LarrySun:

IV

Peter didn’t bother to ask the full meaning of OMB. If he had, he would have known that it stood for Old Man Balewa.

Larry pa mi o!!!

A good episode today. Keep it coming...

Blessings, man. Blessings.

LarrySun:
II

...At exactly 4pm, the child got on his knees and began to murmur some strange words. No one understood what he was saying, not even Peter. He seemed like he was speaking in tongues.

But the boy was praying for Peter Black. What he saw scared him.

Lez go dia...

LarrySun:
...By the time he filled the bag to the brim, there was only a single bale left. Peter put it in his pocket; he left nothing behind. It took a great effort for him to carry the money out of the room, securely zipped, the bag was left in the parlour. He packed the tools he brought along and deposited them in the money-house. Then he reached into his other pocket, came up with a black cloth and deposited it where the man would easily find it whenever he came in. He shut the door behind him, returned to the parlour, lifted the bag to his head and left the building. None of the guards stopped him as he walked out of the gate. This was because they were busy frisking the people coming in. No one gave Peter a second glance.

That same afternoon while Peter was throwing money around like a drunken sailor, Mallam Dadadwa was lying unconsciously in the hospital bed. Doctors and nurses worked tirelessly to bring him back to life. The news of Mallam Dadawa’s robbery filled the pages of all the national newspapers in the country.

And that was how the legend of Peter Black began in Lagos...

The End of Chapter Eight

Na wa o. Latecomer Morsadh says well done, sir.

My chest!!!

Blackky, you're a baskard!

LarrySun:


“I sincerely hope you have a good solution,” Basket told Black, “This conductor is not smiling at all.”

Peter did not say anything.

Four more passengers paid before the conductor encountered another ‘staff’. This one was a naval officer. The conductor was getting really frustrated. It seemed to him like staff officers had chosen this particular van to converge in.

“Young me, your transport fares, please?” The conductor asked Peter and Basket, still grumbling angrily under his breath. He must have been cursing the officers that were abusing their powers.

Basket turned to his friend, “This is the time for the solution, Blackie.”

Black looked at the conductor and said, “Staff.”

“What!” Basket nearly fainted, “Don’t tell me this is your solution.”

The conductor stared from Basket to Peter. He didn’t believe he heard the black boy right. He said wrathfully, “You must be kidding me! Under what division of the force do nonentities like you belong?”

At this time, even the other passengers were looking back at the two idiots in the back seat, as if Peter and Basket were millipedes who had just crawled out of the hole of stupidity and were moving about with a thousand legs of foolishness.

“We’re the Boy Scouts,” Peter replied grimly.

Basket flushed with embarrassment. He began to sweat nervously. Once again, Peter had dragged him to the altar of sacrifice.

“Who the hell knows the Boy Scouts?” said the driver. He had stopped the vehicle and was now glaring balefully at the boys. It was as if a million eyes were staring at both Peter and Basket.

“Get out of the van now!” the driver growled.

“We’ve got our rights!” Black insisted.

“Show us your identity cards,” said the police officer.

Peter answered bravely, “We left them at home.”

One thing led to another. One word spoken wrongly. One falsehood exposed. A minute later, the vehicle was travelling down the road, but without Peter and Basket. The boys were standing alone at the roadside. They were dressed in only their underwear; their shirts and trousers had been seized.

They trekked the rest of the way home in their near-naked status. Basket rained insults on Peter all the way home. Darkness came and coldness accompanied.

I'm still laughing! Black will not wound someone... Good job, LarrySun.

LarrySun, you ehn...

Nuff said.

EP - 2

Wonuola sat in a white-colored bus, as she gazed absent-mindedly through the window, into nothingness: her thoughts drowning out every noise in the bus. Not even the noisy gearshift, or the lousy conductor could draw her out of her state. Her silence and still nature could be compared to that of a duck moving on water, away from a predator, for although the duck still swims with grace, the feet says otherwise. At least, the duck could still fly as a last resort, but Wonuola is sinking.

Fate is a drum, an hourglass drum, for even two siblings are not handed the same side. Wonuola has always been on the wrong end of things as she journeyed on the thorny side of life. She was the one who had to abandon her dreams as a lawyer for her younger sister, she was the one who almost lost her eye to a defect as a child, she was the one who had to hawk to make ends meet, and she bore insults for every time they made losses, instead of gains. She was the one who had to contend with green-eyed monsters in the shape of beautiful girls all for Sola’s sake, the only one considered wayward for getting pregnant outside wedlock. Even after marriage, she was considered a curse. Then Sola died, and Wonu was branded a witch. How she wished that her husband’s death were a bad joke. Perhaps, the reason she laughed when she heard that he had passed on to glory, after he collapsed while farming, and was rushed to the clinic. It was like yesterday, although this happened years ago. Her husband’s relatives, typical goats wasted no time in usurping her husband’s land and house. She was indeed lucky that by the time fate was dealing her these cruel blows, T’oba was already one, else she was not sure about their guts to throw her out, pregnancy be damned.

Bassey, who worked metres away from the soap factory, was able to accommodate them. Looks like men are still good… The house was a step down from where she lived – not like it was a mansion – and the noise from the factory was disturbing, especially for the children. But Bassey was the only one who extended a helping hand to them, without collecting a kobo. Bassey often spent his night watching football at the Xclusiv Viewing Centre, and amidst drinks and suya, discuss football and other matters. Bassey, unshaken in his beliefs, especially politics, often maintained ‘his’ school of thought that the corrupt leaders are just an amplified definition of who or what the people are, in his words: “we’ll do worse if we get there”. Wonu might agree with him, except that she doesn’t give a hoot about politics. What is a woman’s business in politics, anyway? Her uncle always expressed his displeasure with her parents’ decision to educate both of them. After all, a woman gets married to a man in the end.
Well, maybe he’s right.

“Iya!” the conductor thundered, giving Wonu a shake on the shoulder. This did not only draw the supposedly deaf-and-dumb woman out of her reverie; it also drew laughter from the mouths of the passengers. Wonuola looked on at the conductor, ignoring the sarcastic comments and banter dished out by the co-passengers. The conductor’s hand was outstretched.

“Pay up!” he demanded in a brash tone, a croaked voice. Maybe he drinks cough syrups. Wonuola drew out her little purse and opened it. She picked out a note and handed it to the man. The conductor examined the note. It was 50.

“It’s not complete. It’s 70 o”, he announced.

“That can’t be; I paid 50 yesterday”, Wonuola argued, clearly unhappy with the fare.

“Even an illiterate knows that fuel price has soared, so what are you telling me? Pay up!” he demanded.
Wonuola drew out a ‘20’ note, handing it over to the conductor, and sank back into her seat.
The bus moved on, occasionally picking up and dropping passengers. Wonuola now kept her eyes on the lookout for her stop. The bus continued on a slow pace; the driver, being careful to avoid potholes, and brake slowly on seeing a speed-breaker. It did not take long for Wonuola to look through the window and see a large mango tree and beside it, a path.

“My stop”, she announced. The bus slowed down and halted, allowing Wonuola to step out by the road. As the bus moved away, Wonuola began her journey home, holding a polythene bag containing foodstuffs on the right, and her flashlight on the left. It was a walk she had taken again, and again. Today was no different. Amidst the croaks, and the cricking, Wonu walked on the lone path for a while, before taking another on the right. She walked between two fences and emerged onto a street. She walked straight.

Wonuola's steps became brisk. Soon, she was passing by an uncompleted building. She stole a glance at the building, after which she quickened her pace She heaved with relief, for her bullies, Gung-Shoo or whatever the ‘blazes’ he is called was not in sight, neither were his henchmen. On a regular day, Wonuola would be accosted by these men, and would be forced to pay them half of what she had made, either at the market pushing wheelbarrows, or at the site lifting blocks and cement. Maybe they struck a windfall, and had gone to the Red House to celebrate, as usual. She walked on, passing few houses, trudging up a rough path by a bush, and had to get to the crossroads, before having a little house in her sights. She walked towards it.

Her home. She had to leave Bassey’s house after staying there for some months. Not Bassey’s fault though, for they had to go. Their presence hampered his comfort, as well as his relationship to a saucy lady. Wonu could swallow anything, even the lady’s insults, but the latter crossed the line – she smacked Korede, her eldest. Wonuola went weak, and when Bassey returned, he found a girlfriend with a swollen face, and a letter from the mother of two saying goodbye. They spent time on the streets again, until a good turn from Korede earned them all an accommodation with a sick madam in the outskirts of the town. It was a secluded environment then, and she was isolated. After the woman passed on, a carpenter’s shed sprang up, alongside a preacher’s abode; they became her neighbors. Other businesses have sprung up, ever since.

Wonuola saw a dull glow from her house. The children are awake. They had only eaten breakfast, garri and salt. She swallowed a sob as she bathed T’oba in the morning, for he was skinny. At least, they can eat something fairly decent. She got to the house, and went straight to the backyard, to the line. The clothes were not there. My boys, they have done well. Her light fell on the bench under the lines. She dropped her polythene and lifted the bench. She placed the bench against the wall of the house and returned to pick her bag. She looked up and saw an empty sack. It was large. Wonu stretched forward and lifted the sack. Her light moved slightly above the sack, and right on the grass, laid something that would have Wonuola call the name of the Lord with a shriek.

It was a body.

Preetiex:
gud

Thanks. Episode Two will be out tomorrow.

GUEST
Morsadh-Adhe

EP - 1

“Violent demonstrations and riots has been the order of the day in the Capitol. Today was no exception, as the two sides waged war against each other, leaving ruins in their wake. Although unclear, initial reports state that the…”

The smooth, clear voice, which sharply contrasted with the news being delivered, filtered through the radio as labour progressed at a building site. Fifteen hours has been spent, and its minutes are following suit; yet the sun persisted, casting its glow and heat on Sir James’ Street. A couple of houses away from the house of Arike the self-acclaimed fashion designer, and you would see a division of labour in a large structure; mixing gravel, sand, cement and the like, as well as taking it into the building for the geniuses to apply on the walls of the house. Once every few minutes, you would see a laborer looking up to the heavens, as if he or she was pleading for a slight change of weather, like the wealthy man in the burning lake asking for a drop of water to cool his tongue. The laborers were only consoled by the fact that their efforts would not be in vain. At least, they thought.

It was the middle of the year, and June was already coming to an end. A couple of days more, and we would be in July. The state of Wotunwosi has since been turned into a military state, due to its past events, especially with the politics at the centre. In five years, the nation-state, reputed for its battles with its internal demons more than its contributions to the Dark Continent had changed leaders like diapers. The internal strife due to the bipolar nature of the nation’s politics has unevenly divided the nation into two parts, with the ruling state taking a lion’s share. It was no surprise therefore, that the nation and its components – or the ones left of it – wake to expected news of bloodshed and more bloodshed.

The laborers at the building in Sir James’ Street seemed to be on drugs, or maybe it was the presence of the man-in-charge; for they persisted under the sun, which mercifully retreated as the day slowly but surely progressed into dusk.

“Come on, guys, come on”, the man-in-charge egged on, as he moved around, in and out of the building to make sure they were doing a great job. He was walking out of a room when he almost stumbled into one of the laborers, a woman in slacked cloth over a long, raggedy skirt with a torn towel on her head to match. In her right hand was a pan.

The woman knelt apologetically.

“I am sorry, sir. I did not see you…” she rapped on in native language.

“It’s OK”, the man assured, nodding his head as the woman rose to her feet. “Well done, ehn? Keep working”.

The man had only walked a couple of steps when the woman ran after him, shouting, “Oga, Oga!” He looked back, clearly offended.

“What is it, Wonuola?”

“Erm – eh… Would I be getting paid, today?” Wonuola queried, looking up at her boss.
The man groaned, rubbing his forehead. This woman was testing the waters of his patience, he thought.

“Is there a day I deny you of your wages after work?” he retorted, in a raised voice that made the woman look stupid, that made few other laborers stop briefly to look at the drama going on.
The woman stammered. The guy was anything but pleased.

“Do you know how insulting your statement is?” he asked, really angry. “Any stranger – even the owner of this house – would think that I am cheating you of your money. But I’ll deal with you”.

“I am sorry, sir-” she fell to her knees, close to tears.

“Will you get out of my sight!” he thundered, as the woman quickly rose to her feet and scampered away. The man looked back. “Keep on watching”, he mocked, as few laborers-turned-onlookers quickly moved on. “I think you are here to watch a movie, right? You’ll be rewarded handsomely!”


Eighteen hours of the day, gone already. The sun floated on, as it journeyed to the West. The familiar object, the crescent, has appeared in the sky, albeit transparent. Most of the laborers are with the man-in-charge, as he attended to them. Wonuola was in a makeshift bathroom, cleaning herself up. Her hands were busy, but nothing compared to the brain, as she made use of the rules of basic maths to divide, multiply, subtract, and add up costs, debts and wants. She eventually weighed this heavy bundle on the scale, against her fee, plus her outstanding debts. She sighed, shutting her eyes.

She’s found wanting.

The loud scurry of the lizard from its hole brought Wonuola out of her reverie. She immediately saw that she has been spraying water from the pipe in her hands into the hole. She hurriedly wrapped up, wore her clothes, shoved the rags into a polythene bag and hurriedly left the space. She found herself walking briskly, but carefully, avoiding thorns and large stones lying amongst the weeds, till she got to the gates of the house. She went out through them, and she saw the man-in-charge tying his plastic bag to the iron rear of his motorcycle. Wonuola ran down to meet him. The man looked up, surprised.

“What are you still doing here? I thought you’d gone home.”

“I couldn’t, sir. I was freshening up. I’m ready sir”, she stated, expectantly.

“Ready for what, exactly?” the man asked, looking puzzled.

“My wages, sir”, she replied, unmoved as she looked at her boss. Her senses were however on the verge of incredulity.

“OK, OK”, said the man as he began to tap his pockets – breast pockets and trouser-pockets – for money, with a wondering expression on his face. He briefly stole a glance at Wonuola’s facial expression and in microseconds discovered that his exercise was killing the late-20s year old, for she was clearly impatient. If the human skin were transparent, Wonuola would have seen the man’s heart performing cartwheels and backflips, for he was enjoying the torture he administered.

You know nothing yet!

He finally ‘found’ his wallet, and opened it, counting the bills in there. He finally pulled out four, sorry, five notes out of the wallet and handed it over to Wonuola. Her face fell. She need not count the money, for she had seen this before. Talk about deja-vu.

“How much is this?” she demanded, in a broken voice. The man looked on, playing the role of a confused messenger of doom.

“You can count, can’t you?” the man retorted, looking away. She can go to blazes, for all I care.[color=#006600]

“No, no, no! This was not what we agreed on”, Wonuola wailed.

“Be quiet”, the man warned, but Wonuola was deaf.

“You did this on Monday, and on Wednesday. Today is Thursday, and you still owe me from the previous days of the week. Oga Super, you are cheating me…”

“Quiet, I said!” the man seethed through clenched teeth; the woman was fast becoming a nuisance to him. “I am only a messenger, not the owner of the house. The economy of the country is bad; even the wealthy of the nation are feeling the heat. The owner of the house is facing some trials right now, and he is losing money. If only you were sensible, you would ask yourself: have I ever cheated you out of your money, prior to the beginning of the week? Have I?” he explained, ending with a hiss.

“So, I am the sacrificial lamb to bear the brunt of the cursed economy?” she queried, clearly pained.

The man shrugged nonchalantly. “My hands are tied. I have no choice. Your co-workers have responsibilities, needs; they have mouths to feed…” he muttered, almost to himself.

“I also have MOUTHS to feed”, she cried out, so that the man was surprised; she had not reacted this way before, obviously. “How do you expect me to use this measly sum to feed my boys, or to take care of their needs? Oga Super, help me now”, she pleaded.

“It is very unfair when you portray me as a wicked man, Wonu. I have a heart, you know. And that is why I was able to squeeze this out of my own convenience. Besides…” he looked away, trying to start off the engine of his machine, “your sons’ needs would be the least of your worries had you agreed to my little proposal”, he stated.

Wonuola’s face was slowly contorted in anger. “Is that what this is about? Because I rejected your advances?”

“You can at least climb to the top of the Kilimanjaro and announce to the whole world”, he hissed. “What is wrong with you? Look…” he drew himself closer to the aggrieved woman. “I told you before. I like you very much. No woman has caught my attention the way you have. You are beautiful; don’t tell me you have no idea how Laja and the others lust after you every day? I want you. I’ll take care of you and the boys”, he promised.

“And I told you…” she began, pulling his arm off her shoulders, and turning to face him squarely, “I am married. I still love my husband. No man can take his place, not even you…”

“Even in death? OK o!” he mocked. “Then, you are on your own, madam”, he concluded. He turned on the motorcycle, mounted on, and rode away. As the sky slowly grew darker, as the crescent grew bolder, so also were the tears streaming down Wonuola’s face as she turned, and walked away.

Morsadh-Adhe.[/color]

08186756534

You want an ugly prediction, LarrySun? Rhoda won't fulfil her promises. Either something or someone from the family stalls the matter, or she dies under mysterious circumstances. The latter will make Black surely hardhearted.

LarrySun:
The truth is, Black Maria has five different books. We're still in Book One and not even half-way done with that. It's indeed a long project and I refuse to be rushed. You'll understand the prologue better with time.

I can only smile at those who think I've run out of ideas...only if you know how powerful Black Maria is.

Anyway, those who know me believe that I still got a few arrows in my quiver.

Bless you all.

LSD.

Guy, you no get pholo jare. Just keep us in the loop of things, no probz!

More ink to ya pen, and power to ya elbow.