₦airaland Forum

skinnybleed:
Bro u nailed this update, so so emotional, funny and realistic....nice one!

Thank you, sir.

betybuk:
Pls av mercy on the poor little boy ! I av almost cry my eyes out ......... Weldone OP !

I'm so sorry about that. I'll have to introduce a kind of comic relief.

God bless you, ma'am.

bigsholly:
Larrysun can you skip a little, this suffering is too much for a 10 years child biko. Can't witheld the tears any longer

He'll have to walk his way out of his challenges.

Double posts.

alizenbohr:
May be true ... but only the writer knows for sure.

Sometimes, I think even he (LarrySun) may not even know how his story will end.

LOL! This could actually be true.

zyzxx:
Larry Welldone for dis wonderful piece


Black why is everything working together and leading u to evil?

His fate is pitiful. May God save him.

Thank you, sir.

Nickymezor:
peter should be the father of Junior datz wat I think n Black maria the name of his daughter ( junior's child)

Junior's child was a son.

kingphilip:
larrysun always delivering the best since time immemorial

I'll love the story to b fastforwarded jare I need action but who I'm I to dictate to d boss

Thank you, sir.

Don't worry, action is imminent.

*Chapter One - V (Continued)*

Priest Duba had been battling with leukemia for over a decade. He never thought the disease would claim his life anytime soon because he had learnt to live with it. It got to a time when he believed he had been miraculously healed by God because he could no longer feel the pain of the infection. Besides, he never thought he would die now when he had an obligation to protect the child with him and help him become famous. But when he had suddenly slumped over his meal and woke up in a medical centre; the doctors had bluntly told him, at his insistence, that he had only forty-eight hours to live. But the doctors had been wrong, Priest Duba died in thirty-six hours.

All through the time he was bedridden and when he gave his final breath, Black had stayed with him. For once, the young boy prayed to the God he never believed existed. He prayed that God, if He really existed, should spare the life of the priest. But Black's prayer was not answered. The few minutes before his death, Priest Duba had spoken to Black.

"I pray for you everyday," The old man had whispered painfully, "I always pray that you find peace. I always pray you be successful in everything you do."

Black was short of words; he knew of no reply to give the priest's confession. All he could bring himself to say was, "Thank you, Pa. Now you need to rest. You have to conserve your strength. You don't have to say anything now."

Duba gave a brief but faint smile; a smile borne of pain and compassion for the poor little boy. "Soon, I'll be having all the rests I need."

Two years of living with the priest and relating with other humans had rubbed well on Black. He was now mature enough to understand what the priest had just said.

"Stop talking like that," Black cautioned.

"Peter, I want you to listen very carefully to me. There is no denying the fact that my end is already iminent. My own life has ended but yours is just starting. You have a whole lot of opportunities ahead of you. The world out there is filled with only two kinds of people: the good and the bad. The bad ones outnumber the good by a hundred to one. What kind of person would you like to be categorised? You have to carve a life for yourself. Plan a good living for yourself; nobody is going to plan your future for you. The totem of your destiny lies on your palm. Don't waste time harbouring hatred. Don't spend your life seeking revenge; all these vices will only keep you many steps away from the good things you deserve. Give up revenge from your heart, let God be the judge of every circumstance. Let God decide the fate of the chief who destroyed your family. Spend your time doing better and more glorious things." The priest suddenly reared his head up from the bed and stared into Black's eyes as he said, "Promise me you won't seek revenge. Promise me, Peter, promise me now!"

But Black was tongue-tied; he wanted to promise the man but he could not. The priest had been very kind to him; he had accepted him when the world rejected him. The old man had clothed and fed and put him in a school; he deserved to be promised, but Peter could not grant that promise. Giving up revenge was an impossible request. Chief Salami had taken everything that belonged to him, and part of his mission was to avenge his parents' deaths on him. Black had already promised his mother that he would take back all that was taken from them. He would have granted the promise to the priest if he had not promised his mother already. Chief Salami deserved to pay for all what he had done.

"No, Pa, I'm sorry, I can't. Chief Salami killed my parents. I can't just let him go. I'm sorry, Pa, I can't promise you."

Having said those words, Black noticed the immediate change in the man's countenance. He saw the mixture of disappointment and pity in the man's eyes. Black felt sorry for the man as much as the priest felt for him.

A minute later, the priest gave his last word and gave up the ghost.

"Thank you for being a part of my life." Duba said as he died.

Hot salty tears rushed down Black's eyes as he watched the priest's corpse. The unseeing eyes still carried the expression of disappointment it had borne befor the mortal end. The nurses and doctors came around to resurrect the deceased. As the priest's chest was being pumped and punched, Black nursed a tiny hope that the old man would return to life, but resurrection was unfortunately not to be. Priest Duba had embarked on a journey of no return. The doctors gave up their efforts and covered the corpse with a white sheet. As he walked out of the hospital, Black returned the priest's last statement:

"Thank you for being a part of my life."

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

The twelve-year-old boy was there when Priest Duba was being buried. He gathered a handful of the loose earth and poured it on the coffin placed in the dug grave, then he said his final farewell to his deceased saviour.

A week after the burial, the priest apartment was ordered shut down by the church headquarters in Lagos. And because no one among the priest's colleagues knew about the relationship between Duba and the young boy, Black was sent packing from the quarters.

And so Peter Black, the boy that was saved, the boy who was said to have a bright future, the boy who would become famous, was back on the streets.


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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 so sorry for the short update. Stress is telling on my typing capability. I'll do better with the next update.

God bless you all.

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And so Black continued to live with the priest whose name was Duba. Black soon became the right-hand boy of the priest whom he always accompanied to various religious gatherings and crusades. Throughout his moments with the man of God, Black had attended numerous revival meetings in various parts of the state. He had witnessed first-hand, among the various deliverance services, members of fundamentalist churches speak in tongues, and he had seen apparent cripples cast away their crutches or rise from wheelchairs tap-dance. On one occasion he had witnessed a blind man claim to have received his sight. There was a time when he had seen a woman scream and roll on the floor as one barefoot man dressed in a white gown continue to beat the unfortunate woman with a Bible and shouting 'Loose!' on her over and over like a parrot that knew only one phrase. Young and apparently naïve Black never believed any of the supposed miracles and deliverances, but his guardian, Priest Duba, didn't share in his profanity. Many times, due to his credibility gap, the priest had given him different soubriquets for an unbeliever; a doubting Thomas, the boy from Missouri, a waverer and a flibbertygibbet. But the boy could not help his dubiety in that section of religion phenomenon. He could just not bring himself to believe that a cripple with twisted limbs would suddenly rise up and walk, no matter how convincing it might be, or that someone without sight for a long time would suddenly regain his vision. To Black, everything was a clever show of legerdemain; not much unlike the sleigh of a magician's hand. Black strongly believed that all these wonders had always been orchestrated by an experienced preacher who was vast in all the buzzwords and phrases to lash his pathetic audience to a religious frenzy. And when it came to 'deliverance' they would perform the stance of a hypnotist on their chosen victims and thus bamboozle the crowd with their fraudulence. He pitied Priest Duba for being a believer of this religious hocus pocus.

Just in the same vein, the priest pitied the young boy for being an unbeliever. If only the boy could read the handwriting on the walls. The Lord had been so good to him; He had brought him out of the darkness into the light. If not anything, at least his life had been saved many times. And most of all, he was no longer a pilferer; thievery had been totally wiped off his personality. Just two nights ago, Black had come across the priest's misplaced coin and had returned the money to its owner. The priest had not even discovered the coin missing until the boy placed it on his palm. It was almost hard to believe that this was the same boy who had stolen loaves of bread to stay alive. But despite Black's unbelieving nature in the branch of theology, Duba still remained optimistic about the possibility of the boy's faithfulness in Christ. There was no doubt that the boy was going to grow up to become a very great person. One of the priest's priests had prophesied fame in the boy's life; but how the boy would achieve that popularity was not revealed. And Priest Duba had sworn to protect Black and help him to accomplish that greatness.

Black lived with Priest Duba for the next two years until the old man died.


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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.

Now God had given him another chance; He had placed another child at his doorstep after twelve years. The priest knew without a doubt, without being told, that he had to protect this child. He would have to protect him from the harsh climate of this wicked world of diseases and starvation. God had given him another child.

The priest had no child of his own. He had never married; he had become a sworn celibate at eighteen years old when his father collapsed and died on another woman during lovemaking; the other woman was not his father's wife. The woman had pushed his father's corpse off herself and had made a hasty retreat with only her wrapper. Later rumours had had it that the woman's husband had spelled his wife reproductive organ. This meant that any man who engaged in adulterous act with her would pay with his life. The priest's father was one of the numerous adulterers who had slumped and died on the promiscuous woman. There, while watching the reneging old hag, the priest had sworn never to engage in any form of sexuality with any woman. And there was no day he regretted his vow, even with the denial of an offspring. But the Creator had been kind to him; He had given him a first child which he rejected, He had now given him another, the priest was not going to reject this one. He knew a third would never come forth if he lost this one, too.

As he watched poor Black, the tears that ran down the priest's cheeks were both of joy and sorrow. It was sad to see a boy of such minute senescence endure a suffering of such monumental proportion. The sight of the boy's wrecked body was too much on the ageing priest; his emotion got the best of him and he broke down right in front of Black. The priest knelt before him, threw his face on the floor, wailed audibly and prayed to the Almighty. Black, however, on the other hand, paused at the moment of putting a morsel into his mouth and watched the old man's strange actions. He was wondering what had gone wrong with the kind man. He watched the man's performances with admiration. As he watched, he felt a certain connexion with this strange man; there was a feeling of belonging here. He felt like he could trust this man, he could tell him anything. The man could solve his problems; if he couldn't solve them, he would share in them and make the problems bearable. Unlike the other people he had met, this old man was the first person to sympathise with him.

After his prayers, the priest stood up and gave Black a weak smile, the boy could not return the smile. The priest walked towards the boy and sat beside him on the bed.

"What is your name, young man?"

Amidst the feeling of comfort he just welcomed, Black instantly cast a wary look at his host for the question asked. That was the same question Chief Salami had asked him before ordering for his execution. A part of him believed that the priest could be a homicidal maniac.

The priest caught the fear in the boy's hesitation, he placed a reassuring hand on Black's bony shoulder and said, "You can talk to me. No one is going to hurt you again, I promise."

There was a look of genuine pity on the man's countenance and this made the boy relax. When he spoke, his voice sounded better because he had eaten good food and drunk pure water; the victuals were already giving him better strength. His lost flesh would be regained if he continued everyday with this kind of meal.

"My name is Peter Black."

"Where are your parents?"

"My parents are dead, sir."

The priest sighed at the reply; his intuition had told him that the boy was an orphan. It was only mostly orphans whose situations would be rendered so pitiful.

"What happened?" The priest asked.

Then the boy let it out; he told the old man everything that had happened to him after his father's imprisonment. He told the priest about all the circumstances that surrounded his parents' deaths. He spoke about Chief Salami and his own juvenile decision to avenge his parents' demise. Black narrated everything, he left out nothing. The priest listened to the boy with concentration; he did not attempt to interrupt Black with any question for fear of the boy clamming up and refusing to speak further. New rivulets of tears escaped the priest's eyes as he listened to the boy. When the boy finished narrating his experience, the priest was filled with so much empathy he was forced to hug the boy very tight as he wept and prayed.

"You are safe now. You are saved." He kept repeating.

After some few minutes, the priest left the boy to rest; they both needed a little respite.

Black slept again and dreamt about his mother. Mami was weeping.

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


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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.

Chapter One - V

Gently came the soft hand that tapped the poor boy; even the kindly tap sent him a mildly painful sensation on his bruised skin. He slowly opened his eye to behold a strange environment. He was in a neat room, and the first thing that caught his eyes was the poster on the wall; it was the picture of The Last Supper. There was Jesus Christ sitting between some men. From the picture, it was evident that the men were dinning, as the big table bore different dishes and goblets. The image on the wall momentarily caused a rumble in his stomach. He suddenly felt a pang of hunger. He looked round the neat room; the walls were painted blue and the ceiling white. A checkered carpet covered the floor and he discovered that he was lying on a large bed that would have comfortably slept four people; the covering of the bed was white, the blanket, too. Beside the bed was a small table bearing syringes and drugs.

He wanted to rise but he was too weak to lift himself. As he tried to fathom what had happened to him, an old man stepped into the room. The man was clad in a white cloak that draped from his neck right to his feet and the hair on his head was both greying and receding, at alarming rates. He was old enough to be the boy's grandfather; the grandfather he never knew. The man who fathered Peter's father had died long before Peter was born.

The old man smiled when Peter opened his eyes.

"You're finally awake!" The man beamed.

Black asked, "Where am I?"

"You have been unconscious for three days."

"Where am I?" The boy asked again.

"I found you three days ago at the entrance of the door, you were bloody and unconscious. What happened to you?"

Black looked at the man suspiciously; he had grown to become wary of strangers because they always seemed to reward him with nothing but pains. A part of him was expecting the strange man to unleash on him a vicious slap; he had reflexively steeled his body for the attack but the slap did not come. His eyes caught the poster again and he said aloud:

"I'm hungry."

"Yes, you should be. You have been on drips since the past three days." The man went out of the room and returned with plates of steaming pounded yam and stew. The boy sat up and ate the food voraciously; he ate like an animal, he could not recall having eaten the food in all his life. He was barely swallowing a morsel before sticking another into his mouth. As Black dined pitifully, the priest watched the boy's ravaged body. The child had grown very thin from starvation, his body was bruised and swollen; there was a long line of wound on his back. The injury could have come only from a very sharp weapon.

Seeing this boy, the priest recalled the holocaust of the Civil War he had experienced twelve years earlier. He recalled meeting one particular child during the time; the child, just about six years old, had been so thin with starvation that everybody wondered how he still remained alive and managed to trek to the refugee camp where cups of milk offered the malnutritioned infants. He recalled hearing the sordid story of that child. The boy, on hearing that food was being distributed in a neighbouring village many kilometres away, had left his own village and trekked naked through the forests and swamps for half a day. The child's will to live had moved everyone to tears as they listened to the little kid; his story had planted optimism in the minds of many of the war victims who had given up on life. While the child was walking through the forest, an unkindness of ravens, a murder of crows, an exhaltation of larks and a pack of vultures had accompanied him. After some times, the birds became bored with his journey and had flown to other parts to find more interesting activities, but the vultures remained stedfast; they were interested in picking out the thin filaments of flesh covering his bones. The little boy knew that he dared not rest or the vultures would immediately pounce on him; they could eat him up while he was still alive, so he had to continue remaining mobile and upright. As he trekked in the hot afternoon sun, some of the vultures had also chosen to follow him on foot; they were eagerly waiting for him to collapse so that they could have a new meal. But the boy didn't give them that pleasure; he trekked without respite to the food camp. The little boy was determined to live, against all odds.

The tortured body of Black pulled at the priest's heartstring as much as the Biafra boy's story has done twelve years earlier. He felt as if the situation was a replay of circumstances. The compassion he had had for that child of over a decade earlier was now being directed towards this current one. After listening to the Biafra boy's story, the priest didn't know what became of the child after praying for all the children. He didn't know if the boy still remained alive thereafter or he had finally surrendered his soul to a better one in the afterlife. The priest had made a grave mistake for leaving that boy there in the camp, for he later learnt that depraved soldiers had stormed the camp and massacred the innocent famished civilians. The priest, on hearing the news of the genocide from the little transistor radio he owned, had broken and wept like a child. He should have taken the boy with him when he was leaving. He should have borne the responsibilty of protecting the child. But he didn't. He had left instead; he had rejected the boy. This was 1980; if he had taken care of the boy, the child would be eighteen years now, for the boy was only six years old when he had walked nak*d and dirty into the food camp.


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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.

*Chapter One - IV (Continued)*

The other men cheered to this suggestion. The young boy sighed. He was tired; tired of life, tired of being afraid, tired of the sufferings, tired of everything. If these men were going to stone him to death, so be it. He had tried his best to stay alive but life didn't work well for him. He was not going to plead for his life; he was not going to embarass himself and beg these hooligans to spare his life when he knew that they would not; they were angry lions that had gone out of control because their 'territory' was invaded. He wished he had died under the blade of one of Chief Salami's thugs. He knew it was better, quicker and less-painful to die by the razor than by the numerous stones hurled at your vulnerable body. Well, let them do it and get it over with. They would be doing him a favour; he longed to see his Mami again.

But to Black's utter surprise, instead of stones, the thugs were bringing out new sticks of what they were smoking from a bag the second man slung over his shoulder. He was curious to know what they were smoking; he had never before seen or smelt those kinds of cigarettes. He asked:

"What are those?"

The slim one smiled at him and answered, "They are called Cannabis, my dear."

"Cannabis sativa," said the first thug.

"Indian hemps," declared the second.

"Ganja," uttered the slim thug.

"Cathedral," the first thug took it up again.

"Wand of Jah," Second.

"Dirty Rose," Slim.

It was as if the trio was having a battle of soubriquets. Black was confused; he didn't know what to believe, he was staring at the men as they continued giving strange names to the sticks.

His first thought, according to the slim man's statement, was that they were going to throw the stems at him. The slim man noticed the confusion written on his face and said, "You are going to smoke what we're smoking."

The man lit a stick and handed it to the boy. Black held it and looked at the men, confused.

"Smoke it," the men ordered in unison.

Black slowly brought the stick to his lips. He gingerly held it there with his teeth.

The men watched him and laughed at his inexperience. The boy was totally at sea about what to do next. He wondered how the men were able to blow smokes out of their mouths and nostrils like dragons.

"Suck on it," one of the men said.

"How?" Black asked between his teeth.

"Like you would suck on your mother's breasts." The slim one said and the other men laughed.

Black was offended and angry at the man's statement. He wished he was also older and more powerful. He would not stand anyone disrespecting his mother's memory. And to supplicate his lack of physical strength, he rewarded the slim man with a look filled with hatred.

"Suck on it," the first muscled man commanded again.

Black pulled a sharp drag on the cigarette. He immediately began to cough serially. He could not stop coughing for a long time. The men laughed at him the more; it was an uproarious mirth that resonated and abused the quietness of the night. Black desperately wished that someone would come around and rescue him from these evil men. His wish was not borne of fear but of exhaustion. He was getting tired of the act these men were subjecting him.

His coughs had barely subsided when the slim man asked him to suck again.

"You have to do it slower this time. Watch me."

The hooligan took a slow but long drag at the stick and blew the smoke in Black's face. The little boy coughed fitfully again and the men resumed their laughter.

"Smoke the damn cigarette!" The second thug suddenly growled at the boy.

Black sucked the weed and coughed again. The men hooted maniacally at him as he smoked, they were having a nice time. When he finished the first stick, the thugs handed him another. The little boy was made to smoke five stick until he refused to smoke anymore. They offered him a sixth stick but he refused to take it. He was getting dizzy already; his vision was getting blurry and his headache was returning.

"I can't take anymore," Black broke out, "I'm not feeling well."

"Smoke this last one," the first thug encouraged.

"No," replied the boy, "You said the same thing with the second one."

"I promise, this is the last one."

"It's making me feel sick. I can't take anymore." He had barely finished the sentence when the slim thug suddenly dealt him a vicious blow on the side of the face. The attack sent the boy reeling on the slab of concrete beside him. The slab gave him a sharp pain at the pelvic region. A little boy of his age could have screamed out in pain but Black did not even give a groan.

Painfully and slowly, he rose up again. The left side of his face was instantly grotesquely swollen.

"Take the damn cigarette!"

"No, I will not."

Another blow landed squarely on his right eye. That, too, was swollen shut. This time he fell down on the hard floor without the will to rise.

"Get up." The first thug ordered, but Black remained lying down there. He crouched himself painfully, almost into a ball. His eyes were shut, his side hurt him terribly and his head ached with a splitting threat.

"This little brat is trying to pull stubbornness on us." Observed the piqued second thug.

"We'll teach you to always obey orders." Said the slim thug.

"And accord respect to your elders." The first thug.

The three men, the three touts, began to administer beatings on the poor boy. They kicked him vigorously, one of them carried him high up and threw him hard on the floor. Blood spurted out of his nose and mouth. There was a deep gash on his forehead where he had it on the hard floor. He was beginning to lose consciousness. The men had ripped the shirt off his body, and his skin was grazed and bruised. He was racked with pains all over.

Then one of the men, the slim one, brought out a small knife and slashed Black's back.

The boy cried out!

The man advanced to stab him in the neck but was held back by the first thug.

"We don't need the mess. He'll soon be dead, anyway. We can't have a corpse in our territory." The man turned to Black and said, "Boy, stand up and run for your life before we change our minds."

Black attempted to stand but fell back, the sharp pain that came from his legs was unbearable. His legs were useless; something must have broken. Because he could not stand, let alone walk, he resorted to crawling. The men watched him grimly as he slowly circled about before them. At first, he hit the concrete because he could not see clearly. He was bloody and weak, but he managed to crawl his way out of the men's territory.

The moon shone on his naked body as he slowly crawled down the quiet road, the blood that gushed from his back forming a trail behind him. Even a snail would have taken offence at his slow pace, but each crawl sent a shiver of pains all over his body. There was a time he wanted to surrender to the darkness looming over his consciousness but the voice in his head urged him to heave one more crawl after another. One crawl at a time, slowly but surely, he had to move on. One, two, three, rest. One, two, three, rest. He was in the middle of a long but quiet street. It was dangerous to remain here; he had heard many stories about desperate ritualists that populated the city. They would find nothing wrong in beheading helpless young boys like him. He crawled forward, more determined than before. He decided that even if he was going to die, he wasn't going to lose any part of his body to any ritualist.

He heard the crickets chirping in the distant as he heaved painfully. He even thought he spotted a parliament of owls among the few trees in the street because he could see many pairs of shinning orbs in the branches.

For over an hour, Black crawled limb-by-limb away from his attackers. He remained immobile for a few minutes, exhausted and out of breath; the pain was killing him. When he thought he could not go on anymore, he spotted a church with a concrete cross proudly erected on its roof. With the last ounce of strength in him, he crawled towards the chapel.

He passed out when he reached the entrance.


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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.

mollusco:
All rights reserved o!

Lol! May plagiarists have AIDS.

More, please. This is particularly too short.

stuff46:
present

Stuff! You're highly welcome, sir.

Nmeri17:
Larry your story is quite sorrow inducing. I don't mean this wrongly but it is mood dampening and nearly gory. I don't mean it in a bad way tho. nevertheless I shall not cease to follow so as to savour the victory lap Peter is bound to run in the end.

PS: you're a writer I hope to be like when I grow up

Thank you so much, sir. Lol! I wrote a short story, too. It's a screwball comedy. It's titled The Coffin of Errors. You may read it if you haven't.

God bless you, sir.

jasmine2013:
I love love love this story

Thank you, ma'am.

Divepen:
Hmmm...
Black nation

Divey!! It's been a while, bro!

lenmafon:
a touching and emotional piece. thanks for the update. but u still have an unfulfilled promise o! oga Larrysun

The Collaboration, right?

Evangelio:
I will not cry....................... I won't..................... I said i will not!............Oh man.....

LOL!!! Hilarious post!

Nickymezor:
This piece is very touching ...weldone Larry.

Thank you, ma'am.

zyzxx:
larrysun nearly made me cry

Dis wonderful

Welldone sir

Thank you, sir.

kingphilip:
wow larrysun the great is back
welcome back boss u r truly the best

well this piece sure is gonna b great the previous updates speaks much volume
continue d great work boss

Wow! The king is here! You're welcome, your royal highness, sir. I've missed you.

hormoryhemii:
I heard a voice saying unfollow this thread, immediately I knew it was the devil speaking, I had no option than to resist him and he fled........


an emotional piece it is, especially where he had to place the leftover of the loaf of bread on her remains.

#bigboizdontcry##

Thanks a lot, sir. I wish Black could have your kind of signature.

*Chapter One - IV (continued)*

He stood up and returned to the busy street; the street appeared somewhat busier because labourers and professionals were beginning to return home from work. Even the market men and women were already locking up their shops and kiosks, except for the few traders whose goods were sold better only at nights. The little boy walked among the pedestrians; he didn't fit among these respectable and well-dressed people. Unlike Black, these people had their destinations; there were fathers, mothers, children and relatives waiting for them to come home. They had roofs over their heads and warm beds for them to rest the heads. They were nothing like this homeless boy walking among them; the boy who knew not what tomorrow would bring, the boy whose future seemed particularly bleak.

It was now totally dark, but Black didn't stop walking. He walked far, far away from the market square. He had initially thought about sleeping in one of these vacated shops but he couldn't find one not under lock and key, except for the few palm oil kiosks that had been so greased that anyone who lingered therein would be soaked with the oil. He needed a place where he would not have to add more dirt to the filthiness of self. The moon shone brightly in the sky and the stars were blinking like a man with seeds of pepper in his eyes. Cold, once again, was descending; Black began to feel chilly again. He wished he had taken his mother's blanket when he was being evicted from the house. Even though the roof of the house was always a sieve whenever the sky wept, and the walls were cracked with enough openings to accommodate a boxer's knuckle, the house still felt like home to Black. And the ejection from this house was the extremest depravity that could be subjected on his person; an act of wickedness only matched by the demise of his mother.

Then far ahead, Black caught the silhouette of something shaped like a bridge, but he was not entirely sure. It was too dark to be certain of what one saw from that distance until one was close enough to it. As Black walked faster towards what he thought he saw, he prayed it was really a bridge. He had never reached this part of the city in his entire life but he could recall that his father had once driven him and his mother on a bridge. He was still too young then, he could not even recall what had warranted the trip or where they were headed. But he could vividly remember seeing vagrants and beggars sleeping on the sidewalks of the bridge. Black was sure that many of these wretched people had chosen the sides of the express as their homes. Those times when the younger Peter was looking at those impoverished through the glass of his father's car, he never considered the thought that he would one day fall among the class of these poor, pitiful human beings, but here he was today.

He could now see it more clearly; it was truly a bridge. Black sighed inwardly, he was going to pass the night here. But unlike those vagrants he had beheld, he was not going to sleep on the bridge, he would spend the night under the bridge. He walked into the dark abyss of the bridge's underside. This place was less cold. The covering of the strong concrete that made up the bridge provided a considerable protection against the unfavourable weather of the night. It was now so late that everywhere was gradually getting deserted. Soon, the motorists drove their vehicles to their homes, the night hawkers closed for the day, the traders packed their goods and left for their houses; silence finally ruled in the city.

The bright moon above cast its light on the massive bridge, the bridge in turn cast its gloom on the ground beneath; the shadow it created was so enormous that Black wondered if King Kong stationed itself on the edge of the bridge, waiting to devour the homeless boy. Black found a comfortable part of the bridge and lay himself there. He was so tired from walking such a great distance that he slept off as soon as he closed his eyes. He was even oblivious of the swarm of mosquitoes that celebrated his arrival.

He had barely enjoyed a half-hour shut-eye when he woke up again. It wasn't the mosquito bites that woke him, it wasn't a sudden insomnia, and it definitely wasn't the cold. He was woken up by the repeated taps from another man's hand. Black's eyes had adjusted to the darkness of his environment, he woke up and saw three grown-ups staring at him. Two of the three men were muscular, and they were wearing T-shirts. Black noticed that the third man's dressing was somehow silly. The man was without any visible muscles and, in addition, as slim as any human could possibly be, yet, he was wearing a muscle shirt. Didn't you have to possess some muscles to wear a muscle shirt? As Black stared at these three grinning men before him, he knew that they didn't come bearing good tidings. If given a choice, he would rather be at the mercy of Chief Salami's thugs than at these devils smiling at him.

Black noticed that these men had something in common; they were all smoking something that didn't smell like cigarette.

"What is your name, boy?" The toughest-looking one among the thugs asked.

"My name is Black, sir."

The man looked puzzled at hearing the name. The other men were lighting another stick of whatever they were smoking.

"Black? As in colour Black?" The man asked again.

"Yes, sir."

"Is that your real name or nickname?"

"It's my surname, sir."

"Then what is your first name, young lad?" The man's voice was getting thicker. Black could sense the note of irritation in the man's voice.

"My first name is Peter, sir."

"Why didn't you tell me that before?"

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Were you trying to play smart with me?"

"No, sir."

"Were you trying to make me angry?"

"No, sir."

"But you've made me angry. I'm really angry now."

"But you're smiling, sir."

"Good observation. I smile when I'm angered. Do you know why I'm angry, Peter?"

"Because I didn't tell you my name, sir?"

The thug shook his head.

"No, it's not that. Well, not only that, actually."

"Why are you angry, sir?"

The man stared at the boy for a moment and said, "Boy, if you fall into a lion's pit, do you know what will happen to you?"

"The lion will eat me, sir."

"Do you know why the lion will eat you?"

"Because it's hungry?"

The man shook his head again, "No, not that."

"Because it's bloodthirsty?"

"No, not that either. The lion will eat you up because you have invaded its territory."

"But in the Bible, the lion didn't eat Daniel."

"Exactly! The lion didn't eat Daniel because his name was Daniel. They would have eaten him up and used his bones to pick their teeth if his name was Peter."

This analogy was too complex for the young boy to comprehend. Black looked at the other men, they were smoking copiously and staring hard at him. The eyes of the slim man scared him most. Those eyes were granite hard and totally emotionless; they were like the eyes of an angry corpse. Black was momentarily more afraid of the slim man than of his muscular compatriots.

The man speaking with Black continued, "Young boy, I have a very bad news for you."

"Bad news, sir?" He wondered what news could possibly be worse than all the misfortunes he had experienced in the last couple of months.

"The bad news is that you are in a lion's pit and we are the lions."

This statement befuddled Black; he was finding it hard to picture the three thugs going down on their fours and transforming into a pack of carnivores with manes.

"You have invaded our privacy." The dead eyes spoke.

Black looked at the three lions and asked, "Are you going to eat me?"

The third thug grimaced, "Aw! Of course not. That's disgusting. Do we look like cannibals to you?"

"I'm sorry for invading your territory, sirs. I'm going to leave now." Black wondered where he would go in this silent night if he vacated this place for the thugs. He wished he also had muscles, he would beat the three men to a pulp if he were powerful. He had seen a movie where a single cowboy beat up five other cowboys. Black wished he was a cowboy and had a horse of his own, and a whip.

He made to rise but was firmly held down by the first man. The man's hand was big and strong, it hurt Black's shoulder.

"Not that fast," The man said, "You have to atone for your sin." He turned to his friends and asked, "Guys, what punishment should we mete out to the sinner?"

The second thug stared at Black with those deathly eyes again and a wicked smile came to his lips. He removed the stick from between his teeth and said, "Let's stone him."


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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.

*Chapter One - IV (continued)*

"Are you really going to do it?" The man's partner asked.

He still held the blade at the child neck when he replied, "I don't want to, but I have to do it."

"If you don't want to do it, then you don't have to do it." The partner replied as he brought out a cigarette box, took out a stick and lit it. He inhaled the smoke deeply as he sucked.

"What about Chief?"

"To hell with Chief," the smoker replied, "This is a child for crying out loud. We have our own children, remember? And besides, the killing of helpless children is not our kind of job."

The man with Black nodded his head in agreement as he looked at the boy. The blood from the boy's neck had flowed on the knife. He took the knife away immediately. The he asked his partner:

"What are we going to tell the chief?"

"We'll tell him we've done the job, of course. I can see that you have cut the child, we'll show the bloodstain on the knife to Chief. Simple. He'll believe it."

The man with the knife faced the little boy and said, "You are a very lucky boy, you're not going to die today. If you want to continue staying alive, just make sure you never return to that house where we found you. Do you understand me?"

Black nodded weakly.

"Good," The man said and extracted a currency from his pocket, "Take this money, buy yourself some food and stay of trouble."

The men left him there at the bank of the stream, got into their car and drove off. Black lay there, with the money given to him firmly clutched in his fist. Even as weak as he was, he would not release the money without a fight; the money was his ticket to life.

Ten minutes after the men had departed, Peter dragged himself towards the stream and drank from it. Then with effort, he stood on his feet. He felt very dizzy and leaned against a tree. He waited for the dizziness to clear a little before taking some slow steps. Slowly but surely, Black walked to the open where food items were sold. He staggered to a kiosk and bought some hot buns. The snacks were delicious but Black didn't feel the taste; he just knew that he was eating something edible. The vendor gave him a return change for what he bought and Black walked slowly to a quiet place to eat his food.

He ate five balls of the buns and drank from the stream that would have received his blood had the men not show him kindness. He was feeling less hungry now but the fever still about him had not alleviated. He still felt weak and his temperature was high. He lay under the tree by the stream and thought about what had happened to him this morning. He thought about the evil Chief Salami. He thought about his parents. He thought about the men who had been ordered to kill him but had refused to do it. He thought about himself; he was thinking about what tomorrow would bring him when he drifted off to sleep under the tree.

By the time he woke up in the late afternoon, his voice was returning, and so was migraine. It was as if someone was testing a hammer on his skull. The headache was getting worse. He staggered to his feet and held his head in both hands, crying out loud. He cried with pain, cried helplessly, calling on his mother who would never come. He staggered back to the busy street; his body dirty and full of soot. The clothes he had stolen were torn and slowly becoming rags too. The other pair had been left in the house. He had forgone that, since he had been seriously warned never to return to the house.

As he wobbled down the street, people avoided him like a plague. No one showed him kindness; some considered him a little vagrant, others called him a mad child. Peter hated them all; they were wicked people, he decided. His parents had been kind to people in their lifetimes. They had even shown benevolence to total strangers, so why couldn't these people show him kindness in return? So, Peter concluded that his parents were the only nice people in the world. Maybe it was wrong to be nice after all.

He ate the remaining balls of buns with him. The food was only able to curb his hunger, not his headache. Raising his eyes up he saw a chemist's shop and went into it. The woman behind the desk looked down on him as if he were a maggot that had managed to crawl out of a latrine pit.

"Please ma'am. I have headache." Black told her.

The woman stared at him incredulously, as if he had just told her to find an ocean to jump into.

"Excuse me?" The lady said.

"My head is killing me, ma'am." Black groaned.

"And the oracle told you I'm the cause of the headache, right? Watch that wall, don't taint it with your filthy body."

"I'm sorry, ma'am." Black stepped away from the white wall and said, "Please ma'am. I need medicine for my headache."

The woman regarded Black for a moment and said, "Do you think we run a charity organisation here? You think this is the headquarters of WHO?"

"What's a WHO, ma'am?"

"World Health Organisation, silly."

"I don't understand what you mean ma'am. Please give me something to kill this headache, ma'am, before it kills me."

"All the drugs here are for sale, boy. Get your vile self out of here before the customers begin to complain.

Black was about to exit the shop when he remembered the money given him by one of the thugs. He quickly dipped his hand into his pocket and extracted the money. The lady collected some of the money and gave him a satchet of Paracetamol.

"Take two tablets now and another two in the night before you sleep."

"Thank you, ma'am. I'm very grateful." Black left thhe drug store. He returned to the stream and gulped down the drugs with some water. Then he leaned against a tree, his eyes shut. Soon, the placebo effect began to manifest and the headache was slowly relieving him. He wanted to return to his house, he wanted to stay close to his mother. He was worried about her, but he knew he could not visit her, he dare not.

Suddenly, the weather transformed; the sky was changing her garments, lizards were beginning to crawl into hole, roosters about to jump on branches, birds attempting to fly into thejr nests. Night was gradually approaching. It was during this process of atmospheric transformation that the thought about where to lay his head occurred to Black. He was definitely not going to pass the night under the tree beside the stream; the cold that would ravage his convalescing body, not to talk of the millions of mostquitoes that would feed on him before dawn.


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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.

fareedah86:
U pple shld allow him update now.....

I updated yesterday. Another update will come later today.

Larrysky:
You are simply the best, swerry. As per my journey, don't mind me o. But trust me na, i got goodies for ya. Now that you have appeased the gods, lemme see whats up with Black Maria. *hugs*

Thank you, dear. I know you will catch up. I've not gone beyond Chapter One.