That sound that was meant for Basiru alone. That sound that his wife foolishly gave to a cultist some days back, he heard it again. But this time, the moan wasn't just a sound,it was a feeling. Basiru saw his wife clench the bedsheet in pure ecstasy, as her toes curled and bended, and she moaned, calling a name softly from her state of sexual bliss; John. Basiru went mad with rage, as his thoughts flew round galaxies with alarming alacrity. He heard someone call the man who had sex with his wife "JP'' and his mind replaced the J with John. He climbed down from the bed, he didn't want to make this decision based on what a cultist said. Before the incident, he loved his wife as an starved monkey would ever love banana. He didn't want to be another Othello, who killed his wife because of jealousy, jealous of what didn't happen.

Now sitting on the floor of their bedroom, he thought about all these started. He recalled the day Alani called, to warn about the threat to his life. Alani sounded so scared that Basiru initially listened in sheer amusement. Now his life wasn't just a joke, his dignity had been made fun of, a stranger had released on his face, after having sex with his wife. He didn't tag it rape, for she seemed to enjoy it.

He remembered, the name. Alani mentioned a name, and said that was the cultist.

John Paul. That was the name. And here was his wife all sweaty, calling his name from the height of her pleasure. He couldn't take this, he wouldn't.

Like a raged bull charging at a matador, Basiru ran into the kitchen, and searched for a knife, for in anger, a man's senses seize to be present. He took the knife. The knife which they used to pierced through his skin. It wasn't pre-planned, but when he reached for a weapon, his hand grabbed the knife. He clenched it tight, and walked like a puppet in the hands of the devil.

Entering into the room, his wife was still sleeping, finding it hard to wake up from the pleasure, the pleasure of cheating on him in her dream, with a cultist. He held the knife with both hands, at that moment, the both sides in a man, evil and good, both struggling to grasp his mind, and control what he was going to do with his hands, and the knife. Kill or spare. Like a football analyst, the evil in him replayed the events which made him so full of hate now, showing him pictures of his wife moaning to his thrusts, and that fueld him, he brought the knife closer to her and gbam!

A family photograph in which their 14year old son, Moji stood at the middle of him and Kikelomo fell to the hard ground,making a mild noise. He remembered his son. He was just too innocent to grow up without his mother. Basiru still held the knife in his hand, and the heat conspired with the pain he felt inside, a sweat dropped off his body, and a tear, off his eye. They fell on Kikelomo and slowly, she yawned back into consciousness. The first thing her eye caught was the shiny knife which her husband held in his hands, just over her belly. She knew whst he wanted to do, she fixed her eyes on his, as if daring him to do it but, at the same time, her eyes were producing hot tears.

The knife fell off Basiru's hand and landed on the bed. He turned back, and for a moment, the thought flashed through Kikelomo's mind to pick it and stab him from behind. But that would only validate her position as the devil.

''You love him, don't you?'' the emotionally-depressed Basiru said, his voice was shaken, and it sounded like a rheotorical question. Kikelomo scratched her hair, feeling pity for him. But, a woman isn't in control of her emotions. Wasn't that the reason they were called 'the weaker vessel'?

Basiru didn't need any answer. Her silence screamed loud what it was, and the more he was in that room, the more it would echo in his ears. She wasn't his wife anymore, for she had given herself to somebody else, both in reality and in her dreams. He went out of the room into the unclothedness of the night, and wandered into nowhere, never to return.

That was the last time Kikelomo ever set eyes on her husband, and when Moji came back from the boarding school exactly a month later, he was taken to a cemetery and shown a grave, as his mother placed her hand on his slender shoulder, consoling the young one. Moji was told his father died in a hit and run, and was buried the next day, according to Islamic rites.

wow, I love. this story and am learning. alot. from it

Hmm, imagined u slipin wit ur wife, nd ur wife is moaning beside u. Calin fikahnuel!!! while ur name is Olatex.. The drama no b here ooo. Make i resesve my comment..

I dey feel u bro, weldone

Dis story got me glued to my phone like Uhu gum....jesu!

nice story man...please make ur updates as rapid as u can....Thanks and more energy to your Battery...

pls continue bruh ..I'm so eager to continue reading the story.. I really don't like reading but this piece here just got me.. pls continue I'm begging

women can be crazy sometimes sha . . a cultist shot your husband with the intention of killing him,he didn't succeed ,he tore your clothe,made to rape you and all you did was close your eyes and enjoy it .. . . then went far into making love with him in your dreams?? . . and that was how you developed feelings for him??,
.. . women are psychos



















LAST BULLET

The dick is powerful

i don't blame the woman, what could she had done if not to enjoy it atleast by making good the bad situation. but again on a second thought........

i dey follow bumper to bumper i rep moonshine

Where is this human being... Come and finish what you started o... You can't just turn us on and leave us like that

Really sorry for the delay in updates. If you check, my last update was exactly a day ago. I was banned by the mods. Don't know why, but my guess is because of the rape/sex scene.

I've pleaded and sent the moderator a mail, that this work is treated as 18+. The reason it's not in the title is because this story is not just about sex. It's a lot more than that.

Thanks y'all for your support. I promise on my life that from this moment, as long as i'm not banned, my updates will be rapid.

RoastedCorn:
women can be crazy sometimes sha . . a cultist shot your husband with the intention of killing him,he didn't succeed ,he tore your clothe,made to rape you and all you did was close your eyes and enjoy it .. . . then went far into making love with him in your dreams?? . . and that was how you developed feelings for him??,
.. . women are psychos



















LAST BULLET

The dick is powerful

Some few corrections, bro.

Basiru wasn't shot, he was stabbed with a knife on his hand by James.
James wasn't the one who raped Kikelomo, John Paul did.

Thanks for following.

d mods yaff come ooo

mods abeg allow us enjoy the story o

CHAPTER THREE
[March, 2003]
It was quite the season. The season where banners flew round Ajegunle and posters disfigured walls. It was fast approaching; the local government elections. The party in power, APC were employing all the tricks in their bag to make sure they secure the seats once again. PDP too wasn't sitting idly and praying for their luck to shine, they made sure they planned their strategies right, and execute it with a shattering finesse. The chairmanship candidate was a certain Mr Ken Onyema, whose elder brother used to be the state's commisioner for police. He planned to use his intimidating connections to win the hearts of Ajegunlites. Upon research, he was told by the mothers, mostly elderly women, that their sons rot in cells. Since most of these 'sons' were in cells because of violence-related cases, it was deemed not too 'serious' for them to be charged to court. Plus, in Ajegunle, that wasn't usual. People kept in cells are like the kidnapped, to be released upon the payment of 'ransom' was the bail in this case. But most parents of the 'criminals' didn't have the funds to facilitate the release.

The candidate, Mr Ken Onyema's play was to release most of the prisoners, those whose offences were not murder-related.

On that eventful day, Moji thought it would be just the usual day. He didn't know how long he's been in the cell. The last time he asked, he was told 6days and 7nights. He wondered what his mother was doing. All he had in these walls was time, and his thoughts. He slept with them, fed with them, and lived with them. He had something very important to do once he came out of here, if he ever did. His memory flashed back to when he was arrested. Something about the policeman. He couldn't just warp his head around it. The boy he was smoking with called him blackie olokpa, which was most strange and contradictory, given that the policeman wasn't black. He was chocolate in complexion, and that was far from being a 'blackie'. A clattering of keys and metal interrupted his thoughts as Moji heard someone say "Oya, come dey go".

He couldn't believe his ears. He pinched himself to confirm this was real, not one of those dreams he had where he would be with a girl, and they would do something, when he woke up, something sticky would be on his trouser. On such days, from waist down his body ached.

It was when he came out of the Trinity police station he knew, he was truly free. He wanted to ask someone inside who the policeman was, but he forgot.

Upon making his way home, he met sad faces coming out of their compound. They looked at him in pity, or disgust, Moji couldn't tell which. Maybe it was because he smelt terribly, and his clothes were more dirty than the hide of a pig which took a bath in the mud.

He was at the house, and the gloomy eyes didn't cease looking at him. Some pointed him, as he was walking in. The neighbours spoke in hushed tones, afraid he would hear. He was now at their door, and a terrible smell oozed of the house. He opened the door, and what he saw shocked him to the bone.
His mother,Kikelomo,lay dead on the floor.

hmmmm wat a pity d little boy now a semi orphan, OP u doin great pls next

Matrycx:
hmmmm wat a pity d little boy now a semi orphan, OP u doin great pls next

Semi orphan?? I thought his father Basiru has died too

Matrycx:
hmmmm wat a pity d little boy now a semi orphan, OP u doin great pls next

Semi orphan?? I thought his father Basiru has died too, so he's now a full fledge orphan not a semi orphan as you've stated

" Moji was told his father died in a hit and run, and was buried the next day, according to Islamic rites."

OP, keep it flowing.....more ink to ur pen

Ghettol life is fun but Thug life is a no no.Nice one OP,pls don't keep ur readers waiting for long.

Following this story like I'm it's shadow...you are good

Moji sat at the floor-cursing the day he was born. Why did his life had to be at the wrong end of a nollywood movie? He had lost his father-so he was told, to a hit and run. He didn't even see his body, he only saw a grave, which his father's name was written on. Now, his mother. They didn't have a close relationship but she was his mother, and she was always special to him. When they were pushed down the chain, and moved from Kirikiri to Ajegunle, she was the one who had to work menial jobs to make sure they fed. She entered the landlord's room and came out wincing in pains, she'd request warm water be boiled for her to bathe. She did something, Moji wasn't sure what, but because of her, they lived in the compound without paying rent. Now she is dead. For the first time in his life, Moji wondered what would happen to him.

He cleaned the tears off his eye, and exerted control over his emotions. He looked outside, and still saw stiff necks, trying to shake in pity. He knew it was only an act, one of them could even be the killer. His mother wasn't harbouring suicidal thoughts, none that he knew of. He stood up from where he sat, and closed the door and curtains.

The corpse of his mother stunk, she should have been dead for quite some time now. The superstitous neighbours might have been scared to touch her, not wanting to invite bad omen upon their hands. He looked around, looking for the slightest clue that suggested foul play. He found none. Everything was in place, but his mother he was sure, didn't die naturally.

He stood up and left the room without saying a word, or shedding a tear. His reaction to his mother's death ridiculed his age. He left, leaving the body of his mother to strangers, to be disposed of in any way they saw fit.

Moji walked and walked till his legs ached. He thrust his hand into his pocket, hoping for a miracle from a God he wasn't sure even existed. Like fate would have it, Moji felt something in his pocket-a paper. He brought it out and behold, it was a rumpled twenty naira note. Moji thanked his luck as he held the money tight-afraid of the wicked wind that may seek to take it off his hands. He was terribly hungry so he went to a canteen.

"Give me rice and beans-twenty naira" he ordered, after seven intense minutes of jostling for his turn to buy food.

"Oga, take am. Where money?" A young hausa sales girl whose hijab covered the majority of her body said, stretching a plate of jollof rice and brown beans onto the feeble hand of Moji.

As Moji reached for the food with his left hand, he put forward the miracle twenty naira note with his right, the point-of-exchange had almost reached when Moji saw a scribbling on the other side of the note, across the tired-looking face of Murtala Mohammed. He immediately withdrew his hand, as the sales girl completely taken unawares by this sudden movement misplaced her grip on the plate, and it fell to the ground. The buyers looked at Moji, baffled, and looked at the rice in pity-it was rendered useless in such a hard time.

Moji quickly retraced his steps, running and walking awkwardly at the same time.

"Hey, come here!" a voice growled

"Come pay for this rice oo!" the sales girl shouted

"Your mama!" another cursed

Moji's heart dampened, but he kept on running until he was sure that he was safe. No, he didn't even care for himself, the twenty naira was his utmost priority. He stopped at a safe distance, and went down in exasperation, his hands on his knee, as he tried to catch his breath.

He brought out the twenty naira note and read what was scribbled on it. It was written in wonderful caligraphy.

It's words were ''food or truth? Call the number'' Moji's eyes then wandered a little downwards and written, was a number-a phone number.

Omo...I pity moji o



Op...keep d good work going

nice one

This is more than a home fideo, it needs to be washed. FALZ.

Am in love with this... pls don't keep me waitng

Op. I can't even concentrate on oda tinz any more, pls drop more updates.... biko

Moji took the twenty naira note and searched continuosly for a call center. The business of rendering services to people who wanted to make a call wasn't particularly booming, as the women who used to do such now bought bags of rice, and were owning restaurants, even though it had no roof. All they needed to do was to strategically place three wooden benches opposite each other, that would serve as a 'banquet hall' while the food and the lady selling were at the middle. Only Lord knows if it wasn't a business strategy, that attracted customers by showcasing the inviting backside of the lady who sold the rice.

It was getting late, and the sun was trying to escape into the clouds. Moji walked round the streets of Boundary like a lost mice, searching for fellow rodents.

Joy it was, when Moji sighted a bright umbrella from a distance. He smiled, as he walked briskly, his eyes still fixed on the umbrella and the robust lady or woman, he couldn't tell which, that sat near the umbrella, a round plastic table of likewise color to the umbrella was present too, a big book sitting comfortably on top of it. Moji saw the woman stand, he should think of her as that, as the moulds of flesh on the person was equivalent to that of Iya risikat, the ponmo seller. The woman stood up, and took the big book into a nearby 'face me I face you' compound. She lived there, Moji thought, as his frantic walking steps turned into a chase. He ran until he got to where the umbrella was, and waited for the person who operated the place to come out.

When she came out, Moji was suprised that all his guesses were totally wrong. She was neither a lady, or a woman, she was a young girl who should be just about a year older than Moji. The flabbergasted boy wondered from which Pig she borrowed the fat from, for it couldn't be as a result of good eating, she looked rather poor, and the undersized black gown she wore proved testament to that. Her skin contested keenly with the gown. She was pitch black, and the saving grace for her was her big eyes, that was white. Moji snapped out of his weird observations.

"Abeg, I want make call" he requested politely, aware of the fact that it was rather late.

"We don close oo, I just carry record book enter inside now" the girl said, tapping Moji to adjust, so she could dismantle the table and umbrella.

In the realization of the fact that if he didn't make the phone call, the number may never go through again, and he would miss the chance to know the truth. Moji threw himself to the floor, and rounded his thin hands on the girl's 'yam legs' begging her, to allow him make the call. The girl was astutely taken aback, what kind of call would this young boy want to put through, that would make him act like a deranged demon? She now looked at him and took pity, his clothes were dirty, and some parts torn exposed his frail structure of a body. His 'bathroom slippers' were oversized, and bended at the end, where his heels were, she reasoned it was because of too much trekking.

She wanted to give him the phone but sixteen years in Ajegunle taught her that all Ajegunlites were wonderful actors, that would put the skills of Pete Edochie to shame. She looked at the sky, and all traces of day had disappeared.

"You go stand for my front make the call o" the fat girl said, stating her condition.

"I cannot. I don't want you to hear what I say to the person. Abeg, I go shift small" Moji pleaded.

"No ooo...I no fit" before she could complete her sentence, Moji took off his clothing, dropping it on the table, exposing his dry chest to the night wind. He took off his slippers too.

The girl, even in the darkness couldn't conceal her amazement. The boy's determination was baffling and now more than ever, she wondered what kind of call he wanted to make.

Nice one

I thoroughly enjoyed this. Keep up the good work. You kept me glued to my phone. You're a such a brilliant writer. You created living people not just characters.

well done

bukunmitemmy:
well done

Sitin on her laps