I heard a voice saying unfollow this thread, immediately I knew it was the devil speaking, I had no option than to resist him and he fled........


an emotional piece it is, especially where he had to place the leftover of the loaf of bread on her remains.

#bigboizdontcry##

Larry wat have you done.. Misskenny pls stop crying didnt know the movie would be this emotional......

Psalmwise:


shey u go manage m shoulder

Thank u jawe. Ur shoulder will suit me sef...............*climbing a ladder to reach his shoulder

hormoryhemii:
I heard a voice saying unfollow this thread, immediately I knew it was the devil speaking, I had no option than to resist him and he fled........


an emotional piece it is, especially where he had to place the leftover of the loaf of bread on her remains.

#bigboizdontcry##

The devil is a lie jare

Toeyean1507:
Thank u jawe. Ur shoulder will suit me sef...............*climbing a ladder to reach his shoulder

lolx ladder

dont use ladder...take dis climbing rope

wow larrysun the great is back
welcome back boss u r truly the best

well this piece sure is gonna b great the previous updates speaks much volume
continue d great work boss

Very very touching story....nice on larry...keep it up...#followin#..

larrysun nearly made me cry

Dis wonderful

Welldone sir

This piece is very touching ...weldone Larry.

Larrysun na u biko

Touching piece ..

I will not cry....................... I won't..................... I said i will not!............Oh man.....

Lie!!!All dis guys shouting "cry"....abEeeeegy

a touching and emotional piece. thanks for the update. but u still have an unfulfilled promise o! oga Larrysun

Hmmm...
Black nation

Chapter One - III

Rejected by the world and all alone, little Peter learnt how to rely on himself the hard way. He never cried for his mother again; he’d learned to cope with pain, as his mother had managed to cope when she lost her husband. But he spent a considerable number of times by his mother’s grave; chatting with the earth, talking, singing, even cracking jokes. He just had to do something to make him believe that his mother was still with him, even if he didn’t see her.

It was morning already, and Peter was hungry again. He had no bread to eat now; and there was not even any crumb to place on his mother’s grave. The pieces he had placed there the night before had disappeared. Peter thought his mother had eaten them, but the bread crumbs had really been scooped up by birds and lizards that frequented the back compound. He knew what he had to do; he would steal another loaf of bread, a bigger one this time. Because he had gotten away with the first theft, Peter strongly believed that he would never be caught. He was a fast runner; he believed his legs could carry him faster than any other human being. Besides, he had to live, he had to feed his mother. Stealing was the only thing he knew he could do to stay alive. He had seen how callous people could become if their help was sought. No one was ready to be of assistance. Humans had offered him nothing but cruelty. He was done begging for help and getting victimized thereafter. They had made him believe that it was an abomination to ask for help. If he wanted anything, he had to take it. That was the way of life. That was going to be his way.

He stood from his mother’s grave and went into the house to change his rags. As he clad up, he realised that his second pair of clothes was getting too old for him; the tears were expanding, and soon they’d begin to reveal his privates. He needed another pair of shirts and trousers—and he was going to get it; he was going to steal it. He quickly dressed himself up and went out of the house. He didn’t like leaving his mother alone there in the back yard now that she needed him most, but he needed to find some food, lest he starved to death like his mother. But as young as Peter was, he had learnt not to be scared of death. In short, he looked forward to dying and uniting with his mother, but he needed to fulfil his promise to his mother.

He walked the long mile to the crowded street. Walking long distances meant nothing to Peter. He always trekked all the way to school; he could not afford even the cheapest means of transportation. As usual, the town’s street was a very busy one; there were thick traffic jams here and there. In the traffic, all the cars hooted all the time at alternating decibels, and when there was nothing to hoot at they hooted for nothing. Not to be outdone, the drivers of taxi and Volkswagen Beetles yelled curses at each other at the top of their voices. Many shops and film houses blared different kinds of music from cheap radios turned to full volumes with the fateful assistance of sound engines; colporteurs called continually and the harassed pedestrians told them to go to hell, dogs barked and circling crafts screamed overhead. From time to time, all the noise would be swamped by the roar of an aeroplane. This was what Peter wanted, all the chaos would create enough distraction—the traffics, the crowds, the barking dogs, even the aeroplane. He walked without qualms past the first stall where loaves of bread were sold; this was not the same market he had stolen a loaf from the last time, it definitely wasn’t the same stall. He walked past the second stall because it was too crowded and it seemed like everybody in the stall was the seller, and it appeared as though they were protecting the loaves with their lives—there was no way he was going to steal from them successfully. But the third stall he found was literally empty and his heart raced at the opportunity nature presented before him. There appeared to be no one watching the loaves, but Peter was cautious; he stood at the farther side of the road watching the stall, he wanted to be absolutely certain that it was safe to steal from this particular stall. The ten minutes he spent standing at the other side gave him enough info about the bread vendor. The occupier of the stall was a young lady who found her excitement in flirting with a vulcanizer whose shop was about three kiosks away. Occasionally, she would come to her stall at every three or four minutes to check and count the loaves before rushing back to continue her coquetry with the dirty old man.

The young boy waited for the lady to check on her loaves again and return to her flirt before taking his action. As soon as she left, Peter went to the table bearing these loaves, grabbed two big ones and ran. He ran in a different direction from where he came; he was not going to stop until he reached home. But he stopped. Something made him stop.

At the left side of the road was a shop where children’s clothes of different types and sizes were sold. Two particular pairs of shirts and trousers displayed on a hangar in front of the shop caught Peter’s attention. Peter desperately wanted these clothes; he could give anything to have them, he could swap the loaves of bread he was clutching in his hands. He could afford to spend one more night with an empty stomach. But he knew too well that the seller of these clothes would not give him the treasures for only two loaves of bread. However, no matter what, Peter was not going to leave here without the clothes. No matter what.

The shop was even more closely guarded than the shops that flanked it on either side. Before this particular shop were buyers pricing the clothes and negotiating with the trader; some buyers were paying while some others people were just checking out the clothes. Peter desperately wished and prayed no one would buy his favourite clothes. He looked around, searching with his eyes for any other clothes-shop that was not as crowded as this one, there was no other shop concerned about people’s sartorial delights. As he looked around, he spotted a kiosk where apples were sold. Then a brilliant idea struck his tiny head.

He was going to create a distraction.

Leaving the spot where he stood, he walked to the table and picked one fresh apple. He was very stealth; and because he was a little boy, no one discovered him take the fruit. Peter didn’t need the apple, no amount of apples would curb his hunger. The apple was just a distraction. He returned to the side of the clothes-shop and waited. As usual, no one took a second glance at Peter.

Then a woman screamed from the opposite road. It was the fruiterer.

In those times, any person being robbed always instantly raised a hue and cry. The victims always expected immediate response from pedestrians, negotiators and retailers alike—and they always got the response from those law abiding citizens who joined in the fracas with alacrity in the eagerness to capture the bolting villain and pass instant judgements.

“Help! Someone has stolen one of my apples!” The woman screamed at the top of her voice. Pedestrians stopped in their tracks, and fellow traders forgot their goods as they all stared at the alarmed fruiterer. Even the hen on a slaughter-table ceased its shrieks for a moment to understand the human's sudden outburst. The fruiterer was dramatic; she jumped up and down in agitation, she loosened her scarf and tied it round her waist like someone ready for a brawl. The scarf was tied in such a forceful manner that people watching would think the fabric was the cause of her misfortune. She screamed and wailed. She ran forth and back—she had successfully caught the attention of people around. But there was no thief to chase. Other sympathizing market women held her and attempted to restrain her from harming herself over one lost apple.

Peter watched all these with concentration and a thin smile almost crossed his lips. He had created the distraction he wanted. Every buyer’s attention was now directed towards the lamenting fruiterer. The man selling the clothes was also engrossed in hearing the victim’s sorrowful tale, so he walked towards the gathering crowd, leaving his goods with Peter Black. Everybody was excited about what had just happened—a thief had purloined an apple. This was the chance Peter was waiting for. When almost everyone was looking at the performing woman, Peter quickly moved closer to the shop and unhooked the hangers bearing the pairs; he didn’t wait to hear the shopkeeper’s scream for help. Peter took the path beside the clothes-shop and bolted.

He didn’t stop to look back as he ran. He was very proud of his achievement; he now had two big loaves of bread, two pairs of clothes and an apple. He ate the apple while still on the run. He felt on top of the world. This was a bigger feat than what he had performed the first time he stole a loaf. As he made his way home, he believed he was the happiest person on earth. He had successfully stolen three items in one operation. Peter was gradually becoming a don in the business of thievery. But there was more to theft than the petty larceny of paltry loaves of bread.

The first thing he did when he finally reached home was his regular personal ritual. He went to the back of the house and placed a few crumbs of bread on his mother’s grave. Then he took some bites for himself. After eating to satisfaction, he sat beside the grave and chatted for a little while with his imaginary mother. He wanted to tell her about what he did today, but he didn’t. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. He knew his mother wouldn’t approve of his actions, so he held his tongue. Peter wished he could have someone visible to talk to. The solitude was becoming painful and scary.

He went into the house and held his new clothes. He liked the designs on them; they were the same pairs, just different colours—pink and blue. When he checked the backs of the shirts, an inscription was boldly written on them: BLACK NATION. Peter opened his eyes wide and smiled for the first time since his mother had passed away. What a coincidence, he thought. His surname was Black and he had stolen two shirts bearing the same name on them. He decided to nickname himself Black—his surname.

When Black wore the clothes, they fit him perfectly.


Larry Sun can ghostwrite for you (novels, short stories, biographies, autobiographies, etc) at an affordable price. Contact him via email (larrysundynasty@gmail.com) or through +2349061754872. God bless you.

I love love love this story

Nice story. More ink to your pen

Chapter One - IV

A month after his mother's demise, Black was evicted from the house. The deluge that came in the night had not ceased, and yet before the deluge, the night had been quiet, eerily so. But when the rain poured, it brought with it a special kind of coldness. The night had been too cold for Peter to endure with his usual equanimity. The rain that had started had been supported with series of heavy breeze. His mother's blanket had done little to shield him from the iciness of the weather. The roof was leaking, too, so Black crouched himself at one corner of the dilapidating building. He wished his mother was with him in this darkness, he would feel safer if she were here. Now, Black was terribly afraid; afraid of the world, of the bleak future that awaited him. The ten-year-old child was not unlike a homeless kitten.

The morning came and the rain still hadn't stopped, and Black lay on the cold floor, shivering. The same ailment which had claimed his mother was gradually falling him, too. He could not rise up to prepare for school; he was running fever and his temperature was rising even in the cold. There was no one to take care of him. He was starving, too; hunger was ravaging him, and he had no strength to go out today and steal his food.

The iron-black clouds that had masked the sky this early morning, and had threatened to punish the day with an heavier downpour, had now hid themselves behind grey veils of the morning mist. Although the cold still abided with its lamentations, the sodden trees remained standing, as still and as solemn as witnesses to a funeral cortege. However, the initial rainstorm of the night was gradually thinning into a drizzle. Black was still shivering under the hole-ridden blanket when three men came into the house. One of the men was fashionably dressed in his royally local attire, and he looked wealthier than the other men who flanked him on either sides. Black knew the rich man; he was the infamous Chief Salami; the criminal was now coronated because he was rich. The chief was responsible for scaping the butter off Black's bread.

Salami was the friend and business partner of Peter's father. They had both siphoned some money but Peter's father was the unlucky partner in the crime; he had been apprehended and jailed. Peter's father refused to give up his partner, even under series of torture by the police, all was because Salami had promised to take care of his partner's family all through Black's father's time in jail until he returned to receive his rightful share of the loot.

And Salami had kept this promise; he provided for Peter and his mother. Both mother and child lived in affluence. Peter attended the best school and ate whatever he wanted. He had no problem in the world, until his father died in prison. Then the paradise became a wilderness.

Salami had immediately ceased taking care of them as soon as Peter's father's demise reached him. He denied ever knowing them and forced them out of the house, making sure they left with nothing. His plans had been successful; he had bribed the wardens to poison the prison. Salami was greedy, he didn't want to part with half of the loot, and when the boy's father was almost due for his release, Salami had him killed. He knew his friend had disclosed to his wife all that had happened, so Salami decided that the less he had anything to do with the dead man's family the better it would be for him.

The news about the prisoner's death reached Salami's ears first. The same night he heard the news, Salami visited his friend's wife and tried to seduce her; but the beautiful woman had denied him access. Even after two years of her husband's incarceration, she still remained faithful to her marriage. Clouded with anger for refusing him, Salami had slapped the woman and informed her that the husband she was so devoted to had died in prison; then he had pushed the poor woman and her son out of the house.

Peter's mother, weeping, had taken her son's hand and they had gone to her husband's house he had been developing prior his arrest. The next day, she had gone to the prison to collect her husband's corpse; she buried him in the back of the old building. Now six moths later, Peter had buried his mother beside his father.

The young boy was still shivering under the blanket as he watched the three men approach. Black didn't know the other two men, but Salami was the man he hated with passion; his mother had told him the truth about Chief Salami's evil deeds. He swore to avenge his parents' deaths on the wicked chief. How he was going to do it, he didn't know, but he was going to avenge. Every breath he took now was that of vengeance. It was wrong to think that a small fish like him would be able to fight off the leviathan called Salami.

Salami approached him and asked, "Young boy, what is your name? Who are you?"

Peter Black was naturally a dark-skinned boy, but hunger and lack of proper bathes had made him darker and smaller than his years. Chief Salami did not recognise the boy whom he had chased from their home six months earlier.

"What is your name, young man?" Salami asked again.

Although circumstance had forced Peter Black to become a thief, he still didn't know how to lie. He hadn't learned how to become a liar. He replied:

"My name is Peter Black."

The older man recoiled back in surprise. The carefully looked at the boy this time. He roughly pulled the blanket off of the little boy to get a complete view of the son of the friend he had had killed. He could recognise the boy now. The little thin thing had become thinner; the child was visibly suffering from nutritional deficiencies. Salami was amazed at what starvation could do to the human body.

He bent over the boy and asked, "Are you the same Peter Black, the son of Ade Black?"

The little boy spoke with effort, "Yes, I am, sir." Politesse was a virtue already stamped on him since cradle. "You sent us away, sir."

Salami was amused at the little boy's reply. He knew the boy was dying; he would definitely die soon if he had no proper care. Salami liked the boy when they were still living healthy. Peter was a sharp, intelligent, jovial and polite boy. This boy's reply gave him a reminiscence of that brilliant and healthy boy he knew. He wished things had gone in a different direction. He wished he did not have to choose between money and his friend. But he was willing to do it again if the situation repeated itself; he could never trade fortune for friendship.

"Do you know why I sent you and your mother away?"

The boy did not reply at first; he was finding it very hard to find his voice, and he was becoming gradually dizzy.

Chief Salami asked the question again, and Blac forced himself to reply, "Yes, sir."

"Where is your mother?" Salami asked. He wanted to see Black's mother. He wanted to see what had become of her. The stupid woman would have become thin and ugly, he thought. He smiled at himself when he thought about how surprised ashamed the little boy's mother would be on seeing him. He would mock her. He would laugh at her. He would make her life another hell. He noticed that the boy was saying something, but he could not hear his words.

"Speak up, boy, where is your mother?"

"She is dead, sir."

The answer shocked Salami. He never thought that his friend's wife would die, too, the same year she lost her husband. He smiled to himself. His secrets were now totally safe, almost safe, save for the little brat here. This one was not a problem to him; he knew what to do about this unimportant variable. Salami gleefully rubbed his hands together like politician who had just won an election. The men who accompanied him stood at one corner of the room watching the man and the child. They apparently worked for the chief.

Salami was still smiling when the boy said, "I buried her in the backyard."

He didn't at first understand the boy's words, "Buried who?"

"I buried her in the backyard, beside my father."

"What!" Salami screamed incredibly. "You mean your parents are buried in the backyard?"

"Yes, sir." Black replied weakly.

"One my own land?" Salami screamed.

Peter didn't understand. What did the man mean by 'his own land'? The land didn't belong to him. The land belonged to his father. His mother had told him that the piece of land and the house was theirs. It was the property left behind by his father. Now this evil man was calling it his own land. That wasn't fair, it was cheating, wickedness. But Peter could do nothing about this; he was too small and young to claim his right. He wanted to speak but his voice would allow him no more word.

"You this bastard! How dare you bury your mother on my land?" Salami was very angry now.

The men approached the chief and one of them said, "The rain has stopped, we should go to the second site since we can't find any thug here." The men were Chief Salami's muscles; protecting the chief and attacking his opposers were their jobs. Today, they were on the hunt to deal with any hoodlum that might be occupying any of the chief's properties.

"Before we leave, you have something to do for me," he pointed at the shivering boy and said, "This one is also a trespasser."

"What should we do about him, sir?" The other muscle asked, "Should we through him out?"

"No, don't throw him out." Chief Salami replied. "Take him away. Kill him and dump his corpse into the river. Use my car."

Without further ado, one of the men grabbed Black like a piece of sack and carried him out of the house. They put him in the back seat of the Volvo outside and drove away. Salami stayed at the entrance of the house and watched as the muscles transport the sick boy to where they would kill him. Peter himself was too weak to protest against the men. He had stopped shivering, but still very weak.

A quite intense sun had come out to watch over the world. And the birds had vacated their nests to sing among trees and on top of electric poles. Those who had initially used their umbrellas against the rain were now using it against the heat; an irony of nature, a boomerang of nature.

When they had driven to a secluded location beside the rushing stream that always flowed into the large river in the city square, the men stopped the car and carried out the weakling. He was so light that the man carrying him almost didn't feel his weight. The boy just remained withered in his hands. But his eyes were open, sharply open, watching the men with pleading eyes. Black knew what they were going to do to him but he could not beg them to show him mercy; he was too weak to speak, he could only plead with his eyes.

He was placed by the bank of the stream.

"How do we do it?" One man asked the other.

"Let's strangle him."

"It would be faster if we broke his neck."

"We can stab him or slit his throat."

"His blood would stain the stream."

"Who cares? His body would be discovered anyway, even if we give him euthanasia. I don't have my knife. Do you have yours?"

"Yes, I have my knife with me."

"Then do it."

The man who had carried him out of the car brought out his knife and approached the boy. Black watched him as he came. He resigned himself to what was about to be. His eyes didn't register any fear. The man bent Black's head backward and put the blade of the knife against the neck. The knife drew blood immediately.

********************************************************


Larry Sun can ghostwrite for you (novels, short stories, biographies, autobiographies, etc) at an affordable price. Contact him via email (larrysundynasty@gmail.com) or through +2349061754872. God bless you.

Chai Larrysun,
I've been reading here from the shadows but this one no gree me...

You're doing a great job with this story (movie).
Well done.

Larry ,larrrry, laaarrrry ....hw many times did i call you?

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Abbamizy:
Larry ,larrrry, laaarrrry ....hw many times did i call you?

Three times.

VanTee20:
Both the prologue and the first chapter are impeccably written. Well, I wasn't expecting anything less from the nonpareil writer of this section. Ride on sir. I'm so following this to the end.

Thank you so much, brother. I'm glad you liked what you read.

CrazyScientist:
LarrySun , longest update ever liveth, you still the boss! Peter Black is about to be a 'corporate theif' or in my words 'corporate property returner'

I doff my hat for you

Thank you so much, sir.

kizzykeziah:
Excellent job, sir.
The dexterity displayed is no less than 100%. I bet I had a feeling of really being present in each scene.

I appreciate your comment, ma'am. It feels me with glee to receive such comment from a fellow writer.

Toeyean1507:
Lemme comment before reading............welcome,boss. I really missed u............I hope there's still a space in d front seat cos I short o

I missed you, too, ma'am. How are you? You have a reserved space in the VIP section.

nellyme:
Interesting storyline....could remember u saying something abt writing concerning theft....I guess this is it...definitely following.

And the great and beautiful queen appears. You're welcome, ma'am.

fareedah86:
Not missing this for anything...after I read 'the brand of cain' I knew u were a talented writer,just dnt kip me over salivating o and where u the one who wrote a story about ZANDRA?cnt remember the title now.

Thank you so much, ma'am. I promise to keep you glued.

LarrySun !!! What do you want to do to black??! !!

Please don't kill him now

Come and update o........