CHAPTER ONE
He staggered into the house, with his loosely sewn trouser struggling to stay on his waist. His wife, Omotola, looked at him, shaking her head. She wondered how this limp thing that he calls a p.enis rose to become so powerful inside of her, to have produced seven children. She locks herself inside the house on some mornings, when there is little sales. She reminisces how her mother sat her down outside their family home and counselled her.

"Omotola, have you seen me and your papa fight?" she had asked her.

The innocent looking lady shook her head. "No, maami."

"Yes, a woman is property of her husband. Love him, reskpet him, cook efo riro for am, anytime wey him wan do, open your leg for am."

She nodded.

Omotola reminisced how she had taken the words of her mother to heart on those days, when the young man, Afolabi, wanted to marry her. He was a charming, young man, full of life and had a way with his pidgin-English laced words. He was a clerk, and a good one.

"I will marry you, take you to Eko." he said, his voice and promises were sweet music to her ears.

But now, that voice is slurry, drowned in alcohol, cheap one, that annoyed Omotola so.

"Arrange my bed, I wan sleep!" he said

She laughed at him mockingly.

"Why you dey laugh?" he asked, swirling round on his feet, unable to balance.

She hissed, then walked away, pushing him aside, as she left the house to a banging sound, when she heard someone scream from outside, "Mummy Ade, come sell buns oo."

He looked to the ceiling, shaking his head, and muttered something incomprehensible. He walked towards his room, but his left leg hit a stool and he fell to the ground.

He exclaimed "Ah! Make I no go oo. Maybe she dun put snake for there." As soon as he said this, he rested on his cheek, and slept, snoring.

Afolabi had been an insufferable drunk ever since he came back from Lagos, he lamented and constantly cursed out at the governments of Oyo and Lagos, that refused to pay him his owed salaries. His wife, Omotola, who used to be a faithful woman, changed. Well, she didn't change, she still prepared his favorite meals for him when the money was there, but she didn't garnish them with meat, an accessory he loved more than the real deal. She no longer moaned when he thrust in and out of her instead, she replied with an impatient hiss.

His only source of income was his writing skills, which he utilized to the greatest use, whenever his hands were his. He was able to write some of the most structured and articulate letter anyone the city had ever seen. Rumors flew like birds. It was said that he had written a letter for a woman who wanted to be rid of her late husband's brother troubles. The man had tried to claim her land, and when he saw the hand written words on the paper, he fell to the ground, in worship of the English he deemed impeccable. He never disturbed the woman or her piece of land again. This made him to be quite revered in the the city, and very soon he had many clients.

"Stop drinking nah"

"You could work for a big organization"

"If you get rid of your drinking habits, the Cocoa people will hire a man of your skills."

Numerous people told him. But they never could understand why he couldn't quit drinking. Why he always went to the alcoholic store every morning, and drank himself out. They didn't know that alcohol had become his muse. He felt incomplete when he didn't take it. Since his wife had decided to be a log of wood who only hissed during sex, he fell in love with sleek bottles, his lips would caress them delicately, before he bent it downwards, and emptied all its contents into his belly.

The only thing he'd gotten used to was to wake up, and go to the pub. He didn't have the advantage his neighbours had. His neighbours would bring their kids out in the open and sing songs for them, rubbing ori all over their bodies as they went to school in their uniforms--the shirt was milk with red stripes, and the khaki shorts, red. He had seven children but only the last of them stayed in the house.

The first, Jumoke, was a girl, who unfortunately, was an slowpoke. She would steal food from the house and feed to the dogs. Afolabi would call on his wife and scream "Look at your child--mad!" Omotola would hiss and go away from the scene, saying "she no be your omo sef?". It was Bola, the fourth child and a girl, who was thirteen that would whisk Jumoke away from the house so as to escape the fury of Afolabi's thick leather belt he got as a gift from one of his grateful patronizers.

Yekini, was the second child. A handsome young man who took after Afolabi's father who was a very fine man. Yekini was the most brilliant of all his children. He always came up with genius ideas to capture rats but a disturbing mannerism was how he would burn the rats with a kerosene, and he would laugh wildly as they burnt. He was quite a disturbed kid, and he was quite detached, rarely talked to his siblings.

Perhaps the most interesting of the children was the third, Kelana. He was mocked in school that his name was like a girl's. He would return home with his bulgy eyes and ask his father Afolabi, why he was given such a name. Afolabi would scratch his head, and reply in a murmur which usually meant nothing. Kelana would later befriend the gatekeeper of a rich Cocoa dealer and he was allowed access to enter into the house , the gateman's abode at least, and he would listen to the radio, where a person spoke strangely. The gateman, Sodiq, a Kwaran, would grin and say to him "Na white woman be dat oo." Kelana would then mimic the intonation of the person. He would be showy about it in the house, where Yekini would deal him a deathly stare. Jumoke would clap her hands excitedly, with watery spit running out from both sides of her mouth. "What does the woman look like?" Kelana would smile knowingly, then Yekini would say coldly "He cannot see one's face through a radio." Kelana broke into a laugh "That's right." he said, in the white people's way.

James and John were the fifth and sixth children. They were christened some minutes after they were born. Afolabi and his heavily pregnant wife had gone to a night vigil in St. Paul's anglican church, the biggest in the heart of Ibadan where they stayed. The church had just been renovated by a white contractor and the rusty brown roof was replaced with a state of the art zinc roof. It was said that the zinc was in vogue in Lagos. The clergyman was dressed in his immaculate white robe, when Afolabi was tapped frantically by his wife. She screamed, and the whole church took notice. Service stopped, and the women present gathered around her. The rest of his kids were with his jolly ol' friend Walter, so it was a relief for the agigated Afolabi that they didn't get to see the pain their mother went through. Omotola screamed, her voice took over the corners of the church, as an old woman wrinkled with age who claimed to be a former nurse, had both her hands on her protuded belly, and urged her to push. Omotola pushed, crying as screaming as she did. Afolabi was forced to watch, he wouldn't desert his wife. The baby popped out, and cried shrilly. A woman took off her wrapper and covered the baby, cradling her. But Omotola's pain was not yet over. The nurse urged her to push, that the baby was kicking to come out. She let out a sigh, as the second baby came out. Afolabi hurried, and wrapped the new born in his arms.

"God be praised." the clergyman declared, lifting both his arms to the sky. The worshippers broke into a glorious song, exalting God. They were later dipped in water and named James and John.

"Don't be surprised if they become pastors." the clergyman joked to Afolabi, who grinned from ear to ear.

"Thank you, sah pastor. God go reward you." he said to the man of God.

"You can reward me too"

"How so, sah?" Afolabi asked

"My wife--" the pastor scratched his beard "and I, are having our thirty years marriage anniversary."

Afolabi nodded like a lizard.

"I want you to write me a letter, for her."

Reaching for the pastor's hand, Afolabi shook him gingerly, as they both shared a laugh, even though the look on the pastor's face suggested he didn't know what they laughed over. Pointing at him with his right hand, Afolabi said in the middle of a chuckle "A man after my heart."

James and John however, didn't bear even the faintest traits of future clergymen. They were quite mischievous kids, who would run over their senior siblings legs and backs, even though their mother would tell them in a serious manner that it was wrong to do so.

Life to the family, was predictably endearing. Mornings came with the swiftness of wind, and Afolabi would tip-toe over his children heads and bodies, and wander into the street, to his pub, where he had bonafide comrades, who never failed to share their life stories with each other with of course, a bottle in hand. The children would go to school, with Kelana showing off his accent. Jumoke, most times, knelt at the headmaster's office for commiting one offence or the other ranging from plucking barely ripe mangoes in the school compound, or picking a fight with her classmates, even opening her legs seductively for a youth corper who taught in the school. Yekini was the one nobody ever noticed. He would sit on his own and pick stones, hurling them at the headmaster's fowls. He had once killed one, and the headmaster wanted to punish him in a democratic manner so he made him take a difficult test, far above his years, but he surprisingly passed it. James and John, a handful of trouble, played with sand, sprinkling them over thier bodies, just outside the house, where their mother could watch them. When she got tired of shouting at them to stop being kids, and seize with the sand play, she would veer unto the lonely path ahead, where tortoise cars zoomed past at intervals. She would remember how Afolabi had wooed her on one occasion with his bicycle. Now, that visionable, young man was lost in alcohol, but she didn't blame him. She felt pity for him. The Broom Party made it so. He was probably sprawled on the cold ground of a drink house, wasted, his body stinking of alcohol and sweat.

Nevertheless, as far as her children returned from school, and Afolabi staggers back, when the sun crept slowly under the blue sky, and the moon begins to form, they would all be united, under that rusty brown roof.


CHAPTER TWO
The day yawned in lazily, and Omotola was trying severely to feed James and John with locally made pap and some buns remaining from the previous day sales. They protested vehemently with their cries, and Yekini hissed angrily, looking at them in a funny manner as he wore his school uniform. Bola ran around the house, trying to put it in some manner of orderliness when she stamped her feet on Jumoke's waist, who snapped at her with a snarl. Omotola laughed on seeing an angry side to Jumoke. She would have loved to see the drama unfold had Bola snapped back. The troublesome twins had accepted their fate and used their fingers to dig into the plate of pap, while they fought over the hard, and stuffy buns.

Afolabi came out of his room, nodding his head as his children greeted him. For some reason, he smiled. He was an upbeat man, just weighed down by life's troubles. Omotola greeted him last, as she picked the plate the twins ate from. She looked at him in a manner he knew all too well. Money was needed in the family. Bola told him some months ago, clutching his leg "Daddy, mummy is angry." He looked at her, surprised. What would make his wife angry, he thought, but he said to her "Why you say so?" The young girl had twisted her body in a childly manner, then looked around, and whispered into her father's ear "she give Yekini hot slap yesterday morning." Afolabi fumed, and queried Omotola, she cast her face down. She couldn't fight or disagree with her husband so she took it out on the children. "You no give me money, Yekini come meet me say him wan buy book."

Now, he knew better. As he strangled the rope on his trouser for it to stick to his waist, Omotola, had returned to the living room, and had that look on her again. "I get work today--money go come." he assured, going out of his house as soon as he had properly adjusted the bicycle cap on his head. James and John followed his trail, shouting as they ran into the morning. Yekini looked at Kelana, who was brushing his hair, smiling into the mirror as he did. "You look at the mirror too much." he said "Don't fall in love with yourself oo." Kelana still maintained his smile, saying "Better for me, as far as no be that girl wey you like for school." Yekini forced a smile, as Bola broke into a loud laugh, their mother just shook her head where she sat on a stool, trying to put ororo into a plastic container. She knew Yekini had started seeing someone, he always had the thick substance plastered on his khaki shorts when he woke up.

They all left for school and Omotola waved at them as they left, a weak smile on one side of her lips. Her face looked wrinkled, saddled with poverty. She used to be a pretty, fair, lady, that every young man of marriageable age in Ogbomosho wanted to marry. She turned them down, claiming they were "too ugly", as she wanted her children to be "fine and yellow", like the ones in the magazine that Benji brought from overseas.

As she hooked her left hand on the door, she wondered whether her husband would stagger in with his clothes soaked in cheap alcohol. She wondered if he really had a client. Her paternal grandmother had told her to 'loan' two or three of their children to wealthy individuals who would take good care of them but she refused to heed to her advice. The thought of sitting her husband down and telling such a peacock of a man to take his kids to someone to train. He would bark at her, for nursing such a ridiculous idea. Let him bark, she didn't care, she would give him eight days, in her mind of course, and when no money comes into the family, she will discuss the issue with him. If he likes, let him fling her into the canal, her mind must be spoken. It was sad watching her kids from up here, going to school with nothing, except the crumbled buns they hid in their pockets. She heaved a sigh, as she tightened her wrapper, clapping her hands for the wandering James and John to return back to her sight. They immediately did, and she went into the house to bring out her frying pan and other materials with which she fried with.

************
Afolabi knocked on the metallic gate thrice, and a gatekeeper who looked surprisingly clean came to open the door. He looked at Afolabi from head to toe. He nodded when he was convinced of his sanity. "Chief say wey I no allow anybody come beg for money oo."

Afolabi fumed, but controlled it into a sneer smile "I no come for begging."

The gatekeeper looked at him more seriously now, running his eyes over the entirety of Afolabi's body, which was covered with a monotous native clothing of green and yellow, and a bathroom slippers on his legs.

"Wetin you come do?" he asked.

"Chief wan employ me to teach him daughter."

Afolabi watched as his face lit up, "Doyin?". The man dressed in native nodded affirmatievely. He felt something--a feeling he couldn't quite place, having a tug of war between resent and amusement. This gatekeeper had a look in his eyes, when he was to be a teacher for the girl.

As he battled with his thoughts, he heard a creaky sound. The small gate opened, and he walked in. The compound was a huge one, and its walls were painted white, like a clergyman's robe. Short grasses and long decorative trees adorned its sides, close to the walls. Afolabi wondered why anybody would want create a home for snakes inside his house. But then, money made people stupid. The front view of the house was magnificent, as the glasses glistened in a red-yellow color. Afolabi wondered if it was a kind of bulb. He figured it could be the sun's retracting light, and he looked back southwards, to where the sun shone from. It was the sun. His eyes descended to see the gatekeeper looking at him and shaking his head lightly. Afolabi cursed under his breath "Oloriburuku somebody."

He continued walking towards the front door, his eyes ravaged the entire house, the roof wasn't rusty brown, it was like the zinc in the church, but this one was looked even better, its color was like the color of the wine that Shanu brought to the pub on occasions. The roof seated comfortably on the white building, and made it look royal, like how the Oba of Benin dressed. He knocked on the front door and waited impatiently for about three minutes. He was heared a voice inside, and the person most likely intentionally, didn't open the door at first.

When the door opened, it was a young girl of about fifteen, but she looked bigger than that age. Afolabi could tell she was a little child because he felt that eating too much and being the child of a rich man blossomed one into a giant. She looked at him in a manner that made Afolabi wish he was still hot headed, he would have slapped her teeth out. How could such a small girl look at him in the eye, and didn't greet? "Who are you here for?" she asked, running her white eyes over him. He sulked in his ego and said "Your father, hin dey?" she dug her head inside the house and screamed "Dad, dad, you got a visitor!" Afolabi shook his head. This child seriously needs an iron hand, he thought.

"He's in his study, he won't come down." "What do you mean study?" Afolabi raged "didn't you just call him now? And you say him go study." The girl hissed. "Come in." she said, opening the door.

Thanks, Bibi. E be like sey u no spell crazygod well. (make I use style mention am).

Chapter one drops soon.

bibijay123:
i am hooked already

Welcome, Bibi. I need some Bibilets hia oo.

yorhmienerd:
FTC, Yippee!

Congrats bro.

PROLOGUE
Ibadan,
running splash of rust
and gold flung and scattered
among seven hills like broken
China in the sun.
JP Clark "Ibadan"

The bus park was a lousy one, people tried to manouvere their heavy and thin bodies past other people. It was a crazy scene. Music blared from speakers situated at different parts of the park; dealers trying to sell their wares.

Busy. Hyper-populated. Active, would describe most parts of the city of Ibadan.

Yet, somewhere very far away, inside the thick of the bush, a young man, in his early thirtees kneels down, cloth gagging his mouth, fear runs through his skin, he shivers, as sweat trickle down his temple and forehead. Fear, could be found in his eyes, as he looks up, to the tall person, who wields a locally made, brown-rusty gun, cleaning the dust off it with his tongue. He looks crazy, with his bushy hair, but he is quite handsome by the dictionary's standards. He has a finely sculpted nose and pink lips, a little tribal mark on the left side of his chin and his eyes, were pure white, but filled with ambition.

He removes the cloth from the person's mouth and the scared person gasps, trying to find the words to plead, plead for his life. But, words are hard to come by.

The abductor raises the gun up, and begins to cry. He holds his afraid catch on the head, and say; "I cry not for you, but people who will call me evil because of what I want to do."

The person shakes like a thin leaf blown about ferociously by the Atlantic wind.

"Embrace death," the abductor says "It is a fine woman."

The person who is encouraged to embrace death wants to speak, but words elude him. The one with the gun places the muzzle inside his mouth and pulls the trigger...

Blood wets the leaves. A bird flies away from a nearby tree it was perching on. It goes to invite the vultures, who come with their friends and family, to feast.

He walks away, from his seventh kill in thirteen days. He cries as he walks away, back into the warm and open arms of Ibadan, who is too busy to notice that something is wrong.

COPYRIGHT WARNING: This creative work is protected under copyright laws and shouldn't be reproduced in any form without due consultation with the author. He can be contacted via email...emmanuelesomnofu@gmail.com.

And please, I might seek to use this story and make money sometime in the future, or submit it for publication so please don't share. Abeg, na God I use beg.

You can 'Like' it, no problem.

illicit:
very good, i will drop something soon

Not here sha...Start a thread then You just upload the number of words you've written here.

ruggedadventure. I'm through. I deserve a thousand blows on my stomach, I know.
Please forgive me.

And here I am, watching this torture of a show; my father dancing. My mom had said he means well. I wonder how.

On the way to Oba, Anambra state where we hailed from, Biafra was declared as a country.

Jubilations and frenzy was in the air but I would have none of that.

Here I am, comfortably seated on the living room. I let a thin smile form on one side of my lip.

I know what my parents don't. The bitter leaf soup is laced in those green leaves; Marijuana. I emptied a nylon full into it knowing that the rich smell of stockfish will eclipse its taste, but never its effects.

They will fall into a deep sleep and before they wake, I will be in Osun state, searching for Damilola.

I refuse to believe that love could be faked. I refuse to believe that her sweet moans in my ears were Nollywood. I refuse to believe that what we felt was never real. Maybe her family was threatened, maybe she needed the money. I refuse to believe what the note says, not when my last moment with her was pure bliss.

I will look into those eyes that I fell in love with, and I will search into its depths.

If those eyes are shrouded in evil and tribalism, I would leave her to herself and I would gladly embrace my death, and hope I see Obinna on the other side.
THE END

I held the note in my hand. I could barely breathe. The walls seemed to be choking me. Her clothes and belongings looked different to me now. My hands trembled. I looked at it, and it was unmistakeable; the writing was Damilola's.

Obinna. Obinna was innocent yet, I had treated him like a mice.

I got out of the tears, feeling blood drip away from my heart. I was broken beyond repairs.

The idea of suicide appealed to me. And so, silently, I was walking to where I would die, head bent down as I walked.
*****
I sat on the bench, facing the huge water, which lapped on itself. I brought out the note, and looked at it. Such irony, this was the note I had used to win her heart. My poem was written on one part of it. On the other, was the letter that claimed I didn't win any heart, instead I would lose mine.

I thought of Obinna. It was all my fault. I dare live while he, dead.

Taking the first step, I was only a second step away before I entered, before I drowned, a slow, painful death, befitting someone of my sins.

But still, a strong hand held my arm from behind, pulling me back to safety with such force it made me believe, for a moment, that guardian angels existed. I turned back to look at the person who saved me. He was far from a guardian angel. He grinned excitedly, exposing his palm-oil yellow teeth. He was quite muscular, and had very large eyes.

"Prof sey make I call you." he said, pointing backwards.

I looked at him. I couldn't understand how and what led this person here. I was about to atone for my many sins. I scratched my head, using my left hand to put the note into my rear pocket.

"Prof? What? Which professor?" I asked.

He smiled, saying "Professor Ugwu, sir."

I suspended my suicidal ambitions and followed the young man, who looked like a first year student. He said nothing to me, grinning stupidly and making passes at girls. I was annoyed and wanted to knock the teeth off him but then again, he was quite muscular, I doubted if I stood a minute chance against him.

We entered the office. Me first, then the bulky guy, closing the door behind him. A man sat on the visitor's seat, facing Professor Ugwu.

"Ah," the lecturer said "He's here."

The visitor turned.

"Father!" I said, almost screaming.

He beamed a smile. I didn't know what it was for. "I'm here to take you home" he said, waving with his hand, talking eloquently, like a big man. Well, he was.

"I'm not going anywhere." I said, stamping my feet on the ground.

"Well, it is not as if you have much of a choice in the matter." Professor Ugwu said.

I looked at him in a deathly stare. How dare he interfere in matters of family?

"Wait--What?" I said, realizing there could be another context in which his sentence was used. I didn't have a choice, so he said.

My father smiled intently again, that confident smile, when you know something the other person doesn't, and watching him confused over that which you know all too well.

Dad had that smile. I frowned rebellously.

He winked, and I felt a syringe press against me from behind. I fell to the ground, and black was all I saw until...
**********
My eyes opened to cars rolling by fastly. I waited for the effects of whatever happened to me to pass, and then I looked around. I was in father's car. It still had that scent--that I was used to as a young boy when he would take me to church on Sundays.

I wanted to scratch my eyes, then I realized my left hand was cuffed. I looked at him unbelievably. He coughed suspiciously and said "You won't understand what I am doing for you."

I scoffed. What was I to understand? Except that I was kidnapped by my father.

I turned my neck sideways, looking at some droplets of water on the glass, having a contest at which would reach the bottom first. I thought about Damilola, about how our sweat became one in those blissful moments.

We were approaching a police checkpoint. I smiled, I had a plan in mind. Dad rolled the window pane down and waved his hand like a pastor, grinning wide, saluting the hungry looking policemen, to which they replied with a "sure sir!".

I screamed from inside "Help! Help! He wants to kidnap me. Help! I'm cuffed!"

Father looked at me, and laughed at my attempt. He looked outside to the policemen and flung some thousand notes to the ground, to which they scurried away, picking it off the ground, singing praises to him as he drove away.

"Welcome to Biafra, son."

I was irritated. "How do you prevent the ills of Nigeria from being paramount in your so-called Biafra when bribery has become normal?"

He laughed, then said "Let that handle itself. After all, you are educated with the money I stole."

Anger flashed on my face but, I was powerless. I could only watch him drive away, bribing as many policemen as he could, as a justifiable means for why he had me cuffed inside his car.

Obinnau, help me push this story nah.

I woke up feeling light. Maybe the sex had something to do with it. But for the first time in the past twenty-four hours, I didn't feel like I carried the weight of the world on my slender shoulders. My eyes no longer ached in pain. I could think, with a straight head. I searched for my wallet but couldn't find it. It was then I remembered that the bar girl mentioned something like Campus Security, going around, in the thick of the night.

While I slept on the cold floor of the pub, I had felt some persons whisper faintly.

"He's asleep."

"Dis one is dead drunk."

Thereafter, I felt their hands touch my pockets, found my wallet and took it. My phone wasn't spared too.

I had thought it was a dream.

Stinking greatly of alcohol, I rushed over to the house to take a bath. However quick as it might have been, my nostrils couldn't desist from picking the scent of Obinna. His clothes, I saw, through my teary eyes. His picture, hung on the wall. He smiled, but the smile didn't look like what it used to be. It looked like a mocking smile and I felt guilty. How will I bring myself to tell his parents whom he spoke so fondly of?

I was going crazy. I did everything in an haste just to get out of the house.

As I walked out of the lodge, sympathetic eyes looked at me. They must have heard. I was disgusted by their mimicry of a pitiful face. It was close to perfect, but I knew they didn't love Obinna as their present countenance suggested. However, not to be tagged the devil, or looked upon as a suspect, I rewarded their efforts with a tear, which I left for all to see, afterwards wiping it off with the palm of my hand.

I made a mental to-do note. I would call Obinna's parents. I would visit some important school officials, I would surrender to the investigation panel for questioning, but first, I had to see Damilola.

Three knocks on her door yet nobody answered. I waited for about a minute, then knocking again. Still no reply. I held the knob of the door to verify if it was closed but it wasn't, and I stumbled into the room.

I looked around and began to wonder, fear gripping my heart, leading it to think of many cruel things that wicked people could have to Damilola. I had called her, her line didn't go through. She had nowhere to go to, no where she told me of, she left me on her bed, after serving me the best sex i've had in my life. Where could she be now? I thought, flinging myself on the bed, and wrapping my hands around the soft bedsheet. I felt like I was touching her tender skin. She would have shivered, saying gently that I should not stop. But alas, the bedsheet couldn't talk. If it did, I knew I would leave my two legs behind, running as fast as I could.

It was while I ran my hands over the bed that I felt a note. I picked it up and looked at it. It was the poem I used to woo Damilola. I smiled, as I remembered that day, when she said "I like it." But, upon closer inspection, I found something written at the back of the note, in blue ink, light ink, for it was hard for me to notice at first.

Then I read the letter in my mind, to myself.

It started thus...

I went up to the young scholars whom I had bought drinks for. I just sought to soak myself up in their discussions and hope not to remember the gory details of the day.

"It is a rape of the fundamental human right to live. I can never agree, to violence secession." a young man with patches of grey hair thundered. He looked like an impoverished professor. His hair was bushy and he sweated profusely on the chest. I couldn't tell if it was sweat or alcohol he was soaked in.

I drew up a sit to my buttocks and watched them argue.

"In a country where dialogue is viewed as cowardice, what happens? The Igbos are angry, the Niger Deltans too..."

Another cut in "They have the right to be angry--how can such a region soaked in oil be so under developed? It is a political sterotype and can never--be dealth with, if we don't begin to see everybody as humans, not as a stepping stool to riches."

"To an extent regionalism is the key! Let each region, deal with its resources!"

I was awed at the infuriations of these young men, too caught up to even notice my presence. I was a ghost in their midst, until one of them said

"Hey you, what's your take on this matter?"

"Uhmm..." I found words hard to come by, scratching my hair ferociously, I mimicked a slurry tone, to denote that I was almost drunk and maybe, they'd cut me some slack. Truth was, I was ashamed of myself, and didn't want these brilliant and vibrant young men to see me as a failure.

I looked up and saw the pretty bar girl standing akimbo. She must have been listening to the conversation, and wanted to see how I would respond to the question. No doubt, girls love handsome guys. But, smart guys have the edge, the natural love from the opposite sex, the permission to sweep her off her feet. Confidence became one with me.

"You see--" I said, afterwards belching "The problem with Nigeria stems from our mentality."

Their curious eyes looked at me.

I smiled wryly that I had their attention--and the girl's too.

"Our mentality is 'if you can't beat them, join them'. And this, is why fathers look into the inquisitive eyes of their sons and tell them 'Money is power'. These people whom are our politicians were once those sons."

The men nodded their heads in agreeance. The girl smiled too, I guess she was impressed.

"...just that now, they no longer have biological fathers, they have godfathers." I concluded.

"Gbam!" the one with grey hairs thundered, hitting the table with his fist. The bottles shook like terrified teenagers, making a clink-like sound, whilst the drunken fellow whose head rested on the table shook uncomfortably, saliva running slowly from an edge of his mouth. "That is it! That is it, right there! You're f-ing right! godfathers pull their weight from behind the scene, but are terribly dangerous. Its no surprise that for someone to vie for a political seat, one former military governor who doubles as a former executive president has to support their candidacy."

"You forgot something" one said, raising his hand up in a childly and ridiculous manner.

"What?" The former speaker asked

"You have to be Under the Umbrella."

We all burst into a hearty laugh.

"I am not quite-ing understanding. How does all these concerning Biafra and Nigeria, the Southing-South sef?" A fellow who had been quiet all the while asked. I later got to know that he called himself 'Illiterate' and had fought fiercly against his parents wishes to attend university before he succumbed.

I took my time to explain extensively about how the influences that steer the nation has to dance to a music. 'Godfatherism, Corruption and Power, is a three headed monster, fighting against the country'" I had said.

"But who will bell the cat?"

Silence.

One of the fellows got up and stretched like a just-waking dog, yawning lazily. "Talking about cats," he said "it's so late that some cats in Benin are flying to the middle of a river in India now."

I translated that correctly as, 'time to go'.

The other three stood up, shaking hands with me in turns and dragging their drunken friend away. I watched till they left my sight. I wished I had such interesting friends. Friends who could be my muscle when i'm down. Obinna used to be that friend.

"Quite the political commentator, eh?" A gentle voice said from behind, interrupting my thoughts.

I turned, and saw the bar girl. The bulb was luminous, shone generously on her beautiful face. Her curly hair draped down her tender neck. Her lips were red as fine wine. She approached me, taking off her dress, and her breasts sprang free, dangling.

We had sex, but all the while I imagined her as Damilola. It was while she, the bar girl, was riding on top of me that I saw a ring on her third finger.

"I'm engaged--to a business man in Malaysia."

Had he gone to sell his kidney? I thought but said " Better so."

"Yea." she heaved a sigh as she rolled off me. She left the pub and gave me the keys. She directed me to drop it beside some crates of lager beer outside the pub when I woke.

Trooping into the room, about seven people took turns to thoroughly check if the occupant of the house was in, and perhaps, hiding. They saw no one, and as they left the room, I heaved a sigh, thanking God Damilola was not in.

I left the presence of the men.

My room was filled with the scent of my dead room mate therefore, returning back there was no option. I barely had friends that I could stay with, except my poet friend, but he too, was sad beyond description. I needed an uplifting place. Filled with noise and vigor, where my sorrows wouldn't be noticed. And when I thought of such a place, the most popular campus pub came to mind. I went there and like I had hoped, nobody paid me any attention.

I sat down on a bar stool and quickly requested for a beer. I was drowning in the bottle when I turned and saw the people drinking and discussing in the pub. They spoke excitedly, their faces were dimly illuminated by the flickering bulbs but they didn't seem to be disturbed by them.

"Who are those?" I asked the bar girl in a slurry manner.

She laughed in a rather remarkable way. It was a laugh of pure mockery.

"Those," she said, pointing to them "are the most brilliant students in the school. They usually come here at night to drink and discuss matters that supercede their years."

I took another look at them--four in number, minus the one who had passed out on the table, contesting for space with the bottles. They were immersed in the discussion they were having and although I could barely hear what they said, I could tell it had to do with the trending topic in the country; Biafra.

My attention was drawn to the highlife music gently buzzing out of a speaker erected in one corner of the pub. When I looked over to the where the music emanated from, I saw the bar girl bend down to serve a customer drinks. Her buttocks was inviting, and my active imagination immediately tore the clothes off her, and my penis nudged a little, as my mind visioned her hands on the plastic table and me, sliding in and out of her to the glory of the melodious tunes she would moan.

I snapped back to reality as I saw her ivory-white eyes looking at me in wonder.

"You're quite drunk." she said

"No," I replied, digging the bottle into my mouth to empty its content. "I'm not drunk."

She giggled. I guessed my eyes rolled at the sight of her finely shaped breasts which gently hugged the pink dress she had on. Her little nipples gently poked the dress.

"Your money." she said, arms outstretched.

I dug my hands into my pocket and brought out my wallet, and gave her a thousand naira note saying, "keep the change." in a pompous manner, as if I had given her the keys to the Garden of Eden. She just looked at me with those her translucent, bright eyes, as if she had doubts over my sanity. She was walking away, I called her.

"Give those guys four bottles." I ordered, slipping another thousand naira note into her waiting hands.

I couldn't tell if I bought the drinks out of goodwill or just to see her bend low again.

She approached the students with a tray containing four bottles of cold Life beer. She pointed at me and they thanked me, with the expression on their faces.

Someone in the small crowd brought out his phone and logged in his Nairaland account. On the frontpage, he saw the post CASUALTIES OF BIAFRA-YORUBA CLASH IN UZO-UWANI (pics). He shouted "lalasticlala" in a terrified manner, almost like an exclamation. Everyone is familar with the axiom. Bad news do spread quickly.

Their bloods stirred upon seeing the destruction and damage, and plunder done to properties. More sickening, was the dead people that laid in the street, like a hunted rat accused for carrying Lassa disease. I knew this meant violence.

"Death to them!!!" the energetic guy at the front screamed, raising the stick on his hand oncemore.

"Death!!!" the students screamed.

More students joined the crusade after being filled-in on the situation. It wasn't until I had followed them to a distance that I realized I was returning to where I was coming from; Damilola's lodge. It was where all the yorubas in campus stay. It was common knowledge that anybody of the Yoruba tribe that applied to study in UNN--no matter the intelligence, or score, they are all given some stupid course. All of them studied basically the same thing. If not for the Ministry of Education's strict law and stupid dream of a united Nigeria, the university's admission board wouldn't admit any 'foreigner'.

They had gotten to the lodge. I saw impending doom written in the clouds, they gathered thickly. It cast a gloomy shadow over the edifice. This was to be a slaughter house--and Damilola might be inside.

The gate rattled as the angry mob stormed into the lodge. The first person they saw was a thin looking guy. As soon as the guy saw them, I mean us, he threw both hands to the air, pleading profusely for his life. He didn't know--that these people took no prisoners. An heavily built student ran from the middle of the crowd, and with all his strength, veins threatening to pop out from his arm, he swinged the stick he had on him into the person's head, the rusty nail on the weapon penetrating the head, dodging past the skull, and plucking out the person's brain. A little part of the soft tissue slipped out of the hole, as blood gushed out at intervals. It was a horrific sight. I wished I could appeal to the humanity in them, but their eyes were filled with venomous rage, their heart beating thrice as fast, itching for revenge. That was the only thing that would appeal to their bloodlust.

An unsuspecting student, was rinsing his face, humming a popular fuji tune, when the leader of the mob stealthily approached him from behind, and dealth him two quick blows to the head with a rod. The quite obese person fell to the ground, his head hitting the concrete as he did. He died--at least, he didn't see his death coming. He could have been preparing to go see his girlfriend, and perhaps that was the obvious reason for his joyful mood. But he didn't get to. There he was, on the cold ground, under the sad sky, dead. Flies had feasted on him and the other victim, portraying to me a fearful reality; how powerless we become when we die.

I still feared for Damilola. I called her again, and the computer voice on her end said such number didn't exist. I almost cursed out in a loud tone but I bit my lip. I didn't want to draw attention to myself. I was the only person in this crowd who didn't have the lust of blood in his eyes, or a destructive tool on his hands.

They were going door to door, killing anyone they saw, leaving behind them, a trail of blood.

My heart suspended when they opened Damilola's door.

Orikinla

Eze2000:
You waste words and its killing you story. Get real and straight.

Thanks for the advice. Someone must have said something like this before. I'll definitely learn from it.

However, how you see the story nah?

The student turned weakly and replied in a defeated tone "Yes--he sells electronics there. He is my only family. My mother died a long time ago, when I was seven."

"Ehya, ndo oo" voices rose in unison, offering sympathy in a funny way. If it was another day, I would have laughed inside, but not today. Humor was lost on me.

"He'll be alright." I say for the first time, in a gruff, cold voice.

The radio volume is once more ignited by the curious hands of the driver, and the thick voice which spoke earlier took over the air.

"Police has managed to identify some casualties through their IDs. Here are the names."

All ears.

"Justin Amaechi
Okoroafor Liberty
Eugene Obi
Theresa Igboanugo
Godknows Okafor...."

"What? No!" the student screamed.

He almost fell of his seat, if not for some able hands which held him.

"Ogini, What?" Passengers gathered round him, asking.

He began crying, like I had done earlier. "Mpam--my father, h-h-he was k-k-kil" he couldn't bring himself to complete the statement but we all knew what he meant.

Each person said 'sorry' in his or her own sympathetic tone, some rubbing his head gently, as if they were pacifying a crying baby.

Suddenly, I felt a burst of emotions. The driver shouted "No!" in a roar and the students responded in likewise fashion "No!" they screamed, scurrying out of the bus. I came down too but too grieved to act agressively. I guessed they wanted to exercise a protest. I stood behind as I watched them pick stones, sticks, rods, and thin stems, plucking out the dry leaves on them to fashion it into a whip of some sorts.

I watched, as a student raised his voice in a chant, his right hand to the sky, a stick on it. He chanted the popular 'we no go gree' protest line "Nzogbu..."

The crowd responded gingerly "enyimba enyi!"

Marching like spartan warriors, armed with their savage weapons, they made their way to no where. I didn't know where but I followed them, to see where their heavy legs would lead them to. This was to be a protest of some sorts--loud, but non violent.

Yet, something happened, to turn the situation on its head.

I jumped into an incoming bus when I had gotten tired of crying. The passengers, mostly students looked at me ridiculously.

"seventy naira oo" the driver said, obviously speaking to me, the latest entrant into this prison of a bus, which stuffed people into each other, like fishes in a sardine can. I wasn't in the mood to haggle and I kept mum, going through the sad news I had heard, with flashes of Obinna playing in my head.

A busy body student took it upon himself to explain to me why there was an added twenty to the regular price of fifty naira.

"It's past the stipulated time. That is why the money is added. The driver is a brother to the friend of the Registrar." the concerned poke noser said, in faint hope that it would lift off the gloom which covered my face like an haloween mask.

The driver looked into the mirror above him, with a wide grin of achievement on his face. Our eyes met. In that awkward moment, nothing else came to his mind but to put on the radio.

Gentle breeze whooshed into the radio as the coarse voice behind the radio said the words "Good day Biafra--even though it's not all good."

The passengers were restless at the words of the OAP. The driver too, increased the volume and pulled over and much to my chagrin, his passengers didn't even register the tiniest hint of a protest. They seemed to be drawn into the radio, spellbound. They tapped their ears to 'dust' off dirt and bent it towards the radio. A word wouldn't escape the tentacles of their ears.

"Earlier today, there was a clash between some Yorubas and Biafrans in Uzo-Uwani. Reports claim that twenty one Biafrans were casualties while the yorubas lost eight.

The report also claimed that one of the Yorubas, had a gun on him, with which he used to gun down seventeen Biafrans. Stay tuned to Radio Biafra."

Two passengers immediately brought out their phones and frantically punched in digits. The rest of us watched as they clung to the phones as if their lives were dependent on it. They urged the persons on the other side to pick up.

"Hello, aunty? Ke maka ahu gi?" one asked, in concern. The words he spoke were loosely translated to "how body?". We didn't hear her response but the caller-student whom we studied closely heaved a sigh of relief. All was fine.

Little luck, the other person had, as his call was jammed into network brouhaha. He said, interlocking both hands into each other, towards the ceiling. He prayed "Chukwu--protect my father for me, biko nu."

The concerned poke noser who had 'clarified' me on the bus fare issue placed an hand on his shoulder and asked "Is he in Uzo-Uwani?"

Smallville10:
chairman. I respect u o... Ur hand strong die

But my readers no wan gree understand say e no easy. Body no be firewood. Work sef tough. But I still de squeeze out small time for my writing.

I cannot ki myself.

Smallville10:
I for join o but ma pc head don knock...

Lolzzz. Me na phone I dey use type. My lapi no dey me hand since last month.

Bro, Akposb, look past the number of words for now.
You should be in on this. Let's kick it!

I use God beg una. Everybody following this story should please buy LarrySun's novels.

Praises here do not foot bills and in as much as writers write for the love, money is a very good encouragement. N200 is not too big for such stories.

Talents as these are rare to find and should be encouraged. We should be proud to have LarrySun as a Nairalander and a Nigerian.
#TeamLarrySun

I'm in #NLwriters

I slept in the arms of Damilola and did not hear my phone ring. It rang thrice--but when I woke up, it had stopped. I looked at who the caller was and it was Stanley Obijiaku, president of the Students' Union. Whatever made him call me, meant he wanted to relay something serious. It wasn't everyday he called.

"Hello?" his voice sounded from the other side of the phone

"Yes? Stanley" I replied calmly, holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder, as my hands were occupied, adjusting my trouser back to its rightful position.

"Obinna--he's about to be expelled"

"What? Why?" I asked both questions almost simultaenously.

He wanted to say something but bit his words. "It concerns a rape." he said and I growled, it was seriously dampening for me to hear. I wanted to pull my power but this wasn't a small matter.

I looked around Damilola's room yet no sign of her. I wondered if it was usual to serve someone such mind blowing sex and leave the room almost immediately.

"Are you there?" Stanley asked

"Yea" I said, as I left the room. "I'm here, nwannem."

"There's something I also want to tell you" he said

"What?"

"Obinna was shot dead on his way to the Vice Chancellor's office."

**********
I phoned my father twice but the network seemed to be jammed. I cursed at the stupid service provider, which claimed to be 'everywhere I go'. I kicked objects angrily as I walk like a maniac to nowhere, breaking into sobs. It wasn't possible. How could Obinna be dead? How could his resolve be broken by the penetration of a bullet? Such a small object crafted by the hands of small men, fueled by hate. I nursed resent inside of me. Pure, undiluted anger but still, I refused to believe that Obinna was dead.

It was whilst I walked, the sun seemed to be going cold. Evening was approaching. I saw a fresher student with whom I was well acquainted. He was a rebellous young lad who wrote politically provoking essays and poems. Always had a penchant for the thoughtful, he was never one who lets news escape his ears. However, I was in no mood for a chit chat. I also saw a gloom on his face, for the first time since I had known him. This was the first time, his countenance wasn't stubbornly optimistic.

"Wail for the death of an eagle
Cry for the loss of our son
Wail, Wail, Wail,
Our noses has been dug in a bucket of shit"

He recited when we stood side by side. In my current state of mind, a poem wasn't something I could dedicate a sizable portion of my brain power to analysing. But I heard him say the words "loss of our son."

"Obinna?" I asked

He didn't reply. Silence yelled loudly, in its mocking affirmative shriek. His head was strung down in pain and hot tears escaped from his young eyes.

"I was there." he said "when the bullet went into his head." He cried bitterly "I--was there!" he yelled, hitting me on the chest, pouring out his anger. I too, needed to. But my pain was a more refined one.

Students flocked past us, looking at the both of us in surprise-laden faces, like curious owls staring into the night. They clutched their books to their chest, some walked in groups, some escaped away from the world, bumping their heads to the music which must have been playing on their headsets. Some walked with their girlfriends, who pointed at us--My eyes reddened with sorrow, and my poet friend, crying his out like he had taken a dip in onion juice.

My mind flickered to Damilola. Where could she be? I had just lost a friend and I couldn't lose my love. I dialled her number and the computer programmed voice insisted rather stupidly, that such a number didn't exist. The nineteenth time that I called, the inconsistent voice said it was 'switched off'. Which was I to believe?

I looked at my watch and it was almost six pm. My poet friend had insisted against leaving me but I implored him to get a good sleep. His head was undoubtedly throbbing, like mine, and his heart was heavy but I gave him a pat on his weak shoulder, and told him "Justice will come." I also told him that in the early hours of tomorrow morning, i'll be at his lodge and we will visit the Students' Union president and office of the VC, and other relevant bodies. He left, crying like a baby deprived of his daily supplement.

I fell to the ground crying, much to the surprise of students who passed by, who paid me only some seconds of their precious time, shaking their heavy heads. I held the ground knowing that sometime today, my room mate, confidant, playmate, and best friend, was shot down. I knew that blood oozed out of wherever the bullet had penetrated. I knew that his blood painted the sand in an even redder color. I knew flies buzzed around him, singing a sorrowful song. I knew that vultures must have been on their way, coming to feast on his useless flesh. But what made me cry was, I didn't know how the people around him reacted. Did they run and leave him to his fate, as a meal for the flies? Did they walk past his dead body and shake their heavy heads as they were doing now? Wait--my poet friend said he was there. He must have cradled the dying or already dead body of Obinna, calling for help.

Vaxt:
research

Okay. It's beautiful.
You're invited to read my story.

LAGOS, SOUTHWEST NIGERIA
The hall was an ugly one. It was a dis-service to the people who sat inside. Eminent personalities, they were. Diverse in statures, thin, tall, short, bulgy and stoutly men and women but they were united by a common goal; and that goal was such a powerful one, to have brought such people together, under this hall.

An elderly man ascended the podium, walking slowly with the aid of a third leg. His skin was folded with old age, and his eye sunk deep into his bowels. His lips twisted to one side, but surprisingly, when he held the microphone with his shaky hands, the words he spoke into it were loud, exuding a powerful influence over the people present, who looked at him intently, never wanting to miss a word.

"Good afternoon, sons and daughters of Oduduwa, future of Nigeria, I greet you all."

The audience collectively greeted "Good afternoon, Baba."

He looked down, the mild sun escaping into the hall from the window shone on his face, which was like rich butter. He was old, but he aged with grace. He observed a cough.

"Today, we meet for the first time, united by One Love. Our Love for the future of this great people; Yorubas."

The crowd cheered him on with thunderous claps. He took a swig from the bottled water on the ambo.

"Nigeria has failed us. She has failed!" his voice thundered, and the audience nodded their heads, on their faces; condemning looks. The old man continued "Lagos is a Yoruba state, and we prospered here. My father was a little boy when this rubbish called Federalism destroyed Sectionalism. The long throated Igbos trooped into Yoruba states, and started dominating us."

The crowd shook their heads.

"Tell me, will this be allowed to happen? Should we continue to allow Abokis plunder our rich earth with their cows?"

"No!" the crowd screamed.

The old man smiled, "then let us grieve."

As soon as he said that, a middle aged man stormed into the hall, holding a portrait high for everyone to see. He approached the podium and stood the picture against a wall, to achieve balance.

"This is my son, Akintola, brutally murdered by Igbos in the East, the University of Nsukka to be precise." his words were soaked in so much pain, and tears threatened to flow from his eyes. He quickly hid his face beneath his native shirt. A woman approached him, and put a consoling arm on him.

Baba Rasheed J.O, the old man, shook his head pitifully, saying to the bereaved "My son, take heart." he turned to face the audience but pointing at the man "strengthen your minds, for war is imminent"

"It is almost impossible to go to war, in modern Nigeria. Not against the Igbos, violently. They are galvanised, and are fighting for their own independence." a voice from the back said.

"And that is why, we must strike"

Puzzled looks were scattered across the hall but the smile on the old man's face was not lost. He waved silence, and silence it was. He was highly respected as being a former governor of the Western Region, who at his time, his name spread through all the parts of the country.

"We have people, positioned in the heart of Igboland and when it is time, we shall strike.

Madam Osundare, please report about our ongoing operations in the University of Nsukka." he directed, as a frail looking woman stood up, golden chains dangling, making disjointed sounds.

"Good afternoon, Baba" she greeted, taking a bow. The recipient nodde his head in recognition. She turned to the audience.

"As we gather under this roof, I will swear that Chike, the son of the former minister of Natural Resources, is stuck in the net of Damilola, a proud daughter of ours who had volunteered to fight for the Yoruba cause."

Faces went aglow with smiles, stretching up to the cheeks. This was the kind of news they craved but were not sure how it could be much of a thing.

The old man explained.
"The idea is not to attack physically, but infiltrate their system, and set a knife in the middle of the soft yam."

The crowd didn't grasp the proverbial words well enough, and this was manifest in the buzz-like sound that generated inside the hall.

"They will fall." he said, with a tone of finality.