₦airaland Forum

Ikamefa,

The Puppet Master will "never"show his hands,I want him to be like Kaiser Sosa in the The Usual Suspects.Nobody will ever know who his is,everybody  will be talking about,the CIA,FBI,UN would be looking for him,he has no face,no friends,no family etc,they would never find him.he would be like a spirit
He will be an "Enigma" like Batman,Zorro or Superman a hero who everybody loves and adores but authorities hate him.

Babonboard,

Thanks for your comment,I didn't realize that I still used my earlier idea of an accident on the way home instead of the murder Tunde witnessed.

The idea of of the story is all the horror stories Nigerians in diaspora hear about home,many Nigerians on return back from holidays in Nigeria tell you stories that would scare the shit out of even the most patriotic Naija man or woman.I remember a friend telling that he saw a man gunned down in his estate somewhere in Ikeja on his first day back and he nearly shit his pants.

The Tunde story is for people like me who intend to return home regardless of all the problems real and imagined waiting for us back home.

Cheers

Tunde the returnee was practically shoved and push to the waiting chauffer driven Pajero, he settled in the back with his mother hugging tighter than ever he could only smile not wanting to scream out in pain he thought women got weaker as they get older but this 65 year mother of his was stronger than he remembered.

The drive from the airport to their residence in Victoria Garden City (VGC) was uneventful, even his mother left him to his thoughts, she just sang softly to herself all the way.
The doctor was dismayed in the sights before him, the roads were worse than when he left, the streets were littered with cellophane sachets of what is referred to as “pure water” even they streets sellers were bolder than before. There were new tall buildings housing banks and telecom companies everywhere, new shiny cars yet there were more hungry people using their “legedeze Benz”

There signboards advertising crusades and deliverance services all over the place, what is going on here there seems to be more churches than restaurants or schools and hospitals

His father sensing his son was uncomfortable with what he was seeing cleared his throat and said

Tunde our country has gone through a lot of changes since you left, there has being good, bad and ugly changes in Nigeria, I know it’s a culture shock to you but you will get use to it.
His mother interrupted her husband rudely, my darling referring to both father and son you can talk politics later if you want but not today, not my day.

As they approached the Marina it began to rain heavly, mothers with babies on their back, neatly dressed men and women were all ducking for cover from the showers of blessing as the song goes.
He looked over his shoulders as traffic slowed down to a crawl and what he saw sent shivers down his spine

The rain ripped at his body as he ran. A crash of thunder boomed in the distance and a crack of lightning flew across the sky. A man in jeans and red t-shirt was being chased. Three dark shadowy figures waved pistols at him.  He just ran, ran for his life, He got knocked over by some trashcans as he fell to the ground. He rolled and jumped up regaining his foreword movement. The thunder continued, getting closer and closer to him each crash. He stopped and turned around only too see the three figures right behind him. There was a muzzle flash and explosion from the gun. He spun around violently gripping his now burning chest and fell into a mud puddle face first. His blood mixed with the dirt and water as he lay dying.

Cars screeched as everyone ducked for cover, the men just calmly walked to a waiting bike called Okada and sped away.Tunde was jolted back to reality as their bang into the back of another car.


His mother was screaming at the top of her voice, shouting Jesus is lord and Holy Ghost Fire. His father was ok but there care has stopped and the driver was resting on the airbag

the driver's eyes were closed, but he heard him moan softly. Blood ran out of one of his ears and he saw a large knot on the right side of his head. The windshield was badly cracked. "No seatbelt, so stupid," he thought, as he looked her over. He saw no blood or other signs of injury.
.


.

Let me introduce myself, my name is Lt Col.Shaka Ramses Kilimanjaro, my name is unusual because my parents have a sense of humour, my friends call me “Scarface” but I call myself Puppet Master. I would like to tell you some of my story. It's too long for me to tell the whole thing here but I will do my best. 
I never wanted to be a soldier infect I hated it but the army provided a means to an end. I would never have chosen military as career but for a child raised in an orphanage who had no rich uncles or godfathers where else could I go but the army.
In the army I felt a sense of family for the first time; this was perhaps the happiest time of my life. I was among comrades, travelling the world, killing and maiming people in the name of peace keeping.

My tour of duty in the so called independent African nations was however filled despair, helplessness, in humanity of a black man to another black man, I saw the hypocrisy of the civilised western nations as they and their agents flooded the continent with guns, keeping the looted wealth of the people in their secure vaults, protecting the warlords while mocking the people with promises of food aids and peace keeping
Africa had always being a dark place, full of hatred and righteous bigotry. Africa is a mass of bickering, quarrelling nations, each trying to scrape their way to the top. Naturally, it was the civilians of the continent that suffered. I experienced first hand what the result of hate can be, I saw dieing children clutching the breast of their dead mothers.

I was born 38 years ago to two eccentric intellectuals; I had a privileged birth only the middle and upper classes of the society were born in Ramses General Hospital. I was named Shaka after the great Zulu leader,Ramses after the best known Egyptian pharaoh and Kilimanjaro after the highest peak in Africa.

My parents were idealist as I remembered them, they were shot and butchered by the agents of death and destruction of President Kukuyo’ army. The army of the Republic Of Kumaria.Now I wear the uniform of those who killed my parents, I salute their flag, I take their oats of allegiance what irony!

My parents especially my mother were killed because she dare dream of a fair and honest Kumaria, she dare of a republic where the rule of law reigns supreme. She was killed right in front of me because she questioned President Kukuyo the most flamboyant of African big men.

African big men stole from their people while killing those who dare ask why, the people are afraid too scared to ask for their freedom, they can only watch behind closed doors, they pray to a higher power for a messiah, a saviour out of their bondage. Alas God or Gods never answered their prayers.

I will answer their prayers of deliverance from the wicked; those who have inflicted them with pains and infirmities’ will destroy all those who have stolen from the people, those who have killed and all political sinners.
I will have my revenge but I can’t do it myself. I need to get the players,kings,queens,knights and pawns on the chess board of Kumaria will help them think they did it on their own, they are the puppets of Kumaria
I am their Puppet Master

January 20th 2010.


Jerking awake from the freedom of sleep, my body screamed out in burning pain, my eyes opened in total darkness. For a moment I panicked. I thought I was blind, after eternity, after the angels screamed and the heavens fell, after a few moments of complete idiocy, I settled back against the bed and stopped my panic.

I listened to the call to prayers from the mosque and the preachers from the born again churches, they were calling the faithful to prayers and obedience of their Gods, even in the rain they called their prey to worship.
I got out of bed and made for the kitchen to get a cup of coffee my only drug. I returned to turn on my laptop; it was time to get those dark thoughts out of my mind, to put them in black and white or in this case bits and bites. My laptop hummed to life and I opened a word project and I began to write.
                   
                                                                             The Diaries of the Puppet Master

No one can truly understand pain or despair until everything you have has being taken away from you or when you sink into the deeps of hell and look the devil in those fiery eyes of his and say fu*ck you, I will have my revenge. You can keep my soul if it’s any use to you but I will have my revenge in this life.
I feel no joy, no happiness, no sexual desire, no greed for money or power; I feel pure unadulterated hate, anger and revenge


I begin to write this diary because I want to write what could be the final chapters of my life now, not when am dieing or being tutured and I don’t want my story to be written by anyone else because you don’t know me.

For thirty four years I’ve waited, like a serpent for the day I will strike with great vengeance and mighty anger. I smiled, worshipped ,praised and sometimes risking my life to protect my enemies, I swore on the graves on my parents that I would let no one harm them till I take my revenge.
In taking revenge a man is equal with his enemies; revenge is like biting a dog because the dog bit you.

The rich and powerful are like Gods, they need to be flatted, constantly reminded of how great they are how your lives would be meaningless without them. Like Gods they promise everything but deliver nothing
Like Gods the rich, the noble, the celebrities and their praise singers commit great atrocities while convincing the people it’s all the people’s faults
They feed their people a healthy does of patriotisim, religious despotism as virtues to attain heaven, politicians flatter the people with fine words and great promises and they get richer on you tax.
Politicians never accuse the citizens of “greed” for wanting to take other people money-only for wanting to keep your own money

A great man once said life is like a game of chess, there are kings,queens,knights,bishops and of course pawns you only decide which piece you are or have others decide what character you play in life.
I’m new character on a Chess board I move freely helping other players play or cheat to win, am like a God, I watch and help others play the game the way they want, I have no interest on the outcome of any game till I play, till I have my revenge.

This is my story, call me the Puppet Master. You will appreciate my name when I finish my story.

As Tunde got out the plane as blast of hot air greeted him as if to say welcome home to the land where nothing works, welcome home run away soldier, you left home eighteen years ago because the naira was trading on par with the dollar but you return when the naira has been battered by the dollar and the new Euro
Welcome home Prodigal son, welcome home Tunde.

He was on of many Nigerian professionals who “Checked” out the country in the wake of the economic collapse that followed the fall of the corrupt Shagari government and Ibrahim Babaginda’s Structural Adjustment Programme (SAP) years. When he left, Multala Mohammed Airport
Fondly referred to as “MM” by his fellow exiled Nigerians was a real working airport, the best airport in sub Saharan Africa but now its in total decay.

Tunde or Dr Philips as his mother loves to call him by walked towards the scruffy looking security men starring at him with hungry eyes looking for an easy prey to devour,Oga welucome o they all hailed him Chairman you boys dey here o,he ignored them and walked on clutching both his brief case and passports. He gave his two passports, Nigerian and British passports to a very ugly immigration woman who gave his papers a good look crossed checked it with a piece of papers with lots of names on it as if checking for Al Qaeda members.
She smiled at him and waived him through, welcome home sir giving him back his passports, unbeknown to him his mother has sorted the big oga in charge.Tunde thanked her as he walked to collect his suitcases at least my people are polite he thought.

As he walked towards where they had arrivals in neon lights he could make out his father as he towered over everyone waiting for their love ones coming back home but it was his mother who made herself rather visible by screaming at the top of her voice.Immidiately the Bata drummers started beating their drums, pronouncing that the big doctor from University College Hospital London has come back home.

What the Bleep is going on? His parents no his mother has brought the whole village to welcome him back from exile; she’s got all her friends in those ridiculous head scarves to welcome him back. What is she thinking? Am no royalty, even if I was royalty this the twenty first century for crying out loud!
The woman his mother Ronke rugby tackled him as she hugged him, kissing and looking him over, she hasn’t seen her son for seventeen years, because she had a morbid fear of flying.

Her friends sang and danced around Tunde, as Ronke monopolised him not letting anyone hold him for more than a few seconds, she was protecting her son from the evil eyes abound. His father Maj.Adefemi Philips gave a manly hug; welcome back Tunde.The old man had tears in his eyes. His other relations whom he can’t remember who they are all hugged him saying how good it was to see the boy who had made their family’s name famous.

Dr Tunde Philips was indeed famous, he had just being made the doctor to the Royal Household, any black made the official doctor to the British Royal family was indeed famous.Dr Philips hated the fame, he was not famous because he performed pioneering medical procedure or his brilliant publications in medicines and the exciting world genetics, he was famous because he was BLACK.

The British media were stunned when they heard the young charismatic black doctor had resigned from his post as doctor to Her Majesty just to return home to that notorious country Nigeria. It was a big story not because a good doctor left Her Majesty’s service but because a BLACK doctor left Her Majesty’s service.

@All.

I promised I would write another story but I have no made any real progress till Seun's post about scripts for movies.Writing is really harder than I thought I would be especially if you want to keep the story original and relevent to your readers.

My next story is about a subject very close to my heart,which is discussed in all Nigerian homes in the diaspora

1.Do we go back home?
2.When can we go back home
3.How do we the "Westernized"Nigerians fit in a chaotic society with multitude of problems.

                                                              RETURN FROM EXILE[

This story is about a self exiled successful Nigerian doctor in Britain who had decided to pack it all in and return home.The good doctor though successful in the UK had never felt at home in his adopted country.He never felt confortable in his new country,unmarried and lonely after a string of bad relationships and he felt so home sick,he wants to feel the warm embraced of his mother again and eat proper food "wey dem wash hand cook"not all that phony Nigerian cuisine sold all over London.

Guys,

I hope you would enjoy the story as this one,feel free to criticize as you want I'll take no offense,I'll try and complete the story as the days progress.

Thanks