Ulu45:
Na ajegunle pikin dey speak all this English?
The same Aj wey I know?
Op mk it a Lil realistic pls.
Your writing wa. E pass. E legit!

Thanks for your compliment.
Your concerns however, is the major reason why I wrote this story, to dispel such rumors, and pour sand on them. Not everybody in AJ is a tout, or isn't capable of writing like I do. I have friends that even write better!

And yes, i've lived in AJ since I was nine so...You fit call me AJ pikin.

tooblessed123:
it's my first time commenting on NL, Please OP, please continue your story please, ive been a ghost reader and it will be awesome if you will continue. thanks

Welcome. In fact, here's a 'welcome poem'
All stand for the genius, the blessed
Even if him chop moi-moi for dinner, his tummy can never be stressed
All welcome my person, who shames the cash of e-money by possesing abundant blessing.

"You be chair lock homes?" the boy asked, pronouncing the name like a typical Akpos, as Suliyat looked down on him, literarilly of course, then looked at John. The topic of discussion was a total stranger to her, she wondered who this sherlock-something was.

"No, not really" John replied, as the boy's gleeful face turned sour, for he was sad he wasn't standing before 'chair lock'.

"But I know him, i'm his friend, the doctor" John lied, placing his hand on his shoulder, his face assumed it's normal look again.

"I know what brings you here" the boy said, as eye brows were raised, and the earlier surprise Suliyat sought from these faces were now present, but the journalist didn't even look at them, she was curious herself. Yes, that was the word, but to the women and a few men who surrounded her, it was surprise for if this kid knew anything notable, it could incriminate one of them.

John pretended not to care, as he took the boy aside, and whispered things into his ear, as Suliyat and her 'guests' looked at them. After John had finished speaking into the boy's ear, the boy said something, gesticulating with his hands too.

They both came back to where the people were rounded, and John said, raising his chin up and staring at them.

"You know what he said to me?" the now-detective asked rheotically, pointing at the young boy who beamed in pride. Both John and Suliyat could feel the tension rising, and she glanced at him, strengtening the solidity of her ears as well.

"He said" John took a deep breath "He asked me" he re-phrased "What would Sherlock Holmes do? And I answered, he would look for the basic facts first"

Theresa sighed, it was no mind blowing revelation after all. She was somewhat happy that someone didn't flee the scene after the talk, or rather worse, slump to the ground.

There was just something about crime scenes, it was intriguing. It was mystifying. There was a cloud hovering over everybody. These people looked like a word the boy said would send them to early graves. Nobody talked, until one woman whose head was so fat that her neck was barely visible came out of the compound and said

"Any answer wey you want, ask that woman!" the obese person said, pointing at the slim woman Suliyat thought something was, about her.

John smiled, as he approached the now-sweating slim woman, who shook as if she was taking a picnic on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean, naked.

Someone tapped him, and he looked down, and saw the inquiring eyes of the boy. The boy said softly, in a way only him heard.

"Chair lock Homes wouldn't get his hopes up"

The convergence of both John and Suliyat happened close to the same street they'd been thrice now; Jejelaye. It was basically the only place in Ajegunle where she could drive herself to, and not get lost or get mobbed by guys, who'd ask her to 'drop something for the boys'. It had happened to her, and she did, drop something, albeit wondering why grown up men who had well reached the age to be her uncle, would refer to themselves as 'boys'. And when they did get her money, they'd fight and most break each other's head off at the sharing process..

The macho man, John knew that Suliyat knew no where else, subsequently he boarded a taxi and requested to be taken there. On getting to the rendevous, John's face was sad when he didn't see the red car, Suliyat's official car. He however, paid the old taxi driver off and thanked him for his comfortable and expert services rendered.

Strolling into the street, with both hands in his pocket, several eyes looked at him,he wondered why suddenly the street was full of people. Maybe it had something to do with the time they came the previous day. He didn't even realize that it was Saturday, and that explains why people were more visible. Further and further into the streets, looking both to his left and right, like a schoolboy who has just been taught how to cross a road. He was supposed to be a doctor, and not snooping around such places so early in the morning, even dogs stared at him in surprise, not failing to wag their 'bingoish' tails in dissaproval.

Up ahead, before a right turn to burst into kirikiri road, where the City Point hotel was. He saw a red car, just like Suliyat's. On getting closer, he saw it was really her car, but she wasn't inside. His heart skipped a beat, what did she think she was doing, coming out here alone? He ran his shaky hands through his hair, his career could potentially be in jeopardy if a journalist gets missing on his watch. He would have failed his uncle. He didn't want to think about that, as another car breezed past him, ressurecting dust off the ground. John's nose ran like a spoilt stream, and his eyes were watery. He cleaned it off quickly, he didn't want people, and the dogs to think that he was crying, even though he was.

His attention was drawn to a rather amusing scene by the bark of a dog present there. On the outside space of a one-storey building, were a little crowd of about nine, mostly women and kids, and he saw a familar pair of legs standing in the middle. He crossed over and stretched his head over that of the intrigued crowd. He was relieved to see that it was Suliyat.

Immediately breaking into the chain, he went in and stood by Suliyat like how an overprotective boyfriend would. The bulgy, small, and all kinds of eyes looked at him.

"Who be dis one?" a slim woman on whose waist a piece of wrapper hung upon asked, as the other people nodded their heads like a typical lizard, in the way the other elders at nigerian Ibo villages do, when an elder has correctly aired their collective thoughts.

"Oh he's my partner" Suliyat replied, after giving a quick stare to the person who cared to ask. She didn't know why but the thin woman looked suspicious to her. She kept eyes on her, so as to prevent her from exiting the scene.

"I am Sherlock Holmes" John joked, putting his right hand on his chest in introductory manner "and we are here to ask questions, refusal to answer will attract many, many, police vans here" he also said, playing a fast one on them, he well knew he couldn't do what he just said. But he saw, that as the words came out from his mouth, it drove anxiety, fear into the hearts of the people present. They looked at themselves, each eye telling a unique tale, but in connection to 'the case'.

A little boy ran close to John, sand covering his laps as if there were 'leggins', his hair didn't escape the same fate too. He looked up at John, risking his thin neck to do so, as the other people looked at him unsurprisingly, in an obvious recognition of the boy. This action of the boy, wasn't new to them, Suliyat obseved because their faces didn't wear any cloth of surprise on them.

ozila:


tnx, I will learn, I will leave my work to start updating stories so that you will feel better, and when I lost the job, you will employ me.
if you follow my first story Adanna you will know I finished it within one week, because I had nothing doing then, but no need explaining because you won't understand.

Dear Op nice work I tuale for you.

I tuale,Ozila baba...I don't think he tried to underplay your hardwork. You be veteran in d game na, whilst i'm but a beginner.

you have a day job, you manage a blog, and still post stories here, you dey try bros. In summary, we all got something to learn from each other.

Please do me a favor, can you mention some of your readers here?

CHAPTER EIGHT
[Decolonising the Mentality]
"Gnatola ma no kpon sia, eyenabe adelan to kpo mi sena"
[Ewe-mina]
"Until the Lions learn to tell their tale, the story of the hunt will always glorify the hunter."
[African Proverb]
John retired to his home, Suliyat to her hotel. However, the dawn rose with urgency, thrusting the persons under the sky into yet another day of work, work, work. Through the benevolent louvers, crept the morning sunshine into room 53, as the pretty lady inside, who wore a blouse and pant, rolled lazily on her bed, wishing why the day couldn't wait some hours. After all, the Christians say Joshua prayed for the sun to keep still so Israel could win a battle. Suliyat wondered why someone couldn't climb high up the mountain and pray, that the sun is suspended, and night becomes, in the otherwise daytime.

Ring. Ring. The number on the other side of the phone, which she held to her ears. She had been calling John, the chairman's nephew, but he hadn't picked her calls. She thought maybe he had gone
somewhere to lift weights, and improve in his muscular frame. It was relatively popular perception about how these macho guys fabled addiction to their body.

Suliyat damned him. She brushed her teeth briefly, and dashed into the bathroom, and took her bath, singing an hausa song, which she has so been denied of the time to sing. Coming out with the soft, pink towel covering her chests below, she came to where her hanger was, and hooked both her hands on her hips, talking to herself silently, trying to figure out what she should wear. She settled for a loose gown, as she anticipated that the day was going to be quite busy, and better, if she didn't have the restraints of tight-fitting clothing.

Ring. Ring. A phone again, this time however, it wasn't ringing on the other side, she recognized the tone, and she walked slowly, to receive the call. She knew it was her macho acquaintance.

"Hello, Suliyat" the expected voice sounded, his voice was weak.

"Morning. I've been calling your number for a donkey years now."

"I'm sorry. I was sleeping"

Another bombshell. How could such a person, with a Fearful physical frame, and seems to spend the best hours of the day doing push-ups be such a lazy sleeper? Already ten in the morning, Suliyat thought, looking at her clock to validate her assertion, which she kept to herself. She wasn't going to ask him what or who made him sleep like a drunk sailor having a hangover. In the stories she had heard about men, even the tiniest of sentences, could drive their minds to the wildest suggestions. She didn't want that.

Suliyat sighed, as a slight cold clung to her body, she realized she was standing wet, in front of her drawer. "I hope you're dressed?" She asked.

"I'm almost" John replied after quite some time stretching his delivery of the first word, figuring out what phase of the morning he was in. Suliyat suspected he was lying, and correctly so, because John was still on his bed, naked except for the sheets which sheltered his humbled manhood, and the rest of his body, from waist down. He was struggling hard to get a grip on his locomotive agents as soon as he stood, for some hours back, in the magical realm of dreams where all things came through, where an Eagle and a Hen were best mates, in that place, where we usually kept money under our pillows, John saw his hands grabbing the fleshy mounds of buttocks on Suliyat's backsides. He thrusts in, as she hit high notes, he woke up, thanking himself for not being overly religious. If he was, he probably would have prayed down fire and brimstone, to destroy the spirit wife who was behind the evil pleasures of his dream.

He smiled, as he went into his bathroom when he remembered that in the minute he woke from the so-called 'evil pleasures', he saw the sticky stuff, on one side of his boxers, which he quickly disposed. He went back into how he felt in his tummy, as the juice was produced from his factory. He thought of how it would feel if it happened really, after he had had his fill with Suliyat.

It would feel like Heaven, not that a sinner knew what it felt like, he just banked on the positive texts from the Bible. He grinned like a mentally disturbed person, when he noticed how stupidly hypocritical he were, believing the Bible in bits, attaching it to his perverse surreal actions.

The car came to an halt, back to Jejelaye, the street where Suliyat was supposed to interview at least, two to three persons. She was frustrated that into her first day of the survey report, the day was almost over, and yet, she hadn't extracted any meaningful information from any person in Ajegunle, that's of course, excluding the lectures of the suspect chairman, and his macho nephew. But well, she had a prospective eye-opener, something that may well prove deeper than initially thought, or maybe, she reasoned; she was just reading too much meaning into it. Thousands of cases about child abuse she has heard, but somehow surprisingly, nothing ever becomes of them.

Her face lit up with a smile, as she remembered the macho John saying he had an idea. She turned to face at him, and in a comic twist of events, she realized he had been look at her all the while her professional thoughts ran through her head. He had been looking at her, wondering if this girl found it funny to just stay emotionless for quite long spells of time.

She coughed "Ehem", touching her chest with her right hand lightly, at the same time reaching below for a plastic-encased water. She drank it brisky, dropping it almost immediately some collective drops soother her throat.

"I want to know about the idea you claim to have" she said, afterwards looking startled as John looked at her animatedly, like he was a dummy. She later figured out it was because she had requested for his opine in a commandly manner.

She chipped in "please", trying to sound feminine as much as she could.

John shrugged, and let a wry smile form on his lips. He had made this dominant female say one of the magic words he was taught early in his education, 'please'. It surely worked a magical effect in his ears, he wondered how it would sound when she said it from her heights of sexual pleasure, dripping in the sweat of lust, as she would plead with him to enter into her, and share in the pleasures of the skin.

He grinned wildly, and changed into a frown almost immediately. The lady wondered why his facial expressions changed like how a celebrity changes clothes at an event.

John suspended such puerile thoughts, for now.

He said "okay, here's the plan", scratching the little beard on his chin lightly.

"You noticed how I was so immersed in the food? That actually was because, the food sweet die" he said, as Suliyat growled, wondering what it had to do with her interests.

John continued, speaking slowly like an aged revered literary personality.

"I can correctly say, that the woman didn't see my face. And she didn't see us approach the buka together so to her, we are total strangers"

"So we are" Suliyat asserted, to which John frowned. He wondered how his earlier thoughts was going to be reality someday. It was unlikely, given the lady's persistent stubborness.

"In conclusion, I will go alone to the buka tomorrow, and you'll hide someplace. Then, i'll send the boy an errand towards you, and then, you corner him"

Suliyat cheered bravo for the wise brain which thought such brilliant idea, even as simple as it was, it was detailed and was bound to succeed.

She put her hands on the wheel, and drove away, after some suspecting persons were pointing at the car. Suliyat didn't want a confrontation with any of them today. Tomorrow would suffice.

"Thanks, for the idea" Suliyat said, leaning closely to John. The man closed his eyes and allowed his imanginations wander. He thought she would kiss him, and his lips were slightly parted. She smelt very nice. She didn't kiss him, not even a peck, she opened the door for him and said "bye".

John got off the car, and was walking back to where he would board a taxi. Just some three seconds after leaving the car, he remembered he didn't have her contact details.

Running back, his head almost hit the car, but improvised and bent lower, peering into the dark car, and saying, or requesting, any tag he justified in his head

"I don't even have your contact details" he spoke, trying hard not to make it sound like he was 'toasting' her, even though in his inner most heart of hearts, he conceived a facade that he was.

She blurted some numbers in quick succesion, which should be her phone digits, as soon as she was done calling, and John punching them into his telecomms device, he called the number, and it rang inside the car, a green light illuminating the car.

John said his "bye" with a feeling of accomplishment, somewhat proud he was a certified and pratcical trickster. He had collected her digits without making a fuss of it. His accomplishment was immediately cut short when Suliyat said;

"The phone and number is company-owned. After my five days survey here, it will be immediately returned to the media house called The Sun"

John shrugged, walking off in defeated steps, he remembered another saying he was taught in his early schooling days. Surely, he, or she in this case, who laughs last, laughs best.

sleemoon ebukav jumizie13 dominicnuel ashatoda kingdave30 joanee20 spikedawson slimhan daeveed Rex1 prettydock22 favou iamlukas sharonnnn donpoker9 mattkent fiyah ddonoflife herzern rosalieene datjohn starrylady young03 angelsss laddybay TheSociopath gattus amyvals

Back at the buka, Moji knelt down, in humility, as if the fat woman who sat before him on a table was his god. He cast his head down, offering his hair only, for the woman to see. If she was a member of the dreaded terrorists of the Middle East, hacking Moji's head off wasn't so much of a hard task.

"Who you be?" the woman finally asked, after catching her breath, she spoke calmly, defying her ealier imposition and demeanour. One could tell she wasn't speaking calmly because she was naturally reserved, it was rather, as a result of her tired state. The anger and force, on which her heavy hands descended on the feeble body of Moji in quick succession was more of a strenous exercise than a beating. The boy's body was so bony that her hand even ached. She wondered whether he didn't eat, when she only fed him left-overs and half plates of almost-soured rice. She didn't know he shared his flesh with the rats he lived with, which took of sizable chunks off his body.

"I am an orphan, ma" Moji replied, his head still sunk towards the ground.

"You don't have any relatives, uncles or aunties?" The fat lady asked, in a rather incredulous moment and time. The young boy had some two months ago, wandered like a stray sheep past Awele's buka. He looked like someone that just walked, with no obvious destination. As he trudged past, he, Moji was looking at Awele, and the 32 year old Deltan suspected, but kept on doing what she was doing; washing dishes, and running back to check up on her stew. Moji saw this as a perfect opportunity, for it seemed the lady had no assistant.

"I can help you ma" Moji crept from behind, taking the lady unawares, her shock evident, as she dropped the spoon on her hand. The pot almost fell off the coal-constructed edifice on which it stood upon. Awele wondered if he wanted to help her by frightening her to an early grave.

"What kind of help?" She had asked, picking the spoon up, offering her two robust cheeks called buttocks to the view of the young boy, not that he even registered the tiniest of interest in it.

"I can wash, sweep, serve, even cook if you want me to" Moji replied, numbering his 'abilities' by using the index finger of his right hand to touch the rest, in a childly counting manner.

"Okay, but you won't cook" She replied, her hard-earned money to buy stuff used to cook wouldn't be wasted by this tiny boy, who didn't have a glowing recommendation from Iya Risikat, the veteran cook, who all aspiring cooks wanted to cook like, including Awele.

And so, from that early morning, Moji was 'gainfully employed', and Awele never thought it wise to ask Moji who he was, until today, some over sixty days after when evening was fast-approaching, and the sun was gradually leaving the cloud to a standing ovation because this was exactly the time when most Ajegunlites were leaving their various workplaces, and some, would converge at Awele's buka, not trusting the culinary skills of their 'fiance-wife' or painfully wedded wives.

It was 4:39pm, May 2003

Awele saw some of her regular customers approaching the buka, and she immediately motioned Moji to stand, for she didn't want any lecture or condemnation from people who had a bad day at work, looking for whom to vent on. Funny, Awele was 'spacious' enough to accomodate all the venting.

Moji stood up with a sullen look, knowing that the conversation would have to continue sometime. He didn't know when, he just hoped that it wasn't any time soon.

AustinBlinks ritababe gsalvatore prose5 AIZU deemajor oloriabefe tjshizzle just4fun shawnie keeks stancious africandollar prettycee aksule mrjah coolabbie cutemi spending

ruggedadventure:
Waiting.......

My ever-present reader. As long as light dey, you wont have to 'wait' like solid star.

Gofwane:
Dear op,

... ... ... ...this story is no ordinary story i read on this forum. I mean, this is a master-piece!
.........The way you play with words and use them to describe events is second to none. The only story that had such word plays and a vivid narration was: SEX as SHE TAUGHT ME written by Fabiano.


......Another thing i noticed was the swiftness with which you heeded to the guy that advised you on updating the story regularly. Oboy, i've never seen any op on nairaland dropping such long posts and in rapid succession(Ozila, come and learn ).


Dear op, after you, na you. Twale!!!

Your words of encouragement fuels my pen.
Thanks, sir.

Suliyat wanted to surge forward and intervene in the beating, but John's strong hand held her back. She looked at him, demanding whether he was so compelled to exhibit his perceive masculinity and obvious physical superiority each time he got the chance. She freed herself from his grip, but didn't seek to run forward again. The fat woman had dragged the boy into a nearby store at the back of the canopy. Pots and utensils were the items kept inside the small store.

The beating had stopped, but Suliyat couldn't stop to think why it happened so, for the woman descended on the boy immediately after they left. She felt the incident had something to do with the phone call the food seller received. She, Suliyat wasn't all too interested in the food as John so to prevent her eyes from boredom, she ran it through the place, as she saw the food seller's facial expression changed into a powerful frown.

Suliyat and John stood up, and walked back to the car, as if nothing happened. The silence which loomed was like a virus, eating in their souls, as they drove to no where in particular. They both wanted to say something, but couldn't construct it in proper language. For Suliyat, she was angry at John, but didn't wanted to sound abusive when she spoke. John wasn't sorry for stopping her, he was just sorry he pissed her off and he didn't want to apologize like a malo-he too, was a product of the streets, before money came and status changed.

"I have an idea" John said quietly, breaking the silence, as air whooshed into the car through the half-closed windows. Suliyat's hair blew to the back, she looked so beautiful, John observed. She bit her lower lip softly, ruminating thoughts in her head. She didn't answer, and for a moment, John wanted to slap some senses into her for keeping him waiting, that was something he detested so much. But, he couldn't imagine laying a finger on this beautiful creature, whom God must have been very happy when He created her. He looked at her, as her lips failed to twitch, in signal of speaking. He nudged her a little, and she shook like an epileptic woken up with cold water from a bad dream.

"What are you thinking? You are not fit to drive" John asserted, expressing himself with a disturbed face. He clearly didn't want to die because of a lady that obviously hated him.

"Oh, I'm not fit to drive? After you stopped me from helping an abused little boy? I'm not fit to drive, when you have poured a soured soup on my face by your actions!" she blasted John, who kept a straight face, resisting the urge to engage in an argument with someone whose hands controlled the wheel of a car he was in. She continued

"You suddenly can't talk? I'm not fit to..." she burst into an hysterical laugh, a gentle little sea of tears forming in her eyes for reasons she didn't even know. John didn't see the tears, his eyes were fixated straight but he could feel her voice breaking. "Or do you want to drive?"

John was silent, the air was silent, all was silent, except for craftsmen and traders outside that made twittering noises whilst selling their wares. Suliyat wondered what suddenly caused this. She turned and looked at John, whose head was now bent in shame.

"I can't drive" he finally said with a defeated tone.

Suliyat almost burst into another laughter. She wondered when it became a thing of shame when someone couldn't drive. Maybe it was because of his ego, it could have been bruised; admitting to a woman that he couldn't drive. She felt pity for him.

"What were you saying? About an idea or something" she asked

"So you heard it?" John snapped out of his somber mood.

"Yea, I was only acting" she replied.

John was astounded, he had told a woman a major secret in his life, because of a lie. She was just, acting.

"I'll tell you in someplace safe. I don't want you to act, again"

Suliyat laughed loud, then looked at John. John couldn't fathom what he said that was so funny but, he joined in the laugh anyway. It wasn't so good for such a beautiful lady to be considered a lunatic.

Moji was through selling the food, and since no one else indicated any interest to buy, he went back to the corner, where he was washing dishes on a table. Suliyat enjoyed the food, at least, it was good and less oily like the one she'd ate before. She looked at John, and he was too immersed in devouring the 'species' of meat in his plate, he didn't even seem to pay attention to the rice, which now turned pale in anger, at how it was neglected.

The possibility of a 'lunch-talk' as pre-planned now looked very bleak, as anybody's attempt to divert John's attention from the plate might prove abortive and fatal. He was quite muscular, and had broad chests, not that it was intimidating to the lady. If anything, some members of the women folk considered it sexy.

The fat lady, the likely owner of the buka, and head cook got back to her work. Suliyat was observant of her weird behaviour when she emerged back to the scene. She stood near Moji with a very suspicious and threatening stare, Moji's countenance too, it was like one of those moments when either of your parents gave you a deathly stare, and you know you've done 'something' but not sure what.

After they had finished their food, when walking back to the car, Suliyat tried to voice her observations to John, who picked his tooth with a thin piece of wood. That would do more harm than good.

"Did you notice how that woman acted after receiving that call?" Suliyat asked, looking into John's face, trying to aid her voice with the seriousness on her face.

"Yes, I noticed" Suliyat sighed, happy her mind wasn't just reading meaning into insignificant things. "And so?" John asked

"Don't you think we should do something about it?" Suliyat asked with undiluted concern, to which John reacted with a loud, hysterical laugh.

Suliyat thought 'I said it! The food is not purely cooked, it certainly has side effects'. A candid suggestion wasn't enough to make such a grown man, one well capable of having a family, laugh like a goblin.

"See, let me tell you, in this place, the philosophy is to 'mind your business'. What do we go back to do? Query the woman why she was looking at the boy 'suspiciously'? When we don't even know what their relationship is, we have just been there for thirty minutes. It's not wise to back, don't you think?"

Suliyat was irritated by his lack of concern, maybe he was siding the woman becuase of her food, she'd heard countless times that the way to a man's heart was through his stomach. That could well be the case here. But, much of the irritation and resent went to herself, because she saw sense in what he had said.

The lady had no card to pull, as she thought fast, something in her tells her to go back to the buka. She was driving very slowly, steadily escaping the scene. John noticed this, and looked at her. She didn't feel the heat of his gaze on her.

In a dramatic, fast-and-furious manner, Suliyat made a 360 turn, displaying a terrific skill on the wheel. John was taken aback and almost fell off his seat, figuratively and literarily, as he tightened the grip on his seat belt.

"What are you doing?" John screamed from the heights of surprise and shock, even though he tried to be a man and maintain control over his facial features.

"I'm the madam here, you remember?" she said calmly, pulling the 'oga' card for the first time in her life. Truth was, she hadn't been 'oga' ever before, so logically, this was the first time, and she didn't do bad, or did she?

When they got to a safe and sight-seeing distance, Suliyat brought the car to a sudden halt, John wondered whether she was trying intentionally to scare him.

They got off the car, and hid somewhere, their eyes were on the now-empty buka.

Just as predicted, the boy was getting beat by the fat lady, the owner of the buka who switched weapons between her fist and a long, hard spoon, which looked like the one used to serve soup in the times of Oliver Twist.

Suliyat looked at John in a stare that any Nigerian wouldn't misplace. In pidgin terms, it was "Shebi I tell you?"

With the skill of a sixty year old professional driver, Suliyat manouvered her way through the streets around Wilmer, under the directions of John, of course. She was being led by his mouth to where he called the 'Greatest buka of all time'. Suliyat wondered what kind of charm that the woman must have sprinkled inside the food to make such a grown man lick his lips just at the mere thought of him eating the food. She'd heard that a woman was arrested in Ajegunle for cooking her food with the water used to bathe a corpse. Suliyat wanted to see if this was also one of the assertions and talks she had heard about Ajegunle that were outright wrong. The glee of seeing people at the 'buka' added the fuel on her hands, with which she drove at such a terrific pace, albeit legal.

John pointed a nerby stall, which a huge canopy was it's shelter, and a few people were seated under, with their plate of food balanced on their palm. They were tables but these people rather conspicuosly, neglected them. She parked the car, as both she and her acquaintance walked to the buka. Suliyat sat down on one of the seats arranged horizontally, annoyed at how the people eating shone their teeth and waved their hands towards only John, in greeting, totally neglecting her presence. Maybe they were intimidated by his smart-looking suit.

She didn't know she was the one expected to wave hand and greet them 'una weldone oo' when they were doing nothing but becoming prospective customers of public toilet owners.

"Abeg give me rice twenty, agonyi ten, macroni ten, two meat, one shaki. Put stew well well oo" John placed his order, receiving the food with a salivating tongue which was evident on his lips, if he bent his head down a little, the spittle would trickle down like little drops of water.

The fat lady who sold the food, stood akimbo, looking at Suliyat, she wondered whether she was not going to buy food. One resident in Nigeria must have at least once, been at the receivng end of this kind of stare; where the person looked at you in an unflinching manner, waiting for you to realize your mistake.

"I'll have the same thing as him, less stew though. I'm pimple-prone" she said, now realizing her 'mistake'.

Just when the lady was about to dip her oversized arm into the food, a phone rang, and she, upon recognizing the tone, dropped the spoon with which she intended to serve with, and ran to where the music erupted from.

"Moji! Moji! Go sell for dat auntie" she instructed as she left, pointing towards Suliyat.

A young boy who looked just about fifteen, who had been previously washing dishes, rinsed his hand with a cleaner water, and dried it on his apron, then ran to serve the 'auntie', Suliyat.

Suliyat parked the car at a safe distance inside the street where the first body was found; it was Jejelaye, near the Wilmer axis. The street was desolate and strangely quiet, as Suliyat thought. She'd heard many tales about Ajegunle and how it was a densely populated city, and at all times, in every street you are sure to find people smoking and engaging in all sorts of rubbish.

She thought wrong.

John knew that most inhabitants of this street had gone to their various workplaces, as it was in the whole Ajegunle. It was roughly 2pm, and the sun was still boiling hot, just about the time when 'work' is considered to have really started. The only people that would be at home were of course, the very few jobless, the housewives, who'd engage in telling tales that didn't concern them, to which people call 'amebo', and the last set of people that were at home during this time of the day were children, who were too little to attend school.

"Why don't we go somewhere else? As you can see, people obviously don't sit around on fences like I know you thought. They actually have real-life jobs" John said, taking a swipe at Suliyat, still licking the wounds of the earlier slight altecration, where the journalist, maybe, suggested that his uncle had some skeletons in his cupboard.

"I see, you take me for a fanciful barbie, who obviously knows nothing about street life and doesn't even possess even a little bit of toughness"

"I don't care about all this big grammar you're speaking. Just, prove me wrong"

"What if I told you, I have lived in a city not very different from this, in Kaduna. In fact, I was a victim of attempted rape, twice"

John listened with rapt attention, as this journalist was telling him things that better remained as secrets.

"So you see, I might know a thing or two about ghettos where the crime rate is high. Since then, I have taken defence classes, and put two guys in the hospital who saw me as a tool to satisfy their sexual libido"

John clapped, in appraisal of this woman warrior. "Waoh, bravo!" he said

"Now let's go somewhere else" Suliyat implored, as she got into the car.

John followed suit.

"When will you tell me about you?" she queried, once she settled into the driver's seat, her left hand on the steering.

"At lunch" John replied.

CHAPTER SEVEN
They looked at themselves with telling glances, walking side by side in their quite 'official' wears. John, on his black suit, inside a white shirt and a smart black tie. Suliyat, in her knee-level skirt, and tight fitting blue shirt. An air of silence was strictly maintained as no one said anything to the other, wanting to maintain the strictness of proffesionalism.

Surprised, John was, to see a red car parked just outside, the office. Maybe it was someone else's. As if to confirm, Suliyat brought out a remote from her purse and hit the button. The car beeped twice, as the lady walked 'officely' to the car.

"Is this your car?" John asked, pointing to the car with the surprise evident in his eyes, it wasn't many members of the womenfolk who drove a car. Not too many John had seen anyway.

"Yes, it's my car" she replied, entering into the car, gesticulating John to do the same.

They were inside, and Suliyat had been driving for about seven minutes before she broke the silence.

"It belongs to the media house-the car" the lady on the wheel said, bursting into an half-laugh, John wondered what she considered funny in the matter, and why on earth should a woman have such a voice, and why in Nigeria should a woman be driving a car when a man was inside, it seemed disrespectful to him, even though he couldn't drive.

"Have you observed what you are doing right now?" John asked with a puzzled look

"Yes, I am driving" the lady replied, John was disgusted by the lack of remorse in her voice. He considered her as stark ignorant.

"Do you know that in this Ajegunle, in the whole of Nigeria even, it is not proper for a woman to drive a man? The man would be considered weak"

Suliyat smiled mischievously, just a day into this, and she had been taught about gender stereotypes by two men, she wondered how many more 'sermons' she would encounter.

"I don't know that, and the perception is outright wrong" she replied, after keeping John hanging for her reply for quite some time.

"I'm John"

Theresa laughed.

"Haven't we met before?" she asked

"No. My uncle introduced us. I didn't have the pleasure of doing so myself" John explained his view-point

"Your uncle, the chairman, you're close to him?"

"Yes, he is a good man, he was my benefactor throughout my stay in the university"

"That's good, but in my years of active journalism, I have never found one politician whose hands were dirt-free"

"What do you mean?" John asked, with a tone of anger, which Suliyat immediately perceived, and she too, saw the need to lay back, and quell the natural curiosity of the journalist in her.

"Nothing" she replied calmly, then sped off.

"O, where are my manners? Pllease sit down" the chairman said, pointing that she sit down on the chair directly in front of him. John too, stood up from the sofa and sat at the other chair, facing his uncle, beside the journalist. People familiar with Nigerian office setting would attest that this physical arrangement was the usual. The oga's chair, two visitor's seat facing the oga, in between was the desk on which papers were found, a telephone at one side, sometimes, a little flower vase at another, sometimes, some artistic objects, sometimes a globe. Just at the back of the visitor's seat, at the upper right side of the office where the oga's eye could easily catch. Then a cupboard at the left side, where irrevelant newspapers, magazines, and other printed stuffs were kept. Sometimes, cofee cups could be found ontop, usually it was a picture, that was a 'great accomplishment' in the career of the oga. Just beside the cupboard, was a water dispenser, which was totally different from today's model and unlike now, only the few rich people then had a 'dispenser' and of course, you had the clock, at the left side of the oga's seat, not forward, just beside. It was one on the few things in the conventional office that all persons could see without straining their necks too much.

"What's your name, miss journalist?" the chairman asked

"Why do you assume i'm a 'miss', mister chairman?"

"Well, because, you have no ring on your fourth finger"

"o, you are observant. I don't think a ring should symbolize who's married and not, there are many countless men who are always with their rings like how an asthmatic could never be found without its inhaler, but are bonafide cheaters. I have covered a story like this, which eventually ended in divorce, an ugly one.

Well, my name is Suliyat" the journalist said, after ranting about male infidelity.

"That's good, very good. You are Hausa?" the chairman asked, initially grinning wide, justifying in his mind as to why he was hit with her beauty. She was Hausa, the most beautiful tribe in Nigeria, possibly the rest of Africa, excluding the North African women who looked like water creatures, popularly called mami water.

"Yes, i'm from Kaduna, why do you ask?"

"Are you aware, that in ancient Hausa land..." Suliyat sighed, she didn't sign up for a History class, but she listened nonetheless.
"women basically have nothing called rights, or duties, even till this present day, women are wrongly treated very inferior to men. For example, some years ago, women were not allowed to vote in Northern Nigeria. Today, if women vote, it's on a different place from the men, and the votes, are even manipulated.

In Ajeromi-Ifelodun, which you call Ajegunle, there are several people, touts, and even sane people, that ridicule and abuse a woman, usually a beautiful woman, like you, when they walk without a male present. That is why..."

Suliyat wondered what the chairman as with this 'gender-driven' speech.

"I have asked my nephew here, to be your official escort during the week you are going to do your survey report" he concluded, pointing at John whilst giving him a wink.

It all happened too fast for Suliyat to say no.

"John, meet Suliyat, a journalist with The Sun. Suliyat, meet John, a first class graduate of Medicine and Surgery, my nephew"

John grinned in mischief, offering his hand to the lady in a gentlemanly gesture. Suliyat took his hand, John shivered inside, it was really soft.

"Hi" John said

"Hi" Suliyat replied

"You both can get going" the chairman said, waving them off.

The door opened, and like the scent of blooming flowers rushes into the admiring nose, the entrant forced both men in the office into falling in love with her beauty, her delibrate steps, when she walked like a royal lioness, calculated, unrushed, the sweet scent which follows her presence, her luscious thighs, the skin-fitted skirt, her blue shirt which hugged her both breasts, even with one button set loose, giving a little glimpse, a golden chain dangled in between the two, round mounds of inviting flesh. Now to her face, yes, her face! It was more beautiful than the writer could ever use adjectives to describe, but one thing John was sure of was, if this girl contested in the year Agbani Darego won the miss world, she, Darego would have been considered as an underdog, a less-superior beauty to the person who stood before them.

But no! She didn't 'dress to kill' or cause any turmoil in the air, she didn't seek to cause the growing bulge which chairman Dimeji Wasiu felt between his legs, she didn't. She, unlike many other African women, was a feminist and believed, that women were no weaker vessel. If a man could perfectly display his flat, bare chests, a woman could too. The word was, equality. Equal, was the remarkable spell, which she held over both men, nephew and uncle, as they sat emotionless, mouths slightly opened that a grasshoper could find it's way inside with adequate determination. And so they sat, like dummies, until her deep-sounding masculine voice woke them from their trance

"Good morning, chairman" she greeted, as the chairman looked at his nephew, astounded as to when he began addressing him as 'chairman'. His nephew shook his eyes violently, employing all his tricks of facial communication to tell his uncle to snap out of his own trance, as someone was greeting him. He finally suceeded.

"Yes, goodmorning" the chairman said, still looking at his nephew. The lady journalist was confused, as she looked at herself, wondering what was making these men act like idiots.

The chairman then took his briefcase nearby, and exited the office, claiming he needed to make a quick call, using the bag to cover his genital region.

A lengthy stare, between John and the journalist, with entirely different thoughts on each other's mind. John was the delusional one, acting on the rather stupid mentality he had accrued over the years that when a lady stares directly into your eyes for too long, she is admiring. The lady's thoughts however, was very distant from that. She wondered why this young man was looking at her as if he was born in a gay community and a female was an alien to him.

The chairman's entry back into the office broke off the eye battle, he had gone into the toilet to relieve his excited penis from tearing through his boxers. He had also looked into the mirror and urged himself to get his game on. If he played his cards right, he would be re-elected chairman and prettier ladies would happily grace his bed.

I've read some parts of this story, and i'm sure it's a brilliant and unique work.

I'll certainly read it wholely on my free time. More ink pon your pen bro.

Chairman Dimeji Wasiu walked into his office in his usual swagger, spotting a smile on his face and waving hands at his staff, even stopping for a brief second to shake hands with the cleaner. His staff was awed as to what happened, that raised the boss to such an elevated mood this Thursday, which was usually tagged a stressful day, alongside Monday. They didn't know what he knew, and what he knows is, he'd just averted a major danger and stumbling block in his personal glory and quest of becoming chairman-for a second time.

He sank into his comfortable seat as he dropped his suitcase, looking upwards, and waiting for the fan to blow hard enough to dry off any perspiration on his face.

"Dis kind mumu sun sef" he cursed, annoyed that it wasn't one of the numerous things he didn't control. In fact, it was one of the things he despised most, being so similar to 'common men' who sweated like elephants who ran a marathon. He'd have gotten a car if not for the likewise mumu state governor and the mumu state house of assembly, which ordered one kind mumu peugot automobile as the official car for all local government chairmen. Sometimes rumor flew round that the state governor patronizes okada, danfo, and buys yam from road side stalls, and eat corn and pear in the most unpleasant manner and environment. Well, who wan suffer, make him suffer, the chairman thought. His thoughts was interrupted, he heard three quick knocks on his door. His secretary was an utmost mumu, he thought again. The insultive word was just his favorite this morning. How could she disrupt the important moment where he lashed out at the state government, in his thoughts?

"Yes, Agnes, come in" he instructed, after he had sit straight and adjusted his cap on his head. That wasn't the reason why he took long to permit her entry though, he had some seconds ago released a quite odoriferous and provocative gas, which erupted from his belly, and came out through his anus into the air. So he had to keep the secretary, who was from Jos waiting, as his air freshners battled profusely with the quite powerful gas.

The door opened, and the chairman was quite suprised that it wasn' Agnes, but his nephew, John. He looked sharp on his suit, and walked confidently towards his uncle, his foot wear making office-like sounds. You know the sound right? The clattering sound made when bankers run frantically through banking halls. Yes, that sound.

"Good morning, uncle" he greeted, for the second time that morning.

"My very good-looking boy, how are you doing? You have grown so much"

"I'm doing great oo, just been relaxing at home before I resume work " John said,sitting on the long, black sofa which rested at the right side of the office, where the chairman usually observed his 1:30 pm to 2:50 pm nap.

"Yes, our very intelligent son. What job is that, if I may ask?"

"The foremost hospital in Nigeria has offered me a job" John replied, flashing a smile in obvious pride.

"That's good, but even the best of Nigeria is too poor for my beloved nephew. Why don't you work for me?"

John burst into a laugh.

"Ah-Ah, uncle, you are funny. How can a graduate of Medicine and Surgery work at a Local Government Office? It's best reserved for Public Administrators"

"See dis ignorant boy oo, which of the above did I study? None! But here am I, a major recipient of the national cake. I even know of someone who studied Banking and Finance but did his IT in a police station" the older man replied, proving his superior knowledge and street-wise.

"Sha, i'm your nephew, you're my uncle, my name is not someone. Where is the journalist?"

"I don't know for her oo, it's almost eleven" the chairman said, looking at his watch.

Just then, the sound of two knocks at the door. The chairman knew that this time, it was Agnes.

"Yes?"

Agnes walked in like a bruised cat, she looked more ugly than the word itself, but that hadn't stopped the chairman from using her to satisfy his libido.

"The journalist is here" she said.

CHAPTER SIX
Just how a mature hen flees at the sight of an approaching eagle, so does time flies fast. It was Thursday, the tenth day of July, 2003. The chairman woke up lazily from his bed 8am, as he woke up every other day. It was like his brain had been distinctly programmed to wake up at that exact time. He quickly dashed off to brush his teeth, and afterwards took his bath. He came out of his room and descended to his large sized living room, where in the right corner, was his dining table. He rushed over and took his breakfast which was white bread and tea. Exiting his living room in his trademark flowing agbada, he held a briefcase in his left hand, on which a gold watch hung on its wrist. He looked at the watch, and he wasn't pleased with what the time was, as it was obvious on his face, which formed into a slight frown. He dug his right hand into the left pocket of the agbada, and brought out a phone, with which he punched in some digits, and put it close to his ears, so he could be aware of when the person he was calling picks.

"Uncle, is that you?" a baritone voice sounded at the other side.

"Yes, Kunle, Kunle the son of my sister. It's me. Are you prepared?"

"Ah-yes, uncle. I am knotting my tie now, soon afterwards, i'll be coming to your office" the person said assuredly

"Okay, I believe you. I'm on my way to the office. I'll see you later"

"Bye, uncle, I don't want to strangle myself with this tie"

The call ended, as the chairman smiled at how one can never know how life and good deeds repay them. He was the young man's benefactor in the higher institution. Now he was going help him one way or the other retain his chairmanship.

Baba Saka and the chairman had remained good friends ever since, even though the man's honesty became compromised. He was the one man who had the ears of the chairman.

Before the chairman got home, Baba was already seated in, his old and feeble hands working skillfully through his plate of Amala and Gbegiri, picking out the fleshy mounds of soft beef, shaki, and 'roundabout' that swimmed in the gbegiri soup. The brown Amala too, was a joy to behold, as it slipped into the grasp of his fingers when he dug his hand inside. Beside his plate was a chilled bottle water, for Baba Saka didn't drink any other liquid apart from that. He believed, rightly, that soft drinks and beer killed people. He didn't want to die now, not when such pleasures as these were accesible to him.

The door flung open as the chairman entered, to which Baba Saka stood gently, appraising his arrival and complimenting the culinary skills of his cook. The chairman awarded the old man with a brief smile but cut it off, he had more pressing things to discuss than receive glowing compliments about Amala and Gbegiri. Shortly after, in about twenty-seven minutes, the chairman had gone in and took a quick shower, then changed into his pyjamas, even though it wasn't really night. When he came back to the living room, Baba Saka had finished his food and was cleaning his hands, afterwards digging a toothpick into his mouth to expose and extract any little chunks that refused to be grinded by his teeth. He was done with eating, then he turned to face the chairman who was patient, waiting calmly so he could have the whole attention of the wise chap.

"How is your family, baba?" the chairman asked, not wanting to rush into the primary talk of the day, the African politician never goes straight to the point, he dribbles around words and takes his audience unawares, and unable to say 'no'.

"Well, my wife you know, is happy. Our first and only son will be graduating from unifasity next year, and I too, i'm happy.

I don't want to bore you with tales by moonlight, how is my able chairman doing, and how is my able chairman, and his family? I hope you all are well?"

"Ah-yes, Baba. You know, my wife is in Dubai now, you know how women like shiny things" they both burst into a friendly laughter "and both my daughers are doing well at the University of Cambodia, so we are fine" The chairman stressed, as the Baba looked at him in admiration.

"I know you did not call me here to discuss family issues" the chairman shook his head indicating 'no'. He was happy that his old friend still maintained his sharpness and wit over the years. It was certainly going to be needed.

"Today, at the office, a journalist girl, came to my office, requesting that I grant her permission to do a what did she call it, ehmm, a survey report, of Ajeromi-Ifelodun. I am looking at it from a suspicious angle. What do I do?"

Baba Saka observed his trademark clearing-of-throat.

"In the name of democracy, you cannot deny her such permission to any responsible citizen, moreso a journalist. You'll receive a serious public bashing"

"You are merely stating facts, my friend!" the honourable chairman's voice was loud, as he said that in impatience and a thinly-veiled anger.

"Patience" the old man warned, making a 'shh' sound thereafter.

"If you are to grant her such permission, it has to be given with a condition"

The chairman shifted to the edge of his luxury sofa, closer to where Baba Saka sat.

"You have to provide her an escort. That way, you can monitor her every movement and activity." Baba Saka advised

"Good idea. Who might that escort be?" the now-gleeful chairman asked

"I don't know, but it should be a young,vibrant man, who has a lot of brains. Shebi that your nephew that graduated with a first class from OAU, he's in Lagos, abi?"

"That's why I call you Baba. You too wise!" the chairman praised.

"Heys, boy, bring champagne come here" he said to a young-looking boy, who should be a domestic help, gesturing him to do as he was told.

"Ah-Ah chairmo, you know I don't drink"

"Wetin you want?"

"A little cash will do" Baba Saka replied, adjusting himself comfortably on the sofa.

The Police was as confused as anyone could ever be; who would want to kill seemingly harmless schoolboys? Ajegunle had been peaceful, or at least tried to be, after the not-too-long Ilaje-Ijaw conflicts which claimed many lives. That was ethnical, but this was something else. Some fingers were pointed at the local government, some others blamed it for failing to protect it's young ones.

There was a state-wise focus on the Ajeromi-Ifelodun Local Government Area, popularly known as AJ City as these two deaths skyrocketed it into external gaze. In a rather unfortunate twist of events, a media house happened to be nearby, in Kirikiri town. This media outfit was The Sun, a foremost one in Nigeria, and effectively began running some two years ago. It's editor-in-chief was a honest and driven man who craved to report news as raw as possible, undiliuted and true. The chairman knew they was trouble in the air when a correspondent from The Sun sought an audience with him, and requested for permission to do a `survey report' of Ajegunle, strictly based on sheer curiosity. Dimeji Wasiu the chairman wasn't a gullible man. He possesed the typical nittty-gritty characteristic in politicians who sought to reach elevated heights. He knew he couldn't just grant this young, pretty journalist a free pass to roam his territory. He also knew denial to do so will be bad press and will attract more eyes on the dealings of his administration and his re-run campaign couldn't have that. He wouldn't drop votes in a careless manner.

``Come back the day after tomorrow, i'm really busy now'' honourable Dimeji Wasiu said to the reporter, ``i'm really busy now'' feigning a work-like face and pretended he was immersed in the papers on his table. The lady journalist didn't object to his decision. She just stood up and thanked the honourable, for acting his title, and giving her an audience. She also said she'd be back on Thursday, the day-after-tomorrow, just as the chairman had suggested.

Later that same evening, the chairman when leaving the office placed a call to his bosom friend, Baba Saka. Baba used to be a vocal critic of the chairman in earlier years, when the chairman was just a 46 year old man, relatively young in politics, and was contesting for the chairmanship.It was during one of his rallies which was staged in Rorobi, he met the vibrant aged man.

``I promise to improve power supply, all your children will be enrolled for free in our quality schools! Vote for me, and i'll eradicate the ghost of the crisis of the mid nineties to the late nineties, unite and vote for me! Ijaw, Ilaje, Ibibio, Ibo, Yoruba, Hausa, Fulani, Tiv, Idoma, vote for me! we are brothers and sisters and together, we can make Ajegunle the number one city in Africa, for we have bountiful talents like the skillful Samson Siasia, or have you forgotten Daddy Showkey? the king of music, he is an Ajegunlite. I will encourage talent, vote for me!'' He had roared that day, some four years ago, in 1999.

Whilst the crowd roared in equal measure, a old man was jostling through the sea of bodies, he wanted to go to the front. He finally did, and told one of the `political party hypemen' who shouted stupidly at any average utterance of the aspirant that he wanted to ask him, the aspirant, a question. They initially denied him access but Dimeji Wasiu saw them below from the mounted stage on which he stood. He gesticulated that the man should be allowed access to join him on the stage. Baba Saka climbed the stage with so much vigor that made one think he was a young boy in an old body. He greeted the aspirant returned the favor of the greeting, prostrating flat on his tummy to the old man. The crowd roared jubilantly at such a man, so humble. Baba Saka was then given a microphone to air his question, or suggestion. He took the tool with an elderly swagger and cleared his throat. In Nigeria in general, whenever people did this in public, especially old people, it meant that the audience should be quiet as the speaker was ready to share something, usually very wise and thoughtful.

``Ehm, first of all, Mr I-want-to-be-chairman'' Baba Saka addressed the aspirant in a straight-up, sarcastic manner "Don't steal our money''
The crowd jumped high in excitement and their collective elevated roar was similar to that of an earthquake, for the ground shook when their heavy legs descended. In Hip-Hop terms, that was what was called a punchline.

"Now, I only have one suggestion to make. I know all these things which you have said here na just talk, you wan win. I know. But, if you want us to vote you, first, you go promise us say we go see food chop. Abi na economy dem dey call am? I de call am eko money. Make sure say things no ever bad when e go reach say, we no go fit chop rice, or I no go fit chop my gbegiri and amala. Make the economy no bad oo, because when money for food dey, we go chop, we go dey alive. No be all dis one wey you dey talk, we Ajegunle people, nobody hustle reach us, e dey our blood, we go hustle, make our own money'' Baba Saka explained in what seemed like a comical lecture on the blueprint of how to make Ajegunlites happy. It was dead serious to him, but that didn't stop the aspirant from nursing a wide grin, or the crowd from making animalistic shouts and whistling, happy that they have a Fela Anikulapo Kuti, that would speak for them.

``I have heard you baba, I plan to do exactly as you say-and even more. As far as I am chairman, no pesin for Ajegunle would ever go hungry. I promise. Thank you baba''

Baba Saka unmounted the stage and descended back into the crowd of common men, as he was given a rapturous welcome.

Dimeju Wasiu asked one of his campaign officers to find the old man, and gift him a phone. With this, Dimeji Wasiu constantly called Baba Saka who offered him a first-hand report on the streets. He also gave him advice on things he should do to claim the seat of chairman. Dimeji eventually became chairman largely based on Baba's advice which he cherished, when it favored him but when it didn't, he didn't hesitate to change Baba Saka's opinion by sending people to give his aged acquaintance a fancy bag, which sent the chairman's regards and of course, crisp naira notes.

Ajegunle woke up to the news of a casualty, a casualty of death. In a street in Ajegunle, a possibly fourteen year-old school boy. As usual, fingers were pointed at cultist events. The body was eerily disposed of, as his hands and legs flung in different directions, dry blood on his head. It was congealed, and was sure that the person was continuosly hit on the head by an amateur-although nobody knew.

"Ehn, I see three small boys, wey be like this" a trader who caught a glimpse of the homocide said, gesticulating with his hand, trying to pinpoint the height of the killers.

"Ehen, wetin dem come do?" the police man asked impatiently, sounding so quick to wrap-up the investigation and retire to the 'comfort' of the station.

"The three boys come corner the boy, as the boy come dey beg dem, the boy dey cry, but one of them hold stick for hin hand. Him come dey shift near the boy. I be wan shout but dem fit attack me, and me I get romantism, I no fit run" the witness said, giving a more detailed info into the murder, and capping it off with a wrong pronounciation of Rheumatism, to which the middle-aged policeman laughed, mildly, at.

"Okay, thank you ma. I may further need your assistance" the cop concluded, giving the woman a gently pat on her right arm.

The next day, the police unit was at the crime scene, clearly lacking any nous on how to solve the murder. They got a call, from a call center phone number.

"Another person we found dead, inside a well." some persons said over the phone in scared voices, afraid of this phenomena where young boys were murdered.