₦airaland Forum

naptu2: HAPPY NEW YEAR.

LOL Are you just waking up?

Following...following...following!
I visited the blog, but I wasn't able to post a comment therein. Why?

Thanks a lot.

ortopazz: Larry ah don check for ludlum tire 4 this ur site, even M.puzio, jus cnt get them, how do I then work on the site, BTW, if this genre is too debateable, I stil stick with John Grisham o!

I never said Ludlum, Puzo or Grisham were on the site...I only said there're some downloadable novels there too, which are also great.

Thank all, for the corrections. You're helping me a lot.

megareal: You are right. It may not be easy to find a link to most renowned authors. I have the hard copy of Bourne Identity and its sequel Bourne Supremacy and Bourne Ultimatum. First read Bourne in my SS2. As you rightly said, we can pick any good alternative from manybooks.net.

I have the Bourne series too in paperbacks: including The Bourne Legacy, The Bourne Sanction, The Bourne Deception. So, if it is Bourne, we're gonna have a hell of a discussion to engage.

Alright, but I'd have liked following 'Worth Waiting For' here.

Mynd_44: I wanna see them

For now:
Omolola1
Red Moss
HBG
Ishilove
Efemena
Peaceworld
Cuddlemii
Sexkill
Semid4lyfe
DailyNews
And (still watching) you

I'm learning some great stuff from each one of them. And don't ask me to list in accordance to importance.

Mynd_44: He is one. That means there are more...........

Yeah, there're more.

HumbledbYGrace: how many sons do u have?
Redmoss

Red Moss is not my kid, but one of my NL role models

HumbledbYGrace: not da whole day!! Wrz ur son?

My son I'm flummoxed.

HumbledbYGrace: uv been missing wr have u been?

We need to talk

I was reading Tribulation Before Dawn.

The Bourne Identity is a nice book, truly. I read it about two months ago, it's really pulse-quickening dose for lovers of hard-boiled thrillers. I think we should have agreed on a genre before choosing a book. Getting the link for Bourne is not very easy. I'm sure the person from whom this suggestion came doesn't have the link either. Anybody who has the link may kindly drop it. If not, we may visit manybooks.net for a befitting alternative.
Bless you.

Good morning, friends. Howdy, HBG?

Great. Just great!

nokingasgod: THis is creative but for the inaccuracies in historical facts, it could have been another Chinua Achebe in the making. Behind the Cloud and Village Headmaster are not movies but soaps. The movie Aiye by Hubert Ogunde was released later than 1975. In 1975, there was no Majek Fashek on the music scene and lastly, in 1975, seven universities were not founded as there were already in existence, seven universities.

As a rule, references to historical occurences/developments in literary works, fiction or not must be factual.

Thanks a lot, NoKingAsGod, I shall revisit those historical facts when I'm doing a personal pogrom on the work. You may click on the prequel of this story, which I have under my signature (The Brand Of Cain), I'm sure you'll like it a lot. Thanks again.

Redmosquito: see what my thread has turned to!

Where've you been? Spreading malaria parasite?

HumbledbYGrace: Because ur his Dad ooo

He doesn't want u to live mom and cum afta moi

Don't worry though I can see its just the Brand of Cain here

Now you're really, seriously, fervently, determinedly using my fiction against me.

Ruth wasn't beautiful, wasn't that pretty either, but few humans of the opposite sex realised it when caught by her charm and shapely figure. On her face were too sharply blended the delicate features of the river goddess and the large eyes of an owl; large, bright and appealing. It was an arresting face perfect for the simple but lovely shape of what stood on her shoulders. If she had been any prettier, it would have been all wrong; except if her small nose was carved a little bit more pointed like that of an American; and her full lips were reduced to thin slits like an Asian. Because her eyes protruded particularly prominently from their sockets, the Creator had kindly blessed her with bristly black lashes and her eyebrows were carved proudly. Unlike most ladies, Ruth had never shaved off her eyebrows; she cherished them. The only thing she did was carefully trim them out, and making out of them very lovely brows that were left slightly tilted at the end, and cuttting a startling oblique line in her spotless skin; a skin so desired by other women and also generously soft to the touch.

She was a tall lady, her legs were narrow and straight and her walks were with a certain uncommon swagger full of grace. She wore perfectly neat and trimmed hair-cut. Her titties were full and pointed. Her belly was flat. Her hips were carved proportionally to her waist and straight legs. Her gliding manner of movement was the precise counting steps of a model. She was wearing a close-fitting sequined dress, deeply cut at the bosom so that a portion of each booby overflowed and was visible. The dress gently but pruriently affirmed the lines of her gracefully volumptious body.

Ruth Brown was thirty-seven years old.

She glided past a group of young boys who were trying to let out their firecrackers in style. Ruth knew exactly what the boys were planning to do and she did not approve of that. But she knew that she could not stop this cluster of young insects from carrying out their mission; few children of these days fear and respect their elders. The boys were gathering bottles and cans. The firecrackers were sometimes covered with tin cans and when they explode, the cans would fly towards the sky, bent and disfigured. The boys usually run like hell everytime they light the fuses and drop them into bottles, because, most times, the bottle would shattered into shards, and no boy would want to hang close-by when the explosion was set-off. But sometimes, the bottles would not break, not even crack; thereby eliciting disappointment on the faces of the excited boys. Not very far away from the boys, an L-driver was struggling to turn her car, and was painfully succeeding. The instructor must be quite a patient man. An old Honda Accord was parked beside the road, facing south, and a man was leaning under the raised bonnet, repairing something.

Three days before, a teenager had been rushed to the hospital because he was silly and misguided enough to stay too close to a bottle when his peers were running. When the exposion went off, shards had found ways into his sockets, and many more on his skins. The lad was surely spending his own Christmas in a room of fluorescent ceiling panels, white walls, and a white ceramic tile floor which implied impeccable antibacterial procedures. Facing the possibility of spending the rest of his life absent his eyes.

Ruth Brown was married three times. Her first husband, Tunde Smart, had married her only for the fact that she was pregnant for him when she was only seventeen years old. There was no love shared between either of them. Tunde had already known that Ruth wasn't the girl meant for him. She possessed the heart of stone. She had little or no conscience, and she could watch a man bleed to death without blinking an eye. Loving her was as sordid and as horrifying as loving a dead body. They lived together for over two years before they both finally decided that it was better for either of them, and their daughter, if they parted ways. All through the twenty-five months they lived together, each was never faithful to the other. They individually possessed the liberty of going to bed with whomever appealed to them. Both husband and wife shared their matrimonial pillows with total strangers until their daughter began to grow up and speak words. Not until their daughter chose the F-word as her first speech did they realise that things would really get out of hand if they continued their immoral acts in the presence of their baby. Without any fight or quarrel, the couple agreed to live apart. And the father kept the baby because she never trusted Ruth with the capability of raising the child into a responsible woman. And Ruth did not demur. In fact, she never went back to visit her daughter.

After breaking up with Tunde, she got married to another one of her clients who, more or less, forced himself on her. The marriage had spanned only three months. Her new husband had found her humping another man in such vigorous ways she had never done to him. Filled with so much disappointment and rage and jealousy, he had not attacked the man who whose thing was still embedded inside his wife, neither did he touch the wife whose eyes were shut in ecstacy. He had only suffered a bout of cardiac arrests and slumped down dead at the foot of the creaking bed. Who could really tell how Adam had felt when she had deceived him with the forbidden fruit? Unfortunately for the deceased husband, his wife made sure she climaxed on her lover before she decided to call the paramedics. The man's death had made as much impression on her as a rubber hammer makes on a rock.

Her third husband was the man with whom she was really, seriously in love; her finally found Prince Charming. She'd stick her hand in the fire if he asked her. Tony Brown, who was the love of her life, the linchpin of her heart, the lintel of her body, the keystone of her soul, never loved her a bit. A man whose profitable sidelines had been financed by the proceeds of his less legitimate activities that included drug-peddling, blackmail, organised vice and extortion. Another of Tony's less-profitable sidelines was the distribution and marketing of stolen goods like jewellery and mobile phones. But four years elapsed before she found out about the jobs of her husband, and Ruth had not loved him any less. In fact, she was even proud of him at learning about these vices. She thought for a brief moment how absurd, even silly, it was to love a man whose one talent was crime. Originally, Eve gave Adam an apple. Nowadays, Adams gave Eves some. What took her those four years to find out also included the fact that Tony, her Tony, belonged to someone else. She had given up everything for this Prince; she had been faithful for once, no other man had climbed her hill all through the times she spent with Tony. Her love for Tony had rebuilt her morally. The moral edifice had came crumbling down suddenly when she read in City People Magazine about the tenth wedding anniversary of Tony and the daughter of a state governor in the South-South. Not believing her eyes, she read and reread the article under the pictures printed in the magazine; her lips moving, her shaky hands following each line with the tip of her index. She got stuck on the names. She was devastated; she took the news as though it were her own obituary. It was as if she had been hit a furious blow in the stomach. Acid formed in her throat, her breath stopped; she felt the blood rush to her head, she felt, for an instant, somewhat sick, and her eyes pained her as she looked down at the mag she was having spread on her thighs. Ruth had never believed that she would ever be played for a sucker by any man. She was humiliated, sad and, most of all, ashamed of herself that she contemplated the possibility of committing suicide. She has cried and dried her eyes, and cried again. It was her father's Christmas invitation that had prevented her from initiating the decision to slit her own wrists, hang herself, swallow cyanide or take a long walk off a short pier. She had later vowed never to get married. She was still thinking of Tony; his handsome face and his black wavy hair and his beautiful strong body when her mother had called and informed her about her father's Christmas summons. Ruth fully felt one of those cathartical moments when God hands us the emotional scissors and invites us to start cutting, irrevocably. She found herself caught in a whirling vortex of sorry emotions. If Ruth hadn't thought that this would take her mind temporarily off Jamal, she wouldn't have honoured the summons, because he had no fondness whatsoever for the rich old man. The man had simply never appealed to her, and no matter how much she showered her with gift as she grew older, Ruth had never liked him.

She had come home from her first day in the secondary school one afternoon, hungry and tired, when she heard the voice of Ramat, their housemaid. Ramat was groaning painfully. When she followed the sound to the kitchen she beheld the sight of her father on top of Ramat. The housemaid was crying softly amid groans and moans as Jamal screwed her viciously. The next day, Ramat had packed her bags and quitted her job. Ruth's mother could not find the reasoning behind the maid's sudden decision. And her father had feigned ignorance, he wasn't aware that Ruth saw him the day before. To keep a happy home and her mother from being heartbroken, Ruth kept the discovery to herself. But she reserved a resentment worse than that between a feline and a canine. Ruth cherished her mother above every other member of the family. What a remarkable woman Mrs. Malik was, thought Ruth. She was everything to her now. Her mother understood her in a thousand ways more than her father ever would.

As she thought about the brutality of her father towards the housemaid which had occurred many years ago, Ruth suddenly felt like she was going crazy about living the life of a nun. It was weeks since she had last romped any man. In quite all this time she hadn't taken anything to bed except a vibrator, and she was growing tired of that. She missed having someone hairy in bed with her. She missed the masculine smells; stinging sensual beards, warm breaths, sweaty skins, and most of all, she missed the bangs. Before her disappointment that resulted from Tony's action, Ruth had thought that she could never do without having a bang; she had believed that if she went two days without even giving a head, she would sneeze continuously and dust would come out of her ears. If absence makes the heart grow fonder, romp-deprivation surely makes Ruth's puss seep ointment. When radical feminists, like the dwellers of the convents, argued that the manhood was the enemy, Ruth had always replied, "Speak for yourself, sister." Ruth was simply an unrestrained nymphomaniac in bed. She could make the average man plead for mercy, if he didn't pass out.

Because the Governor had woken up one morning and placed a ban on the operation of commercial motorcyclists, Ruth was forced to hail a taxi and directed her way towards a secluded part of Victoria Island, where she already was. She was going towards the home where she grew up with her parents and siblings. Towards her family.

Towards Jamal.