LarrySun:
Author's Note: Like An Ace for Oscar, which won the second position in the Mobile Bookshelf Writing Competition, this story also won the second position in the OkadaBooks Short Story Writing Competition.

You can read An Ace for Oscar here: https://www.nairaland.com/2765224/ace-oscar

I didn't get how to post on Nairaland again. Help me move this to new post.

This, Dami, is my second novel!


Prologue.

Mrs Isabel Barrimade was annoyed when she entered the room. In fact, she was annoyed beyond reason, her body convulsing with the effort she was making to suppress the anger that was leading her legs in the direction of the bed.

The time was - she looked at her wristwatch - 8:23. Which man that favoured a honest day work would still be sleeping at that God's glorious hour? Indeed, she was ready to concede the point that any man could sleep to any length as long as it did not impede her in her earning her honest day's pay.

8:23... 8:24, now!

But, it was obvious, wasn't it? It was obvious that Col. Regis Aikins was bent on dragging her work beyond the necessary hour, impeding her - an honorable widow - in her effort to make the day pay. The colonel was sleeping like one who had no cause to be worried about missing the opportunities inherent in the day, sleeping the sleep of the dead!

Mrs. Isabel Barrimade hastened to the side of the bed, deftly skirting the stool that was initially in her path of way, and gave the colonel, her boss, a not-too-gentle wallop on the shoulder.

"Be getting up now, sir," she said, her face reddening perceptibly in fury. "Why! It's plumb past eight and I be needing to straighten this here room."

Colonel Aikins favoured her not with a slight shake of the body, a rustling of the bedspread, a twinkle of the left eye (to put her in the mind that it was all a joke, after all) or even a yawn, that most fundamental of all indications that one woke in good health. Col. Aikins favoured her with cloying indifference. It pushed her fury almost to the point of outrage.

"Colonel!" She shrieked as she gave him another wallop. "Won't you be getting up this minute? I need to be about my duties."

The noise she made should have woken the dead. Colonel Aikins was not even bothered.

Two particular facts ought to have penetrated Mrs. Barrimade's fury: Col. Aikins never woke later than Seven a.m (this fact she could have attested to in her milder periods) nor would he have continued sleeping if someone stepped into his room.

Colonel Regis Aikins did not respond to the freakish, shrieking entreaties of Mrs. Barrimade because, in all honesty, he was actually dead.




Chapter One

I was called because they all believed I could solve this riddle. My bank account would bear me witness. My name is Jean. Jean Dimanche Rousseau. I once found a lost dog, a wife that did not want to be found, even a key. In other words, I am in the business of finding.

I was called because they all believed I was the best in the business of finding out the fact, the truth.

And this was my worst case yet!

LarrySun:
I understand your points, big bro. The truth is: many of us do not take the time to cross-check what we have written before posting them; let alone the fact that there is an abundance of 'writers' who do not even know the basic rules of writing.

The only reason why you are not rated (I assume that is related to the Writer of the Month votes) is (just as you have rightly said) because you are not consistent in your updates. You've not been allowing your works to remain on the first page of the section. I'm sure many writers would be very much inspired to up their skills if they come across your works. I, personally, learn a lot from your amazing writing skills. Reading your work is like drinking an elixir. I've had such feelings with the works of beautiful writers like Ishilove, OMA4U, StealthIdeals, SenbonZakuraKageyoshi (I hope I spelt that correctly), Whitemosquito, Royver,Vantee20 and Princesa. These are very careful writers I admire; they write with unique styles that never fail to thrill me. I've been humbled by their works. Just like you, they've written classics, I mean literary classics. And they've carved good reputations for themselves here in Nairaland. There are several other people though, even some I don't know.

All you need, sir, is to devote more attention to your work. Doing that would be akin to doing a lot of people (yours truly inclusive) a great favour.

God bless you, sir.

I understand. Thank you.

Ps:
Your 'Coffin of error' still amuses me. Whenever I feel 'low', I read it and I'm laughing my heart out. May God continue to enrich your brain.

LarrySun:
After losing this the first time, I've decided to repost. My appreciation to all my former readers.

THE COFFIN OF ERRORS

(Still To Ishilove)

The old and bad-tempered Pa Jimoh was dead, to begin with, but he did not go to his grave. And this deprivation of proper interment prevented among mourners any thought of planting over his head a mango tree. The real cause of his demise, however, if brought to focus, would result in an esteem more mirth-inducing to any spectator at the sight of the incident than to the actual victim on whom such tragedy befell.

Pa Jimoh had already hoisted himself to the apex of a rather lofty palm tree before he met his end. His intention behind this ascent was merely to tap in the early wine, but instead, he found his own hand tapping on the delicate nest of snoozing hornets. Not many mortals, if placed behind a judgemental desk, would put too much blame on the piqued wasps for their collective efforts in the attack on the feeble curmudgeon. And it would be unfair if this little but fatal brawl between insect and man was not elucidated in full detail.

The kind of irritation this swarm fostered could only be imagined after putting oneself in their thorax. Just imagine yourself a wasp making passionate insect love to your spouse in your apartment erected feet high on the branch of a palm, then suddenly poof! your castle was demolished by the single stroke of a hand. And this destruction came not just from any hand but from the hand of Man; that specie with whom you have never been (and possibly will never be) of benign companionship. In this instance, the last thing a patriotic wasp would care about was decency; no male wasp would scramble to a wardrobe searching for a pair of trousers to cover its privates, and neither would a female scream for her pants and bra. What would they do? They'd call on immediate neighbours whose mansions had also been reduced to rubble and launch immediate attack on the human intruder.

Initiating the divide-and-conquer techniques, some wasps made their own attack on the human's skull; thereby, in the process, reshaping the dimension of the tapper's occiput into that which was totally different from the Creator's initial design. But this was not what resulted to the old man's demise; of course, something more brutal sufficed. While some wasps families were busy assaulting the old man's skull, others lodged themselves into the dark comfort of his rather oversized pair of trousers. The poor man wouldn't have launched into that extraordinary wail even people far away had sworn hearing if those bees had shown kindness on their intruder. The offensive had found it incubent to sting him on the delicate tissue of the sac dangling between his thighs, while some were satisfied by only sticking their probosces on the flesh of that tender rope that always come with the sac. The agony could only be best described by someone who'd experienced a nearly equal attack. So, it could be deduced that the latter attack was more brutal than the former, for it was at this moment that the old man forgot about the precarious position he was in; he'd disremembered that he was still perched against the stem of a tall tree. And because the pain was getting unbearable, Pa Jimoh let go. Witnessing the brutal event could cause one to see only figuratively the morals behind the anecdote that 'the higher you fall the higher you bounce', and the old man literally bounced when his slim body came in contact with the earth. And these mean insects returned to build another nest only after accompanying their victim to his final destination. A rather eccentric writer may be inspired to coin a catchy title from this tragedy: 'Death by Sting' would go the title.

Pa Jimoh was really dead. There was no doubt whatsoever about that, for he truly and undeniably died from half a thousand stings and a broken vertebrae. He knew about his own death? Of course he did. How could it ever be otherwise? Because Pa Jimoh died a virgin, there was really not wet eye for his funeral. The reason behind his decided celibacy would forever remain a mystery even to the most seasoned of all detectives alive today.

Now, the mention of Pa Jimoh's funeral brings the magic of the pen back to the first line of the immediate paragraph before this. Pa Jimoh was really dead. This must be distinctly assimilated or there would be nothing of consequence to fathom from the extraordinary sequence of events that succeeded his demise. And when a man dies and is still refused the peacefulness of a grave, then most people will agree that there is something still amiss with the world, as it has always been.

Jimoh, being the last of his race, was of no known family member to claim his corpse, let alone rewarding him with a befitting burial. It was only the kind indegenes of Ogbomosho that took it upon themselves to plant the loner, but they refused to do it without a coffin available. It was part of their culture in the remotest part of the village not to bury any corpse in the soil without first locking it in a casket. But the only coffin-maker they knew had his shop in the city, which was many kilometres away from the village. Having no other known maker of coffins, the village elders gathered together their resources and employed the service of Saka, a gifted coffin-maker. These elders exhibited their generosity over the tapper's corpse to a commendable degree. If they'd allowed themselves the pleasure of considering Pa Jimoh's manners in his life they wouldn't have made any step at burying him; they'd rather have watched the corpse rot and become meat for fowls of both air and land, for Pa Jimoh was known to be tight-fisted in his life; a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old man. He was a well from which no bucket had ever fetched a generous water. No beggar who knew him implored of him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o'clock, no man or woman in the village ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Pa Jimoh. Even the blind men appeared to recognize him; for when they sensed him coming ahead, they would tap their canes and make their ways to their doorways. It almost seemed as though whenever it came to situations pertaining Jimoh, they revelled in their affliction. Some of them would console themselves by saying, 'No eye at all is better than an evil eye!'

But even Jimoh himself did not give a trifle care to this obvious neglect; it was the very thing he liked, and he always defended himself by preaching about how he was the oldest inhabitant of the village at seventy-five, and that every other villager should always accord him the respect for an elder. Although he always emphasized how he was a year older than any other old man in the village, everybody knew that he was never an hour richer. And to have such an evil-embodiment die in the village without the benefit of a burial might spell misfortune for the growing generation of the village.

Saka worked round the clock to make a presentable coffin for Pa Jimoh, and when the work was ready the next day, Saka was impressed at his own achievement; because he'd never, until now, completed a casket in a single day. It was as though the spirit of the dead palm-wine tapper urged him to hasten up. He knew quite well that his client would likewise be duly impressed at the rapidity with which he completed the work. He also knew that the villagers could not wait to inter Jimoh and get it done with. But in the modern world, there was always Murphy's Law that could not be avoided. And in this case at hand, everything worked together to make sure that the coffin built for Jimoh did not arrive Ogbomosho in time.

Pa Jimoh had chosen the wrong time to die; he kicked the bucket when fuel scarcity was rampant in the city yonder.

With his faithful work of art beside him, Saka waited impatiently at the bus-stop, but the road was practically devoid of vehicles. The very few that plied the quiet road didn't give the carpenter a second glance, and even those who gave were shied away at the sight of the corpse apartment. Most motorists believed that the presence of a coffin in their vehicles could cause doom to their journey, with or without corpse. Sometimes though, some braver ones would adorn their automobiles with leaves of unknown botanical nomenclatures, believing therefore that this action was enough to ward off both potential evils and evil potentials. Besides, everything in life has always boiled down to faith; but faith itself is limited. Would you believe so much in faith that you'd take a bold step to the middle of a rail track with the firm belief that the speeding locomotive would bounce off you at impact? And it is not unusual to find that it is only readers who'd not misplaced their mental gadgets would find the mission an extremely ludicrous one. And if you trust otherwise, then the writer can only shrug his shoulder and urge you to prove him wrong.

Saka was already at the verge of giving up and returning home when he sighted an approaching lorry. There, he decided within himself that this one vehicle would not pass him by, no matter what it took. This was the perfect six-wheeler to transport him, coffin inclusive. He was determined to make the driver stop, and hand-flagging might not achieve that. When the vehicle was closer, Saka suddenly leaped to the middle of the road. There was no one at the bus-stop to stop him from engaging in this suicidal mission. Everywhere was silent, as if the situation was not only inflation in fuel price but also an imposition of curfew. Although this feat was not unlike that of the demented incipient already mentioned in the former paragraph, Saka was one of the sanest people in all of humanity; because it takes a large degree of sanity and ingenuity to build such a remarkable coffin. Fortunately, Saka was not flattened by the wheels of the truck, though almost. The driver had managed to repair the brakes the day before. The vehicle stopped at only a few inches from the carpenter.

'Are you crazy?' Screamed the driver in a thick Yoruba language. As he poked his head out through the window Saka could not help noticing the brutal tribal marks on the man's cheeks. Whoever had carved this tally on his face had not intention of bestowing pulchritude. The lines were not even symmetrical; the driver's ugliness was classic.

'No, I am not crazy, just desperate. There's a difference between insanity and desperation.' answered Saka in like language.

'What do you want?' The facially-challenged man asked impatiently.

'My name is Saka and I urgently need to get to the town of Ogbomosho.'

'How does that concern me?'

'You are going to drive me there.'

'And a dozen beauty queens would fight over me.' Spat the driver, whose name was Dawodu; an ugly name among ugly names.

'Listen carefully to me, Prince Charming, I'm not leaving here unless you agree to transport me.'

Dawodu scoffed amusedly, 'And you think your rigid presence here is a threat to my tipper? I can just run you over.'

Maybe Saka's sanity had reached such a boiling point that a regular prefix had been added to his 'sanity', or the spirit of the deceased client was influencing him negatively, because the coffin-maker's reply was sensationally inane. 'I've memorized your plate number.'

The truck-driver stared at Saka for a long moment; what was running through his mind could be explained by only him, because he quietly but firmly replied, 'My fee is ten naira.' Of course, the amount charged during this prehistoric time was a direct equivalent five hundred times its value fifty years aft.

'What!' screamed the wide-eyed Saka. 'That's a fortune! I can only afford five naira.'

'Deal.'

'Come and let's hoist that to the back of the lorry.' Saka pointed at the coffin he'd left at the site of the road prior his maniacal bound before a moving engine. It was at this moment that Dawodu noticed the wooden object.

'What's that?' he asked incredulously.

'It's a spaceship.' Saka replied absent-mindedly.

'It looks like a coffin.'

'Wow, that's very brilliant of you. You're right, it's a coffin,' Saka said impatiently, 'Now come and assist in lifting it.'

'You are not planning to put that in my lorry, are you?'

The coffin-maker looked at the driver as if he had just said something incredibly silly.

'No,' he answered in anger, 'I'm planning to string it on my waist like a bead.'

'I'm not putting a corpse in my car!'

'The coffin is empty, genius!'

'Prove me wrong.'

It was only after Saka had opened the coffin to show that it was truly empty that Dawodu in lifting.

Then the journey began.

I must register my displeasure. Dami, is Nairaland that filled with mediocrity? Sample the nonsense on offer, and I don't even rate a vote.

I understand that I don't update enough (writing for blog, editing, etc), but, Christ

LarrySun:
Lol! May plagiarists have AIDS.

Amen!

mollusco:
This is a work of fiction. The events described are imaginary and the characters are fictitious. They do not represent true events or specific living persons.

All rights reserved o!

Nonsense! Na modify I wan press I come go press quote.

LarrySun:
More, please. This is particularly too short.

Alright, sir. However, that will have to be later in the day. Lappy battery don flat.

Alhaja came to her husband’s rescue. She would not condone such misdeed.

“Alhaji,” she said, “try to be reasonable sometimes. Who gives birth to someone if not his or her mother? This, this,” she did not find the correct word. In the nonexistence of that, she used the next phrase that came to her mind, “this piece of garbage would not talk to you anyhow if not that.”

The governor thought, well, the two shots must be having an unreasonable effect. The nurse, he continued in his thinking, only laughed. If she said anything, he must have missed it.

The Special Adviser, who was truly under the influence of alcohol, looked at Alhaja and the nurse, and could not decide who was drunk of the two. He stretched his hand for a bottle that was not there and touched the Private Assistant’s penis. The speed at which the offended man flung the offending hand away was amusing to the governor.

The nurse was no longer benign. She regarded Alhaja with eyes that spoke volume of her malignancy and decided, there and then, that if the woman was ever brought to the hospital for the treatment of brain tumour, she would add urine to her blood. She approached Alhaji with legs that the private assistant assured himself were the kind fathomed by God from the sculpted image of venus, she twisted the hips that he told himself were not much different from those of Marie Antoinette, reached for the drips with hands that he was satisfied could only be found on Brigitte Bardot and looked at the same drips with the eyes of Isabelle Adjani.

“Hmm,” she hmmed. “Let me go and bring your drugs and injection.” She could see that there was nothing left in the plate on the stool beside the bed. Though, if she had asked, she would have learnt that the special adviser emptied that plate. “I can see you’ve eaten.”

Alhaji caught it too late, but, would you not rather trust him? He was brisk with his retort after catching it.

“The drugs only.”

“And, of course, the injection.”

“Bring many, then.” He looked round the room to the limit permitted him by his conditional constraints. He took in the number of the people with him. “Bring six. You will inject the governor too. You will also inject the special adviser. In fact, you will inject everybody.”

mollusco:
Oga heard and wondered whether he stank that terribly. He had only taken two shots of what they now called Vodka. The private assistant looked at the adviser and made a mental note: the drunk must make way for Salaudeen. That one was not always too inebriated.

” Of course. He drank water. Two jugs.”

The adviser looked at the private assistant, wondering if the 'goat' was too - let me use the right word - drunk for the job he currently maintained, would the governor die if he was replaced?

Alhaji was not going to be outdone. It was his day. Da-mn the devil, the angels and all the gods, he was the one -the one! - shot.

” Who gave birth to you?” He asked the assistant. ” Your mother?”

Both the governor and the councillor reasoned that Alhaji's brain might have been affected by the bullet that now kept him 'chained' to a mattress in a hospital ward. The assistant, who was directly affected, reasoned that fo-ols were now in surplus in this country.

” My sister!”

The nurse could not help it. Her laughter was heard in the car park.

Alhaji was shocked beyond words. A man who was shot ought to have the right, if not peace of mind, not to be laughed at by his own nurse.

I guess I may have to continue this tomorrow when I get a phone that does what one orders it to do.

So infuriating can typing with an android phone get!

Oga heard and wondered whether he stank that terribly. He had only taken two shots of what they now called Vodka. The private assistant looked at the adviser and made a mental note: the drunk must make way for Salaudeen. That one was not always too inebriated.

” Of course. He drank water. Two jugs.”

The adviser looked at the private assistant, wondering if the 'goat' was too - let me use the right word - drunk for the job he currently maintained, would the governor die if he was replaced?

Alhaji was not going to be outdone. It was his day. Da-mn the devil, the angels and all the gods, he was the one -the one! - shot.

” Who gave birth to you?” He asked the assistant. ” Your mother?”

Both the governor and the councillor reasoned that Alhaji's brain might have been affected by the bullet that now kept him 'chained' to a mattress in a hospital ward. The assistant, who was directly affected, reasoned that fo-ols were now in surplus in this country.

” My sister!”

The nurse could not help it. Her laughter was heard in the car park.

Alhaji was shocked beyond words. A man who was shot ought to have the right, if not peace of mind, not to be laughed at by his own nurse.

Phew! Typing with a phone can be tiresome! What I have up here took me over thirty minutes.

Alhaja was beside him. Beside Alhaja was a man who was almost in tears, claiming that he did not actually run away, that he felt the bullet too when Alhaji was shot, that his arm was in a sling even though nobody could see it. Beside Alhaja was Christopher, Alhaji's driver. Adjacent to him was a bench on which were seated four people who were looking at him with disbelieving eyes.

The governor, who was nearest to him, said 'Ahn Ahn!'.

The councillor, beside the governor, was of the mind that he should not be too forward. He thought the I-diot was not only cr-azy, but also st-upid.

Beside the councillor was the special adviser for political affairs: a man who defined 'stupor'. He was drunk twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, three sixty five days a year. A man was not yet born who could outdo, out-drink, and out-misbehave this special adviser.

The special adviser leant beyond the councillor, malodorous of alcohol all the way, to the governor to say:

” Mad man!”

The governor looked at four people: the injured man, the nurse who just came in, the councillor and his special adviser. He was not sure that he was the one who uttered the words, but, Alhaji could have shot anyone who thought otherwise.

” You are a bloody fool,” the governor said. ” I'm not a mad man. You are.”

The special adviser, who was drunk, as usual, thought: ” Drunk! Damned drunk!”

He turned to the fourth man on the bench (a goat if you have ever seen one: so fo-olish-looking was he. Still, he was the governor's personal, no, private assistant).

” Did Oga drink this morning?”

LarrySun:
Yes, I know the guy; he has once unscrewed my Tecno.

You've still got a better edge. Until I collect my laptop from that buffalo, I have resolved to typing my manuscripts with my phone.

Okay, I shall be waiting for that rock to spring forth water, for my grammatical throat is getting parched.

I guess I have to update, today, with my phone too.

LarrySun:
Do you have it? Can we make an exchange? Of course, I would return it after reading. I just finished reading Grisham's A Time to Kill. About to read Archer's Honour Among Thieves.

Of course, I do. I will look for it now.

Fatalveli:
Wow! This literary piece reeks of perpetual superlativeness. This author is an embodiment of literature. You are indeed Larrysun's colleague...

I truly appreciate your comment.

LarrySun:
Big bro, I urge you to continue.

That scene about one child teaching another the song of Small Doctor cracked me up. I can actually picture it in my head. #Ali goes to school, he wears Jesus' sandals to school...#

Keep up the vivid originality, sir.

Thanks! I'll try my best!

The truth is: my phone is not now being discovered by my lappy, otherwise, I'd have updated. Android!

The moment I collect my Nokia from the engineer (Ponle, you ought to know him), then, I won't have any excuse.

Android!

I 'warred' with it for almost two hours.

I will update later today or tomorrow (at the worst).

LarrySun:
I don't sell books; I'm only a collector. I could have more of Micheners if I wanted, but I don't really care to read him.

Have you read 'Poland'? If you haven't, read it.

It will make you a believer.

I have five Micheners' books.

LarrySun:
Whitemosquito is a lady, a shrewd one at that.

Was I inattentive or was I too drunk?

Thanks for calling my attention to it.

Electricity, as you know, in our end of the country is a mirage. I charge my laptop (except if I want to lie) but I'm currently in the process of writing a story that I promised my best friend. The damned thing (my laptop, that is) only lasts for two hours thirty five minutes.

The meaning of all this 'ejowewe' is that I can only update this story once a day (despite the fact that I've written the whole thing).