not a bad effort,

and i sure hope the babe, if ever, reads this!

but then, commenting on it as a piece of art the poem is far from fresh,
it doesn't conjure the imageries you intended, it's awfully superficial,

but you didn't ask for a comment/critique, did you?

i paused.

nuelabkwl,

thank you so much! i really appreciate your comment,
can you say the story is captivating? fast-moving, and or involving [as in touching]?
what would you want me to do if i were to edit the tale?

is this story hilarious in anyway?

please leave some comment about your impression of the story, thanks!
it can go a long way in bringing out more stuffs, you know!
i'll be expecting,

AKEJU IN LAGOS
Reality does not pretend.

He looked at his wristwatch and shook his head like someone not satisfied by what he saw. He gave it a second look. The expression on his face was that of an alarm. He took another look: this time checking the watch against the ancient city-clock of monumental proportion. He smiled approvingly at his time-worn watch. “Tempus fugit!” he gasped. He quickened his pace toward the motor park…

“Ketu, Ojota, Mile-12! Ketu, Ojota, Mile-12!” the conductor announced into the empty air of the fledgling dawn. He thrust his filthy fingers into his customized pocket where he usually lodges fares collected; and brought out a sturdy stick. No sooner had he put the stick in his mouth than he began spreading spittle everywhere into the air. And his coarse voice (no thanks to paraga and ganja) rang again: “Ketu, Ojota, Mile-12!” By now he knew where he was. Lagos. Eko for show. Akeju tried to walk briskly as others were doing. The first step he took in that attempt landed him on the ground. He had just stepped on nylon of “pure water”. He cursed and cursed. People tried to raise him up but he refused. He requested for sacrifice to be made before he could get up. Those trying to help him get up burst into a lava of laughter and simply went away to mind their business.

Bracing up from his downfall and its consequent embarrassment Akeju got up. He tried to pick his bag that fell off his arm; the bag was no more on the ground. First, his mien was that of misfortune. It changed to bewilderment. And by the time he was on his feet there was fury foaming all over his body. His angry eyes caught sight of a man busy scrambling for passengers in the Onitsha-Owerri-Aba motor park. He seemed to recognize the man. He hurried into the nearby park and grabbed the man by the arm.

“Where’s my bag?” Akeju demanded. His hand now trembling as he feebly held on to the man’s muscular hand. The man took a scornful glance at him. “Yes. It’s you am talking to. I said where’s my bag,” Akeju said impatiently.

“Abi you dey craze?” the man fumed.

“You be thief. And na you dey mad,” said Akeju, tightening his grip now on the man’s shirt. This seemed to be another morning-show in Lagos. Crowd was forming like a thick mass of cumulus. Lagosians are reputed onlookers in this kind of situation. Even the police have a penchant for looking on when a scenario like this happens. A showdown was brewing. Could Akeju handle this man? Or would the man look at Akeju as a ranting ant? Before you could say “what happened?” the man thrust his clenched fist into Akeju’s midriff…a blow that left Akeju suspended in the air for several seconds. And, thud! He came down to earth. Again, the Lagos crowd had time for amusement even during a rush-hour. They laughed mockingly at Akeju and some said, “yeye-man. Abi im no know im size.”

This time around no one was willing to give Akeju a helping hand. He was stuck to the ground writhing in pain. He had never before been humiliated like this. He tried to stand up; he staggered, stumbled and was back on the ground again. Then something jolted him up. He heard a tingling sound coming from his pocket. O his cell phone, he reached for it. Before he could say “hello!” he felt a dulling sensation on his face as a hand from nowhere slammed on his bony cheek. He let go of the phone. His eyes shutting up as he went sprawling on the ground. The impact of the hard-hitting hand on his face was grueling. For Akeju there was no helper; there was no sympathizer. This is Lagos…Eko for show!

By the time he came to it was already afternoon. He looked like one dented by a bike. He murmured to himself, “What has happened? Where’s my bag, my phone?” he dipped his shaking hand into his pocket and reached for his diary. He staggered to a nearby call centre. Exhausted and disheveled, with his knees knocking each other he begged for a seat. He called out some numbers for the operator to dial for him. While waiting for the call, he requested for a bottle of Coke to cool off.

“It’s ringing,” the operator announced. Akeju held the phone against his face and for the first time felt an excruciating pain on cheek. It was quite difficult for him speak audibly enough.

“Kay it’s me. Am now in Lagos. Where are you? Could you come and pick me up at the park? I’ll be waiting….”

He downed his bottle of Coke. He heaved a heavy sigh. He stood up. He sat down again. As if recovering from a temporary amnesia all that had happened to him earlier in the morning came flooding through his head. He shook his head wearily. He still could not figure out why he was looking so spent and haggard. He had yet not thought of his bag and cell phone. He made to leave the call centre and a voice halted him: “Oga, you never pay o!”

“O am so so sorry,” he apologized as he reached for his wallet at the back-pocket of his trousers. The wallet was not there. He shook his head in disbelief. He searched the other pockets. The wallet had been stolen. This made his chest ache with anguish. He shook his head again and slumped into the chair he was sitting on before. The creaking, rickety chair gave way…. Akeju trying to hold on to mid-air crashed to the ground. He passed out. Everyone around took to his heels. The shop-owner was confused. She stood over Akeju for several seconds calling, “Mr. Man. Mr. Man. Oga, get up now!”

“Wetin come be all this?” she queried.

She looked around. She gently locked up her shop and took to her heels. Akeju was still lying death-like on the floor.

[center]WE WALTZ

we waltzed our way

silhouetted against the wall

as the furnace of our fiery feelings

burnt unburnt

the close inhalation breath-taking,

we waltzed our way

with bodies wedged in intimacy

'twas an even-dance

we waltzed our way

as the day eveninged to full moon

to every reverberating moan

our leaning lingering lissom lips made

the close inhalation breath-taking,

we waltzed and waltzed our way

till the world was and was no more[/center]


[center]SINNED
no longer does it stand

the neck has lost its pride

on bended knees

the head droops forward

in supplicative gesture

of a yet to be forgiven face



no longer does it stand

the shoulder has lost

its heaven-bound height

on prostrated body

the haughty soul projects

a countenance of
i've sinned father,



but he knows

i am bowed, not broken

i shall go sin the more.[/center]



[center]INTO YOU
one feeling

one thought

one passion

one intimacy

one lust

one trust

one desire,

just a sparkle

and you set each on fire
just one you

in the effervescent sky of my life.[/center]



[center]GOD SEND MINE [GSM]

no thuraya will put me through to God

no sagem to send my message beyond clouds

no nokia to knock on heaven's gate

no motorola to motor me through

the lonely lane to life

no trium to make me triumph in the tunnel

of ten thousand temptations,

in supplicative gesture

my two palms confluencing
connecting me beyond connections

and inspiring me beyond imaginations… [/center]


[center]VIRGINAL WHITE


here's virginal white for a virtuous virgin

victor of myriad vicissitudes

visionary of unsurpassed velocity

here's virginal white for a virtuous virgin

with visage of vacant pair of pupils

veiling velvety values and virtues in

granite modesty

can i speak the rest in vernacular?[/center]


[center]LAST NIGHT

hiding in the crevices of night

in the vale of deep passion

burning in the fiery dust of lust

sandstorm of sentiments searing

every drop of hesitation,

our alluvial sweats suffocating every pore

in moans we exchanged stolen secrets

and swore no eye could see us

but foolish

you and i

the moon the stars blind be

does he sleep?[/center]

[center]YOU ARE


the best of imagination cannot match your creation

the greatest inspiration cannot bespeak my adulation

silently slowly and soulfully

a sing-song serenade creeps into my glottis

feeling I would die if I don't sing this song

in the tintinnabulation of passion

I find a tune and voice out the lyrics

the rhythm the rhyme

and the eternity of time

and a note begins to play,

perfectly enchanting innocently alluring

love is a fiery furnace of feelings

a perfectly placed porcelain.[/center]


[center]SEEDS OF PASSION

in the garden of my heart

where resplendent meanings adorn

the lingering lushness of passion

where flowering sentiments stand in style

rooted in romantic robustness of fertile heart

in the garden of my heart

where flourishing flowers of feelings

flaunt freely like waves of iridescent

colours caressing a canvas

the canvas of my heart

where dew drops of desires

perform baptism on the innermost soil of my soul

the former seeds dying giving way

to newer finer seeds of passion.[/center]


[center]IN BRIEF

a glint of ecstasy

in the eye-corner

a stimulating stroke of the tresses

a lingering landing of lissom lips

on landscape of the mouth

a desire of the eyes

and of the flesh

a trust forged in lust ends in dust.[/center]


[center]LOVE FALLS

lightning of desire flashes

thunder of emotion roars

wind of affection blows

cloud storm of passion gathers

trickle by trickle

the elements give way to tears

forming copious draught

rain of love falls.[/center]


[center]FLAMES OF FEELINGS

waters of the mind

are best poured out

lest the soul should drown

in self-deluge of emotion

if it were a riddle

i would crack it

were it a joke

i would track it

it is a fiery feeling that burns

the heart
how do i say i love you?[/center]



[center]ELIZABETH

o maiden

like a maiden virgin

fresh from the glorious gorgeous garden

of eden

undulating

the aura of your person

unstatic ever flowing

the radiance of your presence

unassuming

the secret person of your heart

can i spend eternity with you senorita?

no revelation in your concealed eyes

to acknowledge your true feeling… [/center]




[center]FIRST ATTRACTION

with the figure even

like the number coming after seven

she takes a poise position

as in a perfectly placed portrait

for a smell she's lavender

with triumphant tresses

like luxuriant forest trees

pristine as a virtuous virgin with

luminous azure balls sinking perfectly inside the sockets

with pepsodent flash of sparkling white teeth

set in a mouth molded with gold

she stands beyond the comparative

supremely attractive like an adjective

in its superlative

can i take you home

and show you to my mother? [/center]



[center]SHE

she roams like a sentence without a period
she stands like a perfectly misplaced preposition
in a simple sentence

she gazes querying like a strand of question-mark
she yearns for morrow like a future tense
she looks blue like a noun in want of a pronoun
she’s a gorgeous girl like an adjective
in its superlative
she’s concise precise like a one-word sentence

she’s charming and even
like the figure after seven
she’s slim as two divided by two
she’s overwhelming like Chinese characters
she’s a hypertensive interjection
a stroke of comma and
an eventual full-stop.[/center]



[center]CAN YOU DO THIS?

kindle a ray of riddle
rove a lane of love

ponder a wave of wonder
pause a flame of force

pacify a pang of passion
handle a bundle of trouble

burst a bubble of lust
flush a rush of crush

scream a rhythm of dream
drain a rain of strain

extinguish angst of anguish.[/center]



[center]SEXUALLY DESIGNED

tempting like a flesh-revealing dress
shameless like a one-night stand
unholy like two illicit love-makers
illegitimate like a love-child
insatiable like an incorrigible nympho
traumatized like a violated virgin
lonely like a jilted lover
agonizing like an unrequited love
frustrated like a loverless spinster
searching like an overdue bachelor
intoxicating like a first love
lingering like a loving kiss
ecstatic like a romantic feeling
intact like a virtuous virgin
faithful like two true-blue lovers
hopeful like a courting couple
united like a happily married couple
fulfilled like a dream come true.[/center]



[center]ONCE UPON A KISS

in the dim and distant past four fledgling lips
at a tryst assuaging their thirst
searing sentimental secrets felt only
through dark tunnels of their throats

in the dim and distant past through
darksome tunnel of the throat we
shared unspoken secrets
you and i
four fledgling lips

i couldn’t go further
that’s why you called me names
forgetting
trust made in lust will rust in dust

once upon your kiss
and you set my flesh on fire
does love behave indecently?[/center]



[center]ONCE UPON A KISS II

once upon a time there was your shadow
reflecting on the window
in the candle-lit room
with your neck-crushing hug enveloping me
for moments i stood motionless
and began to dance to your love-wantintin tune
that sounds deeper and bitter
now in my soul

if promises were deeds you’d be dean of lovers
you and i know better
what has happened to my door?
what has happened to my yard?
what has happened to those innocent flowers
you touched and trampled?
once upon a time i was in your bosom
with iridescent blue eyes envisioning love
in your lust i was lost.[/center]


[center]DEWS OF DUSK

when the dews were still fresh on your vegetation
when your figure of attraction inspired my body
to make moves
when i signified intention to pay my dues
you took a swipe and said i was not man enough

when your azure pupils dilated
many men with you related
green with envy i wished i was late and
as if the only creature in the air
you soared far beyond my reach

i became love-sick
i became love-lorn

now you’ve grown bald like the vulture
your azure pupils crimson with tears
your bosom a swinging door
and your figure of attraction
what distraction
now take me you say…[/center]



[center]WE DIE IN SILENCE

i stumbled on you I fell in love
head over heels in love and my soul ached

you too fell
head over heels in love
your heart must heart must ache too

hearts heavy with feelings we drag our feet
we die in silence

my heart embraces your longing eyes
where’s the voice to invite your waiting feet?[/center]


[center]FIRST SIN

out of sight heals love of blindness
in sight love is blind

we groped
we were too close to see
seeing is the first sin
look it is desirable

desires of the eyes desires of the flesh
in want of heart we lost sight

one blind night
we reached the height.[/center]



[center]RUSHING HOME

are there damsels in my life?
you’re the peacock
the peak of the rock
the sleek of the flock
the thick of the forest
the breath under my nose

i dare the surging sea of sisters
the intimidating intrigues of daughters of Eve
i overlook the lyrical dreamy eyes of dainty damsels
the perfect peace of their passion
but
rushing home coming to meet you
i stumble on you loving another.[/center]




[center]FROZEN

where we already said good night
do we say good evening again?

can broken dreams be mended when passion’s
live coals have become cold impotent ashes
in the searing heat of infidelity?

don’t ask is this love meant to die?
goodbye has been said yet you cry
and your hot hot tears
falling on my chill chest

can this frozen heart
be thawed by your hot tears?[/center]



[center]I REMEMBER

i remember
i have not forgotten
that like napkin for filthy fingers
are damsels to you

i remember
i have not forgotten
that when your mouth bubbles with words
of love and trust
you’re asking innocent ones
to trust and thrust in the dust of your lust

i remember
did you think
i have forgotten?[/center]


[center]SHALL WE SEE AGAIN?

torrential tears flooded our faces
cloudy fears dimmed our resplendent hearts
we appeared beaten and unbidden
our hearts queried us
will we keep this friendship?
to part now was a certainty
in our present reality
and part we must
who will take this cup from us?

we soon said our bye-byes
our heels parted
but
our eyes met behind
yours asking mine
mine asking yours

shall we see again after this night?[/center]




[center]UNNOTICED

the bird chirrups excitedly away with her partner
two lizards nod in approval at the sight of each other
the dog barks with admiration
and wags his tail in adoration
sighting a mate
the peacock shows off his iridescent plumage
to the overwhelmed peahen

every girl is walking the street hand in hand with her lover
and i’ve also drenched myself in assorted perf

rain caressed the soil and sun brightened the land
moon shone against the dark walls of night

no single head has turned my way…[/center]


[center]CAN I PRAISE YOU?

when the leaves on baobab whisper
it is you they praise

when the plumaged choirs unite in sonorous serenade
it is your beauty they chirrup

when the sun leaves his nest in the west
rising in the east
it does so to reflect your pristine beauty

when men leave their interior rooms to perch on verandahs
it is to marvel at a creation beyond imagination
but let me praise you beloved one beautier than beauty
nature’s undiluted creation devoid of deflection
the genesis of adoration and the revelation of affection
the height of Kilimanjaro the depth of Nile
not an inch worth your beauty
can i praise you
no one but you?[/center]



[center]ONE US

tomorrow is a scream heard in whispers
and we strain our hears to hear her voice
i crave your hand you add your heart
tomorrow is a vision made luminous in the
circuits of four eyes
eyeball to eyeball and we meet
tomorrow is a dream seen in our wakefulness

the emptiness of a mind and the void of a heart
the warmth of an emotion and the chill of reason
the path of a foot and the grasp of a hand
together shoulder to shoulder
body spirit and soul
we swim in the stream of shared secrets
in the solemn sentiments of one mind one future flesh
one you one i and one us.[/center]



[center]WALKING WITH YOU

enveloped in self-inflicted illusion
we wander heavenward
in search of a path buried beneath our feet
it is hidden under our feet the unbroken path of eternity
first
is to feel the unbroken path afterward
to think if we’re walking together hand in hand

loneliness leads to death
our path extends to life and if we’re walking together
hand in hand
we’re certain of getting there with strength unspent
and heart unbroken and with love undiminished

so i closed my eyes to walk with you but you objected
saying the eternity we seek is our destiny
yours and mine
and opened my eyes and began walking with you
with more vision than i had…[/center]



[center]SHADOW OF VISION

looking into your eyes
the pupils picture a path
where there’s reason to live and loving is joy
i see dream on stream
the shadows of you and i bathing in love

looking into your eyes
my hope’s like the sun
bringing resplendent rays of joy like a lingering light
in the darkest night

dwelling under the shade where promises are made
where love’s root starts to shoot
your eyes speaking of vision yet unbeheld
the vision beckons i approach its light
which gives hope endurance and love fidelity

in your eyes no love is blind
no dream beyond imagination.[/center]



[center]BINTU

beloved bintu
permit me not to dawdle
here the screaming silence
has only me as an audience
shackled in this residence in who shall i place my confidence
when your much desired presence continues to linger in absence?
with whom will I share the fondness?
a gale of togetherness pleasurable and immeasurable
in this screaming silence?

the dusk’s chill intense
my intent transcends concupiscence
loneliness is what attacks with me fierceness
in fairness i want you in earnest
beloved bintu emotion rushing high
your approach not nigh
and like a pestilence this screaming silence
is hitting hard against my faithfulness.[/center]


[center]SWEET TO HAVE

a damask rose
a graceful doe
with lambent eyes
sparkling with iridescent colours
eyes streaming with rhythms
brimming with dreams

for the thought of you is like poetry to my heart
ringing like a peal of bells softer and softer
it chimes deeper and deeper into the ears of my heart

you’re so sweet to have[/center]



[center]SWEET TO HAVE II

you smell like lavender-water
like sweet-smelling odour from an altar
like a calm running brook your spoken words
graceful
aesthetically pleasing your radiant look
you’re lapidary lass tall and beautiful as larkspur
a shining star amongst many a sister

beauty like bubble will burst
flowering flower will fade
but
the leitmotiv of you is integrity and chastity[/center]




[center]TIWALOLA

wide river of generosity
a running brook of adoration
full of colour
paragon of honour

tiwalola
let me handle your name
it melts like fondant in my kisser
its tintinnabulation tickles my tympanum

motunrayo
full of joy radiant with ecstasy
may your stream of happiness never run dry

anike
personification of care
a damsel rare
you’re beyond compare.[/center]



[center]AYO

ayobami
overtaken by joy
a paragon of happiness
happy are you as your mother’s only girl

oluwaseun
we thank God we thank you
for making us proud

titilope
endless gratitude we’ll ever be thankful
coast to coast you remain the toast
amongst a host
we will ever thank you for being our
true-blue sister

okanlawon
this one surpasses all
the one and only the charm of beauty
the beauty of charm no one but you.[/center]



[center]THEY BREAK

when i think of you
envisioning the sparkles
of brown light the eyes
in the sockets of your visage
illuminate
my lips part and break,

when i remember the kind acts
of your tender heart
and the selflessness in your readiness
nugget of your preciousness
my lips part and break,

when i know you
and ever want to be with you
yesterday today tomorrow
you part my lips and make
them break in smiles.[/center]



[center]1977

ethereal thread of umbilical cord untied
from the august visitor
maternity agog and the wildfire of good news
spreads on to the plateau of Jos
happiness rends the air in kisses and tears

the cries of pain implode into infantile wail
oh like mother like son
the august sun stands still and shimmers on the
soft splattered smile of the face welcomed by every race
in this world there’s for everyone a place

where’s the father?
he hears the news and the happiness is bringing
him home from the Mambila
this is the birth of a new breath of life
come home quick and kiss the bundle of bliss

in suns and moons to come
what will the august son bring?
with dreamy brown eyes delicately buried in fragile sockets
he seems to be telling them
the days ahead are housed in dungeon of dreams.


1987

high hopes and rebellion
a decadal age of mischief and mundane missions
muffled feelings and subdued angst and anger
the enormity of an overwhelming vacant fragile mind
questing to know all the unknown once at once

the pencil breaks many a time and the eraser is declared
stolen by friendly thieves and no arrest will be made
shame-faced admission of failure written in bold red
report cards are ominous handwriting on the wall
mother’s unconditional love always helps weather the storm

the rage of reasoning daddy is the beginning of wisdom
do you want to be mummy’s boy?
they say they never do well and you
what will you be when you still fart and pee like an untrained dog?
cold lessons will be served and hot desires will be drunk

what still happens to all the textbooks and the big notes?
now mummy must beat with the right hand and comfort
will still come from her left hand
how can you not love your mother?
are you not tempted to hate daddy in the stormy days of discipline?


1997

still waters run deep
especially when they flee underneath the bridge
you never can tell what a reticent twenty-year-old is up to?
a growing mind finding roots in every direction
fads friends sex knowledge and the thoughts of the unthinkable

they say boys will be boys even while growing older
the shadow of yesteryears are still clinging to a new flesh and blood
the baby is always the man and how can you be a man
when the baby in you is not killed or sold off?
that’s the irony of yesteryears that pass across the corridor of today

the zenith of rebellion has just begun
the lust for oceanic independence has developed depth
mummy please don’t tell me that
i’ve got my life to live and my own way i shall
have you forgotten daddy’s still the man and in charge?

do you think you might challenge him to a duel?
not now
but you won’t run away from him like a child
freaked out by flames of fiery flogging in the dead of night
in the stand-still silence daddy must see the man in this baby.



2007

days of dungeon of dreams have been opened
who has thought the child of yesterday will be the man today
in thorns and thistles of three decadal ages?
yesterday’s tiny-tot a similitude of a fleeting unnoticeable
shadow has now attained a look-and-turn-back metamorphosis

the new husband of mummy and the jewel of her neck
like they say this child nay man has arrived
in a volks or a mercedes?
ah-ah primitive mind
a man’s value is not judged by the automobile he arrives in

his infantile pupils have lost their rhythm
the rhythm of rebellion played under the noon sun
on the football pitch far away from home
the eyes have lost their mists of mischief
they have found direction and are glowing with meaning

mummy still deserves the biggest hug in this world
oh like mother like son and there are kisses and tears
from daddy a studied smile an understanding look and a pat on the back
a proud father of a humble son
this is the beginning of an end and the child has just become a real man…[/center]



[center]THE RICH MAN

who chats and farts
and we all keep smiling and listening
who yaps and jabs
and we aren’t complaining
who steals and seals our treasury and rations
it out to us in penury
who cruises cross our squalid streets and sprays
us with ditch-water
who talks and talks and the poor
has no say
whose pen falls down and a multitude mills
to pick it
whose house is towering and shimmering
while that of others shake in squalid stillness
who snores and squeals like a stolen swine
and rob us of a restful sleep
who feeds so fat on chicken and burger
and watches us die
in hunger? the rich man.[/center]



[center]Boulevard Of Broken Dreams

depression is a disease, fatally insidious,
my life is a boulevard
i am a piece of broken dreams

my life is a bough
i am a piece of shredded leaves

my life is a road
i am a crossroad of chaos

my life is a space
i am a void of evil thoughts

my life is a waste
i am a face of an unwanted child

my life is a test
i am a failure, [/center]


[center]If I Can

for the thought of seeking for a renewal of self,
if i can say a prayer
i'll plead for mercy
and the strength to overcome
this weakness
if i can say a prayer
i'll confess of base thoughts
that enshroud the depth
of my heart and shackle my soul
immortal passion of impure leaning
metamorphosing to fiendish forest
of fiery feelings,
i burn myself in self-conflagration

if i can say a prayer
i'll rededicate my heart and
grow again strength and purity
and if i can say a prayer
i'll request to walk in the true
light of truth evermore, [/center]


[center]I Breathe,

for the sentiment of Veta,
the state of mind
the prison of heart

i am the gaoler
i am the warden
waiting to exhale
hesitant to excel

i am the liberator
i am the prisoner of woes
waiting for rebirth

i am the sown seed dying
growing in death
life's breath is within my grasp
i shall breathe again

i breathe
air of renewal.[/center]

concluding part of the story[?],


“…the violent shooting of the young brilliant writer of The Conscience newspaper has continued to generate interest, rage and bizarre revelations. In the eye of the storm are the Police High Command and their goons. The suspect of the violent shooting who has been on the lam for five days was finally apprehended trying to cross the Lagos-Seme border. But his capture was not achieved by the Police Force, it was done by a local ethnic vigilance group known as Odd – a vigilance group that is notorious for violent justice…” the famous ETV news caster, Jide Mobor, reported. “Don’t go away as we give you more update of this celebrated shooting incident. Now we take a break.”

Funki groaned mournfully in his seat as he stared into the TV set. His eyes were red with tears as he kept muttering “twenty kids, twenty years…twenty children, twenty years”. Sometimes he would jump out of his seat and let out a shriek. He was weeping uncontrollably, a man distraught and inconsolable. “Tell me this is not happening. Wake me up, it’s a nightmare!” Even with dark glasses on, he could not hide his mournful state. He was like a woman violated and left alone to face her humiliation. His body heaved under intense sobbing. From time to time he had to clear the mucus dripping from his nostrils with his kerchief. Sometimes he behaved like a man possessed uttering unintelligible words.
“Please, tell him to stop writing. Policemen are coming! Tell him to stop o!” he would rant. “Ah-ah, that man has a gun…please, don’t shoot Ozi. He writes very well. He loves only pen and ink. Not gun and blood…olopa, abeg sir!” Then he would say again: “Ssshhh…Eyi’s sleeping. No noise. Nobody wakes him now. Listen to the rustle of papers…he’s not sleeping on a mattress; he has plenty of papers to sleep on!”

He became silent again as soon as the news caster appeared on the screen again:

“…the Odd vigilance group has told the government authorities in plain language that Handy was their ‘sheep’ and they will ‘shepherd’ him accordingly with their ‘rod’ of justice. When our reporter asked the Odd spokesperson what they meant he said: ‘Soul for Soul’. The group warned that the authorities should not interfere. However, the group charged the government to deal decisively with the likes of Handy in the force. Warning the authorities if they failed to do that on time they will take the laws into their hands.
“Still on the violent shooting, rumours have been rife that Ozi Francis, the shot journalist, is still alive. One of his close associates, Funki, a celebrated journalist and an activist, said on the night of Ozi’s shooting the SSS took away the body to an unknown destination. Claiming that since then no one has seen the remains of the shot journalist. As the day goes by, more dusts are being gathered rather than settled. Even government agencies having oversight of Crime and Security have pointing accusing fingers of complicities against one another….
“Once again, the nation is the focus of the world, not for good but for evil. There is a strong outcry of condemnation, to the point that a famous international human rights activist called the nation’s Police system ‘an abattoir of inhumanity’. The nation’s president is under intense pressure. The IG has been fired. Other heads are rolling. Pockets of riots are reported in some areas. There are bonfires on many streets,” Jide Mobor, the news caster, informed her news-starved viewers.



Nobody knew what tomorrow would bring. Was Ozi dead? Was he being treated secretly somewhere? Every day, in its issue, The Conscience newspaper published the undying words of Ozi, the same piece of words found in the pocket of Handy, the shooter: Our society is nearing the brink of a precipice where each man and son, each mother and daughter will seek justice not at the law court; not from the legislative chamber nor through executive fiat, but we shall one and all seek justice through the pull of a trigger…draw the blood of atonement from the evil heads of corrupt cops guilty of wanton extrajudicial and careless killings.
No matter what appetizes their taste for madness and murders, these corrupt, murderous officers will meet their waterloo one after the other. I am not a prophet. I do not own a crystal ball nor borrow one to gaze into. But the grass of the fallen innocent victims shall be watered with the blood of these trigger-happy policemen: the hunters and murderers. And after this long darkness, a new dawn; a new system of things; no triggers will be pulled. At that time it will be an honour to approach a cop – a dignified police officer; and not a hunter, a murderer. The conscience and the pen are much more lethal than the gun!

As part of the anniversary marking the first year of Ozi’s shooting, The Conscience Crime Editor was interviewed. “Mrs. Phib Dukka, do you see the end of guns on the street in sight?”
“It will take some invincible force to take them away!” she had answered. With that interview, many concluded that it would take an invincible force to bring Ozi Francis back.

no doubt you've enjoyed what you read so far,
ozi slumped! what happened next?
please read on,

i'll really appreciate reader's comments on this effort at writing a short story,

plays [drama] are not completely as celebrated as novels -even poems- sometimes.
but that doesn't mean there aren't great stuffs in plays ever written, there are many the world over, like: macbeth, comedy of errors, romeo and juliet, merchants of venice and so on and so forth.

what about africa? what's the most interesting play ever written?

trials of brother jero written by wole soyinka!

i say, sure, you agree with me, no, you don't? what? let's see!

mine is: the stillborn -by zainab alkali,

there are others jostling for supremacy though in my mind's archive; i have novels like: no telephone to heaven, angel of death, tell freedom, weep not child, the concubine, helon habila's waiting for an angel, and few others.

quite ludicrous some are listing plays as their best african novel! i guess they couldn't resist the temptations,

here's an excerpt of THE TRIGGER:

“Hey, mister,” he started as he walked slowly toward the scene. The man had torn off the girl’s blouse and camisole. The girl’s feeble resistance could not stop the perverted man from sticking out his nicotine-tainted tongue to lap on the girl’s breasts. He took a suck left and right as he groaned with animalistic passion. Now as he was removing his trousers and boxers at the same time [still working his mouth on the teen’s breasts] Ozi slammed a small metal object, his midget, against the man’s head. He fell backward with his cooked legs tangled in his trousers and moaned curses under his breath. Before he could raise his head to ascertain what had hit him another slam “wham!” struck him. He stood above the man with a bloody plank in his right hand, looking like a cold-blooded killer. His face was expressionless: no anger, no fear; he just stood there as if paralyzed by some violent act.

“Oh thank you sir!” the teen began gratefully as she gathered the remains of her dress. “You saved my life. You saved my body. Thank you. Thank you sir!” she spoke feverishly. Ozi did not hear a thing until the girl, in appreciation, embraced him from behind. He felt the soft touch of the girl’s breasts against his body. He sharply turned around; looking embarrassed, he gently drew the teen away from him.
“It’s Okay. Are you hurt?” he asked the girl.
“Not much, unlike the last time I was attacked,” the girl said looking disheveled. She told him that was not the first time she had been assaulted. Only a reduction surgery, he thought, would put the girl out of her misery,

On the street was a car parked opposite the building harbouring his prey; inside the car was a man. He had an old newspaper in his hand. He was reading, with the aid of a pen-torch, an article with the title, Trigger and the Triumph. Deep furrows appeared on his brow as he read through the article. His lips began quivering violently as he read aloud the last two paragraphs of the article: Our society is nearing the brink of a precipice where each man and son, each mother and daughter will seek justice not at the law court; not from the legislative chamber nor through executive fiat, but we shall one and all seek justice through the pull of a trigger…draw the blood of atonement from the evil heads of corrupt cops guilty of wanton extrajudicial and careless killings.
No matter what appetizes their taste for madness and murders, these corrupt, murderous officers will meet their Waterloo one after the other. I am not a prophet. I do not own a crystal ball nor borrow one to gaze into. But the grass of the fallen innocent victims shall be watered with the blood of these trigger-happy policemen: the hunters and murderers. And after this long darkness, a new dawn; a new system of things; no trigger will be pulled. At that time it will be an honour to approach a cop – a dignified police officer; and not a hunter, a murderer. The conscience and the pen are much more lethal than the gun!

The pen much lethal than the gun. The man thought. He brought out a gun from the pigeon hole and took out a pen from inside his jacket. He placed the two objects on the seat beside the driver’s. He studied those objects with keen interest. A pen? A gun? Which is more lethal? He pondered. He chose the locally made pistol and kissed it tenderly like a sorely missed lover. “Hush baby, you’re not going to shriek so much tonight. Okay?” he told the gun. The potent but lifeless gun said nothing in the vice-grip of his lover and master. He wished he had a better gun, like a Beretta pistol. But the Chief had told him no mistake and no living of any trace. A locally made pistol would do. So this burly man had to improvise with the locally made pistol. He did not really care. To him murder was murder. He could even do it with bare hands. That was why they named him Handy. And with this man violent death always came in handy. He let out a victorious whimper.

Ozi Francis slumped.

“Rat-a-tat-tat”, a rap on his door brought him back to the consciousness of the world beyond his immediate surroundings. He rose gently from his seat and approached the main door to his two-room self-contained apartment. He heaved a sigh of relief thinking that the two lovebirds had arrived at last. He opened the door and on impulse threw his hands open to welcome his guests. But there was only one guest. The figure standing at the entrance hit him hard on his head with a gun in his hand. He staggered backward like one in a drunken stupor. As the door closed slightly behind the figure, he followed his victim with brisk, giant strides. The man burly and darkly, had eyes like an owl – bloodshot eyes from several consumption of alcohol. He reeked abominably of paraga and ganja. However, he seemed to have his senses intact.

A hunter knows his target; he knows the smell of his prey. Ozi’s staggering was halted as he was pushed to the wall. For the first time, he looked the man in the face and found no expression in them except the deathly shadow of his mien; he could only think of death, his dying in the calloused hands of this messenger of death let on the loose. But he was not prepared to die neither was he prepared to beg to live. Pinning him to the wall with his gun, the burly and darkly man asked with a derisive smile playing on his lips: “Do I need an introduction?” “It may be the last piece of information I really need before day breaks, sir,” his target replied in studied calmness.

“You know, at gunpoint even the Reverend Father will confess his adulterous waywardness. And the pull of this trigger is an opening of the lid of Sheol – the depth of death. How does it feel to be killed by a cop like me? I have been raised from the dungeon of hell to settle a score and liquidate you. I am the bad dada one of your stories sent to jail. I have lived life like a common criminal in the hole of hell called prison…all because of your stupid story. You know, dead men don’t write stories,” the man paused as he hit his prey again with the butt of his gun. Ozi fell to the ground. “Get up! You slowpoke…I said get up!” the man was incandescent with rage. Yet he spoke in hushed voice. Ozi’s eyes were swollen and his head dripped with blood. The man dragged him up. “On your feet soldier. You know, a journalist is a soldier. He’s always fighting with his pen. Mad pen. Where’s your pen comrade Ozi Francis? I’ve got my gun what have you got? Your nimble head, idiot!”

Ozi’s lips were quivering. He was praying. He was entreating God. His eyes were too swollen to see anything now. “Open your eyes - look at me. Listen to me. The Master of Death himself has sent me. You know, the Chief. You are the prize of my freedom and the ransom for my servitude.” He taunted him in so many unprintable words. He was convinced that no one could save Ozi at this moment. The deranged cop even asked God to stay out of the matter. He asked Him to watch as an impartial umpire. “I am killing you with this locally made pistol,” he waved the gun in his prey’s face as if it were a prized object.

“You know, only the pull of this trigger can determine whether you’re quick or dead. Many people out there in the system want you occupying a space in the vastness of Sheol. I do. I’ve come not to hand you a death warrant. I am here to hand you to the Demons of Death. I am Handy!” he boasted.

Dazed, he just stood still like a mosquito transfixed by RAID insecticide that “kills insects DEAD”. The trained, strong hand of the cop positioned the gun between his eyes. The end had come. The muscles in the man’s hand were taut. The pellets of death gathered in attention waiting for his cold finger to send them on death’s errand. The pellets were cold and wanted to be fired into some warm blood. Ozi did not give up in his mind. He left everything for providence. Handy pulled the trigger…

Now, stuck in his chair, he thought rather than wishing the man with the deadpan voice a good night sleep he could have done that to himself because to him the man did not deserve a moment’s sleep. He had blood on his hands. He had murdered sleep. But if man must catch a thief he must not go a-slumbering too. Ozi had become a watchman – he was a watchdog. Funki’s call interrupted his thoughts.

“Men, what are you up to? Why did it take you ages to pick my call!”
“Funki, tell me you won’t be coming to my end tonight. It is late already. We’ll see tomorrow.”
“Howdy pal? I’ll come this night. I promised Atiko I’ll bring her to your end. Who’s certain about tomorrow? Let’s see the end of today first,” Funki argued.
“You mean Atiko, our great reporter from National Crusader, is coming with you? I can’t wait to host her. I thought it was going to be a long night. Now, I say it’s going to be the longest night ever!”
“I have a lot to gist you about. We’re getting married. I proposed to her.”
“Oh dear, save your breath and credit when you arrive you’ll give me the whole gist. I can’t wait to hear it all.”
“Drive carefully. Beware of the policemen on the road!” Ozi warned and ended the call.



On the street was a car parked opposite the building harbouring his prey; inside the car was a man. He had an old newspaper in his hand. He was reading, with the aid of a pen-torch, an article with the title, Trigger and the Triumph. Deep furrows appeared on his brow as he read through the article. His lips began quivering violently as he read aloud the last two paragraphs of the article: Our society is nearing the brink of a precipice where each man and son, each mother and daughter will seek justice not at the law court; not from the legislative chamber nor through executive fiat, but we shall one and all seek justice through the pull of a trigger…draw the blood of atonement from the evil heads of corrupt cops guilty of wanton extrajudicial and careless killings.
No matter what appetizes their taste for madness and murders, these corrupt, murderous officers will meet their Waterloo one after the other. I am not a prophet. I do not own a crystal ball nor borrow one to gaze into. But the grass of the fallen innocent victims shall be watered with the blood of these trigger-happy policemen: the hunters and murderers. And after this long darkness, a new dawn; a new system of things; no trigger will be pulled. At that time it will be an honour to approach a cop – a dignified police officer; and not a hunter, a murderer. The conscience and the pen are much more lethal than the gun!

The pen much lethal than the gun. The man thought. He brought out a gun from the pigeon hole and took out a pen from inside his jacket. He placed the two objects on the seat beside the driver’s. He studied those objects with keen interest. A pen? A gun? Which is more lethal? He pondered. He chose the locally made pistol and kissed it tenderly like a sorely missed lover. “Hush baby, you’re not going to shriek so much tonight. Okay?” he told the gun. The potent but lifeless gun said nothing in the vice-grip of his lover and master. He wished he had a better gun, like a Beretta pistol. But the Chief had told him no mistake and no living of any trace. A locally made pistol would do. So this burly man had to improvise with the locally made pistol. He did not really care. To him murder was murder. He could even do it with bare hands. That was why they named him Handy. And with this man violent death always came in handy. He let out a victorious whimper.


The murder case he was working on was still inchoate. He got up from his seat, walked across the room to the toilet. While in the loo the thought of Funki and Atiko came to his mind… Funki was a young man whose veins were filled not with blood but with the waters of ideas and dreams, a tireless and restless soul. He lived his life as if it were going out of fashion; maybe now that he was set for marriage he would act more maturely… Atiko, such a delectable damsel – the proverbial capable woman. She had eyeballs like something made from the sun; those eyes scorched unworthy men and warmed up the deserving ones. Ozi had found favour in those eyes just like Funki; but the latter was the apple of those beautiful eyes. Her luxuriant hair was like the Indian actress Amirah Bach Chan. Atiko had brain and beauty combined. And he adored her to the point of idolatry.

Rising from his reverie of personal thoughts and having finished attending to nature’s call he returned to the waiting arms of his chair where he continued his work. His eyes were still begging for sleep…just a little slumber! But his mind said no and forced those eyes wide-open. He buried his nimble head reading, scribbling, at the same time worrying about Funki’s coming.

The sleepy journalist sighed as he recalled that incident; and that was by far the least of his encounters with criminal acts. He was not a crime reporter but one way or the other he had found himself working that beat. With his incisive and thorough write-ups he had exposed not a few dirty cops’ evils. With his writings he had sent one particular underhanded police officer to gaol; incidentally, he was not aware of this. His consistent, factual and detailed chronicle of the infamous City Ten killings that shook the Federal City was invaluable in exposing the murderous cops behind the tragedy. At that time the police maintained that the ten persons shot dead were armed robbery suspects. Ozi dug deep into the suspected murder case, asking along the line that even if these six persons were robbery suspects were they not to be presumed innocent until they were found guilty. He dug deeper and the revelations sent the Police Command tumbling down. The murdered armed robbery suspects were innocent bricklayers, after all.

Whilst he bemoaned the deplorable state of policemen, he was even more appalled by their corrupt and murderous tendencies. Their penchant to kill for 20 Naira, to torture an innocent suspect to confess to a crime he did not commit, to lend rampaging armed robbers their uniforms and munitions, and above all, to kill on personal provocations. Little wonder a policeman was no more fondly called Ascari – he now bore the sobriquet: The Trigger. Every policeman was trigger-happy. They were walking time-bombs, about to explode at a gentle push.

Even as he fixed himself in his chair tonight he had a murder story to unravel. Yesterday evening he was present while police authorities paraded one armed robbery suspect. The parade was conducted by one dirty-looking cop, with a funny face that made him appear as if he was laughing all the time; he was the chief of police. The police chief said the suspect was caught at a robbery scene which he did not care to elaborate on. He then announced to journalists that the suspect would be taken to the hospital. Before any of the press men could ask why an obviously unhurt person should be taken to the hospital, the accused man was hurled into a police van with the inscription: To Serve and To Protect.

He saw something fishy in all this. Later that evening, he stopped by at the City Hospital to check on the suspect and see if he could look beyond what he was seeing. “Mr. Ozi Francis, the man you wanted to see was brought in dead tonight,” the chief medical director disclosed to him on their way to the pathologist’s office. “It can’t be true. I saw him early this evening. He was OK. He didn’t have a bruise on his skin. It can’t be true!” he exclaimed in disbelief.

“Please, come in,” the grave-looking pathologist said.
“Well done, doctor. Here’s Mr. Ozi Francis, a journalist from The Conscience newspaper. He’s conducting an investigation into the killing of a robbery suspect. He’s a friend of this facility. He had been of help when we were in difficult times,” the medical director said as he introduced him to the pathologist. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll let the two of you be.”
He looked at the pathologist as a man who conferred with death. The man looked so spooky and unfriendly; he was gaunt, eyes sunken in their sockets. He had firm bony fingers with a countenance that betrayed brittleness. The journalist was wondering where to start, as his thought-flow was momentarily held hostage by the spookiness of the man. As he began to open his mouth to say something, “please, sit down” the doctor said, gesturing at a chair. He sat facing the doctor.

“You know it is absurd my young man. The cops are killing us off - the innocent people. They scream ‘to protect and to serve’ but all they do is to extort and to murder,” the pathologist said taking his glasses off as he wiped his face. “As you can see, I live in the world of deaths. Almost every death I have looked into bore the signature of a cop.” Ozi adjusted himself in his seat. He did not bargain for the confession of a distraught pathologist but he had better listen carefully.
“Forgive my outburst,” the pathologist said apologetically.
“That’s all right. I share your anxiety. You’re not alone,” he assured.
“From my thorough analysis, the suspect’s primary cause of death was gunshot and physical assault,” the doctor began to explain the content of the autopsy report.
“Who could have done that?” he asked the pathologist.
“His body was soiled with blood, gunshot injury on the left wrist entry and outlet with fracture of the wrist bone,” he explained. “Another gunshot injury at right upper abdomen with exit wound at left shoulder. Internal examinations revealed trajectory wound through the liver, lungs, trachea and cervical bones. Stab wound on the right shoulders.”
“The Trigger! An innocent soul sacrificed again!”
“What? What trigger?” the doctor asked him.


He thanked the doctor profusely, promising to keep in touch as he tucked a copy of the autopsy report in his breast pocket, He paused as he stepped outside of the hospital’s premises and dialed a number.

“TCP on the line”, a deadpan voice came up.
“I just called to ask about the suspect. How is he doing now?”
“You journalist! You’re like dogs always wanting a chunk of the meat,” the voice at the other end retorted.
“What chunk of meat are you referring to sir? The one you deposited at the City Hospital, today?” anger and disdain rising in his voice.
“What do you mean young man?” the deadpan voice suddenly mellowed.
“I am not asking for a chunk of meat. I am not a dog. All I have asked for is a piece of information,” he fumed. “Sleep well!”

Can you tell [you have to read completely through to answer]?

THE OZI FRANCIS STORY,


Not all killers are murderers. But all murderers are hunters –Apollos.


Ozi Francis was feeling very sleepy as he tried to fix his fatigued body into his reading chair. Sometimes in self-derision he called himself an arm-chair journalist. His best contemplative moments were spent in that chair – reading, writing, and critiquing. Still struggling with slumber he rubbed his eyes with the back of his left hand, as if telling sleep to give him a break. And most times when he did this sleep often went away; often times the sleep would be waiting for him in the bedroom or on the floor of the sitting-room. The young journalist had never slept off in his chair – that talismanic seat of contemplation. He would never accept that notion of his talismanic chair, no matter how hard Funki, his colleague and chum, tried to convince him about that idea. He believed he could read, write and critique with the same intensity anywhere else as he would in his armchair. But, all who knew him very well believed otherwise. He might not be a celebrated writer but he was brilliant - a brilliance that smacked of death, particularly this night.

Ozi seemed to have a certain burden that he carried in his life – to nail those he called perpetrators and perpetuators. It even became a curious thing that more often than not he was present at one crime scene or another. He witnessed a creepy incident where a 33-year-old man attacked a teenager for having large breasts. The girl was only 16. The burly man grabbed the girl by her throat, punched her and threw her to the ground. He stood motionless, more out of shock than fear. He quickly dialed 911 and reported what was happening. What do I do now? Wait and watch this man rape an innocent girl? Or risk fighting a man that I am sure will knock me out in few minutes? What would i do if she were my sister or my girlfriend? He thought.

“Hey, mister,” he started as he walked slowly toward the scene. The man had torn off the girl’s blouse and camisole. The girl’s feeble resistance could not stop the perverted man from sticking out his nicotine-tainted tongue to lap on the girl’s breasts. He took a suck left and right as he groaned with animalistic passion. Now as he was removing his trousers and boxers at the same time [still working his mouth on the teen’s breasts] Ozi slammed a small metal object, his midget, against the man’s head. He fell backward with his cooked legs tangled in his trousers and moaned curses under his breath. Before he could raise his head to ascertain what had hit him another slam “wham!” struck him. He stood above the man with a bloody plank in his right hand, looking like a cold-blooded killer. His face was expressionless: no anger, no fear; he just stood there as if paralyzed by some violent act.

“Oh thank you sir!” the teen began gratefully as she gathered the remains of her dress. “You saved my life. You saved my body. Thank you. Thank you sir!” she spoke feverishly. Ozi did not hear a thing until the girl, in appreciation, embraced him from behind. He felt the soft touch of the girl’s breasts against his body. He sharply turned around; looking embarrassed, he gently drew the teen away from him.
“It’s Okay. Are you hurt?” he asked the girl.
“Not much, unlike the last time I was attacked,” the girl said looking disheveled. She told him that was not the first time she had been assaulted. Only a reduction surgery, he thought, would put the girl out of her misery.

i hope this short story will be an interesting read. i felt excited when i finished writing it: it took me some five hours to do this story on the spur of the moment. albeit i've taken time to do some editing, it's not so a perfect story stuff; so, i'll really appreciate those who can read the tale and make their views known about my stuff.

happy reading,