teeth when I descend on you!’

Pureh shuddered at the thought of being flattened under all that obese flesh. Although he thought his uncle was over reacting, still he knew he was right to be stern. Fraudsters and tricksters  plagued Port-Harcourt like flies to a wound, lured on by the scent of petro-naira.
Their modus varied according to cast. There were the sailor tricksters who would pretend to be foreigners just arrived on a ship with goods to dispose of at a give away.
There were normally no goods and talk almost always led to a beer carton filled with semi-processed dollar notes. After a sample demonstration, the greedy victim would then be informed of the paucity of the transforming fluid and asked to cough up a huge amount.
There were the good old money doublers. These miracle workers would promise to double one’s money placed in a sealed black box to be tended with incantations till the seventh day when it should be opened to find twice the original amount. This was usually not the case with victims who opened their boxes only to stare into the surprised face of a rock.
The lost-in-the-city tricksters were the most feared. Pretending to lose their way, they begged for directions. Usually any audible answer given them would be the last voluntary thing the victim did. Only after gifting them valuables in his house would the victim’s senses return. They were said to possess juju.
The only precaution was giving non oral answers. This was why Pureh had shaken his head in reply to his uncle’s last two questions.
After his uncle left he bent his lean frame over the bed and retrieved his jeans. He pulled it on, squeezed the two hundred naira fare his uncle gave him into its watch pocket and donned a Super eagles jersey number ten that was lying on the floor of the wardrobe. Next his feet disappeared into a pair of leather sandals as he bounced out of the house.

His uncle watched by the window of his bedroom wondering. Obele, his uncle’s wife sat on the bed. She ran nervous fingers through her Bob Marley braids.

Hmmm.  I think the reason you've gotten no responses yet is probably because of the other stories.