No hope for ex-convict o, Tobi mused while sitting outside his late grandparent’s house. He was tired of being idle; not like he liked his present predicament but no organisation was ready to employ him.
‘We’ll get back to you Mr. Kehinde’, they all said. He had nothing to his name; nothing at all. Just because of a worthless woman, he thought angrily smashing the glass near him. Everyone close by just looked in his direction and got back to what they were doing whispering among each other. That infuriated him more. They condemned him without trusting him. None of the ladies he dated one time or the other stood by him.
He decided to take a walk. He was tired of pitying himself. Suddenly he remembered one of the inmates he met while in prison. Ghost; that was his name. Rumour had it that he was behind most of the high profile hit but no evidence to link him to the murders. Tobi never saw him like an assassin because he had this cool demeanour except for his eyes; they were cold. Shiver ran through his spine thinking of it. ‘I just come do holiday for jungle’, Ghost once told him; referring to prison as Jungle, ‘you better wise up, welcome to the other side of life’. Being in prison was Ghost’s choice; to keep a low profile after one of his numerous hits. Tobi wondered why the other man liked him. Ghost had given him his contact details.
‘You fit wan burst that bitch wey set you up’, Tobi remembered Ghost’s words when he got his freedom. He felt it was time for Cynthia to pay for her evil deed. I’m coming for you, he thought wickedly.

Oge called his mother and promised to see her during the weekend. He felt good that week. His co-workers noticed the change within him and wondered why. He was surprised at himself but it felt good coming out of his shell; even if it was temporary. Unknown to him, his weekend was about to change his life.

Rahman just finished one of his numerous interviews and was back in the comfort of his home taking a well deserved rest. He poured himself some juice and enjoyed the peace he had in his sitting room. His phone rang just then; his mum.
‘Asalam mun alaekum’, she greeted him in arabic.
‘Wa alaekum salam warahmatu llah wa barakahtuh’, he replied, ‘how’s everyone at home’.
‘Allahmdulillah’, she replied, ‘when am I going to hear the cry of my grand children’.
He was stunned momentarily. His mum has always been like that; straight-to-the-point kind of person. Hussein, his brother, just gave birth to his fifth child so he wondered which grandchild his mother wanted again.
‘Soon’, was all he said to avoid confrontation. They talked some more and he sighed with relief when she cut the call. African women and their wahala, he thought with a smile. He had little or no time for a wife yet; at least that was what he thought. He put a call to Tolu, his lawyer to fix a date for them to hang out then he hit his bed. He was asleep in minutes; a well deserved rest.

www.realyans./2014/10/01/the-convict-the-broken-and-the-storyteller-links-to-the-part/