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You can follow me on twitter @AlexIjezie1 for more updates or my page on Ijezie Alexander Chimmuanya on facebook. Below is the prologue:

PROLOGUE


THE MAN WAS walking to his car when he first heard the whispers. He dropped his laptop in his car—an ash Toyota Camry 2008, with a wrecked boot—and locked his door. Who would be making such whispers by this time of the night?
It was ten in the night, a very awkward moment for chitchats. The moon was smiling sheepishly against him, descending its veil of obscurity, when he got to where the whispers were echoing from. It was now loud, no longer echoing whispers. The trees were waving its branches against him, like they knew he was eavesdropping. Seated close to a round fire, he could see some shadowed men, talking. He listened carefully, and nearly stumbled on the ground when he heard what they said. How could they be plotting to kill him? How could they? He listened again. It was to happen this week? Oh my God. He had to tell someone. No, if he did, no one would believe him. He might even be arrested for plotting murder. These Nigerian police were the worst people to meet when you had problem, especially if you didn’t have concrete evidence. Yes, that was what he needed, evidence.
He took out his recorder, and pressed the shining red button. He held it gently to where the whispers were going on, careful not to allow them notice his presence. They were still discussing, mapping out their plans. In the middle of them, sat a man, in well sewn Ankara clothes, and on his head, was a black hat.
The man’s eyes suddenly fixed where he was. He felt suddenly gripped with fear. He tried to creep away, but his nervous footsteps gave him away.
“Who is there?” the black-hat man asked.
The man walked faster. His heart was throbbing fast, his breath making a hammering sound as he moved. When the voice threatened to kill who it was that was there and didn’t want to talk, he took to his heels. He ran, obvious that if he was caught, he would be slaughtered. He could hear footsteps chasing after him, the sounds drawing closer to where he was. His hands went quick on his recorder, and he removed the tape that was in it, and placed another tape. He threw the one he removed into the pasture of discolored grasses and shrubs that was by his left. He kept running. All he knew was that he was running to his car.
He got to his car, took his keys quickly out of his pocket, and unlocked the car. He entered inside, gasped, as the footsteps diminished into thin air. He must have eluded them.
He was safe, he thought. He gasped, as he placed the recorder by the other front passenger seat. Perhaps, he should go and get the tape. He should never have thrown it away like that.
He got out of his car again, and walked down. The trees were silently whispering in his ears, but he couldn’t make what they were saying. He was about to bend down and search for it, when a voice spoke behind him.
“Stop there.” It was chillingly cold.
The man froze, his knees sweeping the shrubs, and his hands inserted in his pockets.
Behind him, a few meters away, was the monstrous silhouette of a man. He was broad chested, and tall. He had mutilated lips, like it had been given to him for a deadly crime committed. His eyes stood bulgingly, like it would fall out any minute from now. He was hooded, and so the man couldn’t tell if he had long hair, or short. He drew a pistol from his belt pocket, and aimed directly at the man. “Who are you?”
“Sorry…I’m, I’m just a..a passer-by, don’t mean to interrupt you,” the man stammered in reply.
The hooded man walked closer to him. The man gulped saliva in fright. His attacker was broader than he thought; his muscles were struggling to explode from the chains of his shirt.
“Who else is here with you?”
“No one, I swear,” the man replied, shivering.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes, I swear, I’m the only one out.”
The hooded man smiled. “What are you doing here by this time?”
“I was just passing by. My car seems to have a problem, and I was looking for how to solve it.”
“Do you need help?”
The man found it a mischievous question. “No...no, I’m okay..” he stammered.
“It is a quiet night out here, what do you think?” the hooded man asked. He was walking closer to the man.
The man crawled backwards. “It, it, sure, is…” he stammered.
“Did you hear anything?”
“Anything?”
“You hear when anybody dey talk?” the hooded man spoke, for the first time, speaking pidgin, in a vigorous tone.
“Hear anyone talk, no, no…I no hear anyone dey talk o!”
“Good,” the hooded man replied. “Where is the tape?”
How did he possibly know about it? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Na lie, you’re lying!” the man bellowed. “What is in your hands?”
The man looked at his hands. He had forgotten that he had taken the recorder from the car with him. “It’s nothing,” he stammered.
The hooded man walked forward. The man suddenly felt his legs quick its pace, suddenly racing away. His attacker’s footstep followed, the noise echoing on the shrubs. The man didn’t know where he was running to; he didn’t know where his car was; all he knew was that he was running deep in the shrubby valley, and had a muscular attacker chasing him.
He suddenly felt a blow on his face. He fell down, loosing balance immediately, and landed on the extensive roots of an Iroko tree that stood majestically. He looked up, amidst the blood that had suddenly designed his face, and saw five other guys surround him. One was telling the other something like “na Bleep-up be this, I sure say this guy see us.”
The hooded guy walked to wear he was, his footstep, clamoring for audience. He stood above the man, watching him as he wriggled in pain.
“What did you see?” he asked.
“Nothing, I swear.”
“Give me the tape, now!” The other men hijacked his hands, and took the recorder from him. The hooded man handed it to the one who had punched him on the face, and the later smashed it with his leg.
“There was nothing in it, I swear!”
“No use for swearing,” the hooded guy replied. He turned and whispered with the other guy. The man on the floor could hear the other whisper something like, “make we get rid of this bastard before something bad happen.”
And just automatically, the hooded man pointed a gun at him. It clicked. The gun roared, and the man in pains felt something hot take over his chest. Another bullet was shot at his legs, after which the men dismembered his body, limp by limp, hands by hands, till he was merely a crippled trunk of just a head and body. Then, the hooded man appeared above him, his voice retaining the hoarseness it had, as he said, “To ensure say you no go tell person.” And he dismembered his head.