The next morning, news greeted the city of Ajegunle that the chairman had resigned. It was cited to be as a result of poor health, but the 'nameless cult' knew who was behind it. Ajegunlites jubiliated about the resignation. The boy who used to be just Chibuike, became The Man, his name was known in the whole of Ajegunle, he was a cultist with a postive aura, for like Anini, he stole from the rich, and gave to the populace.

Saliu always felt like he wasn't given the same opportunies in the cult with Chibuike, and although they were good friends, Saliu nursed a silent jealousy against him, it was healthy nevertheless, he saw Chibuike who was now, The Man as a competition. Following the dissolvement of the 'nameless cult', each member went his way, but Saliu joined The Man in his new group, which he called a 'school'. Saliu stayed with the group for about eighteen months, before converting to christianity, after claiming he was taught about hell fire, and he so much feared to go there. He, Saliu, thought he'd avert it by opting out of a cult.

Back to the present day, The Man's cult was almost invisible, and therefore, could rarely be attacked. Unknown to The Man that night, Saliu wasn't just there to beg for protection, he had ulterior motives, and his jealousy was still being kindled by the hateful hands of Saliu.

Weeks followed, and still there was no incident concerning Blackie Olokpa, the election campaigns and rallies were still being held, Moji was working as a full time dish washer in a restaurant, and passed the night there, accomodating rats as his roomates, Chinasa was still a 'call girl', Kosere just released his album, and the Ajegunle was still Ajegunle, busy as ever, full of hardworking people.

Deep inside Ajegunle, in Salami, a street in the boundary market, it was a makeshift liquor store a meeting was being held, just like The Man's. They were four boys, and Saliu sat with them, pouring Meshango into plastic cups for them.

"I have a task for all of you" he said, lighting up the cigarette he held on his lips.

"Dalung, abi you bring your pencil and paper?"

"Yes" a bulky boy with a round face said, his eyes glistening with glee on his rare chance to impress the boss. He was a master artist, and could draw anything and anybody, if properly described.

"The boy is tall..." Saliu began, as Dalung held his pencil to the paper in utmost concentration, the other three boys looked on with admiration. "he has one kind face like that, e no round but..." Saliu fought with his thoughts, trying to give a proper description. "Oblong face, you mean?" Dalung suggested "Ah, yes" Saliu concurred.

Saliu went on describing the yet unknown person to Dalung, for minutes, taking brief breaks to sip from his cup of Meshango, and kissed the stick of his cigarette.

After about seventeen minutes, he was finally through.

"Is this the person?" Dalung asked, lifting his drawing up so Saliu could see it.

"Yes" Saliu said with a smile on his lips. "Exactly the person" he re-iterated. His other boys now looked at him, and he knew the question on their minds.

"He is a student of The Man. You are to kill him" Saliu charged his boys, looking into their scared eyes. He knew they haven't claimed a life before but as it is said, a first time for everything".

FxHouse:
In my opinion, your story is cool, but in the name of comments and recognition, you delay updates, and even when you choose to update, your updates are so little and ends up like a waste of time. Serve the story hot, do not kill the vibe, give them stuffs to comment about...I have been following, but severally I have been tempted to hit the unfollow button. A matured writer would not write for comments and likes, but would write professionally, ignoring the urge and desperation for comments and likes, these (comments and likes) would come with your quality and professional writing. Its like counting stars while losing focus on the moon. Its like seeking all other things and waiting for the kingdom of God to be added unto you, its like being pennywise and pound foolish. Make your updates frequent, consistent and lengthy, make it worth the short wait and make it worth being read.

Cheers!

Thanks for your honesty. I appreciate it alot. However, i'm not doing this because of 'likes', recognition I hope to get someday.

I push myself hard, but obviously not hard enough. That's something i'll work on. Please follow, and my other readers too.

"I need your protection" Saliu spoke, after he had looked at all six of them including The Man, in the eye.

"You traitor! You snake! How could I possibly protect someone who I now consider my enemy?" The Man spat out in an obvious venomous anger, the 'weakest' of his group shuddered, afraid he would eventually slap somebody's head off.

"I know i'm a traitor, I know i'm a snake. I even be lizard. But, I no wan go hell fire na, and I know wan die now. The preachers dem tell me say if I do bad thing I go go hell fire, and e hot well well"

"You don't want to die, or go to hell? And yet you smoke and drink recklessly. Get out of here, Saliu, I didn't make any rash decision those several years ago because of our then-friendship. Don't make me to do so now" The Man said in a final tone, turning his back to Saliu and facing his students and ardent followers.

Saliu and The Man was once best friends, even though there was a huge five years difference between them. They had been both been outstanding prodigees of a cult which was as secret as it's operations. No one knew it's name and no one ever knew any of it's members. Their operations was politically-influenced. But what the people knew was that, any time the 'nameless cult' struck, there was always a red flower at the scene.

The Man's fame in the cult protracted when he, and he alone, infiltrated the Chairman's office and threatened him to resign the next day or die. The chairman, a yoruba man, whose body-fat couldn't be hidden by the blue agbada he wore shivered, but was sweating profusely. It was such a huge decision to make, but he didn't have any choice in the matter.

"Wh-wh-what is m-m-my off-ence?" He stuttered, out of fear, but still able to complete his sentence.

He saw a wicked smile behind the mask. The chairman feared for his life, but the masked person was democratic, in dealing with a corrupt democrat.

"I am an abomination caused by you"

"Wha-what do you mean?"

"Your admnistration of thievery, and partial service led to the death of my mother, who was pregnant, but was asked to pay 'acceptance fee' by a so-called 'community hospital'. I lost my mother and unborn sibling because of your reluctance to pay the workers. I lost my mother and unborn sibling because of your greed"

"Ple-please, don't kill me" the chairman begged, kneeling, with the perspiration emanating from his forehead enough to bathe a cow. He was obviously afraid of dying, and leaving behind, the numerous sums of money he had acquired illegally.

"No, I wont kill you"

The masked person put his hand into his pocket, bringing out a rose, and placed it on the chairman's table, then he left.

Wishing all my esteemed readers a bountiful sallah. Sorry i've been slow in updates, been really busy to free up time to type.

Today i'll update as much as I can.

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CHAPTER FIVE
The Man stood with his hands behind his back, walking in a clockwise manner, staring into the dark ground. All his students were present, about five in number. They were young boys, but should be a little older than their honcho. The light from a distant house shone dimly on their faces, just as The Man had thought out. The light made him to be able to look into their faces and catch their undiluted reaction to what he was going to say. Their present venue of course, was the famous Maracana football field, close to the Tolu complex where over twenty government-owned schools were situated. It was not new to anybody who wasn't a JJC to know that whilst football prodigees and talented footballers own the field during the day, when the clouds turn gloomy and light is submerged, it is the headquarters of illicit activities, and dangerous people were usually there. They would be seen smoking, or drinking unknown `highness'. Other people who lived around but weren't a part of this strict circle did wise to keep their distance from the Maracana field once it's dark, for darkness begets evil. There once was a young lady who was brutally raped by a gang. Her offence? She was indecently dressed. Such an irony; outlaws administering the law to defaulters.

"Blackie Olokpa is back, as some of you might have heard'' The Man said to the stick-like boys who stood animatedly. They looked at each other, with telling gazes. As long as they knew, the culprit was unknown, he who raped Blackie Olokpa's daughter. They all suspected that The Man knew who it was, but didn't find it `necessary' to divulge such an infomation to them.

"All I need to say is, you all stay out of harm's way. No further words should be needed than to remind you all than that one policeman right now is more powerful than all of us combined. He promised hell, and he is back, bringing hell to our doorsteps.

Silence ran through their presence, as the whooshy wind echoed the words of The Man into all of their ears. Nobody echoed any sentiments, or had any cloud hovering over his cloud of reasoning. They got the message loud and clear and so, didn't ask any question. They just stood, hands folded behind their backs, in similarity to The Man, as they awaited further directives from him. They saw a person approaching them. His facial features were blackened out by the darkness, but his body was slim. He walked bravely towards them, disrupting the meeting. They all wondered who this brave, or rather stupid person was. As he got closer to the circle and the dim light too, rested on his face, his facial features were recognised, immediately obvious as the suspense dropped. There was no shaking of hands, even though they knew the intruder all too well. The Man certainly had business with him, they thought

"Good evening, the First, the Apex of intellectual, the Symbol of Knowledge, The Man. I salute'' The intruder hailed, as the receiver of the vocal accolades looked at him, unpertubed, by the sugary words of the speaker. He wouldn't grin like a tormented lunatic or a low esteemed person who forcefully seeks recognition from a toothpaste outfit. No, he wasn't fazed by the titles, because they were rightfully his.

"Saliu, what have you come to do here?'' The Man asked, raising his chin up, looking more intensely into his obviously `unwelcome' visitor's eye.

I wander into the mystery of your glory
flawed by my wrongful perception
My lips shut, my heart open
Dancing to the presence of your music
I strip myself bare, unclothed before the ever-flowing stream of your wisdom
Forgive me, o Lord! I have been wronged
by this, jovial nature of blasphemy
Cackling before our faces, and i'm caught in it
Questioning your existence, by the features which you gave
Atheists refusing to believe, ridiculing your image as a white person
But, I know my God
I look to the sky and find him there
I'm stripped of my turmoiled fears
I look unto the breasts I grapled as a kid
Suckling into life, and becoming as I am now
You put her there, right in my life
God isn't just sitting idly on the throne
He is the love that burns in my heart
He makes me smile, when brooms threaten to sweep away any joy from our sorrowful lips
Forgive me, O Lord! For I am most grateful
by the beauty of the suffering that tests our faith.
*All rights reserved by the author, email 'emmanuelesomnofu@gmail.com'

Akposb:
I hope you got the e-book @fikfaknuel.

Yea. Thanks aplenty. Itz an insightful book. I'll certainly learn alot from it.

The danfo parked well into the cemetery yard and just as the three men inside alighted, the security detail came running towards them, leaving behind him a trail of light dust swirling in the air. Moji wished an invisible dead hand would just slap some senses into him. Whatever he was to do, he should have done when they were at the gate.

``Oga, I need to see una permit'' he said, trying so hard to put up a serious face but his naturally fine-tuned comic features had already registered him as a joker to any complete stranger.

The driver brought out a paper from his pocket and handed it to the man. He smiled upon recognising the signature on it. His smiled and shook his head in a knowing manner, saying ``chai, our oga and backyard business'' in the middle of a mild chuckle. Moji wondered what he meant by `backyard business'.

``Sha, at all, at all, na winch. Bury am for there'' he said, pointing to a lonely spot on the ground.

Moji asked if him if he had a shovel and he replied in the affirmative, but the young boy was irritated by the man's inability to bathe well. He thought that the man was scratching his palm just because it was itchy. It was the driver who intepreted the gesture to him in clearer terms

``He wan make you give am small money, asin...bribe''

``No be say na bribe oo, I neva chop since morning'' he said, defending his actions in a rather amusing way, that only the driver found funny.

The cleric thrust ten naira forcefully onto the security man's hand, and dealing him man a deathly stare of resentment.

The young Moji got to work once he received the digging tool, his sweat frequently moistening the soil. He dug a well enough hole to fit his mother, but he kept on digging, much to the surprise of the cleric and the driver.

``E dun do nah'' the obese driver said, it sounded like an advise. One Moji wouldn't take anyway.

Stepping forward, the cleric gently took the shovel off the boy's grasp. The cleric and the driver then carried Moji's mother, and put her into the `grave', Moji went forward and kissed her forehead, crying.

The driver whose face was now awash with pity retreated, the alfa too. He bent his head and occasionally caressing his subha beads with his fingers, whilst he prayed gently

``O Allah, forgive and have mercy upon her, excuse her and pardon her, and make honourable, her reception. Expand her entry, and cleanse her with snow, water and ice, and purify him of sin as a white rob is purified of filth. Exchange her home for a better home, and her family for a better family, and her spouse for a better spouse. Admit her into the Garden, protect her from the punishment of the grave and the torment of the fire''

``Amin'' the sad voices chorused

Moji covered his mother with the soil, crying as he did so, because he thought he was stuffing her nose and ears withh sand, and forsaking her to the worms that would feast on her. She forsaked him too, she left him to become a man in a harsh world, on his own. As soon as his mother's body was well covered, they all hopped back in into the bus, and were leaving, when Moji remembered films he watched while in kirikiri where people drop flowers on the grave of their loved ones. He jumped down from the moving vehicle and injured himself, but mindless of the scratch, he ran back to where he buried his mother, and looked around, and saw a leaf that was a mix of yellow and light-green. It looked beautiful. Moji plucked it and planted it firmly on top of the soil where his mother rests below. The bewildered alfa and driver came out and each had a tear in their eye in obvious sadness, each wondering why life had to be such a miserey for one so young.

As they were approaching the gate, the security man waved his little hand on which glorified stupidity was spelt. Moji was too full of grief to accommodate resentment, the alfa spat on the ground in an obvious show of his, while the driver threw a hardened remnant of an agege bread he ate weeks ago to the man's face, maintaining his right hand on the steering.

They left, but unknown to Moji, a strong wind had blew off the `flower' with which he honoured his mother.

Akposb:

Got some e-book that has to do with research on African Liter

Can you send it to my email? Thanks.
My email's emmanuelesomnofu@gmail.com

I've received it, thanks a lot sir. Any other e-book you have, African or not would be highly appreciated.

Been long I read.

latbas:
this is getting more interesting, u r the bomb man.though I noticed some few typographical errors, just try and read over ur work again. waiting eagerly for the next episode

Thanks for observing em. Typing a full length novel with a Nokia E71 could be tiring and mistake-prone.

I'll modify them.

The Islamic scholar, popularly known as alfa, a generalised title given to clerics of his kind cast his eye over Moji. He felt pity for him. He placed his right hand on Moji's shoulder and shook his head.

Moji raised his head up and held unto the hand, looking into the eyes of the man.

"Please, alfa. Come and pray for my dead mother. I want her to have a proper burial"

"How did she die?" the cleric asked

"I don't know" Moji replied, with tears now forming in his eyes.

"Okay, i'll follow you"

The cleric held his free flowing clothing as he ran behind the faster Moji, who was leading him to where the hearse was. Moji finally stopped in front of a yellow commercial bus called danfo and the driver was sitting in the driver's seat, door opened, and talking to a young girl who sold agege bread. He flashed his unhealthy dentition at the girl, touching her hair occasionally to which she reacted with a giggle. When he saw Moji and the alfa coming, he quickly requested for the girl's digits, and while she punched it in on his phone, he licked his lips in relish, obviously thinking of the different styles he would engage her in.

Inside the danfo was quiet, as Moji caught the driver occasionally steal glances at the alfa who sat beside them. He looked at him from the front view mirror and his eyes was full of guilt. Moji knew a conversation was imminent. The alfa coughed, and shifted slightly unto the right side, where Moji was, so that he could see the face of the driver well.

"Are you not married?" He asked the driver, who tightened his grip on the steering, he was taken aback by the question.

"No, I am not."

"Is that why you are living on the dangerous side?" he quizzed further, with a tone of condemnation. The driver was a devout muslim, but he had survived in Ajegunle by minding his business. This alfa better adopts the same philosophy, he thought.

The silence resumed until they came to the gate of the cemetary. Trinity Central Cemetary was boldly written on the gate. The driver honked his horn and a queer looking fellow who should be the security detail rolled open the gate. They drove in, and if anything, it was unlike what Moji had heard of cemetaries. Trees were planted on each side, leaving the middle to be a peaceful walkway. The trees provided a lushful scenery as cool breeze entered into the bus from the windows. The cemetary was peacefully quiet, and Moji smiled, as he thought of how ironical it was that so much peace could be found in a cemetary. Nobody knows what awaits them at death. His smile however thinned into a frown when he remebered that he saw people sleeping on top of graves. He thought of it as disrespect to the dead.

Abeg who get e-book?
I'm itching to read something. Prefferably African Literature.

Olawale, the landlord explicitly told the driver he hired not to assist Moji in anyway, as far as burying the deceased goes.

Moji, with the help of some boys, whom he paid with his belongings, carried his mother onto the back of the bus. He got on the front seat. The driver didn't show any sign of pity on his hard face which had a bottle scar run through his right cheek, the left seemed as if the devil himself had given him a slap from the heights of anger. Moji wanted to solicit for physical support, but was discouraged by the face.

"Bros, abeg I wan go call alfa wey go pray for my mama" Moji pleaded, tapping the driver lightly on his arm, in a bid to get him to stop the locomotive.

The driver didn't reply. He stopped. He came down and brought out his little organ which was as a result of his obesity. He turned and faced Moji, saying

"Go call your alfa, but by the time wey I piss finish and you never return, I go drop the body here"

Moji took to his heels even before he could say the last parts of the sentence. He wondered and was scared, as to how long this little thing which was like a premature worm would take to dispense urine. Logically, a small hole at it's head meant it should take longer but it was the neck Moji was worried about. It was so thin he didn't think it would contain process more than three drops of hot urine.

Moji was at the alfa's house. He knocked thrice in a harsh manner that revealed the urgency of his coming and desperation. A middle aged man opened the door. His face was oval-shaped face and was flanked on both sides by grey beards. The heat on the afternoon conspired with his skin, as beads of sweat were lazily situated like policeman-in-checkpoints on his forehead.

"Good afternoon, sir" Moji bent down in greeting, to which the scholar responded by nodding his head.

"My mother is dead, sir"

He saw the bare back of someone, and the person was thrusting in frantic paces.The demented person felt his presence and turned back and Moji saw who it was. It was the landlord. He looked at him, he was sweating profusely even in the chill of the morning. He looked at his mother, she'd been stripped naked, and her corpse even seemed tired from being thumped in and out by the massive rod of this perverted demon. Moji's anger knew no bounds as he charged at the man and dealt him two heavy blows in his cheek, the kind his youthful fist could prescribe. The man though, shocked somewhat staggered, and he looked fazed. Moji pushed him and he fell, he could have been high on cheap liquor. The young boy climbed on top of him, sending a series of blows and slaps on the face of the landlord, who didn't protest. The tenants rushed in and took the furious Moji off their landlord. The lunatic might serve them quit notices for failing to help him. Moji was held by the strong arms of two bachelors, but his anger couldn't be contained. He spat on the face of Olawale, the landlord.

He didn't know why but his eye caught the big bulge and expanded state of the landlord's organ. He was disgusted. It was well over six minutes since the fight broke out, and Moji was restrained, yet his phallus was still erect. He must have enjoyed it a lot; having sex with a dead woman. Had Moji been a slave to the premonitions of some people, he'd have thought that it was for fetish reasons. But, it wasn't. Olawale just was a pervert, who couldn't release seminal fluid after sex. Moji thought more clearly, since his head was his. He threatened the landlord that he will enlist the help of a young policeman who was his mother's 'client'. He threatened the landlord that except he provide a bus and transport him and the corpse of his mother to a cemetary, he would rot behind the bars of a cell.

The landlord shook violently in fear. He didn't want to be locked. It would deprive him of his money. It would deprive him of the pleasures of the flesh which he constantly enjoyed with Imabom, the woman of his tenant, Akpan who looked on, unsespectingly. Imabom had been the fiancee of Akpan for seven years, and they had a three year-old baby. This kind of relationship was 'in-vogue' in Ajegunle, most stemming from unwanted pregnancies.

"Okay" the crooked voice of the landlord said in agreeance, although his will disagreed. Hiring a bus, to carry a corpse, was quite cost, and challenging to his pocket.

Moji sent everyone out of the room, and wore his mother her wedding gown. He sat with her and waited for the bus to arrive. He did something he hadn't done in a long time; he prayed.

CHAPTER FOUR
Unlike the norm in village settings, there was hardly any cock that crew, to wake the boy up from his sleep. Most birds that didn't possess strong enough wings to jostle a flight route in the sky stayed down, and fed off the rich ground of Ajegunle. The abuse that came with 'sabi sabi' too further solidified their convictions. Moji was forced to wake up by the noise which erupted very 'late' in the morning, by 6:23am. Unlike what people thought, Ajegunle wasn't just any ghetto, it was one full of hustle, and everybody had dreams. No one ever achieved his dream by being stuck inside of it.

Replicating the stealth movement from the previous night, Moji carefully escaped, although he was seen by possibly a 14 months-old baby, who almost betrayed him with a cruel and loud laugh. But Moji did well to bend and twist his facial features to achieve a comical effect, to which the laughter of the kid only intensified. He, Moji, then put on a devilish grin and frown, and the humuor was no where to be found in the baby. Moji left.

He wanted to go to the house of Fatima to thank her, and was almost there but was discouraged by the vigor with which people went about their morining duties. She might be occupied by chores. He shunned the idea, for now. He let tears flow freely from his eye when he remembered his mother. Here he was, thrust into the thick of street activities, when on normal circumstances, he'd still be sleeping innocently and even when he did wake up, it'd be to the aroma of expertly-cooked noodles. He missed his mother, and he wasn't leaving her to rot, without paying respect to her beautiful body, that was most unfortunate to have ever witnessed suffering.

Moji got to what used to be their house. The street was mildly intense, and was considered as part of AJ but was on the outskirts, closer to Berger Suya.

Moji walked into the compound, ignoring terms of sympathy that was thrown his way. However, he thanked them for their 'concern' with a sly smile, formed thinly on his lips. He didn't want to, but as 'custom' demands, he obliges. The stink had lessened and Moji was beginning to think that something had happened to his mother's corpse.

He slowly opened the door and for the second time in two days, he was presented with the shocker of his life.

The first thought that popped into Moji's head was that he finds somewhere safe to sleep. It didn't have to be comfortable, comfort wasn't something he could afford. His brain suggested the canteen he had gone to earlier in the day. It was really far from where he was at the moment, but better for him to trek than live at the mercy of merciless street thugs, that wandered the place at night, looking for whom to devour. He set on his journey, this time, he didn't wander endlessly, he had a destination.

It was approximately forty minutes it took, when he got to the canteen. He went under the huge table that was placed just outside a closed store. He rolled himself inside, and coiled his body together, seeking to provide warmth from the inconsiderate wind which blew through the place that night. Moji put his two hands into his laps, and there was warm.

Disturbing, was the noise that woke the young Moji up from his slumber as he was sure, it was the sound made when a bottle was broken. He got up with immediate alacrity. He peeped from under the table and saw some youthful men, playing a very dangerous game with bottles, as if their skin wouldn't tear if the bottle kissed it. They noticed movement under the table and were pointing at it. Moji knew they were coming for him. He had to act, and act fast.

He stood up, shielding his eyes from the dim torchlight one of them pointed from afar. He staggered, and talked gibberish, persuading them he was drunk. When he got to where they stood, watching at him in amusement, he fell to the ground, singing a popular Fuji music. He clawed at the ground with his fingers, and even poured sand on his head. They were convinced. As he continued walking in shaky steps, gradually escaping the scene, he heard them say

"This one dun high oo!" in their collective masculine voices, appraising their foolishness and gullibilty.

It was really late, and Moji really needed to find somewhere to lay his head. He began walking back from whence he came; the street in Boundary where he made the phone call.

He got back there and stood at the front of a compound, beside a mango tree, perfectly hiding himself with the dark shade that was casted over him by the leaves of the tree. He was looking for a shop he could pass the night in, outside of course.

Shocked, was an understatement to describe the feeling when someone tapped him from behind. He could feel his skeleton run out of his body. He turned around, and met the huge eyes of the girl who operated the call centre, he was calm, and saw his skeleton enter back into his body.

"Hey, call girl" Moji said to the girl innocently, oblivious of the unwelcome meaning behind the phrase.

"What are you doing here? It's almost eleven, the ignorant girl said in suprise, her eyes popping outside Moji thought it would fall off. But then he remembered the girl's question and he put in his head down in pain.

"I have nowhere to sleep"

The girl was quiet, and she wanted to know how it was that he didn't have a home, but common sense was able to overpower her curiosity. She held him by the hand and they walked, most likely to be where Moji could pass the night.

While on the way, Moji's silence was disturbing and the girl tried in vain to strike a conversation.

"Do you like football?"

"Shey Pasuma's real name is Wasiu?"

"What's your name sef?"

Moji's stomach rumbled, he hadn't eaten today. The fat girl meanwhile, noticed that Moji dragged his legs on the ground, something she did when she was hungry.

"Are you hungry?"

Moji replied in the affirmative with a weak nod. The girl took him to an aboki's shop and bought him a Gala sausage roll and 'nylon water'. He ate with so much gusto that the northern trader called him back and gave him another roll for free. He thanked him, saying "Na Gode" to which the aboki waved off, saying "Yo wa" whilst displaying his finely disarranged teeth.

They arrived at a bungalow and the girl tip-toed to the back. Moji followed suit. They got to a door at the back. The girl's hand was on the knob and Moji was obviously disturbed by the nature of their entry. It seemed like burglary.

"Whose house is this?" Moji asked in a hushed tone, trying to maintain the secrecy.

"Shhh..." The girl implored Moji to keep quiet, placing her index finger over her lips.

They were inside.

"The house belongs to my friend's father. The old tenant left, accusing the landlord of wanting to steal his star"

"How can a human being steal a star?" Moji asked once he had sat down.

"It means to steal someone's destiny, ode" the fat girl explained, chipping in the insult to take a swipe at Moji not knowing.

"I dun dey go" as she turned her heavy body and made for the door

"Wait!..." Moji called out

She turned and faced him.

"My name is Moji"

"Fatima" she said

"Nice meeting you"

"Likewise"

She left.

Jaynewrite:
Wow! This is beautiful! I'm motivated to post my work on Nairaland. Never let anyone read them before, I'll just try n see.

You'll do great. Be sure to mention me so I can read it.

Thanks for reading my humble work.

"You want to know who killed your mother?" the weird person who kept changing voices said

When those words emerged, Moji's interest was roused. He wanted to know more but he bid his patience, the person on the other end could not be provoked, otherwise his fingers get bored, and he hits the 'cut' button.

"Your mother was a very fine woman. Beautiful. It's sad what happened to her"

"Who..." Moji was struggling hard not to cry. His voice was laden with the emotion he felt at the moment "killed my mother?"

"I don't know if that's what you're asking. What I know is that the person who killed her is only a mercenary. Your worry should be, who had her killed?

I am most unfortunate to have played such a vital role in some very dark events of the past."

"What events, and what has it to do with my mother-wait, you called her a beautiful woman. You have seen her, haven't you?"

The person coughed terribly, he must have smoked a lot, or his body was allergic to the environment. He talked like he had all the time in the world, but the one who wanted answers didn't. He paid only twenty naira.

"Yes, I have seen her. The handwriting on the naira note isn't mine, it belongs to Blackie Olokpa. But, I wrote it. You see, i'm a master impersonator, and I am skilled in anything that tricks the eye. Some have even called me a magician. But mind you, i'm not.

Some years ago, I was hired for a job. I was paid Fifty thousand naira in cash, untampered. My job was to watch over a pregnant woman, who seemed to be kidnapped. This woman who hired me for the job provided me a hideout to keep the pregnant person hostage. My mission was to make sure she gave birth

After five months, she gave birth to a girl, and my mission was complete. I was told to walk away. I did, walk away. But not before asking if they would kill the woman that had come to trust me. The woman laughed hysterically and said 'eventually' "

Moji listened with rapt attention.

"What does this have to do with my mother?" the boy asked, for as long as he knew, he was the only child of his parents.

The person coughed again, this time it was so terrible and pitiful.

"Eventually." he simply said

Moji felt the vigor of the conversation dying so he used tender words to rekindle the fire.

"You seem to be dying" he said, with a feigned concern. He would do anything just to extract something close to the truth from this all-knowing person.

"Ah-nothing I haven't tried to die naturally. I am asthmatic, and I smoke over six packets of cigarettes daily yet, death won't come

I have told you what you should know now. Bury your mother, and search for the truth you seek. I have to return to the party.."

"Wait, wait...who's Blackie Olokpa?" Moji asked, he thanked his poor memory for remebering.

"The Blackie-Olokpa is a bereaved policeman, whose only daughter was killed by her cultist boyfriend. He went into the depths of the south-east in search of charms to enact his revenge on all cultists. He just returned"

"Uhm, can I...?" the line froze off. Moji wanted to know if he could meet the person, in person. He tried the number again, and he got a reply from the 'computer's voice' that such a number didn't exist. He rembered. He had said he was a master impersonator. Such a person could easily write a letter that requested that the line be blocked.

Moji returned the phone to the fat girl, who collected it with a smile.

As he wore his clothes, many questions and thoughts occupied his head. But to search for clues in his quest for the truth, he first needed to stay alive.

It was then it dawned on him. He had no place to call home.

"Hold am. Abeg, I need to make that call" Moji said determined, looking into the girl's eyes with his, trying his luck to see whether the girl maybe, would see the pain and hurt in his eyes. It was still fresh in his heart, actually it was today, that he returned from a cell to find his mother dead. And now, this twenty naira note in his hands which claimed to be able to tell him the truth. Before he sighted the call center, he had tried other methods. He had ran up to cars, some few 'rich' people who had a phone, and begged them profusely, with more drama and enthusiasm than he's doing now. But, they all waved him aside, one even slapped him, when the young boy offered to wash his car for free.

"Filthy thing. You wanna add more dirt, you mean?" the obviously vain old man had said.

He was doing this now again because he knew the fat girl couldn't slap him.

"Wetin I go use these yeye clothes do?" she asked, pointing to them in obvious irritation, unaware that the state of Moji's clothes and hers were distant relatives. None was better.

"I go just cross over, i'll be at the other side. If I attempt to run you can shout, that i'm a thief."

"Okay" she finally said in a resolute tone, letting out a sigh. The boy's determination was something else.

She opened the bag which was supposed to be the encasement for the phone. When she brought it out, Moji was happy for the first time that day. She gave it to him, it was the nokia phone with a horn, quite expensive. She looked at him suprised, and asked him if he thought a call was free.

"No. I have money" he replied

"Can I have it?" The girl spoke, for the first time since their encounter in English. Something Moji suspected had to do with money. It was a well known fact that money was worshipped.

Moji explained to her that the number he wanted to call was written on the naira note he intended to pay with. Perhaps if he was any wiser he would have 'crammed' the number. But he didn't, for he had one or two little problems with his brain ability to memorize, to 'cram', as teenagers his age do. He was once called a 'dummy' in primary school when he was sent to buy a bubble gum by his teacher, but returned with a latex condom in his hands as he presented the 'bubble gum' to the shocked teacher, imploring him to take it with his innocent eyes.

Maybe a day in which he has trekked more than Moses, and had his tender head beaten by the inhumane sun drained his medulla of the ability to cram. What would have happened if he lost the note?

The phone was in his hands, finally, as he crossed over to the other side of the street, on only his boxers. His sad frame was greeted with suspicious stares by passerbys, who thought he was the newest person to have smoken Igbo and driven mad. He cared not. He held the phone to his right ear, as the number was ringing. No answer. He called again. No answer. Again. No answer. Just when he wanted to tag himself a spectacular failure, he heard creaky sounds, at the other end, signalling that the call was on.

"Hello?..." Moji asked, rather than said

All he could get as a reply was incessant gibberish. The people were making distant noises and even, Moji could hear music playing.

Silence.

The other end was now silent, as it was obvious the receiver of the call had know left, or excused himself from the jamboree.

"Hello?..." Moji asked again as he caught the fat girl looking at him. He quickly escaped her stare and put his head down.

"What's the truth?" the young one asked, in a sudden burst of boldness, as his facial features adjusted into a frown.

The person at the other side chuckled. It was feminine, as Moji heard.

"The truth?..." the feminine voice said

"The truth is, Nigeria is in a country called Africa" the voice was now male.

Moji bit his lower lip in anger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey, come here!" a voice growled

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

"Your mama!" another cursed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



















LAST BULLET

The dick is powerful

Some few corrections, bro.

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

Thanks for following.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nxt.

John Paul stood up, as his cult members watched his every movement. They knew what would happen, and they used their taunting faces to mock the fate of Basiru. The man called John Paul slapped Kikelomo ferociously, that spiderman shuddered, he thought her head would fall off.

"Get out of here, and keep watch" James ordered spiderman, pointing his finger towards the door, signalling him to exit. The little boy sighed, as he walked out, his head bent in frustration, cursing his luck and wondering when he'd get the chance to see how his mentor bleeps. He too wasn't bad on top of a woman, actually his sexual prowess was commended the first time he 'did it' with an aunty, at the backyard of their 'face me I face you' compound.

John Paul tore off Kikelomo's night wear, as she shivered in pain, the members of the cult licked their lips, Basiru's eyes held such pain that no man should ever have. The rapist laid Kikelomo in a way that Basiru could see her down there, and he climbed from a parallel angle, slowly putting in his manhood as Basiru shouted, struggling to free himself. James gingered his leader and he now went in faster, and harder. With each thrust, she let out a moan, that was so passionate and pleasing to the ears, that Basiru thought it was a moan of pleasure. It was, but it was full of pain too. When John finally answered the call of nature and let out his seminal juice, he managed to stagger to Basiru was tied, and poured it on his face.

Basiru wanted the ground to just open and swallow him, but it didn't. He looked at the exhausted face of his wife, and he felt resentment, and pity. He cried.

And just as the cultists was leaving the house, they heard a shout. It was the man. They turned and looked at him and his left hand was wounded, by a knife stab. Exactly where James had pierced. They looked at themselves, but still went out anyway, leaving the unfortunate man to cry, as blood oozed out of his hand.

It was at that moment Basiru knew what his uncle meant by 'when you stop being a man'. A man wasn't supposed to cry, in the presence of others. He was supposed to suck in the pain, and let it all out when he was alone by himself. But he cried, he was supposed to, as the cultist rimmed his forever cursed tool into his wife. What made him cry wasn't that, but because she moaned, a privilege only he was entitled to.

Kikelomo still on the ground, her body ached with so much pain, but she crawled, and after some minutes, she had untied the rope that restrained Basiru. He thanked her with a vicious slap to her left cheek, as he made his way to the kitchen, blood escorting his movement.

It was hell, but they survived.

Nights and days passed, and the couple rarely spoke. On this night, Basiru had managed to sleep in spite of the horrendous heat. A mosquito buzzed around his ear, and he slapped it, or rather slapped his ear, then woke up. He looked at his sleeping wife, and she was expectedly sweating, he thought it was as a result of the heat. In this state, she looked innocent, but whenever those eyes opened, she became the one who shut her eyes in pleasure, when she was being raped.

Something happened. Something happened that night that haunted Basiru for the rest of his life, and fueled the hate and resentment he felt towards his wife.

Ranchhoddas:
Na Olodi be that na. No be core Aj. Awon Idewu, Muyibi, Palace Road etc.

Yes. Where you dey?