₦airaland Forum

KingzPen:
Just Passing By...

The King is here! Wow! Your royal highness, sir. I've missed you a bunch, Twinnie!

hormoryhemii:
hmmmmmmmm, I think in this piece of work lies event that unfolds everyday in the real world, suggesting that we open another thread to discuss the various theme in this work.



Mr larrysun, I doff my hat

kudos to you sir

peter- I reserve my comment for now.

Thank you so much, sir. I love the suggestion of the theme discussions; perhaps, it might open my eyes to important thoughts I'd not taken note of. Thanks again. God bless you.

domido:
Hhhmmm!!! Unconsciously stole a purse.

Quite far-fetched, isn't it?

Sleekyshuga:
Jungle justice *pukes*..

More wisdom, Larry..

Still, I follow..

You're awesome, ma'am.

dhebor258:
not only do I enjoy ur story I also learn new words..u d best bro

I enjoyed reading your signature, it's so true.

Thank you, sir.

Bluestarry:
This epic piece can make one go namby pamby. Boys don't cry Larrysun my best writer, my hat i doff for you. Keep up the good work, until the calm voice in you become still, that possibility, i vervely doubt.
Ill be great some day, greater than you my prayers tho.

Thank you so much, sir.

LOL! I'm sure we'll both be great, very great!

plainmirror:
The yardstick for measuring one's greatness is not by what he/she has achieved but by the hurdles encountered and enroute to greatness.

I like this.

Toeyean1507:
omg!!! this is too brutal. I so much hate jungle justice. Imagine d negative impact it has on dis boy's psychology. His unconscious sense has been negatively sharpened too. O ga o................Thank u,oga Larrysun. *Agbaawo

Thank you, ma'am, for reading. Having you here always gladdens my heart.

zyzxx:
Black walked away sadly. Ironically, the event he had just witnessed did not teach to quit stealing, it only taught him to be more careful.


Dis is serious, dis y we still av many thief

Poor peter black I felt sorry for the path u just choose to follow

Larrysun more wisdom
Thanks for ur time, strength and all.
God bless u too, amen.

Thank you, sir. I hope you had a peaceful vote in your locality.

kingphilip:
As he walked away, he discovered that he was holding a purse. He didn't know how the purse got to his hand. Peter Black had unconsciously stolen the purse.

na Wow o
hw him take do am

larrysun boss nice piece continue the good work

Thank you, sir. Black has reached that stage where thievery has become a culture. Lol!

zyzxx:

Nooo na larrysung
he is one of ur fan

Oh! Okay. But I've never met him. I'd like to.

zyzxx:
Apy birthday Larrysung
LLNP

But today isn't my birthday. I won't be a year older until July 1.

*Chapter One - VI (Continued)*

He melded among the crowd, small and agile, ready to rob someone unsuspecting. He walked among the people, searching for a perfect pick. What he needed now was money; the few coins he possessed had dwindled remarkably. He was now mildly desperate; a desperation that went beyond mere feeding money. He needed to gather enough wealth for the task ahead. He spotted a well-dressed man whose wallet was peeping out of his back pocket. An easy pick, Black reflected. A ridiculously easy pick. A dumb man; which wise man would keep his purse in his back pocket? The man had just alighted from a lorry. Black moved close to the man; he was going to pick the wallet and run, no one would be able to catch him, he was sure of that. Then just as he was about to grab the purse and make his retreat, a sudden scream broke out. The crowd became excited, screaming and barking. Black was confused. What has happened? Is there a motor accident? He looked down the road to confirm the veracity of his suspicion. Then he saw it! It was not an accident! The crowd was chasing a man, a runaway criminal, and the pursuers were screaming "Thief! Catch him! Thief!"

One spectacular thing about the bolting villain was that he was a swift runner; a far better runner than Peter Black, but the pursuers were determined to catch the lawbreaker. Both street thugs and bus-conductors went after the thief, but they could not catch the sneaky pickpocket. One of the angry mob of pursuers picked up a tin of Peak Milk from the table of one trader and hurled it with all his strength at the scurrying kleptomaniac. It was a perfect shot; the tin hit the thief squarely on the back of the head and he fell onto the ground; and before he could rise up to continue his hasty retreats, the pursuers had caught up with him. A large crowd gathered round the criminal as he was being beaten. All the people in this area hated pickpockets of any kind with the passion of the people whose hard-earned possessions were picked. Black joined the crowd to have a see at what fate would befall the thief. He could see blood streaming out of the thief's head where the tin had hit him. Black had a closer look at the condemned pickpocket; the thief was about nineteen or twenty years old, as dark-skinned as Peter, but was way taller. Apart from the head injury, the thief's lips were split and one of his eyes were swollen shut.

The thief kept repeating "Please, I'm sorry! Please, I'm sorry!" But none of the beaters seemed to be listening to him. They kept slapping him, punching him, kicking and flogging. The thief cried out in pain as a man kicked him in the nuts. Soon, his clothes were torn off him and he was totally naked, and more beatings were administered on him.

A few moments later, one robust thug rolled a tyre to the scene, and following behind him was another man with a five-litre keg filled with petrol. The thief saw the items, frowned in confusion, but when the significance of the item occurred to him, he screamed out very loud.

Black watched in horror as the thief was held down by strong hands and the tyre was worn on his neck like a necklace. The petrol was poured on him, the entire five litres of the liquid was emptied on the unfortunate captive. Now the thief could not free himself because his arms and legs had been tightly tied with strong strings. No one attempted to stop what the men were doing to the poor thief; it was like the people were eager to witness the inevitable lynch; they all wanted to see the thief roast and ooze out oil. It was not everyday something as exciting as this happened, therefore, no one, except Black perhaps, wanted any interference in this remarkable process of barbecue. Black was shivering violently as he watched the activities of the instant judges. This was no sight for a boy of his tender age to behold. Besides, it could have been Black himself suffering this thief's fate. Cold terror overcame him as he watched the thief wail pitifully at the brutal and mortal end looming over him. The woeful strain behind the thief's sorrowful lamentation reverbrated in the little boy's ears. The sound of the cry pulled at his heartstring; it would haunt him for a long time. Black prayed never to hear such wail of anguish again in his entire life.

The crowd shrank backward as the man who poured the petrol brought out a matchbox. The real show was about to begin; all the previous activities were merely icings on the cake, this was the real thing. Everyone stayed at a safe distance and watched the man bravely light a match and torched the thief. The poor fellow caught fire immediately, even the man who set him ablaze was scalded. And, somehow, by a process of sheer bewilderment, the rope that tied the thief down got loose and the burning young man sprang up immediately and started running around, still bearing the tyre on his neck as he ran blindly. People took to their heels as he ran towards them. The fire totally engulfed him and he still managed to run a few metres more before he totally collapsed on the hard ground. He burned sootily; he cooked, toasted, barbecued and fried. The fire burned on. The odour of the burning flesh was not unlike the roasting of a goat. At first, the flesh smelled delicious, then it smelled terrible, disgustingly terrible. Some of the spectators with weak bowels retched violently at the site. Thereafter, the crowd began to disperse. The world left the corpse to burn itself to a massive charcoal.

Black walked away sadly. Ironically, the event he had just witnessed did not teach to quit stealing, it only taught him to be more careful.

As he walked away, he discovered that he was holding a purse. He didn't know how the purse got to his hand.

Peter Black had unconsciously stolen the purse.


********************************************************


Larry Sun can ghostwrite for you (novels, short stories, biographies, autobiographies, etc) at an affordable price. Contact him via email (larrysundynasty@gmail.com) or through +2349061754872. God bless you.

thronekid:
Sir Larry, would U kindly help Read and criticize this story? Here's d link
https://www.nairaland.com/2193676/strings-webs
Thanks sire

Okay, sir. I will asap.

Royver:
oi larry, how you been?

I'm between conduits. I read your 'Doctor' short story, it's beautiful. You string words together so easily. God bless your wisdom, sir.

Nice work. You guys are awesome!

Royver:
larrysun's protege
Interesting piece

#following

It's been a while, sir.

Now, where have you been?

I remember someone telling me to post the link of my current story (Black Maria) here. Okay, here it is: www.nairaland.com/2185410/black-maria

God bless you all.

Adesege:
Mr. Larry, aside from being a mysterious writer, your stories are mistery.

Damn! You won't believe i never understood the closing chapters.

Maybe you should provide a summary of this interesting story. The characters are just too confusing.

Thumbs!

LOL! Maybe I'll do that before starting The Taint of Judas. Thank for reading.

I'm so sorry for my late updates. Some technical issues are slowing me down.

Forgive me if I've not replied your comments.

God bless you all.

******************************

"Young boy, why are you crying?" The perplexed gatekeeper asked. He could not understand what had warranted the little child's cry. And it was terrible to see a lad as young as this weep so pitifully. It was worse hearing the sound of his wails. Something emotionally aweful must have occurred to the little one, for the old man could not see on Black any visible bodily injury, at least no recent one. Every effort he made to pacify Black was not enough; no sweet words could mollify this boy from his hurtful fate. Black knelt there on the ground before the open gate and cried his heart out. He wept for everyone he had lost; his father, his mother, Priest Duba. The ground where he knelt was soon damp with his tears.

"How may I help you, little boy?"

How may I help you? The question reverberated in Black's head. The words came so strangely to him as if he was hearing them for the first time. How may I help you? What a funny question! How could anybody help him now? He wanted no one's help; it was too late for anyone to help him now, too late! Where were the helpers when he needed them? Where were they when his mother was dying? What help did anyone render when he was starving to death on the streets? No one came around to fight for him when he walked into the den of three mean lions. Now, all of a sudden, someone wanted to help him, but it was too late now; his fate had gone beyond redemption. Black shook his head in anger; he didn't want anyone's help. He would take care of himself. He would survive in this tumultous world. He now lived totally for vengeance. Not only Chief Salami but also humanity would pay dearly for all what had happened to him.

The boy slowly rose up from his kneeling position and wiped the tears off his face. The time for self-pity had passed. He needed to start his journey to the road of vengeance. He saw that the gatekeeper was still staring at him with a concerned pair of eyes.

"How may I help you?" The ridiculous question escaped again from the elderly man's mouth.

Black stared straight into the man's eyes and firmly said, "I don't need your help, I don't need anyone's help. I can take good care of myself. To hell with help!"

Then he walked out on the man.

As he walked away, Black's heart was filled with hatred; hatred for the man who had dealt him this unkindness. The boy's vengeful pledge grew stronger. He was sure that if his chest was carved open now, rather than a heart, it would house a hot slab of stone emitting smoke as it burned hotness. The stone in his chest burned viciously, furiously, fiercely, it burned only to scald the cruel Chief Salami and, perhaps, all he held dear in the world. But currently, Black was nothing but a mere 'fingerline' where the chief was a wicked financial leviathan. Black knew better than to directly go at loggerheads with his foe now. He had to grow into a sharp-toothed shark himself. He also needed to grow in wealth if he was going to square off with the big chief in a moral or immoral battle; the nature of the brawl would depend on the chief himself and his actions.

He walked into a crowded street with the intention of making a heist. He kept a sharp pair of eyes focused on the people using the sidewalks, the ones struggling to get into moving buses, those opting to disembark from stopping vehicles, the busy traders and proud buyers. The boy wondered who he should rob among these classes of people. The zeal to covet another person's property had returned to him with full force just barely after the priest's sudden demise, and Chief Salami's callous conduct was the catalyst that sped up this thievery reaction. However, to Black's young mind, stealing had been considered an easy sport; he saw nothing hard or bad about grabbing something you desire and using it. The world would be better off if it was like that, there would not be much people going hungry. Hell, his mother would even have remained in the land of the living. Black had carved for himself the philosophy regarding the apportionment of ownership. He had many beliefs but his latest belief, in this regard, was the idea of shared fortune. If losing the coin you have would not place damnation on your existence, then you shouldn't nurse a qualm about sharing the currency with someone whom not having it would kill. This personal theory had been established long before Priest Duba found him. Of the several reasons behind his belief in an easy getaway, mobility was perhaps the most crucial. Although he was still a kid, he considered himself an outstanding purloiner among his unknown compatriots all around the world. He wasn't like the common petty pilferers still in their immature categories, people who had become crooks without the tiniest sense of idealism or ingenuity. He still engaged in small-time thievery though, he was still gradually learning to act with neither impulse nor desperation. His tiny brain was systematically growing a repertoire of clever thoughts in the dishonourable art of stealing. Soon, he would be planning his theft more carefully; weighing the risks and benefits of any chance at the display of his talent, and he would act only as a result of wary and systematic analysis.

Peter Black was a careless thief, but something was going to teach him to become a more careful one.


********************************************************


Larry Sun can ghostwrite for you (novels, short stories, biographies, autobiographies, etc) at an affordable price. Contact him via email (larrysundynasty@gmail.com) or through +2349061754872. God bless you.

This is awesome!

Chapter One - VI

Roaming the streets with the backpack that contained everything he currently owned in the world; pairs of clothes, a toothbrush and toothpaste, an extra pair of sandals the priest had bought for him and the few sum of money he had been advised to save. Black decided, with a strange kind of boldness, to the house where he buried his mother. It had been two years since he had left her; he needed to pay her that visit, she needed to see that he had grown taller and looked healthier. He was no more wearing rags. He was now a normal twelve-year-old. He had changed from that little ten-year-old who lived in constant starvation. He was no more helpless; late Priest Duba had carved a better life for him.

As he travelled towards the dilapidated building he had lived in, he thought about his deceased parents and Priest Duba. He could picture the three of them together in a place filled with happiness. He pictured his parents thanking the old priest for taking in their son. For the first time in a long while, a smile crossed Black's lips. Although he now had no home and there was nowhere for him to rest his head when the sky darkened, Black didn't allow any negativity to dwell in him. The priest had told him that the world was filled with an abundance of opportunities, only if you could see them and grab hold of them when they came our ways. Black was old and wise enough to take care of himself in this new world, this amazing world of opportunities.

As the public bus transported him and a dozen other passengers through the roads, Black recalled having walked these same roads two years earlier when the wicked chief had evicted him from his father's house. The bus carried them past the bridge where he had been forced to smoke something nasty. He leaned his head out the window in the hope of catching one of those hoodlums that had beaten him up that late night, but of course, the thugs would not be there in the day; they only always came around in the nights to claim their territories; those deranged lions! In lieu of the hoodlums, underneath the bridge were different traders selling goods ranging from confectionery to cheap sartorial exhibitions. It had been two years since his last visit to this place. Black allowed a gratifying thought to cross his mind; maybe those thugs had eventually been apprehended by the police. Well, the hoodlums had called themselves lions. Lions didn't deserve to live among human beings, they were meant to live locked up in cages. Black hoped the thugs were really behind bars or in a federal prison, cutting down grass or breaking concretes or any other hard jobs condemned prisoners were usually subjected to doing. The world would be better off without that evil trio.

They arrived at the big market and some passengers disembarked as new ones boarded the bus with their purchased vegetables and pepper. Black still remained in the bus, he had not reached destination. Of course, he had trekked past this market at ten years old, when he had no definite destination. But a lot had changed since the past twenty-five months; he now had a destination, even though he knew not what had become of the place he was heading. And he recalled that the chief's thugs had seriously warned him to stay away from the house. But Black could not stay away from his mother forever, he could not. This was his mother, he had every right to be with her. No child should be denied the comfort of his mother.

The bus stopped at the station close to his destination and Black alighted. His father's house was not far away now, he was going to trek the rest of the way. Every close step he took to the house was a thump of apprehension to his heart. His naïve mind told him that Chief Salami was standing in front of the house, awaiting his arrival, his thugs standing on either side of him with their weapons drawn, and ready to make sure that they really killed him in the presence of the chief this time around. Black touched his neck, he could still feel the scar of the wound the knife had created when his throat was nearly slit. The knife had left a thin line in front of his neck. Most people that saw the mark had thought the young boy was suicidal; they believed he had attempted, albeit unsuccessfully, to hang himself with a thin rope. And the adults had wondered what could have driven the young lad to engage in self-annihilation. Priest Duba had been able to convince only a few of the ponderers otherwise. But to Black, the scar was not just any mark, it was a mark of redemption; that was the closest he had ever been to death. He fostered the scar with pride, like it was tattoo. He glorified in its significance.

Black suddenly found himself standing before the house; the house in which he had lived with his mother, the house where his parents were buried. His father's house. Fear instantly gripped his heart at what he saw and he whimpered in terror. Before him was not the dilapidated house he had lived in but a magnificent one; a great architectural masterpiece of mammoth masonry. The building before him was a two-storey erection. It was painted brown and fenced round, with a big black gate serving as the only means of entrance into the compound beyond. Black was only able to confirm that he was not mistaken because of the heavy slab of concrete before the fence, he recalled that he and his mother had both played hide-and-seek around the massive slab one night before her fatal illness two months later. Evidently, his father's dilapidated house had been demolished and a new building had replaced it. But this was not what scared the boy. He had bought a loaf of bread to place on his mother's grave as he usually did, but it seemed like that was not going to be possible now.

He rushed to the gate and knocked on it nervously. He needed to see. He needed to know! He beat the gate viciously many times until an angry old man opened the gate to scowl at him. Black didn't give a damn about the man's piqued expression; when the gate was opened and he saw the compound, Black broke down. Chief Salami had done him the cruellest thing imaginable.

The entire floor of the compound had been cemented. Chief Salami had plastered his parents in the soil; he had trapped them in the earth.

Peter Black wept.

******************************


********************************************************


Larry Sun can ghostwrite for you (novels, short stories, biographies, autobiographies, etc) at an affordable price. Contact him via email (larrysundynasty@gmail.com) or through +2349061754872. God bless you.

I'm loving this. Don't stop, sir. Your choice of words is mature.

LogoDWhiz:
Hmm.

Twists here and there!

Love this!

The twists haven't surfaced, trust me.

Nickymezor:
Hmmmm, it's well...Peter will survive...tnx for d loveli update Mr Larry

Thank you more, ma'am, for following.

omotalkie:
Dis piece has made me cry, dat I had to stare at my children, praying and asking God to kip me and huby alive for them. (My daughter is even asking me- Mummy why are u crying?) God pls make a way for dis boy, he has rily suffered oo. Well done Larry

May God be with your family.

lenmafon:
thanks larrysun but why would mami be crying instead of being happy for the safety of her son? *Oliver twist's mood activated*

Evidently, her son isn't entirely safe. The ghosts know the future, but they can't tell us.

JojoBlue:
Seriously tears don de commot for my eyes

For real?