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Nmezor:
Thanks for the updates and happy birthday to ya...Best wishes.

Thank you, ma'am. �

Abdulreheem:
Oga larysun happy Sunday ������� we dey wait ohhh

Waiting where?

FashionCookie:
I downloaded the app becsuse if this particular story. But I'm finding it difficult to get the story when ever I search.

Here is the link: https://okadabooks.com/book/about/black_maria_book_one/20094

FashionCookie:
Hi. Was looking for a story to read when I came accross yours. But found out I could only read up to chapter 1. Please, how can I get the complete story?

It's available on OkadaBooks. Thanks.

daviesblaze:
oga larry when is the next book coming out abeg. i'm dying of anticipation

Books 1-4 are available on OkadaBooks.

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Flash 30: The Crush

Dedicated to JK Worth

"I want you to listen carefully to this method," Mr Stevens, our Mathematics teacher, said - his face carrying the usual seriousness we were all too familiar with. None of us liked him because he loved punishing students. He always grabbed at every excuse to use his cane on us. And worst of all, he was a terrible teacher. His explanations were often vague and hard to comprehend. He always found a way of making the simplest mathematical techniques very hard for us. None of us liked Mathematics because of him; and I always dreaded the moment when he would teach us Calculus and Differentiation.

"If you fail my test I'm going to use my rod on you, especially on you lazy female students," he added, his brows furrowed with determination.

Bastard teacher, I thought, he doesn't know that rod means penis.

Then Sharon, who was three seats away from me, broke into a sudden laughter. We all stared at her, wondering if she was all right. Sharon was a very beautiful girl who joined our class just at the beginning of this session. Her parents had just moved into the neighbourhood and so she was enrolled into our school, which boasted as the best in the entire vicinity. I've always had soft spots for Sharon since the day she joined us. She was a very quiet girl who always kept to herself. She had no desire in making friends with anyone in the class. She always followed the same routine every day; she would come, listen to lectures, and when the final bell rang she would pick up her bag and go home. She was unlike most of us who liked hanging around after school hours to gist and play a little bit before going home.

And so when she broke into a laughter in the class, we all stared at her in surprise, for such behaviour was unlike her.

"Stand up, Sharon," Mr Ifeanyi, our Mathematics teacher, ordered. We preferred calling him Mr Show, or Mr Pepper, because of his fondness in uttering I'll show you pepper. Only a few students knew his real name as Ifeanyi.

Sharon stood up obediently. She was still chuckling, trying to control the rising laughter.

"Would you kindly tell the class what's making you laugh?"

She shook her head, "Nothing, sir."

"Surely, something must have been funny to you. That laughter did not just come out of the blue. Feel free to share what's funny with us. We'd like to laugh too."

Again, she shook her head. "Nothing, sir." But she was still chuckling.

Mr Show stared at her for a moment and said, "Sit down quietly. If you interrupt my class with your laughter again, I'm going to show you pepper."

"Yes, sir."

As the lecture continued, I continued to wonder what had made her laugh. Could it be that she read some naughty meanings to Mr Show's statement about using his rod, just like I did? No, I didn't think so. Sharon was not dirty-minded to conjure something so crude in her mind.

A few minutes later, I was again listening to the teacher with rapt attention. I didn't want to give him any reason to use his 'rod' on me.

I don't even want to imagine this man's rod on me, I thought. I'll just cut the useless thing off!

Again, Sharon broke into a wild laugh. She was laughing uncontrollably now. Mr Show couldn't take this interruption anymore. When we thought he was going to flog her, he ordered Sharon out of the class. She begged him but he would not listen. She walked out of the class and stood by the window.

At this point, I could no longer concentrate in class. Something was going on. My mind was putting two and two together and coming up with twenty-two. Something weird was happening. I looked towards her at the window. She was still chuckling. Her eyes would meet mine for a moment and then she would look away.

An idea suddenly occurred to me and I thought: Sharon, if you can hear my thoughts, hold out two fingers.

I looked back at her. She wasn't looking at me. She was looking at the board and apparently listening to the teacher. I immediately felt silly. Of course she couldn't hear my thoughts. That was something impossible. How could I even conjure something that preposterous in my mind? I must be going crazy.

Then as I was about to look away from her and concentrate on the teaching, Sharon slowly held out two fingers. She was still looking at the board, but her fingers were held out.

I jumped out of my seat in shock.

"Has everyone gone mad in this class today?" Mr Show roared with exasperation. "What's going on with you, Kingsley?"

"Huh…nothing, sir." I look towards Sharon. She was not looking at me but was still chuckling.

"And what madness made you rise from your seat so suddenly?" the teacher further inquired.

"Nothing, sir," I replied again.

"You've all gone mad!" He picked up his textbooks and stormed out of the class.

We started staring at one another in confusion. I slowly sat back down as Sharon walked to her seat. I watched her as she gently sat down. She didn't look in my direction for once, and I wondered why.

I decided to communicate with her through my thought again. If you can really hear me, look at me.

Her head was bowed, but as I made that thought, she slowly lifted her head up and looked in my direction.

Okay, it was official, Sharon could hear my thoughts. This was very weird. I didn't know whether to be glad or terrified. If she could hear my thoughts, then she probably had access to all my deepest, darkest secrets. I wondered if she could hear the thoughts of other people in the class.

A few moments later, the closing bell rang. As usual, Sharon immediately stood up, picked up her bag and left the class. I quickly did the same and ran after her. I must find out what had been going on.

She had just left the main gate of the school when I caught up with her.

"Hi," I greeted nervously as I walked beside her.

She looked at me like she was seeing me for the first time. "Hello."

"Um, so you can read my mind?"

She shrugged as if my question didn't matter. "I guess."

She guessed? What the hell was that? She was saying it as if anyone could just wake up one morning and decide that they wanted to read other people's minds. Was she a witch or something? Then realising that she might be hearing everything running through my mind, I quickly regretted my thoughts.

Oh my goodness!

She laughed again and said, "No, I'm not a witch. At least, as far as I know."

"Can you hear other people's thoughts?" I couldn't help asking.

"Not really? Only some special people."

I frowned. "Special people? What does that mean?"

She suddenly looked shy and said, "I'd rather not talk about it."

"No, I want to know. What's special about me that gives you the right to read my thoughts?"

Guilt took charge of her face and I blamed myself for my statement. The last thing I wanted to do was upset her.

"I'm sorry. I had no idea you wouldn't like it. I'll try to stop. It's just that it's going to be so hard, but I'll stop reading your mind."

"No, no, I don't mean it that way. I just want to know what makes me special."

"You like me, don't you?"

I opened my mouth but words refused to emerge.

"You don't have to deny it. I knew it from your thoughts."

"So you can read the thoughts of anyone that likes you?"

She shook her head. "No. It's the other way around."

I frowned. "Anyone who likes you can read your thoughts?" That didn't make sense as I said it out.

She laughed. "Come on, don't be silly. I can read the thoughts of only the people I like.

A cocoon suddenly formed in my stomach, then it became a caterpillar. The caterpillar transformed into a butterfly and it fluttered happily. This was the nicest thing I had heard in my entire life. It is really, really sweet to have your crush tell you that she likes you, even if she's a witch, or a freak of nature - it doesn't matter; love conquers all. Only few people have this kind of opportunity. What feeling could be sweeter than knowing that Sharon considered me special.

Then the fluttering feeling in my stomach slowly stopped as a new realisation struck me. What if I wasn't the only 'special person'? Surely she would have met other boys that she liked. I couldn't simply be her first choice. Even if I was, there was definitely going to be a second choice and a third one - hell, she could be reading the minds of all the boys in the school as far as I was concerned. And that thought worried me greatly.

Again, I realised that she might be hearing these thoughts. We must do something about this her power.

I was right. She heard that too, and she responded to it, "Kingsley, it is the wish of everyone to fall in love and receive the same amount of love in return. Every human being deserves to be loved; but it's not always so. There are people who fall in love but are not loved in return; instead the people they love take advantage of that and treat them badly. Indeed, there are people who really love you but you just can't bring yourself to love them in return. No matter how much you try, you just can't. So it is a really wonderful thing when two people genuinely love each other. I know you may be wondering why I'm telling you this, but it's the answer to the questions you're asking yourself.

"You're right, you're not the only one whose mind I've read. I've fallen in love with a couple of other people, but from their thoughts I was able to find out if they loved me or not. They were all the same thing; the feelings I had for them was not what they had for me. Many of them simply liked me for my beauty, and they were only interested in having their ways with me. Of course, I didn't let them know that I could read their minds. I stopped reading their minds as soon as I found their intentions towards me. All I had to do was stop thinking about them and I would not be able to read their thoughts. That's why I told you it's going to be very hard for me to stop reading your mind, because it's going to be hard to stop thinking about you. You are not like the rest of them. You are different. You are the only one who has genuine feelings for me. You love me just as much as I love you, and that's all I ask. And you're also an incredibly funny person. There was no way I could hide my gift from you for long, considering all the ridiculous thoughts in your mind."

She was laughing again. She was so perfect. A warm conversation. A soft place to land. The jewel on the rock. The light in the right path. The total package. She was everything to me.

I was short of words to respond. Word was not the right response. I held her hands and we walked into the sunset, ready to brave the world together. With the right partner by your side, the world will always be a wonderful place to live in, and the dragons of life will be easier to slay.

Five years later, Sharon and I were married. Life was indeed sweet. We never lacked anything and we were blessed with a pair of twins.

Four years afterwards, I was playing with one of my twins in the backyard when I got another shock. I was throwing him in the air and catching him. Suddenly, as I threw him up, he was suspended in mid-air.

"Daddy see," he said, laughing, "I'm flying!"

The End

© Larry Sun
May, 2021

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Flash 29: The Journalist

"Fred, I got a job for you," My boss, Albert Njoku told me as I stepped into his office. He was the editor-in-chief of the newspaper company I worked for.

I had been working in this firm for about three months now and I had never been given an opportunity to cover anything serious. Sometimes, I would get a few scoops and would rush to my boss in excitement, but none of them ever made the front page; the best any of my 'exclusives' had ever made was the middle page, not even the first ten pages. Now I didn't know what to make of this summon to his office. The 'I-got-a-job-for-you' would have filled any other journalist with great excitement - especially my colleagues in this business - but to me, the six words filled me with dread. I had never been Mr Njoku's favourite person since the first day I got my job. Well, I wouldn't blame him much. You see, I had the knack for saying the wrongest things at the wrongest times. Because of the dark glasses my boss was fond of wearing, it took me a long time to realise that Mr Njoku was blind in one eye - and this ignorance, of course, caused me to make the statement 'blind interview' in one of the meetings presided by Mr Njoku himself. The terminology was simply a journalism lingo, but it was a phrase I would have refrained from using had I known my boss's disability. Since that moment, therefore, I had never been in Mr Njoku's good grace. About two weeks after that, I had alluded a robust woman's ample bosoms to a watermelon - the woman turned out to be Mrs Njoku, and she had caught the word in my tongue. I found it even surprising that he had not decided to fire me so far. He hated my guts and he didn't hide that fact from me, but somehow he couldn't sack me.

It was only natural that I grew wary of the job he had for me. I was sure the job he was offering me had already been rejected by the rest of my colleagues, and he was most probably hoping that I would reject it too so that he could have a good reason to terminate my appointment. My mind told me, as I stood politely before him, that my relationship with the firm was over. Mr Njoku would be giving me such impossible tasks like going into the wild and trying to put a ring in a lion's paw, or getting the panties of the wife of the country's president - or jumping off a high cliff and landing on my feet without a scratch on me.

"What job is that, sir?"

Mr Njoku grinned broadly. All his intentions could be understood from that grin. He knew he had had me by the sac and there was nothing I could do about it than pray he didn't yank it off. It was obvious that he had been waiting for a moment like this.

"You're leaving for Matata Village first thing tomorrow morning."

I stared blankly at him. It took a while for the message to register itself in my head, and when it did, my stare became even blanker. I knew Mr Njoku hated me, but I didn't imagine that he hated me this much. How could he - how could he tell me to visit Matata of all places? Every journalist worth his salt knew that Matata Village was a dreaded place. It was a kingdom dominated by a mad king and equally mad happenings. This was not an exaggeration; the king of the village was actually a madman. According to the longstanding rumours, after the death of the previous king twenty years ago, the oracles of the village had rejected the heir presented to be the king. Instead, the gods had chosen a roving madman to assume the throne. Nobody really knew what caused the man's madness, or why the oracle had chosen him over someone mentally complete. The only rumour that was flying about was that he ran mad when he returned from London twenty-five years ago. He had been mad for five years before the gods chose him. Many of the villagers said he ran mad from reading too many books.

And since the past twenty years that he had been the king of Matata Village, he had given a lot of crazy orders. Anyone who desired to speak to him in the palace must stand naked before him. No village man must shave his beards or cut his hair. A woman could marry as many husbands as he wanted. He turned culture and tradition upside down. And nobody could question the mad king because Matata Village was a sovereign kingdom. As a matter of fact, it wasn't anywhere on the map of the country, so the government left this place to be ruled as the king desired. And the mad King Kuku himself did not request for anything from the government. The kingdom was generally self-sufficient.

This was a place my boss wanted me to go. I knew he hadn't really expected me to accept the mission. Like I already explained, he was hoping that I would refuse so that he could have a good reason to kick me out of the firm. Looking back at him, I decided that I wasn't going to give him that satisfaction. I smiled ruefully at him and said, "Okay."

He seemed taken aback by my response. Even from the dark glasses he wore, I could feel his good eye narrowing at me.

"Did you hear what I just said?" he asked, his voice registering surprise.

"You want me to visit Matata Village and interview the king. Is that not it?"

"It is."

I shrugged in nonchalance and said, "Then I'm willing to go."

"You will really interview the mad king?"

"Isn't that what you want?"

"Do you realise that the king could simply have you cooked or fried? I heard he enjoys eating human beings."

I shrugged again. "Then this is my opportunity to die for what I love doing."

Even though it was highly unlikely that I would return alive, however, if by some divine providence I returned alive, my article was definitely going to make the front page; it was something I had always been looking forward to for years, and Mr Njoku had been denying me that pleasure. To me, anything less than the first five pages is meant for losers, and I had been a loser for far too long.

The following Monday, I was on my way to Matata Village. The journey was the longest road trip I ever took. At one point, it began to seem like we were driving to the end of the earth. It seemed like the kingdom was moving away from us as we approached. After ten hours, the driver dropped me at a junction and told me I would have to trek the rest of the road to the village. The road was clearly motorable but the driver would not drive into the village, not even the entire herd of Adam's cows would make him do it. In fact, he already surmised that I must be sharing in the king's madness to have left the city for Matata Village.

I trekked for another two hours before finally arriving in the village. I had taken the night bus from the city. We left at around 9pm and the driver dropped me off at around 7 the following morning. It was almost 10 am when I stepped into Matata Village. I was immediately surrounded at the market square by some heavily built men. I was a stranger; my appearance alone made me stand out like a sore thumb. As the men grabbed me, I quickly requested to see the king. Whether they heard or understood my words, I didn't know. I was taken away and put in a ditch that had been built for prisoners. Escape was out of it. The only way I could come out of the ditch was if a ladder was passed.

I remained there for almost four hours before I was finally taken out of it and led to the palace. I was stripped down to my birthday suit before I was presented before the king; even those who stripped me went naked. King Kuku was already waiting for me. He was seated majestically in his throne that sat on a high platform. He stared at me with curiosity and I returned the gesture. I knew it was wrong to stare back directly at a king but I figured I would be killed anyway, it was only proper that I registered the face of the king who was going to condemn me to death.

King Kuku really looked like a madman. I knew I was coming to interview the mad king but I had no idea that he would actually appear mad. White beards covered his face so much that all I could see were too blinking eyes behind a bushel of grey follicular germination. The hair on his head was so thick and dirty that the shiny crown only laid smugly atop the mountain of unkempt hair. And to top it off, he was wearing a rag. This was unlike anything anyone had ever seen or experienced - a madman on the throne. The rumours we had been hearing almost seemed like myth, but seeing it with my two eyes, all the rumours seemed like understatements. I would never have believed this if I hadn't witnessed it myself. It suddenly occurred to me that my editor-in-chief might also have a hard time believing it when I finally wrote the article. Everything was simply unbelievable.

"I heard you've been requesting to see me," he spoke. His statement didn't sound mad at all; which was another great surprise. It was like the universe was playing a kind of cosmic joke, using the kingdom of Matata and the people in it as its tool. How could someone who looked clearly mad speak so articulately? Maybe he wasn't mentally mad - perhaps he was only mad in appearance; he probably chose to make people think he was mad. I began to hope that I would be able to negotiate my release with him. If he was not mad as the rumours about him were, then he could be reasoned with.

"Yes, your highness," I quickly replied, bowing my head.

He waved his hand in disapproval. "Just call me Kuku."

My jaw almost fell to the ground. "But-but you're the king." I stuttered.

King Kuku spread his hands and said, "What if I am? Nobody should call me by a name I wasn't given when I was born. I am not a highness or a king, I am simply Kuku, and you will address me by that, stranger."

I bowed my head in respect. "Okay, Kuku."

Another evidence of his madness. How could a king refuse to be addressed by his title?

He shifted his bulk in his throne and asked, "So what have you come to do in my village, stranger?"

I smiled and said, "I have come to interview you, Kuku?" This was going more smoothly than I thought.

The king frowned. "Interview me? For what purpose?"

I was happy to answer that question. "I'm a journalist working for a prominent media firm. We will publish articles about you and your kingdom in our newspaper."

"What benefit is that going to bring me or my people?"

"It's going to bring you exposure. A lot of people do not know that a kingdom like yours exists. After we publish about this kingdom, a lot of people would want to visit. Your village will become a tourist attraction and from that you will generate a lot of revenue that will help in developing the kingdom. "

The king sighed and said, "First and foremost, we are self-sufficient. We don't need any revenue. We are a lot richer than the world thinks. We don't need assistance from anyone. Secondly, even if I choose to be curious, I don't think all you mentioned are going to happen simply because you published articles about us in your paper."

I smiled proudly and responded equally proudly." Do not underestimate the power of the media. The pen is mightier than the sword."

The king suddenly became silent. He was staring intently at me as soon as I made that statement. Finally, he said, "Wrong choice of words, stranger - wrong choice of words."

I didn’t understand what he was talking about. Unfortunately, I was soon to find out.

The king turned to his guards and said, "Where are his personal effects?"

"In the inner chamber, Kuku."

He returned his gaze to me, "Have you come to write about me? Do you have your pen among your effects?"

I didn’t understand what the king was driving at. It was hard trying to understand the clockwork of a madman's mind.

I nodded my head dumbly and said, "Yes."

The king laughed out heartily, slapping his own thighs. "Then it is settled."

I wondered what the hell he was talking about. My mind told me that whatever it was, it wasn't going to be anything nice. I might just have placed my inquisitive neck under the guillotine's blade.

Again, he turned to his guard and ordered them to bring my pen from my personal effects and hand it to me. Then he ordered for his personal weapon - a sword. I was horror-stricken.

"Now you are going to prove what you said," he said to me.

"Prove what?"

"That statement you made - the pen being mightier than the sword - you are going to prove it. You have your pen and I have my sword. With each of our weapons, you and I are going to fight to the death."

I was immediately drenched with sweat. The mad king had yet proved his lunacy.

"That was just a figure of speech," I said, trying to defend my statement, but I knew it was futile. "I didn't mean it literally."

I wasn't sure that he heard me. If he did, then he considered my defence insignificant.

"You and I will have our battle in the market square. In the presence of everyone. It's going to be a fair fight. Let's prove to the people which one is really mightier between your pen and my sword."

I looked down in dejection. My fate had just been stamped and sealed. I was going to die in this remote village with no one to care for me. Surely, Mr Njoku would not send people to come searching for me.

"I can't wait to taste your meat after I kill you," Kuku licked his lips.

There it was - the mad king was going to eat me.

"I'd like to make a request," I said solemnly.

"And what request might that be, stranger?"

"I don't want to fight naked in the market square. Can I at least wear my clothes when I face you?"

Kuku thought deeply about this and agreed to honour my request. "You're going to die anyway. It wouldn't hurt to grant you the request. So yes, you can wear your clothes."

I thought the fight was going to take some days to take place, but the king decided that it should occur immediately.

Kuku rode to the village square on a stallion decorated with gold and I was led there on foot, my hands and legs bound in chains, and armed with nothing but my pen. Villagers showed me love by peltering me with various fruits. By the time I finally arrived at the battleground, I was a pathetic canvas bearing a painting of various seeds and juices from different fruits.

I was ordered to be released from my shackles and the king posed for war. Someone beat a gong and the fight resumed.

Kuku came at me with his sword. He aimed for my neck. Luckily, I was able to duck in time to prevent a beheading. I was creating as much distance between myself and the king as I could. I kept running here and there. Sometimes I would run into the watching crowd and they would push me back onto the field. They were all thirsty for blood. Apparently, it had been a long time since they last witnessed such an exciting sport. I thought about submitting myself to the blade - it was an inevitable fate anyway, but my sheer instinct to live stopped me from giving in.

"Stop running!" roared Kuku, "Face me and fight!" He was getting frustrated by my desperate attempt at escaping.

I decided to face him. I held my pen forward before me and assumed a stance. The mad king came at me again. He was a lousy swordsman, and I would have killed him easily had I possessed the same weapon as him.

But as he came at me this time around, I didn't run. Instead, I ducked again, the swoosh of the sword flying over my head. As his momentum carried him a few steps forward, I pushed the pointed end of my pen into his gut. I knew my pen could not deliver anything fatal, but I would inflict an injury on him if I had the chance, and this moment was my chance. I stabbed him with the pen as hard as I could.

Then something happened. A great lightning came from the sky and struck the king. He was immediately blackened and fell to the ground. As his frame hit the earth, there came a very loud thunder - the loudest I had ever heard. Everyone screamed in fear and scattered for safety in different directions.

I remained in my position, dazed and wondering what had just happened. Kuku was lying on the ground, his dead eyes staring at the sky.

Then rain began to fall. It fell in heavy torrents. While everyone around me took to shelter, I remained in the rain. I didn't leave my position. The rain beat viciously on the corpse of the mad king. For three straight hours, the rain fell heavily, almost threatening to wash Kuku away in its flood. But I remained in my position, unmoving.

When it finally stopped, the villagers began to come out one after the other. I knew what was coming to me next. I was the stranger who had come into their village to kill their king - I was undeserving of anything but death.

The kingsmen grabbed me again and took me to the ditch I was kept in the first time, but the ditch was filled with water. And so I was kept in a room in the palace. I remained in this room for two days before I was finally brought to the palace yard. There was the chief priest of the village and the other chiefs.

The last thing I expected to happen sufficed. I was crowned the next king of Matata Village.

Apparently, the oracles had chosen me as the next king. The gods had struck down the mad king and had replaced him with me. The village had not had rain for many years, and so by killing Kuku I brought great blessing back to the village. The farmers were grateful. They called me the bringer of rain.

After my coronation, I was taken to the village reserve bank. Kuku had actually been saying the truth when he mentioned that Matata Village was self-sufficient. The reserve bank was filled with pure gold in heavy bars. And as a king, I could choose to do whatever I wanted with them.

The first thing I did was take one bar. Then I embarked on a trip to the city. I had an appointment to keep - my village was going to make the front page as I promised. Then I would purchase the media firm and make Mr Njoku work for me.

The next time I would be returning to my kingdom, I would not be returning with the gold bar I had taken. Instead, I would be returning with a private jet.

With the rich resources of the village, I intended to make Matata a paradise on earth. Gone would be the old ways of doing things.

Matata to the world.

Indeed, the pen is mightier than the sword.

©Larry Sun
May, 2021

Flash 28: The Chronicle of Gbenga

Gbenga and I have had many adventures in our early days, particularly in our '-teens'. Some of these adventures - no, most of these adventures -, I admit, were not only silly, foolhardy or incredibly stupid, they were also downright immoral. Any narrative associated with my friend, Gbenga, should not be suitable to the knowledge of the unsullied, damsels who have taken domiciliation in the convent, or generally people whose philosophies bordered on the theological.

Think about any naughty deed some two exuberant boys could pull and it would check out in our has-been-done list. There was Martina who claimed to have been pregnant for me after using just my fingers on her. Trust Gbenga to come along with his ludicrous suggestion of abortion. Such was often the moment of madness with Gbenga who believed that the index and the middle fingers could put a woman in the family way. Although later revelations showed that the girl - as ridiculous as it seemed - was only trying to test how much I liked her by claiming pregnant. Even to this day, I rejoice for failing such a test.

Hardly had the Martina situation arrived at a definite conclusion when my dear friend invited me to a bar. Indeed, that was not my first introduction to the rotgut, but such narrative was a rather embarrassing elaboration for another moment.

We were consuming some cheap liquours and debating with each other about who is more powerful between the man who has practised one kick ten thousand times and the man who has practiced ten thousand different kicks once - well, do not blame us, for we had recently been fascinated by a Jet Li movie. And as the effect of the alcohol began to manifest in our systems, our arguement was veering from the controversial to utter balderdash - but to either of us, we were making perfect sense, at least from the perspective of boys in pleasant bacchanal revelry. In all honesty, we had not totally fallen off the metaphorical wagon; as a matter of fact, we were still in possession of a significant part of our senses, at least the better part of five percent, the remaining ninety-five might just be swimming in a cesspool of intoxication.

It took me a while to realise, however, that my rather mischievous buddy had not brought us here to down alcoholic drinks alone. He had a personal plan of his own, a deed that was not totally foreign to his personality. We were now at a point of vulgarism and singing songs with particularly lewd lyrics - and we were singing at the top of our voices, drawing the attention of passers-by who would stare at us for a moment, shake their heads and continue their journeys.

We placed tired arms across each other's shoulders as we wobbled out of the bar. My initial thought was that we were going home, but we only crossed the road and landed ourselves in the parlour of a rather cheap brothel. Apparently, Gbenga had made arrangements with two tarts, for as soon as we stepped in, the ladies were all over us like bees to nectar. We were blessed with provocative kisses and the deliberate compression of their ample bosoms against our bodies. Had I not been so inebriated, I might have politely excused myself from engaging in such bawdiness; but the spirit in my stomach had robbed my head of its capacity - so I played along.

We each took the ladies. I got the fairer one. In that drunk state, fairness constituted beauty. I couldn't notice that my paramour was overly bleached and resembled a grunter. To me, she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

The ladies took us to their rooms. While the other lady led my friend into an inner room, I followed my sweet angel into a rather dark room. The only thing that was visible to me in the room was a rather flattened bed that had known a lot of backs in its prime. We both landed on the bed and continued the kiss again. Although the memory of that day is not entirely clear now, but one thing I know is that the kissing was not a pleasant sight to behold. It was like we were both threatening to tear off each other's lips and tongues. By the time the kiss ended, my mouth was swollen. Anyone who didn't know better would think I had boasted before Mike Tyson.

We fondled each other's bodies for a moment before I finally climbed on top of her. I was nothing but a naïve boy who wasn't really enjoying what was happening but only wanted to impress his friend and himself. He wanted to be able to explain his sexcapade to his classmates and feel good about himself. And so when the hooker opened the door, I simply stepped into the room with my walking stick.

I didn’t know if it was the result of the alcohol in me, all I knew was that I didn't feel anything during the intercourse. While she was moaning, calling me all sorts of names I wasn't christened, and speaking gibberish, I was simply looking forward to the end of the prurient conversation.

Then suddenly, something utterly unexpected happened. It scared the bejezuz out of me. I was obediently pumping the lady when a hand suddenly grabbed my right ankle.

You see, at this moment, even the bravest of us would freak out. Where did the hand come from when you knew that only you and the lady were alone in the room? When I felt that cold hand on my leg, I damn near got a stroke. I wanted to scream but even voice eluded me. I couldn't pump the hooker anymore, and at the same time couldn't rise from the bed. It was like I was in a trance. I remained frozen on top of her for about thirty seconds, the drunkenness in me had totally evaporated.

"Something just grabbed my leg," I told the lady, but she didn't seem to have heard me, for she continued chanting her gibberish like someone possessed by a metaphysical force. This even made me more terrified. I thought she was chanting some form of incantation and draining the good luck from my poor phallus.

Finally, I was able to look down at what was grabbing my ankle. It was a little devil. The child was about three or four years old. Apparently, he was in the room when we came in but the darkness had prevented me from noticing him. He was grabbing my ankle with his two hands and glaring viciously at me.

"Leave my mommy alone," he said to me, his eyes buried in a deep frown that assumed his face.

This was when I finally found my voice. I screamed at the top of my voice and jumped out of the bed. Now the hooker was conscious of her surroundings. The gibberish had stopped, and in place of it were questions about why I wanted to leave. I couldn't reply her as I buckled up my belt. My finger kept jerking towards the little devil in the room - the child was still glaring at me. To the little boy, I was using my walking stick to harm his mother, and the only way he could come to her rescue was by grabbing my ankle, putting me at risk of either a stroke or heart attack.

I ran out of the room like I had just escaped hell. I searched the other rooms for my friend and located him and his hooker deeply asleep on a mattress. They were both naked and snoring loudly. I knew that trying to wake him would be futile, for Gbenga could sleep in a tsunami when not drunk. Now that he was drunk, not even the apocalypse would wake him.

I trekked home all alone. We would have a long debate in school tomorrow.

©Larry Sun
May, 2021

Removed.

https://okadabooks.com/book/about/black_maria_book_4/41068

useed:
And so when the time struck 1 a.m. Peter slowly stood up, kept the wooden key where he knew it would not easily be found. Then he went to bed.
In a few minutes, Peter Black had slept off in his cell.




A logical explanation for him staying back wasn't provided.

The story hasn't ended.

Removed.

https://okadabooks.com/book/about/black_maria_book_4/41068

Removed.

https://okadabooks.com/book/about/black_maria_book_4/41068

Removed.

https://okadabooks.com/book/about/black_maria_book_4/41068

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https://okadabooks.com/book/about/black_maria_book_4/41068

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https://okadabooks.com/book/about/black_maria_book_4/41068

Benjaniblinks:
Bro, will there any sequel on kanu the rouge?

Yes, there will be.

YeSJacky:
Hmmmm
Will I still have to wait until you finish posting Nemesis before you complete the said book 5 and upload it to okadabooks?

I just started Book 5. It's not completed yet. I'll make the announcement when it is.

YeSJacky:
Are you indirectly saying that you won't post any part of it here?

Yes, until I finish posting Nemesis.

Arclite:
larry i have sent u a mail

Replied.

sheba222:
how much is the book on okada.

Just N1200 only, ma'am.