₦airaland Forum

zyzxx:
wondeful

Thanks buddy!

nellyme:
Hehehe waste of money indeed, serves him right. Like father like son! Nyc larry.

Thank you, 'Nelly. Missing you over there.

simonhabby:
Nice

Thank you, sir.

texanomaly:
I don't really know how to react to this story. It was almost too sad to read. At the same time, I couldn't stop. Well done my friend. Well done.

Wow! Texy dear, it's so nice to have you here! I know this isn't your kind of stories; and it's awesome of you to read it.

Thank you, ma'am, thank you.

Alexebo:
land 4 rent....contact gideon alara

LOL! This is very funny! Unfortunately, Gideon Alara is deceased.

Alexebo:
now i wont b a silent follower anymore....hv read a all ur write up on nairaland nd i must say "" larry,u:re d bomb""......gbam

Aww! Thank you so much, sir. Your comment fills me with glee.

kizzykeziah:
Second to comment.....Yay!!

Sir Larry, ride on....

Thank you, Kizzy dear. It's been a while. How are you, ma'am?

leppyj:
Nice 1. Oga larrysun u neva finish balck maria na! Abeg come update dat story.please

I'm going to do that soon. I promise.

Thank you, sir.

damiperry:
Wow..this is gud
this is the first time i'll be reading a story by u and i'm already lovin it.
I love the choice of your words too

Oh, thank you so much, ma'am. I'm only trying my best.

Part Two

Timi was no more charged with the murder of his father, but he was jailed for the ghastly dismemberment. Rather than incarceration in a local gaol, Timi should have been committed to a psychiatric ward for the observation of his mental gear. The Chief Justice had terribly erred for sentencing the lunatic to a sixty-month-imprisonment—a mere slap on the wrist, considering the durance vile he deserved. However, no matter how long you put a monkey in a cage—three years, six years or twelve years—he never forgets what freedom is like. And Timi Alara was like the symbolic monkey; he was always anticipating the day he would be free of his confinement and become a free man. He needed to take up the family's business and become a money-lender, too. What Timi didn't know during his lock-up was that there was no business to go home to. His grandfather, George Alara, had claimed all the properties and denouced Timi. He had ceased to consider Timi his own blood for the dreadful thing he had done to his father's corpse. Timi's hope of inheritance became like a dew that dries up so early with the morning sun.

George Alara had visited his grandson in prison only once. It was at the third year of Timi's imprisonment that George went to see him. The old man had looked older and weaker. George Alara was an old small man who always smoked heavily. He was lucky to have lived so long. When he was young he had promised his peers to grow tall but he didn't keep his promise. He was such a calm man, too. He never raised his voice. Never a foul word. Silence was usually his weapon; he could go for weeks and never say a word. His silence always infuriated and scared Timi. He always tried to avoid meeting his grandfather's gaze, for behind the older man's scrutiny; he always thought his grandfather could read his deepest thoughts.

Seeing his grandfather in the prison, Timi had believed that the old man might pass on soon. He had thought the riches would become his as soon as the old man died, but Old George had come only to dash his hopes. His grandfather's harsh words had turned his stomach so sour that he would have to swallow some antacids after the visitation.

The prison that held Timi was in the middle of nowhere. The interior of the correctional facility was well-shaded from the prying eyes of curious crowds. All the people outside could see was a high fence; a brick wall topped with wrought iron and studded with broken glass. On the side were signs warning trespassers they would be shot. The old man was carefully led by a policeman into the waiting room. Timi was later brought into the room; he was handcuffed on both wrists. Hard labour, unbalanced diets and the denial of daily baths had diminished his good looks. He slowly sat down before his grandfather, a table stood between both of them. There was a policeman standing at the entrance. He was armed with both baton and gun. He was standing erect and his facial expression was stone-hard.

"Hello granny." Timi greeted.

"I'm not your granny. I'll never be a grandfather to a mad boy like you."

"But I'm your only grandchild."

"I don't have a grandchild. I had a son who is now late. You, you are not my grandson. You're a bastard."

"Yes," Timi replied, "and the architect of my pedigree was your son. We still share the same surname."

"You are never an Alara, you will never be one, no matter who you call yourself. I disowned you the day you hacked your father to pieces. I wish they would keep you here forever."

"I've done three years here already, I have only two years left to spend."

The old man sighed and said, "For the sake of humanity, I seriously hope and pray that you die here before your time is up. The world would be better off without people like you polluting it with your existence."

Timi was greatly hurt by his grandfather's cruel words. He had never heard the old man speak out so bluntly. His hatred for the man began to inflate like a balloon. He felt like slaying the man right there; if he had not been cuffed, he would probably have pounced on the man. He decided that he would have his revenge on his grandfather when he came out of jail.

"You're going to regret this, I promise you." Timi said slowly.

On hearing this, the old man spat on Timi's face and went out of the room, cursing his grandson under his breath. He had partly come there to see if, after three years, Timi had become a better person. He had secretly hoped that Timi was worthy of being left with the Alara fortune; but he had seen that his grandson was still as mad as a common street lunatic, and there was no cure for this kind of madness. The family tree had brought forth this rotten apple. As George limped out of the prison with his cane, he decided that he was going to leave the entire fortune to strangers.

Timi Alara nursed vengeance in his heart for a long time. He didn't need to be told that his grandfather had cut him out of his inheritance; he had to do something about this. But there was really not much he could do as long as he remained in jail. He had one fear now; he was afraid his grandpa might die before his release. If this happened, he knew that he would have to kiss his family fortune a farewell. He was at loss about what to do now. He knew his grandfather's health was not good; the man might kick the bucket anytime soon.

A week later, Timi swallowed hubris and wrote an apology letter to his grandfather; he apologised to the old man for all what he had done and how he had acted during the visitation. His letter appeared quite sincere. He had though the letter might make the old man change his mind about the intended exclusion. He was worried when he didn't receive his grandfather's reply. He wondered whether the man had refused his propitiatory offering or he had not received the letter. He felt like how Cain might have felt when God rejected his libation. After sending the letter forth and getting no response, Timi devoted himself into the affairs concerning his grandfather. The rich old man was always featured in most national newspapers. He read everything written in the papers about his grandfather. The man was reported older and weaker at each passing year. Timi followed everything that related to his grandfather with keen interest. Most of the papers usually contained nothing of interest until he reached the thirty-fifth pages, which frequently held news of the weathers, shippings, produce, finance, divorces, births, marriages and deaths. He always read the list of the dead with careful interests, then he would pass over pages thirty-six and thirty-seven—sports news. It was from the papers that he realised that the man's health had deteriorated so much that he had to employ the service of a helper to take care of him. Timi fervently hoped that the old man would not die before he came out. He could not pray because he didn't believe in the existence of any god whatsoever; all he could do was hope.

Just six months before his release, Timi received a letter from his grandfather.

The French Literature surpasses them all, as far as I'm concerned though.

stuff46:
Surely following this

Error of omission there. Thank you, sir. Modified.

omoshelwa:
Dear bro Larrysun. I stumbled on this thread yesterday and I'm glad I did cos I left with a mark of pride. The pride of being a Nigerian. I know I would be guilty if I don't drop by and give you a big thumbs up for a job well done. You seriously murdered this.... Are you some Hardley Chase Jr or something?
Lemme analyse dis carefully
*The prologue was epic, captivating and it was suspense filled
*The content was simply a masterpiece
*your expression is certainly one of a kind

......a thousand muuuuuaaah!!!
I doff my hat, gele, cap, veil and everything doffable

keep up the good work!

More grease to your elbow and may u never run out of ideas...

Wow! All these for me? I feel honoured.

Thank you so much, ma'am, for your comment and prayers. God bless you.

Modified:

I just checked your profile and I discovered you're a fellow writer, too. Thank you again for taking your time to read my scrawls. I'm indebted.

I'm very sorry for staying away for so long. I was busy writing a short story, but I'm done with it now. I can safety continue the adventures of Black and Basket. An update shall come tomorrow.

God bless you all as you follow.

L.S.

Part One

Timi Alara was a cursed child; he should have died at infant but twisted nature had retained his existence. This cursed fate was placed on him by no man, but by nature's cruel phenomenon. He lived his miserable life at the terminus of irrationality; his entity carved out from the heavy sledge of pedigree. And this, like a rogue boomerang, had circled back to squash the withering family tree. He was born into quite a weird family, and so he lived his life in weirdness. The most sympathetic assessment of his moral potential was gamma minus minus.

Timi's father, Gideon Alara, was a rich man; his inheritance had come from his own richer father, Timi's grandfather. Gideon had taken on his father's profession and had increased his wealth, too. Timi came from the family of money-lenders, expanding the family income with the interests paid by the masses' sweat. Apart from engaging in such dishonourable ventures, Gideon Alara was also known, much unlike his father, to be a tight-fisted and covetous miser. He would never allow a kobo to go to waste, and he would brood all day and run high temperature each time his accounts did not tally. He would only spend if it was absolutely necessary to. He was much more comfortable at receiving than giving out. Each extravagance from his end always ate deep into his bones, like cancer.

Twenty-five years ago, just two months after Timi was born, an accident happened. When his mother was asleep, a candle had fallen off a table onto the bed. The blouse of her dress had been set afire. She had suffered superficial burns on both breasts, but they were sufficient to make it impossible to breastfeed her child. So she scouted about for an available wet-nurse. And luckily, just about that time, a woman had lost her first child and she was still lactating. So she wanted another baby to suckle her. She gladly took little Timi in, but she died of breast cancer two months later.

Barely two months after the wet-nurse's demise, Timi's mother, while holding him in her hand, had lost her balance at the top of the staircase and rolled down the flight of concrete steps. She had died instantly. Gideon, on beholding the fatal accident, had rushed out of the house and driven his pickup car away. No one knew where the bereaved husband was headed, but it was not an unknown happenstance to picture him engaging in senseless feats. It was over two hours before he returned. At the back of his old pickup truck were two coffins: a large one for his wife and a little one for the infant. But unfortunately—or fortunately—the child didn't die; it didn't even sustain a scratch. The sympathizers had considered it a sheer miracle and were soon congratulating the insensible husband, some others tried to lecture him to be thankful that even though the water had been spilled, the bowl still remained intact—or vicing the versa in similar analogy.

Gideon Alara wasn't listening to the preachers, he left their sermons hanging when he quickly unloaded the large coffin from the truck and once again drove away with the little one still remaining at the back. All the sympathizers had believed his wife's demise had diminished his mentality, and they had been right. But Gideon's father knew also that his son was attempting to return the little coffin to the seller and reclaim the money he had paid. But Gideon returned an hour later with the coffin still at the back of the vehicle. Gideon was looking irritated when he climbed down from the vehicle. Evidently, the coffin-maker had refused to refund the money. And so Gideon had harboured resentment for his son for not dying with his mother. People had thought he hated the child because he blamed his wife's death on it but that was not the reason. He hated the child for making him waste money on a useless coffin. And because of the money he spent in purchasing the wooden object, Gideon refused to destroy it. Instead, he placed the coffin in the big sitting room as a reminder of what he had wasted his money on. And as Timi grew, his lunacy grew with him, occasionally fuelled by his father's unkind words.

"You should have died!" His father would thunder on him at any slight misdemeanour on his part. "Look at that coffin there, it's for you. You should have been buried in it. You made me waste my money on that. You should have died! Die! Die!! Die!!!" Timi's father wasn't so great in the sanity department either. He was a silly man, too. Ignorant beyon description. The only reason no one could accuse him of being a scatterbrain was because he had not brain to scatter. He had never heard of the word 'clairvoyant'. And if he was finally made to understand what it meant, he would never believe it. If something was not within his personal experience, he would never accept its existence. He had once argued against the reality of America simply because he had never been there. If ignorance was really bliss, then Gideon Alara was the happiest man in the world. The first time he heard the word 'syntax', he thought it was the money the church collects from sinners. Ordinarily, it would take a surgical process to get a new idea into Gideon Alara's empty skull.

As Timi grew older, he was constantly reminded by his father how his existence had caused him momentary loss. As much as he tried, he never did anything right in his father's sight. The man had never for once considered him fit to live. Each condemnation was a friction to the machinery of his sanity. The harsh words transformed the poor boy into someone he was not destined to become. He gradually lost his emotions; he soon forgot how to laugh or cry, how to defend himself from the painful words that escaped from his papa's mouth, and how to apologise for any wrongdoing. Timi became a cold slab of granite. His blood was soon made of little steel and ice corpuscles. All these kept him above and beyond human emotion. However, what Timi was lacking in emotion, he made up for with good looks. He was strikingly handsome. Even the most casual woman-observer would instantly note and approve his clear eyes, tall built and dark hair. He remained a likeable blackguard despite his schizophrenia and unsoundness of mind. Above all these, Timi was an overly quiet young man; too quiet for anyone to understand his intentions. He always walked soundlessly. He preferred responding to questions with the shake of his head, rather than audible replies. This economy of oratory was carried to the length of avarice.

One midday, just a few days after Timi's twentieth birthday, Gideon Alara suffered a cardiac arrest when he was chastising his son over minor contretemps. The man had collapsed and was carried inside by his son. The following day, debtors who had come to borrow money had been plainly told by Timi that his father was dead. They were all shocked by Timi's curt reply. When they recovered from their surprise, they demanded to see Mr Alara's corpse. Timi has shrugged absentmindedly and told them to check his father's remains in the sitting room. The borrowers, four men, had walked into the house and met with a more shocking scene.

On a large table in the living room was the small coffin Gideon had bought twenty years earlier; and stuffed in the coffin was Gideon's dismembered body. His arms and legs had been haced off with a bloodied machete lying close to the coffin. The terrified men had stumbled out of the house, hot and cold shivers chased themselves down the runners' spines. One of them held his head between his legs and began to vomit. He vomitted until his guts screamed with pain. The men, the litigious law-abiding borrowers, had screamed foul and later accused Timi of killing his father. Within the hour, lawmen were summoned and Timi was placed in handcuffs on a charge of committing a patricide. But the crime, however, was but a thin end of the wedge.

Timi never admitted to the accusation placed against him. His fingerprints discovered on the handle of the machete were enough to condemn him to the gallows, but to nullify any benefit of doubt, a doctor was called in to examine the mangled remains of Gideon Alara. To everyone's amazement, the autopsy report revealed that Gideon Alara had died from a failed heart. Timi did not kill his father.

But everyone knew that he was guilty of severing his father's limbs. Timi didn't deny this new accusation; he admitted to the disjointment of the corpse. The multitude had labelled him mad when they heard his reason for performing the gruesome act.

Wearing no expression of malicious discontent, Timi had replied solemnly, "Buying another coffin would be a waste of money."

On Wings of Insanity

Specially dedicated to OMA4U; a great poet and an awesome friend.

There are three basic views about the existence of man. One view says that everything in life happens by pure chance; not much unlike atoms falling through space, making occasional collisions with each other and cannoning off to start new collisions. Objectionably, some people believe that it is our own selves that determine what happens or will happen, at least to some extent. This means that it is our characters that determine the way things turn out. Sooner or later our transgresssions will locate us and we have to accept the consequences. There is a third view, however: the view that it does not really matter what particular circumstances there are or what individual human beings do. The future has always remained fixed and conceived, even unchanged—just like the past is. Circumstances are somehow predestined from on high—pre-ordained, that's the perfect word. There is a predetermined pattern in life. Whatever is going to be; and whatever we do and whatever luck there is, we just can't avoid or alter it. If your number is up—your number is up! Fate—that's what it is called. Fate, besides, is in accordance with the Third Law of Motion according to Sir Isaac Newton. This law tells us that for every action there is a reaction which is equal and opposite in direction. Let's think about it.

MrPresident:
nice one Frank, keep it up.


I was also affected by the nairaland data loss (tsunami) i lost most of my posts and my hard earned 'likes&shares'

There wasn't the 'share' button before the data loss.

Thrill me. Amaze me. Intrigue me. Mesmerise me. Befuddle me. Perplex me. Humour me.

Another blockbuster on the block! Your sensational edifice will crumble, surely!

pcaliphate:
How is the work sir?

The work is not the best in the world.

God gracious!

Kindly space out all the paragraphs.

senbonzakurakageyoshi:
Besides the loads (I mean loads!) of spelling and grammatical errors, who shrugs for a few minutes? Was she trying to set a world record for shrugging?

LOL! This got me reeling with laughter!

Gay, as an adjective, means Cheerful. And Gay, as a noun, means an Homosexual.

If you say 'I'm gay', you definitely mean you're happy and ready for fun. However, 'I'm a gay' means 'I'm a homo.' Lol!

Lol! Wow!

Nickymezor:
Wat a grt update Mr LarrySun...more ink to ya pen

Thank you, ma'am. I've missed you.

lumzybo:
Crazy boiz running after thieves

Nice signatory quote, dear sir.

nellyme:
That awkward moment when u r hung on a thread overnight and asked to wait till morning to be released.
Tnx for the update Sir...expecting more patiently

Thanks a bunch, sweety, for hanging on.