₦airaland Forum

Larrysky:
Larrysun, my better half.... But why dont you tag me when the wine is still fresh? Now i have to drink left over *frowns*

Oh, my goodness!!! Where have you been since all the while? I've missed you a bunch!

I'm so sorry, I didn't know you've returned from your journey. You didn't even tell me when you were leaving. I searched around for you.

I've got some more thickly-brewed wine in my cauldron. Trust me.

fareedah86:
Not missing this for anything...after I read 'the brand of cain' I knew u were a talented writer,just dnt kip me over salivating o and where u the one who wrote a story about ZANDRA?cnt remember the title now.

Thank you so much, ma'am. I promise to keep you glued.

nellyme:
Interesting storyline....could remember u saying something abt writing concerning theft....I guess this is it...definitely following.

And the great and beautiful queen appears. You're welcome, ma'am.

Toeyean1507:
Lemme comment before reading............welcome,boss. I really missed u............I hope there's still a space in d front seat cos I short o

I missed you, too, ma'am. How are you? You have a reserved space in the VIP section.

kizzykeziah:
Excellent job, sir.
The dexterity displayed is no less than 100%. I bet I had a feeling of really being present in each scene.

I appreciate your comment, ma'am. It feels me with glee to receive such comment from a fellow writer.

CrazyScientist:
LarrySun , longest update ever liveth, you still the boss! Peter Black is about to be a 'corporate theif' or in my words 'corporate property returner'

I doff my hat for you

Thank you so much, sir.

VanTee20:
Both the prologue and the first chapter are impeccably written. Well, I wasn't expecting anything less from the nonpareil writer of this section. Ride on sir. I'm so following this to the end.

Thank you so much, brother. I'm glad you liked what you read.

Abbamizy:
Larry ,larrrry, laaarrrry ....hw many times did i call you?

Three times.

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Chapter One - IV

A month after his mother's demise, Black was evicted from the house. The deluge that came in the night had not ceased, and yet before the deluge, the night had been quiet, eerily so. But when the rain poured, it brought with it a special kind of coldness. The night had been too cold for Peter to endure with his usual equanimity. The rain that had started had been supported with series of heavy breeze. His mother's blanket had done little to shield him from the iciness of the weather. The roof was leaking, too, so Black crouched himself at one corner of the dilapidating building. He wished his mother was with him in this darkness, he would feel safer if she were here. Now, Black was terribly afraid; afraid of the world, of the bleak future that awaited him. The ten-year-old child was not unlike a homeless kitten.

The morning came and the rain still hadn't stopped, and Black lay on the cold floor, shivering. The same ailment which had claimed his mother was gradually falling him, too. He could not rise up to prepare for school; he was running fever and his temperature was rising even in the cold. There was no one to take care of him. He was starving, too; hunger was ravaging him, and he had no strength to go out today and steal his food.

The iron-black clouds that had masked the sky this early morning, and had threatened to punish the day with an heavier downpour, had now hid themselves behind grey veils of the morning mist. Although the cold still abided with its lamentations, the sodden trees remained standing, as still and as solemn as witnesses to a funeral cortege. However, the initial rainstorm of the night was gradually thinning into a drizzle. Black was still shivering under the hole-ridden blanket when three men came into the house. One of the men was fashionably dressed in his royally local attire, and he looked wealthier than the other men who flanked him on either sides. Black knew the rich man; he was the infamous Chief Salami; the criminal was now coronated because he was rich. The chief was responsible for scaping the butter off Black's bread.

Salami was the friend and business partner of Peter's father. They had both siphoned some money but Peter's father was the unlucky partner in the crime; he had been apprehended and jailed. Peter's father refused to give up his partner, even under series of torture by the police, all was because Salami had promised to take care of his partner's family all through Black's father's time in jail until he returned to receive his rightful share of the loot.

And Salami had kept this promise; he provided for Peter and his mother. Both mother and child lived in affluence. Peter attended the best school and ate whatever he wanted. He had no problem in the world, until his father died in prison. Then the paradise became a wilderness.

Salami had immediately ceased taking care of them as soon as Peter's father's demise reached him. He denied ever knowing them and forced them out of the house, making sure they left with nothing. His plans had been successful; he had bribed the wardens to poison the prison. Salami was greedy, he didn't want to part with half of the loot, and when the boy's father was almost due for his release, Salami had him killed. He knew his friend had disclosed to his wife all that had happened, so Salami decided that the less he had anything to do with the dead man's family the better it would be for him.

The news about the prisoner's death reached Salami's ears first. The same night he heard the news, Salami visited his friend's wife and tried to seduce her; but the beautiful woman had denied him access. Even after two years of her husband's incarceration, she still remained faithful to her marriage. Clouded with anger for refusing him, Salami had slapped the woman and informed her that the husband she was so devoted to had died in prison; then he had pushed the poor woman and her son out of the house.

Peter's mother, weeping, had taken her son's hand and they had gone to her husband's house he had been developing prior his arrest. The next day, she had gone to the prison to collect her husband's corpse; she buried him in the back of the old building. Now six moths later, Peter had buried his mother beside his father.

The young boy was still shivering under the blanket as he watched the three men approach. Black didn't know the other two men, but Salami was the man he hated with passion; his mother had told him the truth about Chief Salami's evil deeds. He swore to avenge his parents' deaths on the wicked chief. How he was going to do it, he didn't know, but he was going to avenge. Every breath he took now was that of vengeance. It was wrong to think that a small fish like him would be able to fight off the leviathan called Salami.

Salami approached him and asked, "Young boy, what is your name? Who are you?"

Peter Black was naturally a dark-skinned boy, but hunger and lack of proper bathes had made him darker and smaller than his years. Chief Salami did not recognise the boy whom he had chased from their home six months earlier.

"What is your name, young man?" Salami asked again.

Although circumstance had forced Peter Black to become a thief, he still didn't know how to lie. He hadn't learned how to become a liar. He replied:

"My name is Peter Black."

The older man recoiled back in surprise. The carefully looked at the boy this time. He roughly pulled the blanket off of the little boy to get a complete view of the son of the friend he had had killed. He could recognise the boy now. The little thin thing had become thinner; the child was visibly suffering from nutritional deficiencies. Salami was amazed at what starvation could do to the human body.

He bent over the boy and asked, "Are you the same Peter Black, the son of Ade Black?"

The little boy spoke with effort, "Yes, I am, sir." Politesse was a virtue already stamped on him since cradle. "You sent us away, sir."

Salami was amused at the little boy's reply. He knew the boy was dying; he would definitely die soon if he had no proper care. Salami liked the boy when they were still living healthy. Peter was a sharp, intelligent, jovial and polite boy. This boy's reply gave him a reminiscence of that brilliant and healthy boy he knew. He wished things had gone in a different direction. He wished he did not have to choose between money and his friend. But he was willing to do it again if the situation repeated itself; he could never trade fortune for friendship.

"Do you know why I sent you and your mother away?"

The boy did not reply at first; he was finding it very hard to find his voice, and he was becoming gradually dizzy.

Chief Salami asked the question again, and Blac forced himself to reply, "Yes, sir."

"Where is your mother?" Salami asked. He wanted to see Black's mother. He wanted to see what had become of her. The stupid woman would have become thin and ugly, he thought. He smiled at himself when he thought about how surprised ashamed the little boy's mother would be on seeing him. He would mock her. He would laugh at her. He would make her life another hell. He noticed that the boy was saying something, but he could not hear his words.

"Speak up, boy, where is your mother?"

"She is dead, sir."

The answer shocked Salami. He never thought that his friend's wife would die, too, the same year she lost her husband. He smiled to himself. His secrets were now totally safe, almost safe, save for the little brat here. This one was not a problem to him; he knew what to do about this unimportant variable. Salami gleefully rubbed his hands together like politician who had just won an election. The men who accompanied him stood at one corner of the room watching the man and the child. They apparently worked for the chief.

Salami was still smiling when the boy said, "I buried her in the backyard."

He didn't at first understand the boy's words, "Buried who?"

"I buried her in the backyard, beside my father."

"What!" Salami screamed incredibly. "You mean your parents are buried in the backyard?"

"Yes, sir." Black replied weakly.

"One my own land?" Salami screamed.

Peter didn't understand. What did the man mean by 'his own land'? The land didn't belong to him. The land belonged to his father. His mother had told him that the piece of land and the house was theirs. It was the property left behind by his father. Now this evil man was calling it his own land. That wasn't fair, it was cheating, wickedness. But Peter could do nothing about this; he was too small and young to claim his right. He wanted to speak but his voice would allow him no more word.

"You this bastard! How dare you bury your mother on my land?" Salami was very angry now.

The men approached the chief and one of them said, "The rain has stopped, we should go to the second site since we can't find any thug here." The men were Chief Salami's muscles; protecting the chief and attacking his opposers were their jobs. Today, they were on the hunt to deal with any hoodlum that might be occupying any of the chief's properties.

"Before we leave, you have something to do for me," he pointed at the shivering boy and said, "This one is also a trespasser."

"What should we do about him, sir?" The other muscle asked, "Should we through him out?"

"No, don't throw him out." Chief Salami replied. "Take him away. Kill him and dump his corpse into the river. Use my car."

Without further ado, one of the men grabbed Black like a piece of sack and carried him out of the house. They put him in the back seat of the Volvo outside and drove away. Salami stayed at the entrance of the house and watched as the muscles transport the sick boy to where they would kill him. Peter himself was too weak to protest against the men. He had stopped shivering, but still very weak.

A quite intense sun had come out to watch over the world. And the birds had vacated their nests to sing among trees and on top of electric poles. Those who had initially used their umbrellas against the rain were now using it against the heat; an irony of nature, a boomerang of nature.

When they had driven to a secluded location beside the rushing stream that always flowed into the large river in the city square, the men stopped the car and carried out the weakling. He was so light that the man carrying him almost didn't feel his weight. The boy just remained withered in his hands. But his eyes were open, sharply open, watching the men with pleading eyes. Black knew what they were going to do to him but he could not beg them to show him mercy; he was too weak to speak, he could only plead with his eyes.

He was placed by the bank of the stream.

"How do we do it?" One man asked the other.

"Let's strangle him."

"It would be faster if we broke his neck."

"We can stab him or slit his throat."

"His blood would stain the stream."

"Who cares? His body would be discovered anyway, even if we give him euthanasia. I don't have my knife. Do you have yours?"

"Yes, I have my knife with me."

"Then do it."

The man who had carried him out of the car brought out his knife and approached the boy. Black watched him as he came. He resigned himself to what was about to be. His eyes didn't register any fear. The man bent Black's head backward and put the blade of the knife against the neck. The knife drew blood immediately.

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


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 - III

Rejected by the world and all alone, little Peter learnt how to rely on himself the hard way. He never cried for his mother again; he’d learned to cope with pain, as his mother had managed to cope when she lost her husband. But he spent a considerable number of times by his mother’s grave; chatting with the earth, talking, singing, even cracking jokes. He just had to do something to make him believe that his mother was still with him, even if he didn’t see her.

It was morning already, and Peter was hungry again. He had no bread to eat now; and there was not even any crumb to place on his mother’s grave. The pieces he had placed there the night before had disappeared. Peter thought his mother had eaten them, but the bread crumbs had really been scooped up by birds and lizards that frequented the back compound. He knew what he had to do; he would steal another loaf of bread, a bigger one this time. Because he had gotten away with the first theft, Peter strongly believed that he would never be caught. He was a fast runner; he believed his legs could carry him faster than any other human being. Besides, he had to live, he had to feed his mother. Stealing was the only thing he knew he could do to stay alive. He had seen how callous people could become if their help was sought. No one was ready to be of assistance. Humans had offered him nothing but cruelty. He was done begging for help and getting victimized thereafter. They had made him believe that it was an abomination to ask for help. If he wanted anything, he had to take it. That was the way of life. That was going to be his way.

He stood from his mother’s grave and went into the house to change his rags. As he clad up, he realised that his second pair of clothes was getting too old for him; the tears were expanding, and soon they’d begin to reveal his privates. He needed another pair of shirts and trousers—and he was going to get it; he was going to steal it. He quickly dressed himself up and went out of the house. He didn’t like leaving his mother alone there in the back yard now that she needed him most, but he needed to find some food, lest he starved to death like his mother. But as young as Peter was, he had learnt not to be scared of death. In short, he looked forward to dying and uniting with his mother, but he needed to fulfil his promise to his mother.

He walked the long mile to the crowded street. Walking long distances meant nothing to Peter. He always trekked all the way to school; he could not afford even the cheapest means of transportation. As usual, the town’s street was a very busy one; there were thick traffic jams here and there. In the traffic, all the cars hooted all the time at alternating decibels, and when there was nothing to hoot at they hooted for nothing. Not to be outdone, the drivers of taxi and Volkswagen Beetles yelled curses at each other at the top of their voices. Many shops and film houses blared different kinds of music from cheap radios turned to full volumes with the fateful assistance of sound engines; colporteurs called continually and the harassed pedestrians told them to go to hell, dogs barked and circling crafts screamed overhead. From time to time, all the noise would be swamped by the roar of an aeroplane. This was what Peter wanted, all the chaos would create enough distraction—the traffics, the crowds, the barking dogs, even the aeroplane. He walked without qualms past the first stall where loaves of bread were sold; this was not the same market he had stolen a loaf from the last time, it definitely wasn’t the same stall. He walked past the second stall because it was too crowded and it seemed like everybody in the stall was the seller, and it appeared as though they were protecting the loaves with their lives—there was no way he was going to steal from them successfully. But the third stall he found was literally empty and his heart raced at the opportunity nature presented before him. There appeared to be no one watching the loaves, but Peter was cautious; he stood at the farther side of the road watching the stall, he wanted to be absolutely certain that it was safe to steal from this particular stall. The ten minutes he spent standing at the other side gave him enough info about the bread vendor. The occupier of the stall was a young lady who found her excitement in flirting with a vulcanizer whose shop was about three kiosks away. Occasionally, she would come to her stall at every three or four minutes to check and count the loaves before rushing back to continue her coquetry with the dirty old man.

The young boy waited for the lady to check on her loaves again and return to her flirt before taking his action. As soon as she left, Peter went to the table bearing these loaves, grabbed two big ones and ran. He ran in a different direction from where he came; he was not going to stop until he reached home. But he stopped. Something made him stop.

At the left side of the road was a shop where children’s clothes of different types and sizes were sold. Two particular pairs of shirts and trousers displayed on a hangar in front of the shop caught Peter’s attention. Peter desperately wanted these clothes; he could give anything to have them, he could swap the loaves of bread he was clutching in his hands. He could afford to spend one more night with an empty stomach. But he knew too well that the seller of these clothes would not give him the treasures for only two loaves of bread. However, no matter what, Peter was not going to leave here without the clothes. No matter what.

The shop was even more closely guarded than the shops that flanked it on either side. Before this particular shop were buyers pricing the clothes and negotiating with the trader; some buyers were paying while some others people were just checking out the clothes. Peter desperately wished and prayed no one would buy his favourite clothes. He looked around, searching with his eyes for any other clothes-shop that was not as crowded as this one, there was no other shop concerned about people’s sartorial delights. As he looked around, he spotted a kiosk where apples were sold. Then a brilliant idea struck his tiny head.

He was going to create a distraction.

Leaving the spot where he stood, he walked to the table and picked one fresh apple. He was very stealth; and because he was a little boy, no one discovered him take the fruit. Peter didn’t need the apple, no amount of apples would curb his hunger. The apple was just a distraction. He returned to the side of the clothes-shop and waited. As usual, no one took a second glance at Peter.

Then a woman screamed from the opposite road. It was the fruiterer.

In those times, any person being robbed always instantly raised a hue and cry. The victims always expected immediate response from pedestrians, negotiators and retailers alike—and they always got the response from those law abiding citizens who joined in the fracas with alacrity in the eagerness to capture the bolting villain and pass instant judgements.

“Help! Someone has stolen one of my apples!” The woman screamed at the top of her voice. Pedestrians stopped in their tracks, and fellow traders forgot their goods as they all stared at the alarmed fruiterer. Even the hen on a slaughter-table ceased its shrieks for a moment to understand the human's sudden outburst. The fruiterer was dramatic; she jumped up and down in agitation, she loosened her scarf and tied it round her waist like someone ready for a brawl. The scarf was tied in such a forceful manner that people watching would think the fabric was the cause of her misfortune. She screamed and wailed. She ran forth and back—she had successfully caught the attention of people around. But there was no thief to chase. Other sympathizing market women held her and attempted to restrain her from harming herself over one lost apple.

Peter watched all these with concentration and a thin smile almost crossed his lips. He had created the distraction he wanted. Every buyer’s attention was now directed towards the lamenting fruiterer. The man selling the clothes was also engrossed in hearing the victim’s sorrowful tale, so he walked towards the gathering crowd, leaving his goods with Peter Black. Everybody was excited about what had just happened—a thief had purloined an apple. This was the chance Peter was waiting for. When almost everyone was looking at the performing woman, Peter quickly moved closer to the shop and unhooked the hangers bearing the pairs; he didn’t wait to hear the shopkeeper’s scream for help. Peter took the path beside the clothes-shop and bolted.

He didn’t stop to look back as he ran. He was very proud of his achievement; he now had two big loaves of bread, two pairs of clothes and an apple. He ate the apple while still on the run. He felt on top of the world. This was a bigger feat than what he had performed the first time he stole a loaf. As he made his way home, he believed he was the happiest person on earth. He had successfully stolen three items in one operation. Peter was gradually becoming a don in the business of thievery. But there was more to theft than the petty larceny of paltry loaves of bread.

The first thing he did when he finally reached home was his regular personal ritual. He went to the back of the house and placed a few crumbs of bread on his mother’s grave. Then he took some bites for himself. After eating to satisfaction, he sat beside the grave and chatted for a little while with his imaginary mother. He wanted to tell her about what he did today, but he didn’t. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. He knew his mother wouldn’t approve of his actions, so he held his tongue. Peter wished he could have someone visible to talk to. The solitude was becoming painful and scary.

He went into the house and held his new clothes. He liked the designs on them; they were the same pairs, just different colours—pink and blue. When he checked the backs of the shirts, an inscription was boldly written on them: BLACK NATION. Peter opened his eyes wide and smiled for the first time since his mother had passed away. What a coincidence, he thought. His surname was Black and he had stolen two shirts bearing the same name on them. He decided to nickname himself Black—his surname.

When Black wore the clothes, they fit him perfectly.


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.

Lol! One can only endure. I type my stuff with a phone that is blessed with a terrible battery durability. It stays on for only ten minutes, that's even when it decides to show me some kindness.

Keep up the good work, sir. May your next update be longer.

Chapter One - II

As the young boy slowly walked towards his mother, he wondered why she was sleeping with her eyes open; he also wondered why she didn’t wake up when he said he’d brought her some food. He knew his mother to be a light-sleeper. Normally, she’d have woken up as soon as he stepped in. Something was wrong, Peter was too young to understand what was happening.

He reached beside his mother and called, “Mami.”

No reply.

He called again, his voice gentler, “Mami. I’ve brought some food.”

No reply still.

He tore out a piece from the loaf and attempted to feed his mother, but the food fell on the ground each time he tried to put it in her mouth.

“You have to eat something, Mami. Please eat.” He was weeping again. Every time he attempted to feed the corpse, the piece would drop.

Because he was too tired from running, Peter Black cried himself to sleep beside his deceased mother. When he came awake in the evening, he resumed his cry because his mother had not woken up yet. He spent the whole of the night calling on his mother. Something is terribly wrong with Mami, he thought as he wept in the darkness.

When morning approached, he still tried to feed his mother breakfast by putting another piece of the bread between her insensitive lips; each time he tried, the piece would fall off. He cried himself to sleep the whole day. He saw his mother in his dreams when he slept. She was always smiling at her. She always looked healthy and her complexion richly golden—like she was an angel. There was no sign of any suffering about her. This was the woman he had known in the days before. She always said the same sentence each time she appeared to him:

“Take them back, Peter.”

Peter woke up the next day feeling very hungry. He had not eaten anything since his mother had slept. His eyes were swollen from weeping too much, and his small body was shrunken with starvation; he looked like a child torn by war. The hunger was getting unbearable now. He picked up the loaf of bread his mother had refused to eat and began to feed himself. When he had consumed half of the bread, he stopped, his mother might wake up soon. He would have to give her something to eat when she woke up.

After three hours, it suddenly dawned on Peter that his mother would not be waking up. She had gone to somewhere without pains; a place of no hunger. Mami would never be waking up. He cried anew because he knew that Mami had left him for a place of rest and peace without taking him along. He was now all alone in the world. He remembered being taught in school that a child without a mother or a father was called an orphan. Peter was an orphan. He wept helplessly.

He could not leave his mother lying there, he had to do something. He had watched what his mother had done when his father had slept and refused to wake up. He stood up and covered his mother with the only blanket they both shared. He went to the back of the house and found a shovel left behind by some labourers a long time earlier; he picked up the shovel and began to dig a section of the back yard. But because Peter was too young to dig a grave, it took a long time to dig a visible hole as every time he tried to dig the sand poured back in the hole in such ways that his efforts were nearly useless. The back of the building was quite a sandy place.

Peter had to rest a couple of times before resuming his diggings, and by the time he finished digging a hole big enough to accommodate his dead mother, he was soaked through and through with sweat. He was also nearly breathless with exhaustion.

He returned to the house and sat down to rest, he slept off there. When he woke up, he walked to where the corpse lay and pulled away the blanket. He stared at his mother’s fixed but unseeing hollow eyes and tears ran down his own cheeks.

“I’m so sorry, Mami, for bringing your food too late.” He believed that his mother died because he’d spent too long to find her some food. He thought he might still be alive if he had returned earlier. But his mother had died the moment he stepped out of the doorway.

He would have to carry his mother to bury her in the back yard; that was how she had done to his father. He tried to lift her but the corpse was too heavy for the ten-year-old boy. There was no way he was going to carry his mother to the back yard. He thought about going out and begging some older people to help him carry his mother but he dismissed the thought when the remembrance of how he had been ignored by the people occurred to him. Nobody would listen to him; no one would even believe him if they listened. He was alone in the world. He had to do this himself.

He stood up, held his mother’s hands and began to pull. With much efforts and hard breaths, he dragged his mother towards the back yard. He winced and wept each time his mother’s head hit something hard or her legs got caught in a corner. He felt like he was hurting her, but he had no choice.

He kept repeating “I’m sorry, Mami” each time her body hit something hard. When he finally dragged her to the back yard, he collapsed on the heaped sand, tired. After resting a bit, he pushed his mother into the hole. The grave was not very deep but it was enough to cover up his mother. When his mother landed in the hole, one of her legs was somehow twisted irregularly at an acute angle, so Peter had to enter the hole and adjust it right. He climbed out and looked at his mother for the final time. Her shrunken face was now bloated and her body was swollen. Rigor mortis had done its own part and left. Now the congealed fluid inside her had bubbled her up in a macabre portrayal of terrible death. But Peter didn’t understand. He wondered why his thin mother had suddenly become fat in death. He slowly said his good bye and picked up the shovel.

As he shovelled the sand back on his mother, he began to sing all the lullabies his mother had always sung to him in the nights when hunger deprived him of sleep. Most times, the songs were usually magical and they would soothe him to sleep. As he sang now, he hoped the song soothe her and give her peace wherever she was. He tried without success to stop the tears that rushed to her eyes. He did not pause to rest; he made sure his mother was entirely covered. He sang all the way and prayed her gentle soul rested in peace.

After successfully burying his mother and levelling the ground, he knelt on the grave and gave a short prayer. He didn’t pray for his mother; he prayed to his mother. He prayed for guidance; he asked his mother to guard his steps. He stood up five minutes later and looked down at the ground that clothed his mother—there was something missing yet. Then he remembered; he recalled that his mother had put a bouquet on his father’s grave after burying him. But Peter Black didn’t have a bunch of flowers to place on Mami’s grave, so he went into the house and returned with the half-eaten loaf of bread.

Instead of flowers, Peter placed crumbs of bread on his mother’s grave.

Then he cried for the last time.

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.

BOOK ONE
BLACK
(1980 – 1993)


CHAPTER ONE
I

Peter Black was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but the silver soon became plastic when his father died. A formidable adversary had made sure that the name ‘Black’ never remained in the limelight. He took over every possession of the Blacks, leaving Peter and his mother nothing but residence in a dilapidated building at the least inhabited section of the city of Port Harcourt. Hunger ravaged their skins in the day and cold tortured them every night. And it was this suffering that turned the ten-year-old boy into a pathological thief. The first thing Peter stole in his life was a loaf of bread. And he stole it because he had no other choice.

He rose from bed this morning before his mother but he didn’t wake earlier than her; in short, his mother didn’t have a minute’s sleep all through the night, Peter didn’t know that. He just rose and went to the back of the collapsing building to bathe his face and limbs; he always had his normal baths in the stream half a mile away each time he was returning from school. He’d bath in the river and take some of the water home to drink. He never gave a damn about cholera. Peter Black had just been enrolled into the Government College, Port Harcourt. It was a public school and his mother didn’t have to pay tuition, not that she would have any money to pay anyway if asked. She did not even have to pay for books, the government provided stationery. But Peter never had a uniform; he always wore his rag to school, his sartorial pride was restricted to two pairs of shirts and trousers—both too old and torn to be worn presentably. His only pair of sandals was flat-soled already and fostered different holes as if mice had been at them. Peter was never bothered about his rags, but his unkempt appearance was always a constant sadness to his mother. Contrarily, what always bothered and worried Peter was the prospect of food. Some few days, he would be given some leftovers by some students and teachers but he always made sure he remained some for his mother, no matter how little the gift was. Some other days, he’d find some spoiling crumbs of fufu in some families’ trash cans and take home. He and his mother would peel off the greening parts of the food and eat the morsels voraciously absent soup or stew. Very few times, he would luckily catch some fish in the town’s river. They would cook the fish without the benefit of seasoning or pepper—they ate just to stay alive, pleasure was something they could not afford. Still, many of those days always greeted them with hunger, and the nights always lulled them to sleep with starvation. However, Saturdays were usually their most favourite of days, for Saturdays always brought them more than enough food. Black would go out on this day to different celebratory locations where parties were had and he would beg cooks to spare the leftovers of their meals. Peter Black usually came home with food to last them for three days. After the second day, the food usually turned thickly stale, but they always eat it anyway; they had eaten worse things than mere staleness of food. Their taste buds had dwindled in such ways that they didn’t even always taste the staleness in their mouths.

This particular morning, however, was a Thursday, and as Peter washed himself he wondered if the day was going to bring them food or they would have to drink water all day as they had done two days prior. When he returned into the building to change into his second rag, he saw his mother shivering violently. He immediately forgot what he intended to do and rushed to his mother’s side.

“Mami, what is wrong?” he asked anxiously. He knew his mother was not feeling well. He had suspected it when he woke up and found her still lying down. His mother had always been an early riser; she was usually up long before Peter woke up most times, she would bathe him up and get him dressed for school. When he rose up before her this morning he had assumed that she was only slightly tired; he hadn’t noticed earlier that she was shivering.

“Mami, what’s wrong?” he asked again.

“I’m all right, Peter,” his mother replied, “You’ll be late for school, go and dress up.” Her voice was weak.

“You’re not all right, Mami.”

His mother gave a weak smile, “See, I’m smiling. I’m all right.”

“But you’re shaking.”

“It’s because I’m feeling slightly cold.”

Peter looked outside. Dawn had broken clear and the sun was already peeping from the sky; there was no cold now. The cold of the night had gone. His mother shouldn’t be shivering now if it was only cold; warmth had come. Then he suddenly remembered that his mother had not eaten for two days; the last time his mother had eaten anything was on Monday. The meal he had brought home on Saturday had only lasted them till Monday; he recalled that neither of them had eaten anything on Tuesday. And on Wednesday, the next day—yesterday—he’d eaten only in the evening; the food had been too little that his mother had allowed him to eat it all. Now, he was starving. Peter knew now that it was starvation that had reduced his mother to this shivering shadow of herself. She had grown very thin; her bones were threatening to break out of her shrinking skin, her eyes were very hollow now and the hairs of her head were pulling out already. The graceful woman he had grown to know has his mother had been turned into a scarecrow.

He could not help the tears that ran down his cheeks. He wanted to help her but he didn’t know how. His mother was dying of starvation and he could do nothing about it. This broke his heart, it shattered his ventricles. He had always imagined himself growing up and taking good care of his mother for all the suffering she was going through. But he was still too young to achieve that promise now. His mother needed him more than anything now.

“Why are you crying, Peter?” His mother asked. Her voice was getting increasingly weaker.

“Mami, please don’t leave me.” The little boy was crying visibly now.

“I’m not going anywhere. But promise me one thing, Peter.”

Though Peter Black was too young to understand what a promise was, he still asked, “What?”

"Promise me you will take back all that was taken from us. Promise me.”

“I promise, Mami, I promise.”

His mother began to shake violently again. He couldn’t bear to watch his mother in such pitiable state. He had to get her some food. He quickly ran out of the house to get his mother some food. As he ran the mile, he didn’t know how he was going to get the food, but he knew that he was not going to return to the house empty-handed. He was not going to school today, his mother’s life was at stake. He was already too late anyway.

He ran into a crowded street, sweating profusely. He spotted a nicely dressed man and ran to him.

“Please, sir. Kindly spare some money. I want to buy some food for my mother. She’s dying of hunger.”

“Go away from me,” the man scowled.

Peter followed him “Please, sir. My mother is dying.”

“If you don’t stop following me, I will slap you.”

“Please—”

The man gave him a hard slap on the side of the face. His cheek burned with hotness as the impact of the attack threw him into the puddle of dirty water nearby. For a moment, the ten-year-old boy could see nothing. He heard the man say:

“Go and extort from someone else.”

When he opened his eyes, the man was no more on sight. He slowly got up from the puddle and continued running around, begging people to spare a coin. They all told him to go away. A few of them lied that they had no ‘change’ on them. No one believed his story; the people considered him to fall among one of the desperate beggars’ children who could yarn any falsehood to get money from passers-by. He continued begging people to save his mother, occasionally falling with tiredness and rising with determination. He was perspiring noticeably under the hot weather of that morning.

After many trials without success, Peter Black found loaves of bread displayed on a table. He wished he had money with him to buy the food. He sat down crying at the side of one wall and begged people to bestow a trifle—nobody gave him a second glance. Realising that remaining crouched there was not right, he stood up quickly. As he rose, he discovered that the bread vendor had left the table and had retired to an inner shop. A thought to take a loaf and bolt crossed his mind but he remembered his mother telling him that stealing was bad; that thieves were bad people. He didn’t want to become a thief, he didn’t want to become a bad person. But his mother was dying, he had to do something, he had to do something, nobody was willing to help him. He couldn’t allow his mother to die—his mother was the only family he had.

He boldly walked to the table and picked up a loaf, as if everything displayed on the table belonged to him. As he grabbed the bread, the vendor came out of the shop and saw him making away with the booty. Peter, seeing the man too, immediately took to his heels.

As he ran, he heard the man shout, “Thief! Stop him! Thief!” There was a magic in the sound. The market men left their kiosks, and the women their counters, the butchers threw down their beef, the mechanics their spanners, tinkers their utensils, painters their brushes, drivers their cars. Away they all ran, helter-skelter, screaming, tearing, yelling, knocking down onlookers as they pursued the boy, exciting the dogs and astonishing the hens.

Peter became afraid. He ran faster—as fast as his small pair of legs could carry him. Although he was already tired, Peter still managed to run with a speed that belied his age. He continued running without looking back, even as he heard the screams of ‘thief!’ grow louder. He knew almost everybody in the market was running after him now. He was more afraid; he quickly cut into another street and ran with all his might, the loaf of bread firmly clutched in his hand he found himself in another narrower street before he ran into a new street with more crowds; he city was a maze of streets. He was dirty and wet, and he knew that he couldn’t blend among the multitude of dry older people, so he hid himself behind a lotto kiosk.

After about a quarter of an hour, he came out of his hiding and made his way home. He ran all the way and smiled when he thought about how glad his mother would be at what he held. He had decided that he would lie if she asked questions about the food. He would tell her that a kind man had given him some money with which he bought the bread. She mustn’t know that he had stolen it or she would be grossly disappointed in him; she might even refuse to eat it if she knew where it had come.

He didn’t stop for a moment to rest on the way; he ran the whole long distance. He reached the house and burst in; there was no door to restrain him from speeding into the building at will. He paused at the doorway to catch his breath. He bent, resting his hands on his knees, and breathed hard. When he believed he had had enough rest, he raised his head and smiled warmly.

“Mami, I’ve brought you food!”

There was no reply. He looked at his mother, she was not smiling. She was not shaking either. Her fixed gaze remained at the entrance. The loaf fell from Peter’s hand and rolled on the floor twice.

Mami was dead.

I don't know why the second update disappeared, but I'm going to repost it momentarily, including the rightful third for today.

kizzykeziah:
Excellent job, sir.
The dexterity displayed is no less than 100%. I bet I had a feeling of really being present in each scene.

Thank you, ma'am. Your words fill me with glee.

freezyballer09:
Beautifully written. I can visualize every moment of the prolouge and Chapter. Please keep it coming sir.

Thank you so much, sir.

ekeneidiagbor:
Op.... U 2 much.. Following bumper 2 bumper but ehm wat happened to junior and his pman story na..

Na dere d tori end

The Prologue will make sense only at the end of the story.

LogoDWhiz:
Awww!

I feel pity for the guy!

Quite bad!

And his mother even end up dead

It's so sad; but every man has to bear his own cross.

VanTee20:
Both the prologue and the first chapter are impeccably written. Well, I wasn't expecting anything less from the nonpareil writer of this section. Ride on sir. I'm so following this to the end.

Great Vantee! Having you here soothes my heart. You're welcome, sir.

CrazyScientist:
LarrySun , longest update ever liveth, you still the boss! Peter Black is about to be a 'corporate theif' or in my words 'corporate property returner'

I doff my hat for you

Thank you, sir. I'm honoured.

sarmiie:
i pitch my tent

You're welcome, sir.

Abayor7:
Lwkm oo





















who get fork ?? I wan chop indomie

And, suddenly, the cause of this mirth escaped me.

Fatalveli:
Space booked.

And my good friend is here. I can't be happier.

Sleekyshuga:
I yaff landed


Beautiful Prologue...

Thank you, ma'am.

hormoryhemii:
present sir, am the host of a timeout with a writer here on naira land, and I interview writers about there work right on their thread so as to enable absolute understanding of the piece of work, in soonest, I will like to ask question on behalf of my self and the readers too and I hope you will accept.



still I ask

I accept, sir.

texanomaly:
DeepSight, UyiIredia, 1miccza, Cuddlemii, Nuges11, musKeeto, UjSizzle, Tovot, LarrySun, Mynd44, harlos, laykorn, Jbluv55,

I'm here.

This is what I've been waiting for! A poetry class! Yatta!

Now, who are my teachers? Or, what is expected of the pupil?

Can I have some more?

bigsholly:
Mr larrysun is back again ooooo thank God I follow you wouldn't have know another epic thing is happening. Let me stay jejely and enjoy

You're awesome, ma'am.

Abayor7:
Lwkm oo





















who get fork ?? I wan chop indomie

And, suddenly, the cause of this mirth escaped me.

zyzxx:
Following sir

Bro! It's nice to have you here, sir. And your signature is deep.