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ON THE ROAD TO PORT HARCOURT (The Uneaten Breakfast).

Episode Eight

When I regained consciousness, I noticed that a ringing headache had gripped my head. I felt as though my head was a firewood, and a shameless axe was pecking through it. I attempted to sit, for I was lying on what felt like a mat, but I couldn't. It was then I discovered that my legs and hands were tied, that my eyes were veiled, that my mouth was sealed, and that I was naked, like Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden. I wanted to grope, to know where I was, but I couldn't. I wanted to scream, to see if a good Samaritan would hear me, but I couldn't. All I could hear was the resonant pounds in my head, and the hopeless hum of numberless people, whom I believe were sharing similar fate as me. I wanted to join in the sorrowful hum, to console myself, but I couldn't; didn't.

While I laid on that monumental mat, in tears, my mind travelled to Lagos, to my helpless parents. I imagined how devastated my parents would be if they got the untoward news of my death, of my disappearance. I imagined my burial ceremony, how I would be buried, certainly, amidst flood of tears. How my casket, likely white, would be flung in the air by undertakers, with no children nor university degrees to establish the fruitfulness of my years. How the preacher, likely Father Olabisi Johnson, would dangle his blue rosary in the air, reading the dust to dust verse of the bible, like he had fondly done in notable funerals. While I imagined these things, I thought about a more critical situation, one more unfortunate--dying without a grave, without the last respect of one's loved ones. What if my head is decapitated, and made to rot in the wardrobe of a wealthy politician, to fetch him protection or the needed dollars for a campaign? To die is what nobody wishes, but to die honourably and be befittingly buried is the prayer of everyone.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen." the shrill voice of Kimutu rang out from a distance. "Now listen carefully, we are not robbers, nor kidnappers, but diligent business men, whom some people, due to high-handedness, I must say, prefer to call ritualists. We are not ritualists, in case you're thinking we really are, we are just dealers in all kinds of human parts. And I am glad to announce to you that you're our latest stock. Shortly after now, your breakfast will be served. Make sure you eat very well, because some of you will not see tonight's moon."

As soon as Kimutu had delivered his sermon, I made up my mind, prepared my mind for the worst--to live the rest of my life in the wardrobe of a big man. Shortly after Kimumu had left, the aroma of rice and stew filled the air. I was served in a stainless plate after my veil had been removed and my mouth unsealed, though my hands remained untied. Food, as the reader would reason, did not appeal to me at that moment, for I was critical about the welfare of two persons--Loveth and Bima. Are they still alive or dead?

On a second thought I would have preferred that I wasn't unveiled, for the flood of light which invaded my eyes afterwards nearly blinded me. But despite the fogginess of my sight, I took the courage to observe where I was, to see if I could catch a glimpse of Loveth and Bima. To my awe and relief, I discovered that I was in a confined room with about ten other ladies, who, like me, were completely naked too; eyes unveiled, mouth unsealed, hands and legs tied, but with shaven heads. Quickly, I managed to touch my head, to see if I was shaven too, and surely, I discovered that my head was as hairless as tortoiseshell. I couldn't find neither my African hairs nor my Brazillian hairs.
"Nike, oh Nike," came a whispering voice behind me. "Ah Nike, Umh Nike! thank God you're still alive."
"Oh Loveth, sweet Loveth," I said turning, to catch the glimpse of Loveth's face. The voice sounded like hers. But I didn't see Loveth's face, what I saw was her breasts, so big, so grapey, brownish, resembling two empty clay pots. Bima's head was rested on her shoulders, obviously, being sisters, they must have located each other, faster than I did. I wouldn't have recognized Loveth had she not called me first, the reason being that, in her hairless head, she was nothing less than a masquerade.
"Were you raped too?" Bima asked me with a muffled voice.
"Yes, I answered."
"Oh, what a pity." she said, sorrowfully.
I didn't need to know if they were raped too, for very certainly, no lady in that room, I believe, was spared.

I had not eaten my breakfast when the attendants came in, veiled me and sealed my mouth. Once again, my mouth and my eyes were rendered useless. But a few moments later, something dramatic happened, championed by the wildest beast I have meant--Kimutu.

.......to be continued in the next episode.

ON THE ROAD TO PORT HARCOURT (Raped)
Episode Seven

The blaring blasts of the bullets brought everyone on the bus to life, but snatched the life of a man who sat in the front seat of the bus. The bullets, as I later learnt, were actually directed at the sky and the tyres of the bus, but providence, or should I said ill-luck, sent the mannerless bullets into the skull of the man in the front seat. The bus jerked violently, and abruptly, and then came to a standstill. By now everyone on the bus had become as awake as an aye-aye; calling all the names of God, the ones I know, and the ones I didn't know. The thunderous cry of "blood of Jesus," "Holy Mary," and "Holy ghost fire" filled the air. I wanted to join in the cry, but my voice did not belong to me. My throat was too dry to speak.

In a flash, numberless hefty men, carrying guns and matchets, with chests as heavy as bags of cement, appeared from a nearby bush. They shot more bullets into the air, to kill us before our death, to scar the vehicles behind us, and to rule the road. One of the burly men yanked at the door of the bus, and flung it open. Two others instructed all the passengers to alight, while the rest, numberless, circled us when we had alighted. Everyone postrated on the rocky road, except for the pirated Wole himself, who was honourably treated and carried away on a motorcycle by one of the large men.
"We are gentlemen," said one of the hefty men, whom I suspected to be the leader of the bandit. I wanted to peep at his face, but feared I may be slapped, luckily, or get killed, unfortunately. "If you cooperate with us," he continued, "you'll be fine. But if you prove to be stiff-necked, we'll reserve your bodies for vultures and your skull for cups."

Everyone slept still, as still as a statue. Then he instructed one of his men to decapitate the head of the dead man in the front seat of the bus. Shortly afterwards, I heard the clonking blows of a sharp matchet colliding with fresh and bone; which was followed by a rolling ball--the depicated head of the dead man. I shivered on the floor, my panties soaked in hot urine.
"Hey you there," said a sharp voice, the voice of the leader of the bandit, I thought. "Why are you shaking like a Christmas chicken?"
I didn't know that he was referring to me, untill I started hearing the pitter-pattering of his footsteps, obviously, he was walking towards me.
"You dey sell this big yansh?" he shouted, in surprise, slapping my buttocks, when he walked up to where I laid. The slap remembered me of my primary school days, of Mrs. Adaobi, my class teacher. "Kimutu, take her with me. I like big ikebe well well, let me taste this one."

A few moments later, a mighty hand grabbed my left arm, dragging me up. I stood up staggeringly, and was carried on the shoulders like a sack of beans, into the bush. Kimutu, or rather, the hefty man whose name I believed to be Kimutu, placed me on the floor, reached for my trousers and then my panties, and pulled them off.
"You may dismiss!" the leader said in a villainous voice, "and when you hear me whistle, come back here quickly."
"Yes sir," came the response.
The leader got over me, blanketed my mouth with his cocoyam leaf-like left palm, pulled down his boxers to his thigh, and I felt a long hammer penetrating me. I tried to scream but I couldn't, his hands were too heavy and strong. Up and down he went until I lose my senses.

.......to be continued in the next episode.
A Short Story by Ademule G. David.
Visit and like my page http://facebook.com/thesocialmicroscope for more stories.

ON THE ROAD TO PORT HARCOURT ( The Great Debate)

"All sinners will go to hell," the shrill voice of an old man rang out from the back seat of the bus. I turned around, wanting to know if the old preacher was talking to me. But to my disappointment, he seemed to be talking to the roof of the bus, for his gaze was fixed at it . The old man was leaning against his seat, and a mangy-looking bible was opened before him. Telling from his grey beards and his snowy eyelashes, it was not difficult for me to point out that he must be a septuagenarian. If there is one thing that was highly noticeable about the old man, it was his gleaming head. His hairless head was so radiant that it could serve as a spare side mirror if the driver would not mind. "Oh yes, all sinners will rot in hell, for no sinner shall go unpunished, says the Holy Bible, not me. God does not want the death of a sinner, but the repentance of the sinner. He has given His only begotten son to the world, so that anyone who believes in him will not die, but have everlasting life. So, friends, God is calling you now. His arms are wide open to receive you, to embrace you, and to save you from the damnation of hell. You may be having doubts about giving your life to Christ, but I'll advice you that the right time is now, for tomorrow may be too late. If you want to give your life to Christ, say this short prayer after.."
"Will you shut up your toothless mind?" thundered an angry grey-headed man from the row in front of us. His command of the English language, his wool-like hairs, and his mannerism brought the towering image of Wole Soyinka to my memory. "I don't believe in your Jesus, because God has no son. So, carry this Jesus of yours in your pockets, and stop advertising it like a beer. You have also mentioned hell fire, another pseudo destination, which is nothing but a fictitious, religious phantasmagoria."

At the mention of the word 'phantasmagoria' an ear-splitting cry of "Ride on Prof!" swept through the sprinting bus. Loveth and Bima, too, joined in the ridiculous cry, but some faces were cold; the facew of the born again Christians, I suppose.
"You're possed by a demon, the old preacher answered irritatedly. "May God deliver you and give you understanding."
"Old man," answered the grey-headed man, the pirated Wole Soyinka. "Tell us how possible it is for a celibate God to give birth to a son."
"These things are deep mysteries, a subject too vast for the canal mind to comprehend." said the old man nodding his head.
"Oh, stop that poppycock. Your religious ruse is unbecoming" answered the pirated Wole Soyinka. "All religions are based on certain dogmas, with bizarre reasons why the dogmas should not be questioned. If you cannot proof that God had a wife, then forget about Jesus! You also mentioned hell in your sermon, old man, tell us, where is hell?"
"Hell is real," answered the old preacher. "You don't need to know the destination of hell to confirm its realness."
"Oh my goodness!" said the pirated Wole with a laughter, "As long as the destination of hell remains unknown, I'll choose to believe that there is no hell."
"May God have mercy on you," the old preacher said, closing his mangy-looking bible. "I pray He'll
touch heretics like you very soon."
"Amen!" cried a faction of the bus.
Afterwards, all the mouths on the bus became busy, as busy as an ant hill. Amidst the noise, I thought about the Old man's message, about the realness of hell, about the fact that I am a sinner, about so many things. What if I die on this road to Port Harcourt, where would I spend my eternity, I asked myself.
.......to be continued in the next episode.
A Short Story by Ademule G. David.

ON THE ROAD TO PORT HARCOURT (The Road Went Mad)
Episode Five

The mouths on the bus did not swing into action for a very long time; not because the mouths were unwilling, but because the stomach, which is the fuel of the mouth, needed to be fed. The driver put the bus to a halt when we entered Ore town. I had heard a whole lot of interesting things about Ore in the past and, I must say that, like Queen Sheba who found Solomon's wisdom more amazing than she had heard, I found Ore more awe-inspiring than I had heard. The sprawling park our bus was parked for instance, was crowded with vehicles and passengers. And, most exciting were the local traders and the restaurants that littered everywhere like sachets of pure water after the wedding ceremony of a poor man. The traders were in several categories. While some sat or stood under their shed, to protect themselves and their goods from the ferociousness of the sun; others, the less unfortunate, comprising of women and children, hawked their goods from one place to the other.
"Sister se e ma ra epa ati ogede?", a little girl hawking banana and groudnuts, asked me in Yoruba, through the window of the halting bus.
"No," I answered in English, reaching for my hand bag, ready to alight from the bus. I wondered what the country has turned into; wondered what the government was doing to combat poverty, to promote universal primary education. I was still wondering, when I heard someone say, "Nike, what would you like to eat?" I looked sideways, and discovered it was Loveth.
"Oh," I answered, stepping out of the bus. "I am not really hungry, but anything light will do."
"Okay," she answered.

As soon as we three, Loveth, Bima, and me, had alighted from the bus, we walked straight, in the scorching sun, to a magnificient-looking restaurant, where we had a young man, dressed in blue-black uniform, who stood at the door like a statue, saluted us like generals. The air-conditioned breeze that was blowing in the restaurant hall was so mild, I was nearly tempted to UnCloth myself, to display how good I felt, but I didn't. Instead, I sank myself into a cain chair, opposite a meaty man. Loveth and Bima walked straight to the lady at the counter, returned with three cups of ice cream and three sausage roll, and we marched out of the restaurant.

The young man who had saluted us ealier while walking into the restaurant, saluted us again. But this time, unlike the previous time, he did with a smile, perhaps because we had patronized his employers. He was a miserable fellow, who had been paid to dehumanize himself, to salute everybody in sight, babies and lunatics inclusive, so I had thought.
"I'll like to buy some suya." I said, facing Loveth.
"Let's see the guys over there." answered Bima.
We walked up to an Aboki, who gave us a few slices of meat, to prove his suya. Luckily for him, we loved the taste, so we purchased, instructing the Aboki to add enough slices of onion and pepper, suya worth two thousand naira.

By the time we walked up to our bus, we discovered that the driver and other passengers were already waiting for us. The pirated Wole Soyinka did not spare us.
"Welcome, witless damsels," he said. "Is it conventional, that tiny tots like you should exhaust the patience of a noble, chivalrous, scrupulous, grey-headed man like me?"
Everyone in the bus rang out in laughter, but we said nothing. None of us, I think, could withstand his mastery of the English language.

Amidst the laughter, the driver ignited the engine of the bus, and the journey to Port Harcout continued. For about an hour or thereabouts, our bus hurtled on the road, untill I noticed a gradual decline in the speed of the bus. At last, slowly, the bus came to a standstill.
"Oh my God," said a woman sitting in the row behind us, in an horrific tone. "So, this stupid policemen and road safety officials had not remove this tanker from the road?"
"What do you mean ma?" Loveth asked, worrisomely.
"A tanker fell on this road yesterday on my way to Lagos, I thought it would have been cleared by now. But this is really disappointing. I'll not sleep on this road, I swear."
It was exactly 11.22am when I checked my wrist watch. One hour.....two hours.....three hours...four hours.... And we were still stucked to the road like glue. It was then I realized that the road had gone mad.

.......to be continued in the next episode.
A Short Story by Ademule G. David.

ON THE ROAD TO PORT HARCOURT (A Rain of Bullets and Blood)

Episode Six

For the next four hours or thereabouts, our bus crawled at a snail pace on the crazy road, covering a distance which a little puppy would cover in five minutes. On both sides of the mad road were frustrated passengers, who had learned to appreciate their legs, on realizing that sometimes in life, a vehicle owner may have strong reasons to envy pedestrians. On our bus, seven passengers, including the replicate Wole Soyinka had joined the pedestrians, whose mission was to confirm what had led to the insanity of the road. If the reader knows elementary arithmetic very well, the reader will surely know that the passengers on the bus by now should be seven, for the total number, as metioned earlier, was fourteen.

Loveth, Bima, and me, saw no reasons why we should use our legs, when we had paid for the services of a bus. The driver, too, took sides with us, for he spread himself on his seat, like a well mashed fufu, served on a china plate. Although smiles were seldomn on the faces of the road users, and on my face too, it was larvished somewhere--on the faces of the hawkers. The crazy hawkers, like vultures, fed on the carcass of our frustration, selling crazy food items to crazy passengers, for crazy prices, on a crazy road. We three bought three kernels of cooked maize and several pieces of coconuts from the opportunistic traders, most of them teenagers.

The seven passengers on the bus, except of course, for Loveth, Bima and me, were fast asleep. Loveth and Bima were chatting on their phones, but they were not smilling, unlike what they did when the road had not gone mad.
"Oh my God," Bima cried disappointingly, "my battery is flat." She grabbed her hand bag, kept her phone inside it, supported her chin with her hands, and said nothing afterwards.
"Take it easy," I said, carefully throwing my corncob through the window of the motionless bus.
Bima said nothing. A few minutes later, I heard a ringing sound, which was accompanied by a vibration. It was Loveth's phone, signaling that it needed to be charged, that it would die very soon. The countenance of Loveth and Bima, shockingly, seemed to me, to be dependent on the level of their phone battery. Their happiness and liveliness seemed to decline as the battery strength of their phone declined. This, obviously, is another symptom of the internet craze; the patients seem to feel uneasy when their phone battries were down.

At exactly 5.00pm, the seven passengers who had gone on our behalf as emissaries, to ascertain why the road had gone mad returned with their report. As it will be expected, they were led by the pirated Wole Soyinka himself.
"Mr. Driver," said the duplicate Wole, leaning on the door of the bus, "we have embarked on the Herculean and back-breaking task of ascertaining the seriousness of this ferocious gridlock; and we have come to conclusion that, if we do not take urgent actions, we shall sleep on this road. However, you have two options, two good ones for that matter. The options are, first, that you take an alternate road, when we reach the junction over there. The second, which will be the lest gratifying, that you indemnify a sum not less than two-third of the fare to every passenger. Thank you."
"Ogbeni, Oyinbo e ti poju jo," answered the driver angrily in Youruba. "Ki lo n so?"
I explained what Wole had said, or rather, what I think Wole had said to the driver.

The driver smiled broadly, and said he would prefer the former option.
"But that Junction he is talking about does not lead to Port Harcourt." said the old preacher from the back seat. "I have travelled on this road for over forty years, and we had never taken that junction."
"What's you problem? Advertiser of Christ! This is the 59th time I would travel on this road, and of the 59th time, we had travelled to Port Harcourt nine times through the junction. The amazing thing is that pious people like you hate that road, because they think it leads to hell fire."

What followed was a thunderous laughter. The old preacher alighted from the bus, and said he would continue the journey on the next day. Had we known, we would have followed the old preacher for any price in the world, but we didn't. It was about 6.00pm when we reached the said junction. We branched out the road, several buses ahead of us, and several others behind us. The road seemed to be smooth, desolate, and narrow, but none, I think, minded, because the bus was moving speedily.

Towards dusk I noticed that Wole's, whose phone had become as busy as a customer care line a few moments after we branched out the main road, was answering calls in whispers. By now, almost everyone on the bus were fast asleep, including Loveth and Bima. I was feeling very uneasy, very suspicious, but what could I have done on a road surrounded by a thick forest? Nothing! Then, I heard Wole say, "we are on a white Toyota HiAce bus, boys, get the guns ready."

I screamed but my voice sounded like a silent fart from the anus. In the next second, what followed were chains of ear-splitting sound, so horrific, so frightening, so devastating, resembling the cry of two million gorrilas. It was a rain of tiny things, a rain of bullets and blood.

.......to be continued in the next episode.
A Short Story by Ademule G. David.

I will drop the other episodes depending on the response I get. I trust that this story would make a front page.

ON THE ROAD TO PORT HARCOURT (The Invitation)
Episode One

Experience, they say, is the best teacher in life. Yet, none has mentioned that Experience is also the best killer in life. Oh yes! She is. Experience, that miserable fellow, has killed several millions of people, who unfortunately, did not live to tell their own stories. Experience has taught me priceless lessons, but friend, I am quite lucky to have escaped the claw of that old lady, unlike so many unfortunate persons I know, who were destroyed by her.

My toil with Experience started on December 11th 2012, when Dominic, a handsome young man I had met on Facebook about three months earlier, requested me to pay him a visit at his Port Harcourt residence. I was extremely happy when I got Dominic's invitation, the reason, undoubtedly, was because I had for a long while looked forward to it. Although prior to that time, I had not met Dominic in person, his handsomeness and generosity had charmed me. Domimic is so handsome that I view his Facebook profile picture, on the average, ten times a day. Ever since I met him, subscribing for my BB and recharging my phone had not been a problem. He made those routine his personal business, fixing them before I thought of it.

Dominic is a man that understands timing, as much as I understand my menstral circle. His chats, like his invitation, came at the right time--the fall of the second semester, just two days before my final exams. This meant that I could spend two wonderful weeks with him, without having to tell my parents big lies. All I needed to do was to put up a little lie to my parents, telling them that I had a group assignment to complete before I come home for Christmas. My parents, maybe that was why I used to love them, would not bother to investigate such lies, perhaps because they see me as a serious-minded daughter.

Dominic, his generosity unmatched, sent me twenty-two thousand naira the next day, a token he asked me to manage for fare. I wrote my final exams in haste, answering only two of the five questions I was asked. That afternoon, as soon as I returned to my hostel, I arranged my grip, fixed my hair, nails, and my rake-like eyelashes, ready to journey from Lagos to Port Harcourt the next day.

by Ademule G. David
Daviddenigma@gmail.com
Visit and like the page http://facebook.com/thesocialmicroscope for more interesting stories

ON THE ROAD TO  PORT HARCOURT ( I Met Loveth and Binam).
Episode Two.

The first phone call I received the next morning, as the reader would guess, came from Dominic. He called to confirm whether I had not reneged on my plans to visit him. I laughed softly on the phone and told him that I hadn't, that he meant so much to me, that I was already at the Yaba park, waiting for two passengers to fill the empty seats in the bus. Dominic seemed quite satisfied, he kissed me, or should I say--he kissed his phone, told me he loved me dearly, and ended the call.

For the next one hour, which seemed like eternity to me, we waited breathlessly for two passengers to fill the two empty seats beside me. The Agberos at the park shouted on top of their cacophonous voice, calling out to every passer-by, but none seem to be going to Port Harcourt. Soon, the Agberos, tired of entertaining the wind, seated at a corner, lighted their Indian hemps, and started to smoke like chimneys. The smoke from their Indian hemps were magical, for shortly after they started smoking, in what seemed to me as a strange coincidence, two beautiful ladies emerged from nowhere, and asked if our destination was Port Harcourt.
"Oya sisters mi, e wole kiya kiya," one Agbero who had four missing teeth, said to the beautiful ladies in Yoruba. "Awa ti Port Harcourt noni."
While the Agbero spoke, two others had snatched the ladies' baggage, ready to arrange them expertly under the seats of the motionless bus. The Agbero who had four missing teeth, whose name I later knew to be Lukman, scribbled on a crisp ticket, handed it to the late comers, and got crisp naira notes in return.

The two ladies sat beside me, to my left, on the fourteen-passenger-bus. A few moments later, after a white garment prophet had blessed the bus and had received the generous seed of the passengers, the bus lurched, sneezing violently, and the journey to Port Harcourt started.
"Hello, pretty girls," I said, turning to the ladies sitting to my left.
"Hello dear," both of them answered warmly, in an Oprah Winfrey-like voice. The lady directly sitting next to me, though as dark and equally beautiful like the other, was so large-breasted that I was tempted to believe that she had two coconuts beneath her bra.
"I am Nike," I said with a smile. "May I know your names?"
"I am Loveth," the large-breasted lady answered calmly. "And with me here is my younger sister, Bima."
"You've got wonderful names," I said. "I like English names very much, though I don't have one."
"But my name isn't English," answered Bima, "It is an Ijaw name, an abbrevation of Tamaraebima."
"Oh, I see," I said, feeling quite embarrassed, "well I like native names too, yours and mine inclusive, so far they sound English."
The sisters rang out in laughter, they must have considered me a very funny lady.
........To be continued in the next episode.

*Agbero--A Youruba word often used to refer to a person who call out the destination of a vehicle to prospective passengers.

by Ademule G. David
Daviddenigma@gmail.com
Visit and like the page http://facebook.com/thesocialmicroscope for more interesting stories

ON THE ROAD TO PORT HARCOURT (We Reached Ore)
Episode Three

For a long while a strange silence swallowed our bus, a kind of divine glue seemed to have sealed the lips of all the passengers on the bus, including mine. Perhaps, the dusty wind induced by the December harmattan was the reason for this queer stillness, for talking, as the reader would suppose, would not be a fancy when the lips are cracked. Loveth and Bima, too, were silent, smiling frequently to a blackberry phone that rested on Loveth's lap. When has a mere mobile phone become a comedian? I asked myself. But soon, I realized that the sisters, like everyone living in the 21st century, has been caught up in the internet craze. A serious disease, which has no medical treatment, because those suffering from the disease would never acknowledge it.

Though I knew the frequent smile of Loveth and Bima was a symptom of internet craze, I wanted to find out the specific nature of the craze.
"Loveth and Bima," I said in a whisper, "both of you are making me curious."
"Guys are very funny, you know?" Loveth answered with a laugh. "You wouldn't believe what one of them is asking us?"
"What," I answered, more curious than ever, to know why they have been smiling.
"There is this guy we met online some weeks ago," Bima murmured, "He lives in Port Harcourt and appears very cute. He wooed me a few days later, and I said yes. About a week later, his friend, too, got to know Loveth, and seemed to like her. So, he wooed Loveth, and she said yes because of me. These guys have been wonderful, and have been very real. We're currently chatting with them on BBM, and one of them, Loveth's boyfriend, is insisting that we snap ourselves straightaway, send it to them, to convince him that we had not eaten the 50k they had sent to us for transportation."
"So you see," answered Loveth abruptly, "that's why we have been smiling. Is he funny?"
"He is." I said smilingly, knowing for the first time that Loveth and Bima, like me, were on the road to Port Harcourt to see their ghost boyfriends.
"Nike," said Loveth, handing me the phone on her lap. "Scroll down, check the pictures, and tell us how cute they are."
"Ah," I answered, in surprise. I collected the phone from Loveth and checked the pictures as instructed. The pictures were six on the folder she had opened. They were of two young men, very good-looking, very cute, and wealth-smelling. I told Loveth and Bima, handing the phone to Loveth, that the guys were very amazing, stunning, and cute. They seemed to like my comments, for the smiles on their face broadened.
"You sound like a Unilag girl," Bima said admiringly. "Are you one?"
"Oh yes," I answered, "I am a 100 level Philosophy student.
"No wonder you talk like Plato's daughter." Loveth said, laughing.
I laughed too, but I didn't laugh for long. Because my laughter was interrupted my Dominic's call, which lasted for about thirty minutes. By the time the call ended, I looked outside through the window, and saw a huge sign board which reads: "Welcome to Ore." I sighted Loveth's lap, but found the once entertaining phone lying idle. Then it occured to me that something much more important has caught the attention of Loveth and Bima; it was a strong sermon, one which ended in an irresolvable debate.
.
by Ademule G. David
Daviddenigma@gmail.com
Visit and like the page http://facebook.com/thesocialmicroscope for more interesting stories

peter

Okonjo iweala: Nice storyline - i admire your use of similes too, but i must point out that the best way to use simile is to let it flow naturally and graphically with the storyline. That way, readers can impulsively understand the technique of description, Rather than pause to imagine.
You're doing real great o.k? Thumbs up

I sincerely appreciate your appraisal. I will revisit the similes again. Thank you very much.

Superclem: Good story. From a readers perspective, quite captivating. However, I noticed some loopholes in your grammar at the beginning. Your narration is engaging enough, but you could work on it. And your similes, some watered down your story. Try to be more graphically and avoid the similes. Readers would want to use their minds' eye not their imagination.

Thank you very much for these technical advices, I'll take most of them into consideration. As for the grammatical loopholes you noticed, Perhaps that's one of the natural mistake which a writer who has no degree or diploma in english language is bound to make. But, I'll also work on that. Thanks.

Full excerpts of the Chapter One of My debut Novel. Please leave a sincere feedback, bad or good.

PETER'S DIARY
Chapter One

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At about 3.00am in the morning of sunday December 19th, 1993, 67 years old Arch Bishop Dogmatus jumped up from his bed covered in sweat like the chief baker in a local bakery. He found himself screaming "Plato mentitus es tu dicas, stultus" which is translated "Plato you lied, you are a fool for saying that". Deacon Diana was woken up by the terrific shouts of her husband. "Honey, your scream really scared me" she said. At this point, Arch bishop Dogmatus was recovering from the shock of his nightmare. "I saw Plato in my dreams, it was a terrible and meaningless dream Diana" Dogmatus said. "Plato?" questioned Diana. "Yes Plato the ancient Greek philosopher" the Arch bishop replied. "Would you please tell me about the dream, I am very curious" said Diana. Dogmatus took a deep breath and began:

I found myself close to an ancient castle in a city I guessed to be Rome. The castle was of the manner of those built in the days of Alexander the Great. As I stood amazed at the magnanimity of the castle, I saw a crowd of people some yards away from me. They were gathered under a mustard tree that stood adjacent the great castle. The crowd seemed to circumference a man at its core. My curiousity was aroused like the manhood of teenagers when they want to urinate, so I walked towards the crowd to grace the fascinating scene. My instinct did not fail me, for at the core of the crowd, I found an old man who had thick and white beards as of the manner of a wool. The old man looked very familiar, but I was sure he was not one of the reverend fathers who taught me while at the seminary in Toronto and Denmark. As I observed his face closely, at once I recognised the old man to be Plato. I knew it was Plato because I had seen his pictures several times in one old encyclopaedia of religion in my study room. I had read in that encyclopaedia that Plato was one of the greatest philosophers of all time. So I became more curious to hear from the grand master philosopher. I learnt from a certain boy in the crowd that the old man had told them several wisdom filled tales before my arrival, so I patiently waited for a fresh tale, proverb or a kind of parable. All I wanted was to become wiser.

At last, Plato or should I say the old man who looked like Plato told us a parable. The language with which he spoke was ancient Latin. I had a slight difficulty in understanding the language but I was still able to comprehend everything he said. Plato began "Filii, auditeme: Discite a me sapientiae" which is translated "Listen to me my children, learn from my wisdom". On uttering those words, a deafening silence pervaded the atmosphere. Everyone listened attentively as though a lucky winner of a raffle draw was to be announced. The man told a parable about a certain shepherd who had a thousand flock. The shepherd loved his flock so much that he would risk his life just to safe his flock. The flock flourish because they were appropriately catered for by the shepherd and his servants.

One day, a gang of mighty wolves broke into the flock and began to massacre the sheep. Many of the sheep were killed and several others were wounded. So the servants of the shepherd made sincere efforts to arrest the wolves but the shepherd stopped them. The shepherd told the servants that his ways were not the ways of the servants. He told his servants that the appointed time was yet to come. The shepherd said he wanted the sheep to learn endurance and patience which were two great virtues in life. The shepherd permitted the gang of wolves to continue with their terrorism and destruction. He promised and vowed that at the appointed day the wolves would be brutally killed and justice would be done. The shepherd further promised that he would lead his flock to a mountain where there shall be plenty green grasses and water for the flock. On that mountain, there shall not be threat of wolves and the flock would be everlastingly safe and happy. When Plato finished his story, he spoke the latin words "Filii auditeme: Discite a me sapientiae" which is translated "listen to me my children, learn from my wisdom". Then he concluded that the shepherd was the wisest and most caring shepherd in the world.

When Plato finished his parable, there was murmuring in the crowd as it was expected. I guessed the murmuring resulted from doubts which plagued the queer parable Plato had told them. I was also very uncomfortable with the parable especially the conclusion that the shepherd was the wisest and most caring shepherd in the world. When it was time to ask questions, I was the first person to challenge Plato, my intention was to flaw and ridicule the illogicalities in Plato's parable. I was certain that my challenge would make Plato lost his status as one of the wisest philosopher of all time.

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