₦airaland Forum

I have read a couple of books that have actually made me fall off my chairs with laughter; they are so very very hilarious. I'll share some of them with you:
1. Miss Shumway Waves a Wand by James Hardley Chase
2. Safer Dead by James Hardley Chase
3. Rosy Is My Relative by Gerald Durrel
4. The Archy McNally Series by Lawrence Sanders
5. The Road To Gandolfo by Robert Ludlum
6. Bruno (A short story from Strange Highways) by Dean Koontz

These books are wildly hilarious. You are free to share anyone you've read, too.

The Lost Symbol is the latest novel featuring Professor Robert Langdon, the unveiled secrets, codes, symbols and suspense will make The Da Vinci Code appear like a children's book to you.

Xtranoble: and i guess from the look of things, since he is a lawyer..he is the judge or the lawyer to his death friend

@Xtranoble,
Yes, you're right, he's a lawyer, his dead friend's lawyer precisely...but he isn't the judge.
He's not attempting suicide
He's not narrating his story to a little boy
He's only confessing because he has no other choice.
The girl he raped is the mother of the driver who is accused of murdering his friend. It's quite complicated.
[There's another thread where I posted how the 'friend' was killed. Find]

st.okolie:
[color=#006600][/color]it is not easy writing using this narating technique,it has it limitations,but this is v.good. [font=Lucida Sans Unicode][/font]

@Okolie,
Thanks a bunch [ I back to you, buddy]. Writing itself isn't easy at all. Actually, the narrative technique employed here is quite common. But, I'm looking forward to writing another whole novel in the first-person-singular narrative technique. FYI, I'm currently working on another novel (omniscient writing technique, too) that I don't think I'd finish until I become 324years old...

thiscounts: Though this is just an excerpt from a work,one shouldnt be in hurry to give a pass mark.But from the tone and the mood of the narrator it is well clear that d authour didnt artistically interfere wt d sober mood of the narrator's expression...that suggests a note like left behind by d narrator whose ordeal finally led him to commit suice or perhaps an old man who was sharing his life experince on d verge of death with a little kid.In this regard one would not question d creative power and strenght needed by d author to entrance us with d deploy of beautiful narrative elements.However I would advice u switch between moods to add some colour to d narrative through d eye of d narrator or u let your beautiful voice overshadow his.Anything monotonus declines taste.Good attempt

@this counts,
You're absolutely right, buddy. I wholly agree with you that the narrative style is extremely jejune. This was written during one of my moments of creative impasse; thus the glaring lack of creativity therein ensued. I posted it with it's virginity intact (lol). Although the style is somehow wanting in beauty, I'd still prefer retaining it's narrative technique, that, however, I do not see in the least puerile. Truly, I wrote the book in the omniscient form, the confession of the narrator is 'quoted' alright; therefore, evidently, the comments of his listeners had been artistically held at bay. The post is taken from a chapter; a slice out of the slice of pie.
Thank you for pointing out my errors, it really means a lot. **HUGS**

omotee4u: Nice one, Larry. How can I get to read the whole story? I also still wish for the privilege to edit/proofread your writings. Wish you more grace... krosdotpublishers@gmail.com

Thank you, 'Tayo. It's been quite a while, dearie. Forgive my execrable conduct for not contacting you. I've been off the literary grid for quite some time. However, the post is extracted from that work we discussed. It has been lying dormant in the cabinet for almost two years now. Maybe it's high time I took this draft more serious.

"I’ll start this story from 1970,” continued Kish, “I was about Hakeem’s age when I lost both my parents in a motor accident. I was initiated into the underworld after my parents’ untimely demise. My uncle, whom I lived with thereafter, was the one who introduced me into the criminal world––he was a hardened criminal. I did not know until I started living with him, and I don’t think my parents knew before their deaths either for he was the most gentle and kindest person I had ever known. Nobody would have thought he was capable of killing a bedbug. He taught me how to wield knives, fire guns, how to beat my enemies in physical combats, how to smoke grass. Can you believe it? I started smoking grass at the age of fifteen, it’s not my fault; I was too young to know that I shouldn’t have joined their corrupt milieu. I don’t even think Baba 70 smoked cannabis sativa more than I did; I became very tough at that age, maybe it was the effect of the cannabis I smoke, I can’t say. But like my uncle, nobody suspected I was a criminal because I was the most gentle boy in class, not even Cain knew that I was a criminal. I never disobeyed my teachers and never beat up my principal like other students did. I read my books and passed out of the grammar school with good grades. I never liked tattoos but I was made to have one after only the first year of living with my uncle, they call it the sign of brotherhood, my uncle had much older men who helped him in his dirty works; I was like a baby in the midst of adults. We robbed many people of their belongings and we were never scared of the law because we thought we were smarter than the law itself; the police didn’t for once catch any one of us. I became as dangerous as my uncle after three years of my initiation.
“My uncle got sick and died when I was nineteen and I became the new leader of the gang. As young as I was, everybody in the gang feared me, I don’t know why––maybe because of the brutal rate at which I smoked grass or because I was fearless, I had no regard for my death. I robbed people of their belongings and threatened them though; I have never taken another person’s life. That was my weakness which I cunningly refused to show to anybody in the gang. We continued terrorizing everybody we come across in the streets of Lagos. We robbed banks and went free, and in no time, I was in money. I spent quite a large sum of the money on grass––smoking cannabis had become an addiction. I didn’t take to cocaine or heroin but I smoked about fifteen sticks of the hemp everyday. We were eight in number at that time but two died; one from chronic bronchitis and the other was run down by a Man Diesel truck during one of our operations when we were trying to escape from the police.
“We became the state’s some of the most wanted; five thousand naira for anybody who can give the police the information of how to capture us. Our name appeared in almost every daily newspaper.
“Your names were known?” asked Lot.
“Not exactly, you see, we had a name for our gang then. It was called Èyò––a name after the Lagos deities. Nobody knew our faces because they were always covered. We dressed in white clothing most of the time and our heads were white hats; the clothes covered our entire bodies, draping from our heads down to our feet, and sometimes we covered our faces with black stocking masks and hoods pulled over our heads. Or maybe just disguises, like fake beards and moustaches. Also included were wigs and crazy clothes to confuse the witnesses. I didn’t have any interest in women, they seemed like pieces of shits to me. My only interests were in money and grass.
“As funny as it may seem, after my high school education I got myself enrolled into the University of Benin where I studied Law, I didn’t know what prompted my studying that course. I became a lawyer at the age of twenty-four and still a virgin. Yet, I was the most wanted.
“Our doom caught up with us in 1981; a year after my graduation from the university. We got a message from one of our informants that there was a man who went to withdraw some thousands of money from the bank, we got interested and found out where the man lived. The situation did not go as planned that night when we went to attack the man; I got the shock of my life when we entered the man’s house. I saw a young beautiful girl, I’m not a man who really appreciate women’s beauty but this particular girl probed my emotion which I didn’t think I possessed; I was immediately captivated by the beauty of the girl and an animal desire ran through my devilish body. There was something mesmerizing about the girl’s appearance and for the first time in my entire life, I felt love. She was exceptionally different from every woman I’ve known, she seemed to possess an aura around her beautiful fragile body which is very hard for me to explain; that beauty was so appealing that it almost swept me off my feet. Then that wicked animal spirit that have always been in me took hold of my senses; after collecting the money which I was not really interested again, I commanded her to go into a room, I wanted to stop myself but I couldn’t, I was shaking uncontrollably and sweat was dripping from me furiously. I followed her into the room and made her UnCloth herself, then I did something my gang member must not know, maybe I was really out of my mind at that moment, I showed her my real face. I didn’t know why I did that, probably the love I experienced or the guilt I felt. But the fact remained that I showed her my face, then I climbed over her, and with my body shaking violently, I gently entered her. It was like I was dead and in heaven, like I was in paradise, I continued thrusting in and out of her, not wanting the feeling to end. Then suddenly, my brain seemed to explode and I felt like a part of me had been merged with her. I slowly got off her and to my astonishment and regret, the girl was a virgin; just like me. That was when I knew that we shared a bond which not even any of us could understand, I was ashamed of myself and a pain which I had never experienced took hold of my body. It was the pain that was more than the rape, it was the pain of taking away the pride of an innocent and helpless girl; I had selfishly popped her cherry.
“Some other things happened which I don’t need to say now, but I definitely told her that I loved her before I covered my face and went out of the room leaving her on the bed crying. I can still remember that first kiss, it was the sweetest experience; the feel of those softest lips still make the greenest memory in me. Still, what could an animal like me have to do with that innocent girl? I don’t even know her name.” he smiled and tears began to flow from his eyes down his cheeks. “Just almost immediately after that, something terrible happened and it happened very fast. I don’t know how the police got to know that we were there. They attacked us with a series of gunfire as we stepped out of the house.”
Kish turned to Richard’s mother, “That was what got you confused, we were six in number that night; one of us, Emeka, stood outside the house watching over. He also wore an armless shirt that night and he was the first to be hit by the police’s bullets. I was dazed and could not do anything as my gang mates continued returning fire to the police. I became numb and something kept ringing out loud in my ears that ‘it’s over!’ then just beside me, one of us was hit in the stomach, the bullets sending the large parts of his intestines flying. I quickly calculated my escape––just some yards behind me was a fence. I immediately climbed over the fence and jumped into the compound of the building behind where I was, I jumped over another fence into a nearby bush. I was almost home when I realized that I was the one holding the money we collected; I ran home like escaping from hell, through the bushes amid different bruises and scratches. It was about four in the morning by the time I got home and I packed all the money and others in the house into a bag in rush. I knew that none of my gang mates would leave the showdown alive. I changed into a more respectable clothing and fled. There was so much money in the bag that it was heavy and uncomfortable to carry. I travelled to Zaria that day and lodged in a hotel where I spent two weeks before flying to England. But before my travel I came around that location we robbed; I was trying to meet that innocent girl again, but they had vacated the place. Nobody knew where the family went.
“I lived a more respectable life in England, though at first it was very hard for me due to not finding any cannabis to consume, what was actually in handy was cocaine with which I was not attached. I could understand why some hemp smokers run insane because I nearly ran mad myself when I could not smoke it again. It took me quite some months, after visiting several rehabilitation centres, before I could get rid of my addiction. I got to England in 1981 and got married a girl whom I met there in 1984; she was also a Nigerian, her name was Lara. We lived together for five years before she divorced me and got married to one sordid mulatto.
“She gave birth to a girl after one year of getting married and I was very happy. I did not believe that I would ever become a father, but my world came crashing on me the moment Lara told me that I’m not the father of Belinda. I felt like dying, I was like a man who wanted to die but could not find the courage to kill himself. I did not blame Lara much for the actions she took, I accepted it, and it was my expiation. But that was the moment my nemesis came targeting on me dramatically.
“I decided to come back to Nigeria after spending twenty years of my life in Europe. Four different marriages did not work for me in England, I thought getting married in my country would be different. I made a considerable large sum of money there in England and I was reluctant to come home but I must get married and have a child, I realized that England is not the right place for me to do that.
“I met another girl when I came back to this country in 2001, her name was Sara. We loved each other deeply and I was happy that I had finally found my soul mate; somebody who really loved me for who I am. I even told her about my past and she did not love me the less, I have never been so cared for in my life. She possessed that sweetness no other woman I’ve taken down the aisle had. I was about forty-seven years old and she was twenty-six with a beauty so astonishing, I provided her with everything she needed. I literally worshipped her like a goddess, I did not allow a single fly to pounce on her. She was my life. She got pregnant the same year I met her, nothing could contain the joy I felt. That moment, I knew that I was going to have a child of my own. My worst nightmare came when Sara put to bed, she gave birth to a boy alright––but the child was a stillborn, she herself died of exsanguinations shortly after the birth; she had lost too much of her blood. I almost became a maniac, I was no more myself; I could not bath, I could not barb or shave, I refused to eat any good food––I became a shadow of myself.
“Then it suddenly dawned on me that God had been punishing me, making me reap the fruit of my sins. I cried like a baby when I realized that, I cursed myself and God. ‘Why did you do this to me? Why?’ I asked God wrathfully, ‘You should have killed me instead. Why must Sara die? She was innocent, why did you kill her? You should have taken me.’ For many years, I stopped going to church to get even with God, I refused to get married again because I knew God would kill my wife. I was wondering why He is still keeping me alive, I decided He wanted me to see more evil days, and I was prepared. I knew that the final blow to knock me out was coming but I didn’t know it until now. This is how God want to destroy me finally, I’m not prepared for this, this one is too much for me.
“I’m a doomed soul, I thought I was not going to have a child, I didn’t know that I already have one. My son was close to me and I did not know. My son was the driver of my friend, he’s the murderer of my friend––my only son is going to be hanged––

It happened at about quarter to twelve that Friday night when I was going to church to attend a vigil. It was already late in the night and I was afraid of getting attacked by robbers, so I decided to jog in the attempt to get to my destination faster. As I cut out of this street into the next one, I saw a figure in black overcoat wearing a hat––and he was holding a gun in his gloved hand. I initially thought he was a vigilante, then it struck me he could be a highway robber. I was so afraid that I hid in a nearby bush quoting Psalm twenty-three. It was when the figure aimed the pistol at himself that I sprang out of my hiding, what was actually ringing in my head was to save a man who wanted to kill himself. I ran in the cold air of the night, not because I am brave, which I am not, neither because I am prone to risks, which I am not, but because idleness does not breed salvation. The suicidal man was having his back at me, so I crept silently behind him and grabbed the hand with the gun, we both struggled with each other for some time, that was when he scratched me with his nails. He was trying to break free from me and I was trying to wring the gun off his hand. It was when he turned to face me that I was horrified; he was looking very mad, like a bear with a boil. His face was scary, the teeth bared, and the eyes glitter-ing coldness. He shook his body and pushed me with a growl but I still held unto the gun hand, he kneed me where it made me regret being born a male, I was still nursing the effect of the groin assault when he thrust his clenched knuckle into my breastbone with such impact that I coughed, the sharp blow nearly paralyzing me as it sent a high clinking report in my head. For a moment I thought there was an ancient cathedral nearby and the faithful Christians were being called to church service, I soon realized the bell was in my skull, tolling cacophonously. And the heat in between my legs was not in the least dropping its temperature.

‘I won’t let you kill yourself,’ I said to him, breathing hard.

‘What business of yours is it?’ he said, baptizing me with a fine spray of sa-liver, ‘You should have meddled at your own peril. Your death would aid my plan.’ He swung loose from me and aimed the pistol at me. Sensing the danger coming towards me, I quickly made my action. I’d ended up at the wrong end of a pistol before and I know how terribly a bullet can hurt, if you were not killed. I was very scared––he must not shoot me, yet, if I waited, he would kill me. Then, before he could pull the trigger I rushed him with a speed I didn’t know I possess. Within a split second, it dawned on me that I was no more trying to save the man who wanted to kill myself, I was trying to save myself from the man who wanted to kill me before killing himself. I grabbed the pistol again, trying with the whole of my strength to prevent him from pulling the trigger. But I could not match him in strength, he pushed me roughly and I landed hard right on my back which shook the holy breath out of me, like I had been hit by a truck––I lay where I had fallen, knowing fully well I was alive but reluctant to move my limbs, afraid that broken bones would come poking out of the skin. I looked above me hazily after what seemed to me like a century but was actually a few seconds, and I saw three small holes. It took me a while to realize that two of them were Mr. Martins’ nostrils––he was aiming the gun at me again.

‘Nobody can stop me,’ he roared, ‘Not even you.’ I thought the moment for me to meet my ancestors had come. Mr. Martins was looking like a devil; his eyes were merciless. Set. Decided. His finger on the trigger of the pistol, ready to pull at any moment. He was making a low growling sound that would have done credit to the soundtrack of a horror movie. It was then that I knew he was really ready to kill me.

The pistol pointing at me again made me stand up slowly in an effort of sur-render––no bone poked through my skin. Common sense had told me that you can never be faster than a squeeze of the trigger. No matter how fast you can hit or kick, or how much action movies you’ve watched––I knew Mr. Martins knew that too, and he knew I knew he knew. Then I did something that anyone with an IQ greater than mine would not have dared––I kicked the gun out of his hand.

It’s hard to send that kind of pistol flying; it’s not exactly a light gun. Never-theless, it flew. Before the gun flew out of his hand there was a deafening shot; the shot went past my ear that I thought for a moment that its bullet had taken my brain with it. For a second, I think he look amazed at how stupid I had been before I quickly rushed to the gun and pick it up. He was rushing towards me like a bull when I looked behind me. I knew I would never be so lucky again if he got the gun from me so I shot the pistol as he was closing in on me. Believe me, I never intended to kill him––I only shot the gun to scare him off but the bullet went straight into his head, he fell down lifeless immediately, I thought I shot the pistol wide. My brain must have really been screwed from the fall. I stood there unable to move. What’ve I done? I felt the panic spreading through me, paralyzing me, causing sweat to break out on my face and neck.

Mr. Martins’ head was turned to one side. Even in the dark, his fixed stare was unmistakable. Guilt sutured my heart and mind together, the thought of what I had done caused stitches of pain to pull in my chest. I will never be the same person again, for I had taken a life. Although circumstances had given me no option but to kill or be killed and though I knew Mr. Martins had chosen to serve evil and to serve it well, the gravity of my action weighed on me nonetheless, and I felt diminished in more ways than I could count gone was a certain innocence that I would never be able to regain. I began pacing rapidly back and forth, trembling from fear and exhaustion, rivulets of sweat were rolling down my face, my eyes were wide and darting this way and that at nothing, I had committed not only a terrible crime but a mortal sin in the eyes of God––I had taken another man’s life.

I have all those ones you listed, too.
Agatha Christie wrote over eighty books, listing everything would take a considerable time to do. I have about fifty of her books so far...but it seems her books are really getting out of circulation because I rarely get more than just two of her books in a year now...just like Hardley Chase's. I can still recall the non-poirot books I've read:
The Secrets of Chimneys(Very hilarious)
Sleeping Murder(Miss Marple's last case)
Death Comes as the End(Set in Egypt)
Come, Tell Me How You Live(An autobiography)

Surprisingly, I recently purchased The Murder Of Roger Ackroyd...the book is just too great.

I have them in hard copies. What's your favourite? I have a hardcover that features Poirot's first and last cases; classic stories.

I'm in, too.
You must add me!
E-mail: larrysun4real@yahoo.com

Agatha Christie, to me, has been the greatest mystery/crime fiction writer of all time. I just can't get enough of her surprising yarns and astonishing denouements. I have about fifty of her book (still finding ways to collect more, though).
Anyone who knows her should know her two greatest fictional detective; Hercule Poirot and Miss Jane Marple. If you're a die-hard mystery fan, these books of hers with never disappoint you.
And Then There Were None (Originally published Ten Little Indians)
A Holiday For Murder (Originally published Murder For Christmas)
Murder On The Links (My favourite)
Towards Zero
The Mysterious Affair At Styles (Her first book, the first time Hercule Poirot was featured)
Curtain (Hercule Poirot's last case, where he died)
The Patriotic Murder
Murder In The Air
Murder On The Orient Express
Taken At The Flood
Floating Admiral (Agatha Cristie, G.K. Chesterton, Dorothy L. Sayer-all came together to find solution to an almost unsolvable mystery)

I'm crazy about mystery fictions generally, some other books I enjoyed under the genre include:

Riddle Of The Third Mile (Colin Dexter)
Trent's Last Case (E.C Bentley)
The Man Who Was Poe (Avi)

You're free to share with us your best mystery novels.

The Da Vinci Code was written by Dan Brown, it was really overrated as it is not as thrilling as its prequel, Angels and Demons.

Dan Brown has written some other books like Digital Fortress, Deception Point, The Lost Symbol and the latest, The Solomon's Secret.

Poster, it appears as though you are just delving into the world of novel-reading. The Da Vinci Code has been around for about eight years. Why are you just reading the popular classic? Left me wondering.

The Da Vinci Code was written by Dan Brown, it was really overrated as it is not as thrilling as its prequel, Angels and Demons.

Dan Brown has written some other books like Digital Fortress, Deception Point, The Lost Symbol and the latest, The Solomon's Secret.

Poster, it appears as though you are just delving into the world of novel-reading. The Da Vinci Code has been around for about eight years. Why are you just reading the popular classic? Left me wondering.

The Da Vinci Code was written by Dan Brown, it was really overrated as it is not as thrilling as its prequel, Angels and Demons.

Dan Brown has written some other books like Digital Fortress, Deception Point, The Lost Symbol and the latest, The Solomon's Secret.

Poster, it appears as though you are just delving into the world of novel-reading. The Da Vinci Code has been around for about eight years. Why are you just reading the popular classic? Left me wondering.

Murder on the Links by Agatha Christie.

What has been putting the asinine idea that novel isn't worthwhile? Sorry, you still have a lot to learn. I'm sure Chinua Achebe, Cyprian Ekwensi, Wole Soyinka and every other lovers of literature and creativity would see you as daft.

I'm also having the same problem. I guess it's quite possible. But writing twÓ stories at a time would slow you down.

I WROTE A NOVEL WHERE I HAD TO PORTRAY A SCENE OUT OF THE BIAFRA WAR. I DON'T KNOW IF WHAT I WROTE IS REALLY TRUE ABOUT THAT WAR. BUT ABOVE ALL, I'M AFRAID I MAY BE SUED FOR THIS; PERHAPS, FOR ITS VIOLENCE OR FALSEHOOD. IT IS A FICTION BUT IS THERE ANY LAW GUIDING AGAINST FICTION WRITERS? PLEASE READ AND ADVISE. THIS IS ONLY AN EXCERPT OUT OF THE CHAPTER FIVE OF THE BOOK.
THANK YOU.
LARRY SUN.

January 1970,
The Final Battle of the Nigerian
Civil War

About fifty yards ahead of the twenty-one year old Eze, one of the leading tanks was burning, a soldier’s body sprawled across the hatch, the right arm dangling down towards the main turret, his helmeted head spattered with blood. Another tank, to his left, lurched to a crazy standstill as a shell shattered the left-side track; four men jumped down and sprinted back towards the comparative safety of the boundless, anonymous sands behind them.
The noise of the battle was deafening as shrapnel soared and whistled and plunged and dealt its death amidst the thick forest and the scorching sun. Men shouted and pleaded and ran––and died; some blessed swiftly in an instantaneous annihilation, others lingeringly as they lay mortally wounded on the bloody ground. Yet, others burned to death inside their tanks as the twisted metal of the hatches jammed or shot up limbs could find no final desperate leverage.
Then it was the turn of the tank immediately to his right––two officers leaped down from it, one clutching his arm which had been blown off from the elbow downward, and they just managed to race clear before the tank exploded into blinding flame. Eze and the two officers had struggled only some forty yards before flinging themselves down as another shell kicked up the sand just ahead of them, spewing its steel fragment in a shower of jagged metal. And when Eze finally looked up, he found the one-armed soldier dead; a lump of twisted metal embedded in his lower back.
He and the other soldier got up at the same time and began running; they had seen some of the enemies running towards them and shooting blindly. Eze ran like he had never done before, his partner was also a great runner; keeping a regular and even pace behind him. Eze could feel a wheeze as a bullet shot past his head––an inch closer and his head would be splattered on the ground; he ran faster. The two soldiers could simultaneously see a huge rock some few metres before them, and they were both running like hell towards it. They were almost a few steps before reaching their fortress when Eze saw that his partner had been shot. A small geyser of blood erupted from his neck. He staggered forward several yards, like a sprinter who had crossed the finish line. Then he collapsed to the ground. He had been struck in the lower outside part of his neck, near his right shoulder. Eze Chima could not leave him lying there; he bent over the collapsed soldier and dragged him behind the rock. Then the enemies stopped running towards them, they stood away and continued shooting at the huge rock; the bullets ricocheting to different directions.
Eze cradled the soldier’s head, applying pressure with both hands to the pulsing wound on the back of the neck, desperately trying to staunch the flow. The pressure was not working. Eze felt his uniform becoming warm and wet, and he realized what was wrong. There was an exit wound at the front of the soldier’s neck, perilously near the larynx, from which bright arterial blood was gushing. The soldier was trying to talk but it came out as a whisper.
“Wh-what is your name?”
“Eze Chima.”
The wounded soldier smiled, “I’m Uche. I like being a soldier I am––but I hate wars.”
“Me too.”
Then Uche’s face concocted into that of agony. “I-I feel pain.”
“You will be okay, trust me.”
“I’ll kill those bastards.” He whispered. He wanted to shout but he could only manage a low rasp, loud enough for Eze to hear “Leave me.”
“No, you’ve been hit, you can’t fight them.”
Eze tried to hold him but the wounded one jerked his body away from him. He grabbed his gun and crawled out from behind the rock. He crawled a few feet and then used his arm to raise himself. Immediately, a blast hit his midriff, slamming him to the ground. His abdomen had been torn apart. Recovery was out of the question. For the moment, the enemies’ shooting range was focused on the dying soldier; they were busy disfiguring him with series of bullets. Eze took advantage of the opportunity and bolted; he didn’t want to be trapped behind the rock and killed. The enemies will sure as hell not be standing forever waiting for him to come out of his hiding. He ran farther into the thick forest with a speed he didn’t know he possessed. Eze Chima was more satisfied being in the forest than in the open, he could hide anywhere in the forest and never be seen. He could even live in the forest better than most animals.
He was on the run when he met another enemy, they seemed to be everywhere. Eze had always been known by his fellow soldiers to be extremely fast with his weapons, and before the enemy could raise his gun, Eze had shot him as swiftly as he had seen him. The enemy had died instantly but Eze continued firing at him with the stance of a soldier firing at a person who could no more return fire, but whose continued appearance was itself a dire menace. When he stopped firing, the enemy’s gut had been burst open and a small saliva bubble mixed with blood had formed at his lips. Then immediately behind him, another enemy appeared, and in fear, Eze fired blindly, shooting all the bullets in his cylinder. The man staggered backward, making an odd gurgling sound; one of the bullets had pierced his throat, which exploded in a gush of arterial blood. Eze walked slowly towards the dead man, he wiped the tears in his eyes as he saw the dead soldier. They had shot Uche too in the neck, and he––Eze, had paid them back the same way. He was tired and he sat by the dead enemy; he leaned against a tree and closed his eyes.
The sun was fighting its final descent beyond the war zone when Eze Chima opened his eyes. The last orange rays were filtering through the thick foliage of the trees. Eze became confused; he couldn’t believe that he had slept all through the afternoon––so he had been unconscious for a couple of hours now. Everywhere was strangely silent; the cries of the injured soldiers, the explosion of tanks, the sharp cracking sounds of gunshots––everything had all stopped. He stood up abruptly. He was thankful that no enemy had come around to find him sleeping after he had killed two of their men in the same spot, they would make him suffer so much that he would have to beg them to kill him. Surely, they would be kind and delighted enough to kill him––slowly. Sweat broke out of Eze’s forehead; he was afraid. What has happened? He thought fearfully. He walked slowly out of the forest into the open war ground, and then he knew what had happened. He sat where he was, severely shocked but apparently uninjured. His eyes looked down at his legs, then at his arms; he felt his face and his chest, then he tried to wriggle his toes in his army boots. Truly, he was uninjured. Just about thirty minutes before he slept off there had been a dozen enemies trying to kill him. And now, there was one man alive here––him. His first conscious thought was a feeling of ineffable anger, but almost immediately, his heart rejoiced as he saw his other colleagues who were alive being carried on stretchers. Most of them had lost one or two of their limbs each. Only then and gradually did a sense of vast relief surge through him––relief that he had survived, without a scratch, and he said a brief prayer to God in gratitude for making him come through. With another stream of tears flowing down his eyes, Eze found himself sucking his lower lip between his teeth. He had actually bitten into the soft tissue; he could taste a trickle of blood.
The war had ended.

@Valacious, thank you for the rate though, but I'd like to know the premise behind why you asked me to choose a different setting?

Thank you, Myne White. I'm still an amateur writer. This kind of detective story has a touch of romance and a spice of humour. At least, a six is an encouragement (above average), I'll try to polish it better. Thank you again.