So for those who followed the prologue, it is which much delight that I give you the chapter1. I really do hope you enjoy it. I want you to feel free and share your views. Follow @AkexIjezie1 opn twitter.

CHAPTER ONE




THE SUN WAS smiling generously. A dark Mercedes Benz drove into the pathway that led to the busy Oando filling station. In the front seat was a dark man, with bald hair, and a knife mark on the side of his forehead. He was wearing an Ankara traditional up-and-down attire, with one of his hands on the steering—the right hand—and the other, balanced on the side of his door. He was smiling as he drove, as if staring at something comical, and often looking at his Burberry watch, as if he was expected to be somewhere.
Beside him was a plump woman, with a generous size of breast, and a simple oval face. She was wearing a traditional gown, made from the same Ankara design as her husband’s, all matching like a blend of beautiful uniform. On her neck was wrapped a coral bead necklace, flatly matching her dress, a set of coral bead earrings on her two ears, a scarf concealing her hair, and assorted bangles, designing her wrist in bravura. She was tuning the radio station, changing it from station to another every millisecond, as if there was a programme she was expecting, a programme she frequently listened to. Behind them, their three children—a set of twin boys and one girl—were seated.
Ekene, the first set of the twins, was seating behind his father, his eyes gawked on the “Fine Boys” novel he was reading. He was sixteen years old, awaiting his result from the JAMB matriculation examinations he had written. He liked reading Nigerian novels; he had read almost all of them—Half of a Yellow Sun, Purple Hibiscus, Oil on Water, On Black Sisters’ Street, I Do Not Come To You By Chance, and some others that his father couldn’t remember. His dad was often said he wouldn’t be surprised if the boy ended up writing, though he would prefer him to be an engineer, because writers in Nigeria didn’t make money. The first time Ekene had gone for one of the residential creative writing workshops—he had submitted a short story by email, and was told he was among the ten people chosen to attend—he had come back, telling all of them about the author who taught them had signed his copy of his book for him. “Do you know he knows my name,” he said, and when his father looked at it later, he was surprised to see just “Ekene, keep it up”; he had expected to see something more.
His second son, Edozie, sat in the middle. He was an irony of his twin; so identical facially, but ironical behaviors. Edozie’s face was poised under the screen of his PlayStation Portable; he seemed to be with it every second of the day. He was entering SS3, because he had repeated a class. He had once told his parents that he wanted to become a computer engineer, and make games, but his father had dismissed it, and told him he couldn’t because he had problems with mathematics and physics.
The last child of his, a girl, was seated behind her mother. Her name was Miriam, and it seemed to enter her head at times, that she was the only person who had an English name in the family. She was staring outside through the window, as she often did when they were driving, gawking at the environment, as if it meant something personal to her. She liked watching the danfo—yellow commercial buses in Lagos, that had passengers squeezed inside like mashed sardine, four people seating in a wooden seat meant for three—driver’s fight each other, or the LASTMA road safety officials, arrest someone for defaulting and driving on the BRT lane, or the bumper-to-bumper movement of cars in traffic, watching them hit each other at times, and the drivers cursing each other.
However, today was a special day. For one thing, it was Sunday, and they would get to eat Sunday rice and chicken; for another, it was the only day Detective Obi was free to stay with his family, the only day he wasn’t busy at work. He drove to the filling station and queue up on the long queue of cars. It was Sunday, and only one of the petrol men was around. And he was slow, arguing for change, as he filled the tank of people’s cars. As he waited for the queue to move slowly, he saw a woman, carrying a baby behind her back. Two small boys followed her, as she walked to seat on one of the small kiosk.
Obi sighed. “See those lovely children,” he said.
“What?”
“I mean those children are beautiful,” he said. “Do you remember when we had our kids like that?”
“We never had our kids like that,” his wife replied. “They were never like this. They wore shoes and didn’t walk barefooted.”
Obi laughed. “That’s not what I mean. Can’t you see the smile on the woman’s face, like that of a proud woman? I could remember that same smile when you discovered you were pregnant for twins.”
“So you have not forgotten it?”
“How can I?”
His wife laughed. “How wouldn’t I smile, when I finally had boys, after your mom wanted to finish me with words.”
The horn of a car behind him, and the voice of the angry owner telling him to move, reminded him that he was still on the queue. “Mama was only being anxious to see her grandchildren. Any woman would be.”
“I know. I didn’t say she is bad.”
He drove front, and told the petrol man to fill the tank. “I remember when we used to live in Port Harcourt.”
“Yeah, life was a bit better; at least we got to see you weekends,” his wife said.
“But you’re having me for today.”
“Just one day.”
He had just finished counting Five Thousand Naira (he was surprised at the increase in prize of fuel), when his phone rang, the Fela’s song, vibrating from his phone. He pushed his gear backwards, drove out, and parked close to the engine oil mart in front.
“Hello.”
“Hello,” the voice at the other end of the line replied. “Good afternoon.”
“Afternoon, how you?”
“Fine sir and you?”
“I’m good.”
“Am I on to Detective Obi?”
“Yes, this is Detective Obi, and who is calling?”
“Sir, I’m inspector Jerry from the Criminal Investigation Department. We have a serious murder case; I called Secret State Service, and we were directed to you.”
“Where is this murder at?”
“Just near the Lagos-Ibadan expressway sir. My men are there.”
“Where are you calling from?” Detective Obi asked.
“I’m close to Palmgroove,” the voice on the other line replied.
“Alright. I’m at Oando filling station at Obanikoro.”
“I’d meet you there in fifteen minutes sir.”
“Good.”
The call ended. Obi placed his phone in his pocket, and turned to his wife, staring at her and wondering what to say. She was the first to talk. “You still haven’t changed that Fela’s ringtone of yours.”
“Not at all.” He paused. “There is something I want to tell you. The call that just came in is from the Criminal Investigation Department.”
“Do they want anything?” she asked.
“There’s been a hideous crime last night. They want me to come and investigate it,” he said.
“But you don’t work for the CID last I remembered.”
“Someone from the Secret State Service gave them my number. They had called the SSS and, was told to contact me, that I’m the man for the job.”
“Should that be a compliment?” she asked.
Obi turned to his wife. The windows were wind down, because he had turned off the car to save fuel. His hands found its way slowly on his wife’s laps, as he examined the smoothening feel of it, and he quickly removed it, when he heard his daughter cough that comical mischievous grin that patched her lips nearly made him laugh to. “Honey,” he said slowly. “Look I know how you feel, there is no one that wants to be with his family more than I want to but—”
“—Duty calls,” she completed.
He smiled. She had always been a tough woman. He could remember when they still young couples. They had nearly divorced on one of the strenuous squabbles. It had been about his job too, how risky it was, the danger it posed on the life of them, how busy he was and didn’t have time for the family, she went on saying. It would have been the worst mistake of his life if he had divorced her; she had the right to be annoyed. Many times, threats had been fired at his wife and kids just to get at him. She had enough right to be annoyed.
“Look honey, I’d be back as soon as I can, I promise,” he said, gripping his wife’s hand gently. “I promise.”
She smiled. It was obvious it was a forced smile, but it was better than none. She slowly removed her hands from his grip, and took out her makeup box to apply her mascara.
The appearance of a black hummer jeep, suddenly reminded Obi of the CID’s coming. The black jeep drove round the filling station, before finally coming to park in front of his car. A tall man, dressed in a blue long-sleeved shirt, and black jeans trouser jumped down from the driver’s side. Obi came out from his own car and walked towards his jeep.
“Detective Obi?” he asked, as he got near to him.
“Yes.”
“I’m Inspector Jerry.”
“Nice to meet you,” Obi replied, stretching out his hands for a handshake.
After the handshake, Inspector Jerry spoke. “Sir, we have a serious murder case. I called the SSS but I was told to call you, that you’re in Lagos.”
“Yes, I lead the Lagos office. Where is the crime scene again?”
“Along the Lagos-Ibadan road,” he replied.
“Where exactly?”
“Just on the outskirts of Lagos. I don’t know the name of the area, but I can take you there immediately sir, if you’re ready.”
“Alright, I’m coming. Give me five minutes to talk to my wife.”
“Yes sir.”
Detective Obi walked to his car. His wife had finished applying her mascara, not as if she was going anywhere however, but she just applied it because she wanted to have something doing. Obi got her, entered inside and sat on his seat.
“Honey, it’s time for me to go. The murder is at Lagos-Ibadan expressway, like thirty minutes from here. Within one hour, I’d be done, and I’d come back home, okay.”
“Alright,” she replied, staring somewhere else.
“Are you sure you would be okay?”
She nodded her head. “Yes.”
“Look honey, I love you okay. Take care of the kids, and if there is any problem, don’t hesitate to call me.”
He kissed his daughter, and tapped his two sons on the head because they were both busy reading “Fine Boys” and playing PlayStation Portable.
“I’d miss you dad,” his daughter, Miriam, said.
He wanted to say that he wouldn’t be staying long and would be back sooner than they expected. Instead, he found himself saying, “I’d miss you too honey.” He kissed her on the cheeks again.
“So you drive them home,” he told his wife, handing her the car keys. “And remember to be on your seat belts, so that the LASTMA road safety doesn’t arrest you. Miriam, go to the front seat and join your mother, I’d be back soon.”
He waved at them as they drove off, watching his wife’s face ease away with gloominess, till they were out of sight. He walked back to the jeep.
“Can we go now?”
“Sure sir,” replied Inspector Jerry. While they were driving, Inspector Jerry told him. “You have a nice family.”
“Thank you.”
* * *
They found themselves in the usual Lagos State traffic. The cars were moving bumper-to-bumper, and there was no how anyone could bypass the traffic. Inspector Jerry was one the steering, while Detective Obi balanced in the front passenger seat, his eyes out of the window, like he was searching for someone.
“What kind of traffic is this?” he asked.
“It wasn’t here when I passed. It must have just come out. You know how Lagos traffic is, one minute it is clear, the next, it is filled.”
“What on earth would be causing this strange traffic today of all days?”
“Today is church. People are just returning from service sir,” Inspector Jerry replied.
“Can you turn on the siren please? We need to be out of here, because I need to finish and go back and see my family.”
“Yes sir,” replied Inspector Jerry, and he added, “though if you see the crime, you might not want to go home.”
The siren went on. The sound blasted out, and echoed in the air. Just like an automatic remote, the road seemed to clear and make way for them. Then, it blocked in front.
“Enter the BRT lane,” Detective Obi said.
“But sir…”
“No complains, just enter the fucking BRT lane. For heaven’s sake, we don’t have all day to spend here at some freaking traffic. It is an emergency case, so the fucking LASTMA road safety officials better understand.”
“Yes sir.”
They drove through the BRT lane. In front, they saw what caused the traffic: a trailer had spoilt in the middle of the road, and had blocked everywhere. This was one of the reasons why Obi was in support of the government, enforcing laws that would keep these long motors under check, at least to move only in the night.

I mean @AlexIjezie1

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I like detective stories. Where is Chapter Two?

Larry-Sun:
I like detective stories. Where is Chapter Two?

I just finished reading brand of cain for the second time, there's this scene from one of your story where a boy was caught in a cross fire between the police and criminals, please can you link me to it?

thank you for all following, promise to fill u on with more stories. here is chapter 2

For those of u following, thanks......hope I didn't disappoint u wif chapt2. U can follow me on twitter @AlexIjezie1


CHAPTER TWO

For those following this story, well I have finally completed chapter 3. You can still @AlexIjezie1 or like my facebook page Ijezie Alexander Chimmuanya. Enjoy!!!!!!




CHAPTER THREE


THE BLACK TOYOTA Landcruiser looked innocuous; it was parked by the corner, just along the Berger road, around the entrance to the commercial city of Lagos. The jeep was parked close to the fading green “Welcome to Lagos, City of Excellence” signboard, which could be mistaken for a simple wedge of plywood. The jeep had on its body, the stickers of one of the beverages company, Milo, sweeping across it. Its lights were on; it was getting a bit dark. It was six o’ clock, or some minutes after, perhaps; the street light of Lagos was shining dazzling, and flooded the roads from the entrance of the city, to only God knows where.
The driver was tired of waiting. His boss, the man who always wore suit like he worked in one of these new generation banks, forced him to take two other guys, and wait for them here. They were meant to be here since twenty minutes ago. He sighed. This was one thing he hated with the Nigerian roads; they could always upset one’s appointment. He sighed again, as he sprawled the driver’s seat he was sitting on. He drew his face cap down across his face, and shut his eyes.
The thunderous bang on the side of the jeep woke him up. Another guy opened the front passenger side of the jeep and hopped in. He was a thin man, tall and as lanky as a broomstick, with an enormous head, several pimples in unsuitable locations, and a knife mark on his forehead that looked like one of those legendary marks given to African slaves in the 18th century. He had mutilated lips, and as he spoke, he revealed his set of scattered dentition, and his lips forced to be black by regular cigarette. He was dressed in an ash chinos trouser, and a white T-shirt with “fight against cancer” scribble, struggling across it. It was one of those souvenirs he had gotten from one of the cancer works he had gone with his girlfriend; she had forced him to. He dumped himself on the chair.
“Come OJ, we go soon set o! Shay you don’ set?” he said in pidgin. He peered into the backseat and collected an AK47. He reloaded the bullets, the clicking sound swirling the air.
“What of Python?” OJ asked.
“Still putting finishing touches. Na ‘im go help us stop the other police car wey dey follow am so we go fit hit the main one.”
“How ‘im go do am?”
“Watch and see. ‘im don set everything finish. Shay you don’ set your own gun?”
OJ didn’t say a word. He rancorously set his seat straight and started the engine. He waited. He would get the signal from Python, and he would rev into action. It wasn’t the first time they were doing this kind of job; they were professionals. He could hear the faint sound of siren approaching. From his rearview mirror, he could see a black Hummer, racing into sight, a police Toyota Camry car escorting it behind. OJ could see his partner quickly fasten up his seatbelt, and grip his gun tight. He wore his seatbelt, tensed as he always was when he did this kind of job, his face developing into an anxious grimace. He waited. The car was approaching closer. His partner was already gripping his weapon firm, ready to spray it content. His heart pounded. Where was the fucking signal? For Christ’s sake, the signal! The car was almost near; what the hell was Python doing? He couldn’t let this mission get bleeped up o; he had already spent his share of the money; okay not all of them, but a generous amount. He and his girlfriend, that demanding little brat, had gone to eat it all down in Shoprite at Lekki, shopping everything “shopable”, buying this and that. He had no money to return if the mission went the other way. No money at all! No money to return to Chairman. The Hummer was getting closer; the siren of the escorting police car was louder than the horn of the Mobil tanker opposite. What was Python doing; where was the signal? The signal please!
Then just then, the signal came.

There was an explosion just behind the black Hummer. The police car escorting it was forced to step on the brake and reverse, to avoid risk of exploding. The fucking signal had just come. OJ matched his accelerator and revved forward. He turned his steering on time and swerved to his right, slamming into the driver’s side of the Hummer jeep. The signal just came on time; the collision had been a lucky calculation. Both cars skidded across the tarred road, and slammed into a nearby Mr. Biggs fast food restaurant.
The driver of the black Hummer tried to get out from his side, but couldn’t. The Landcruiser reversed. OJ’s partner released his AK47, magnificent pair of guns he had been given specially for this, and sprayed the bullet in the air, like one spraying body spray on his body. The driver of the Hummer escaped out of his vehicle, and behind the passenger side to take cover. His partner that was in the passenger seat had his pistol poised in his hand. He pointed it towards the Landcruiser, and shot back. He took cover behind the Hummer, loading his pistol. The driver of the Hummer shot his from the other side. The clinging sound of the bullets hitting the metallic body of the car was echoing in the air. People were already running helter-skelter out of Mr. Biggs, as the exchange of fire continued.
One of the bullets from OJ’s partner’s gun caught the driver of the Hummer in the chest, and he fell down. That was their winning grace. They kept firing. The partner of the Hummer’s driver fired from his pistol, shooting and taking cover. He got to the driver, and drew him away to the nearby metallic kiosk where he took cover. Mr. Biggs was already empty. OJ covered his partner, rekindling his bullets on the metallic kiosk to prevent the guy there from firing, while his partner reached to the wrecked Hummer and searched for it. Where the Bleep was it? OJ was still covering him, spraying bullets on the metallic kiosk. The man behind it shot back. He missed. For Christ’s sake, hadn’t he found it? What the hell was he still doing in the Hummer? OJ sighed as he continued shooting; he bullets were finishing and reloading it could Bleep the whole mission up. Then, he saw the boy racing out of the Hummer back. He only hoped he had gotten it. The man taking cover behind the metallic kiosk was now firing at them. Oh shit! His bullets had finished. His partner was still running forward, dodging the bullets from the angry man taking cover. He jumped into the Landcruiser, and OJ revved away in speed. The other guy was still shooting his jeep, the clinging sound of metal jamming metal suddenly irritating him. He sped away. He could see from the rearview mirror that his prey was still chasing after him, on foot. There was no use, he wouldn’t get him. He sighed.
“You got it?” OJ asked, his hoarse voice mixed with his pounding breath. This was what he should have asked first.
“Yes.” His partner showed him the tape.
“Good. We have to leave this area before police cars start combing everywhere here.” He stepped on the accelerator the more, and sped away.
* * *
OJ hissed as he entered a pothole in the damage tarred street. Damned roads, he cursed. The government wasn’t saying anything about it; all they knew was to eat their money in Abuja. He stopped by the corner of an impressive marbled walled house, and parked. He jumped out of the Landcruiser. His partner in front and Python opened their own doors and came out. Python had done an impressive job earlier that evening, a well calculated one. They had picked him up along the road where it was agreed he would wait for them. He had been too sure of himself, and his plans to get rid of the other police car that he had forgotten to tell OJ. An explosive had been a bad idea, OJ thought, a risky one; but it worked. It worked, that was it. And so Python was celebrating the best way he knew how to, smoking his wee—the grass was wrapped in a well rolled paper—and puffing out trenchant smell of burning grass.

“No smoke that thing enter Chairman’s house o!” OJ said to him.
Python laughed out, and for a minute or two, OJ thought that he was already “high”. He said. “I know now. I go smoke am finish here.”
OJ nodded his head as he watched him take two more puffs, before throwing it in the gutter. He locked the jeep, and they all worked to the gate.
The house was huge, at least huge enough for its owner. The compound was interlocked in red and white blocks, forming spiral patterns here and there. There was a little garden with marbled chairs and table, guarded by hibiscus flowers that perched its entrance. The fountain in the middle of the house spurred out water, and looked dazzling as the scorching sun reflected on it. There was a swimming pool, though not as big as what OJ would have expected a swimming pool to be. In it, two girls—obviously expensive harlots—were swimming, perhaps waiting for Chairman to come out and “service” them.
One of the bodyguards, a guy with huge chest that looked like the breast of a lady and muscles that seemed like it was struggling to escape the prison of being enslaved under his tank-top, escorted them to the cottage behind the main house. It was like an artifact in a museum; it seemed almost like one of those cribs in a beach. It had an expensive wooden finish. OJ walked slowly, cautious of the vigilant eyes of the three Bulldogs that were barking aloud. At the corner of the compound, four other bodyguards hung around a small thatched roof canvas; their green shirt was impressively etched with a Burberry logo. OJ nodded as one of them strolled over to search him. OJ surrounded his pistol, something that he always did when he was entering to see Chairman. The problem with big people, he thought, was that they trusted nobody. When the bodyguard was sure he had nothing on him, he allowed him step into the cottage.
The man in the living room was dressed in khaki shorts, and a T-shirt that had the flag of Nigeria. Such a patriotic Nigerian, OJ ironically teased him in his mind. He was reading a newspaper, and nudging his eyes to the NTA news, a new habit he had formed, like he was expecting to hear important news any sooner. He acknowledged OJ’s presence with a nod, and grunted something in reply when the guy greeted. He later dropped the Guardian newspaper in his hands, and waved to OJ to sit on the cushion beside him, as he continued to watch the plump girl that was on the television like she had something very important to say. OJ imagined him suddenly burst; his pot belly was excessively potted, caused by the too much Gulder he drank. Eventually, he grumbled something and turned to OJ.
“So?”
It was a deep voice that sounded raspy, with a bit of scent of expensive cigar in it. OJ didn’t look at his face; instead, he starred at the Guardian newspaper that was on the stool. The scribbling headlines, “Acting President Goodnews finally declares interest in presidential election” was laughing at his foolish naivety, and he wondered if it was true.
“Chairman, we have the tape,” OJ said, and watched to look how Chairman’s face would react. Nothing. He continued. “Python has it with him.”
“And where is he?”
“He is with the other guy outside,” he replied. “I told them to wait till you gave orders for them to come in.”
“Well, well, what are you waiting for? Bring them in immediately.”
“Sure Chairman.”
OJ was escorted by the bodyguard. As he left out, he couldn’t stop to imagine how impressively magnificent, the wooden finishing of the ceiling looked, and how much Chairman must have paid to have it done. He got outside and met the others.
“What’s up?” asked Python.
“Chairman wan see una.”
“Any yawa?” Python asked.
“Nothing o. Him just wan’ see una.”
They walked inside, and OJ made it just in time to hear the man with a blue tie on the Silverbird channel, roundup the headlines of the evening’s news: Acting President Goodnews Ijeoma has declared that he would be embarking on a nationwide tour for one week. News reaching us from Aso Rock is that he would visit major cities like Kano, Ibadan, Lagos, Benin, Onitsha and Port Harcourt, where he would be giving a speech. This is part of his campaign strategy to win the upcoming presidential elections scheduled to hold in thirty days’ time.
“So boys, the job went well I expect,” Chairman said.
“Yes sir,” OJ spoke for them.
“And clean?”
“Of course. You no trust us again, boss.”
“I do. You know how I emphasize on always having my job done cleanly.”
“Chairman, it went clean.”

Please remember to follow @AlexIjezie1.
Continuation

The man snorted. He took out his expensive cigar and smoked. He puffed out silver rings of smolder. He dropped it in a ceramic cup. He turned back to them, adjusting his sagging khaki. “So gist me how it happened,” he said.
OJ told him how they had waited as he instructed, how the other guy had come to tell him that they were almost near, how Python had blown the explosives, how they had collected the tape and he had killed one of the cops, and how they had escaped.
“So Python, na you do the smart job,” he said, laughing croakily.
Python nodded his head.
“Well done,” he said. “Your money go double.”
“Ha! Thank you, boss,” Python replied, excitedly.
“And you OJ, na you kill that stupid police man. Your own too go double.”
OJ smiled. Chairman must be very impressed with their job, for him to be giving them money anyhow. So he still had much money, his balance and the extra money Chairman promised. Enough money to flex around.
“So where is the tape?”
Python brought it out from his pocket. OJ had given it to him in the jeep when he had insisted on seeing what they put their life on the line for. He had shouted, “chie, na this small thing,” when OJ had given it to him.
“This is the tape?” the man asked, smoking his cigar again.
“Yes boss!”
“You sure?”
“Sure boss!”
“Have you played it to listen to what is in it?” he asked.
“No sir. We wanted you to see it first before doing any other thing.”
“What are you waiting for? Go and get a record player let us listen to what is in the tape. Quickly.”
“Yes boss.”
* * *
OJ’s heart was pounding as they listened to the hoarse voices on the tape. They had found a record player and were listening to it. Was this what he had put his life along the line for, a bloody conspiracy? A conspiracy to murder him! Imagine! No wonder this tape had been of concern to Chairman. No wonder Chairman didn’t want anyone to get the tape; it could trace back to him, and that meant life in prison. The voice on the tape ended, and the discussion was finished.
“I have now confirmed that this is the real tape. My sources were right; the person that told me about it was correct. Guys, you shall receive your bonus,” Chairman said happily.
“Yes boss,” Python replied, and OJ nodded his head. His face was dull; why the hell hadn’t Chairman told him of this? Who and who were conspiring to murder him? And why did they want to kill him?
“What’s the matter OJ?”
OJ’s eyes sprung up. “Chairman.”
“What is the problem? Your face looks dull. I just told you that I am going to give you guys your full bonus today.”
“I heard you, boss. I’m okay, just thinking, that’s all,” OJ replied.
“Is it what you heard?”
“No, no, no…not at all.” His voice gave its denial.
“Good. Because I don’t want to hear this outside here; understood?”
“Yes boss.”
“Good, good.” Chairman took a bottle of Moet and Chandon from his bar—a fine wooden finishing that suited his taste—and he poured its content into four glasses. Then he handed each of them one. “Cheers to success!”
“Cheers!”
There was a clinging sound of bottles, jamming each other. While they drank, Chairman whispered something in one of his bodyguards’ ears, and the guy nodded his head. Then he gave him his First Bank atm card. When they finished drinking, Chairman told them. “I am really impressed by this job that I have decided I want to pay you guys today.”
“Serious!” Python cried out.
OJ sighed. “Today is Sunday boss.”
“I know, and that’s why I gave Bobby one of my atm card to withdraw money and give it to you.”
“We can wait till tomorrow boss; you don’t need to stress yourself giving us cash.”
“It’s nothing,” Chairman said, and it surprised OJ that he was so benevolent. “Are you speaking for others? Allow them to speak for themselves.” Chairman turned and faced the other two, his eye fixed on their. “What say the both of you?”
OJ turned and looked at Python. His lips had been quick to gear into motion. He wanted his today, he had said. The greedy fool! The other guy simply said that he would like to have his own today if he can. What was the use of disguising one’s greediness with diplomacy, OJ thought? So it was decided, they would follow Bobby to go and withdraw the money from the bank. OJ couldn’t help feeling itchy about the whole thing. There was something wrong with it, but he couldn’t place his fingers on what it was. Maybe he was just being afraid of losing the money to the street rascals that harassed people. Who born the maga? He was just being over nervous on things he shouldn’t worry about. All would go well, and he would have his own doo within minutes. He thanked Chairman, and promised to be there the next day. He was quick to notice the displeasure on his face; perhaps he wanted to be alone tomorrow; perhaps he didn’t want OJ coming.
Bobby took them to the Toyota Hiace bus that was parked by the garage. OJ had tried to collect his pistol from the guy who had collected it, but Bobby insisted he could get it when they came back.
OJ, Python, their other partner, and two other bodyguards sat behind with them, while Bobby and the driver sat in the front. Wizkid’s new song was floating in the air, while Python was disturbing it with his remixed version of the song.
Oj relaxed on his seat as they drove. One of the guys offered him a stick to smoke, but he shook his head. He still was thinking of something; something didn’t seem right somewhere; he could sense it. The green trees they passed lined by the corners like they were guarding the road from an evil fellow. They had shrubs, twinned to the root of the Irokos. It looked more like a valley of Trees, like some kind of evil forest showed on the Nollywood films. Wait! Forest? What were they doing here?
“Where are we going to?” OJ asked in a startled voice. This wasn’t the way to the bank; this was off the road, somewhere OJ since he lived in Lagos never knew existed. They had been in the bus for about ten minutes since they left. Why didn’t they enter one of the banks on the street?
Bobby turned behind. “We just wan pick person for front,” he said in his hoarse voice, covered with melancholy.
“Do I know the person?”
“No; one of Chairman’s new acquaintances,” Bobby replied, not staring into OJ’s eyeballs. Python was still singing, reciting the Olamide’s song that was now playing like it was some kind of nursery rhythm. It surprised OJ that the guy couldn’t smell something fishy.
The bus suddenly slowed down in front and parked very close to a dark spruce tree. The trees had been stripped by a recent wind that blew across the land, and they seemed to lean across each other, black and ominous in the fading light of the bus.
“What’s wrong?” OJ asked, getting nervous.
“Na here we suppose pick am,” Bobby replied, getting out of the bus. “He is meant to be here now.”
“Here?”
“It was agreed we would pick her here. Chairman doesn’t want us picking here in a public view.”
Okay, now something was really fishy, OJ thought. Bobby had just said him, and now it had turned to her. Something was indeed really fishy. He was now getting scared. As he opened the door to come out, he noticed one of the bodyguards slip a pistol under his jacket. Now something was damn fishy.
He got out of the bus and waited for Python and his other partner to come. “How long are we expecting her to be here?” he asked.
Bobby puffed out the smoke that was in his mouth. “Erm…she should be here within five minutes. You just relax.”
OJ could notice the insincerity in his eyes; he was now sure something was really fishy. He coughed. His eyes went to the bodyguard near him, who quickly removed his eyes away and stared somewhere else.
OJ coughed again. Then he said. “I wan go piss o.”
“Okay. You can do that by the bush. Taiwo go escort you so that nothing go take you unawares.”
OJ nodded his head; of course he wanted the bodyguard to follow him. He exactly what he wanted to do. He noticed Bobby wink at the bodyguard called Taiwo, and he followed him near the bush. OJ got near a tall tree, and unzipped his jeans. Okay, what he wanted to do now could get him killed, but it was better than dying a painful death.
“Abeg, come assist me shine light here,” he said, turning to Taiwo. The short boy with tribal marks that looked like it was an unqualified mistake, came forward and brought out his phone. Like the speed of light, OJ punched him with his elbow, and pushed him on the tree. He collected the boy’s pistol from his hands. They boy yelled, but he quickly shot him, clicking it twice. The boy dropped like a wooden doll, gone.
Two gunshots echoed from the bus. OJ heard the wimping noise of Python and the other guy roar, before finally keeping mute. He looked through under the bus and he could see Python’s hand, stretched lifelessly. Two more gunshots were heard, something their assailant would do to ensure a clean job was done. So this was it; this was how it was to end for them. Chairman of course wanted to ensure their mouths would forever remain shut; he had done what he would call precautions, eliminating them.
OJ’s heart pounded when he heard Bobby tell one of the guys to go and search for him. He raced into the forest, not looking where he was going, or not caring whatever spiny shrub he was stepping on. Dark spruce forest frowned on either side like they too were sharing solace with him. The land itself was a desolation, lifeless, with a vast silence that reigned over it, so lone and so cold, that the spirit of the forest might have been that of despondency. There was hint of laughter in it, more terribly than sadness—a laughter that was mirthless as the smile of sphinx, a laughter cold as the evening’s breeze, forged with grimace. Everywhere was silent except for the stamping footsteps of OJ running.
His assailants had noticed him, and they were chasing him. Their footsteps were clamoring for the blood of OJ, like they couldn’t go back without tasting it. OJ could hear their voice, shouting behind, bawling at him to stop, and threatening to shoot him if he didn’t. He wasn’t going to stop; they could shoot if they wanted, after all, they would still do so if they caught him. He had his plans. He was going to dodge them somewhere in the valley inside; then, he would come out through the opposite side and run away. He would beg any car he saw moving to help him, that he was in danger of getting murdered. He would run to the police and tell them all he knew; he would leave a part at all, everything he knew on that tape. He would tell them that they planned to kill him this week. That was exactly what he was going to do. He could already see his escape route in front; he would just turn left, and then right, and hide somewhere till they passed him, and then he would come out and run away.
Well just like the saying, man proposes, nature opposes, the same happened to him. A thump on an abnormal over-bourgeoned shrub, and the whole world came crashing on him. He rolled down, and crashed on a nearby tree. The pistol in his hands drifted to the other end. The chasing footsteps of his assailants were already near. He forced himself to crawl and collect his weapon. Slowly, he moved, the pain on his head becoming intense. His hand stretched out to collect the pistol…
“Stop there!” a voice spoke behind him, cold.
He crawled faster to collect his pistol. His hands stretched forward to get them, but it suddenly moved backwards. OJ’s head nearly jammed with a heavy black boot. He starred up, and felt his body jerk in a frightened adrenaline. It was Bobby, his face in a roguish grimace.
“So you go just kill me now,” OJ spoke in pidgin, his head thumping achingly. The eyes he met with were that of someone ready to take his soul.
“Not my wish at all,” Bobby replied, his voice gravelly like it was mixed with cigarette. “I just dey follow orders.”
“So na Chairman want make I die?”
“He feels you already know to much,” Bobby replied, clicking his gun in reload.
“See Bobby, you’re my guy, you’ve known me since. How you go do this thing to me?” Bobby was forcing himself to believe that there was still hope; that there was still hope that he could live.
He nearly did when Bobby replied. “I no fit kill my guy.” He sighed. His fright returned when the guy continued. “That’s why I wouldn’t be the one to.”
There was no way OJ could dodge that unexpected shot. It came swirling into his chest. Another one came, and yet another. Bobby was apologizing to him and telling him to find it in his heart to forgive. That wasn’t the only thing he heard. He could hear the voice of people singing, welcoming him to the other side. In the dark sky, the stars were tripling, marking his welcome party. Bobby walked away; surely, he had done his work. OJ felt himself crashing into the abyss of emptiness, a very big void of death. Slowly, the images of the smiling trees faded into darkness.

Would you kindly space your paragraphs for easier reading? Thanks.

Meklex: I just finished reading brand of cain for the second time, there's this scene from one of your story where a boy was caught in a cross fire between the police and criminals, please can you link me to it?

Thanks a lot, Meklex. The scene is from its sequel The Paradox of Abel. Here it is:https://www.nairaland.com/1132025/paradox-abel-sequel

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