skinnybleed:
Bro u nailed this update, so so emotional, funny and realistic....nice one!

Thank you, sir.

JojoBlue:
Seriously tears don de commot for my eyes

For real?

lenmafon:
thanks larrysun but why would mami be crying instead of being happy for the safety of her son? *Oliver twist's mood activated*

Evidently, her son isn't entirely safe. The ghosts know the future, but they can't tell us.

omotalkie:
Dis piece has made me cry, dat I had to stare at my children, praying and asking God to kip me and huby alive for them. (My daughter is even asking me- Mummy why are u crying?) God pls make a way for dis boy, he has rily suffered oo. Well done Larry

May God be with your family.

Nickymezor:
Hmmmm, it's well...Peter will survive...tnx for d loveli update Mr Larry

Thank you more, ma'am, for following.

LogoDWhiz:
Hmm.

Twists here and there!

Love this!

The twists haven't surfaced, trust me.

LarrySun:
The twists haven't surfaced, trust me.

Really?

If the twist haven't surfaced by now, that means I'm in for a rollercoaster ride.

Interesting.

More please!
Welldone

Exactly

LogoDWhiz:
Hmm.

Twists here and there!

Love this!

LarrySun:
Thank you more, ma'am, for following.

Ur welcm

LarrySun:
Junior's child was a son.

Ooops, datz so true....I went thru d prologue again

Aww such a wonderful piece am close to being teary eyed. Welldone LarrySun. I really pity Peter, i know he will end well eventually.

LarrySun:

Thank you, sir.

Don't worry, action is imminent.

Okay sir
tnx for da updates

u r really da boss

stuff46:
Touching


God will surely keep you

Amen ooo. Tnx dear

LarrySun:
May God be with your family.

Amen.Tanx for d updates. kip em coming

Poor Pete is back on the streets just when I thought his life was getting better . His situation is quite realistic anyways.

And I hope the sad scenes get a little more relieving. Like you can add small comedy for people like me that can't handle too much heartbreak.
Well done, BTW.

hmmmmmmmm, I think in this piece of work lies event that unfolds everyday in the real world, suggesting that we open another thread to discuss the various theme in this work.



Mr larrysun, I doff my hat

kudos to you sir

peter- I reserve my comment for now.

Just Passing By...

Larry dis great
more wisdom


Duba suppose to av Somtin kept for peter

What a great way to spend the weekend. Thank you, big brother. You have made my weekend with stunning updates.

You've been wondaful describing things as if it were real. 1000 thumbs 4u






Suggestion: I think there has been a wide gap between the "action" you started with and the "emotions" playing around now.



#team_junior+father+wife+son+mother

Not going to let my mouth stay mute.

First of all I love your choice of words as it aids your description. Also this story is a clear depiction of the struggle some people face in this country.

Just keep on as I am enjoying this story.

I love your choice of words as it aids your description. Also this story is a clear depiction of the struggle some people face in this country.

Just keep on with this as I am enjoying this story.

Here I come,a new member on this thread

Chapter One - VI

Roaming the streets with the backpack that contained everything he currently owned in the world; pairs of clothes, a toothbrush and toothpaste, an extra pair of sandals the priest had bought for him and the few sum of money he had been advised to save. Black decided, with a strange kind of boldness, to the house where he buried his mother. It had been two years since he had left her; he needed to pay her that visit, she needed to see that he had grown taller and looked healthier. He was no more wearing rags. He was now a normal twelve-year-old. He had changed from that little ten-year-old who lived in constant starvation. He was no more helpless; late Priest Duba had carved a better life for him.

As he travelled towards the dilapidated building he had lived in, he thought about his deceased parents and Priest Duba. He could picture the three of them together in a place filled with happiness. He pictured his parents thanking the old priest for taking in their son. For the first time in a long while, a smile crossed Black's lips. Although he now had no home and there was nowhere for him to rest his head when the sky darkened, Black didn't allow any negativity to dwell in him. The priest had told him that the world was filled with an abundance of opportunities, only if you could see them and grab hold of them when they came our ways. Black was old and wise enough to take care of himself in this new world, this amazing world of opportunities.

As the public bus transported him and a dozen other passengers through the roads, Black recalled having walked these same roads two years earlier when the wicked chief had evicted him from his father's house. The bus carried them past the bridge where he had been forced to smoke something nasty. He leaned his head out the window in the hope of catching one of those hoodlums that had beaten him up that late night, but of course, the thugs would not be there in the day; they only always came around in the nights to claim their territories; those deranged lions! In lieu of the hoodlums, underneath the bridge were different traders selling goods ranging from confectionery to cheap sartorial exhibitions. It had been two years since his last visit to this place. Black allowed a gratifying thought to cross his mind; maybe those thugs had eventually been apprehended by the police. Well, the hoodlums had called themselves lions. Lions didn't deserve to live among human beings, they were meant to live locked up in cages. Black hoped the thugs were really behind bars or in a federal prison, cutting down grass or breaking concretes or any other hard jobs condemned prisoners were usually subjected to doing. The world would be better off without that evil trio.

They arrived at the big market and some passengers disembarked as new ones boarded the bus with their purchased vegetables and pepper. Black still remained in the bus, he had not reached destination. Of course, he had trekked past this market at ten years old, when he had no definite destination. But a lot had changed since the past twenty-five months; he now had a destination, even though he knew not what had become of the place he was heading. And he recalled that the chief's thugs had seriously warned him to stay away from the house. But Black could not stay away from his mother forever, he could not. This was his mother, he had every right to be with her. No child should be denied the comfort of his mother.

The bus stopped at the station close to his destination and Black alighted. His father's house was not far away now, he was going to trek the rest of the way. Every close step he took to the house was a thump of apprehension to his heart. His naïve mind told him that Chief Salami was standing in front of the house, awaiting his arrival, his thugs standing on either side of him with their weapons drawn, and ready to make sure that they really killed him in the presence of the chief this time around. Black touched his neck, he could still feel the scar of the wound the knife had created when his throat was nearly slit. The knife had left a thin line in front of his neck. Most people that saw the mark had thought the young boy was suicidal; they believed he had attempted, albeit unsuccessfully, to hang himself with a thin rope. And the adults had wondered what could have driven the young lad to engage in self-annihilation. Priest Duba had been able to convince only a few of the ponderers otherwise. But to Black, the scar was not just any mark, it was a mark of redemption; that was the closest he had ever been to death. He fostered the scar with pride, like it was tattoo. He glorified in its significance.

Black suddenly found himself standing before the house; the house in which he had lived with his mother, the house where his parents were buried. His father's house. Fear instantly gripped his heart at what he saw and he whimpered in terror. Before him was not the dilapidated house he had lived in but a magnificent one; a great architectural masterpiece of mammoth masonry. The building before him was a two-storey erection. It was painted brown and fenced round, with a big black gate serving as the only means of entrance into the compound beyond. Black was only able to confirm that he was not mistaken because of the heavy slab of concrete before the fence, he recalled that he and his mother had both played hide-and-seek around the massive slab one night before her fatal illness two months later. Evidently, his father's dilapidated house had been demolished and a new building had replaced it. But this was not what scared the boy. He had bought a loaf of bread to place on his mother's grave as he usually did, but it seemed like that was not going to be possible now.

He rushed to the gate and knocked on it nervously. He needed to see. He needed to know! He beat the gate viciously many times until an angry old man opened the gate to scowl at him. Black didn't give a damn about the man's piqued expression; when the gate was opened and he saw the compound, Black broke down. Chief Salami had done him the cruellest thing imaginable.

The entire floor of the compound had been cemented. Chief Salami had plastered his parents in the soil; he had trapped them in the earth.

Peter Black wept.

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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.

So touching. Make me remember d past. (tears)

Wow..... *sniffs and wipes tears *........this is really touching.

I have this feeling that all this rigors black is subjected to is programmed by nature to forge him into a great man.

Fingers crossed, thumbs up Larry!

Thumbs up, Larry...

Nice piece...

larrysun come and update now,abi u no want make election hold for youtr ward?

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"Young boy, why are you crying?" The perplexed gatekeeper asked. He could not understand what had warranted the little child's cry. And it was terrible to see a lad as young as this weep so pitifully. It was worse hearing the sound of his wails. Something emotionally aweful must have occurred to the little one, for the old man could not see on Black any visible bodily injury, at least no recent one. Every effort he made to pacify Black was not enough; no sweet words could mollify this boy from his hurtful fate. Black knelt there on the ground before the open gate and cried his heart out. He wept for everyone he had lost; his father, his mother, Priest Duba. The ground where he knelt was soon damp with his tears.

"How may I help you, little boy?"

How may I help you? The question reverberated in Black's head. The words came so strangely to him as if he was hearing them for the first time. How may I help you? What a funny question! How could anybody help him now? He wanted no one's help; it was too late for anyone to help him now, too late! Where were the helpers when he needed them? Where were they when his mother was dying? What help did anyone render when he was starving to death on the streets? No one came around to fight for him when he walked into the den of three mean lions. Now, all of a sudden, someone wanted to help him, but it was too late now; his fate had gone beyond redemption. Black shook his head in anger; he didn't want anyone's help. He would take care of himself. He would survive in this tumultous world. He now lived totally for vengeance. Not only Chief Salami but also humanity would pay dearly for all what had happened to him.

The boy slowly rose up from his kneeling position and wiped the tears off his face. The time for self-pity had passed. He needed to start his journey to the road of vengeance. He saw that the gatekeeper was still staring at him with a concerned pair of eyes.

"How may I help you?" The ridiculous question escaped again from the elderly man's mouth.

Black stared straight into the man's eyes and firmly said, "I don't need your help, I don't need anyone's help. I can take good care of myself. To hell with help!"

Then he walked out on the man.

As he walked away, Black's heart was filled with hatred; hatred for the man who had dealt him this unkindness. The boy's vengeful pledge grew stronger. He was sure that if his chest was carved open now, rather than a heart, it would house a hot slab of stone emitting smoke as it burned hotness. The stone in his chest burned viciously, furiously, fiercely, it burned only to scald the cruel Chief Salami and, perhaps, all he held dear in the world. But currently, Black was nothing but a mere 'fingerline' where the chief was a wicked financial leviathan. Black knew better than to directly go at loggerheads with his foe now. He had to grow into a sharp-toothed shark himself. He also needed to grow in wealth if he was going to square off with the big chief in a moral or immoral battle; the nature of the brawl would depend on the chief himself and his actions.

He walked into a crowded street with the intention of making a heist. He kept a sharp pair of eyes focused on the people using the sidewalks, the ones struggling to get into moving buses, those opting to disembark from stopping vehicles, the busy traders and proud buyers. The boy wondered who he should rob among these classes of people. The zeal to covet another person's property had returned to him with full force just barely after the priest's sudden demise, and Chief Salami's callous conduct was the catalyst that sped up this thievery reaction. However, to Black's young mind, stealing had been considered an easy sport; he saw nothing hard or bad about grabbing something you desire and using it. The world would be better off if it was like that, there would not be much people going hungry. Hell, his mother would even have remained in the land of the living. Black had carved for himself the philosophy regarding the apportionment of ownership. He had many beliefs but his latest belief, in this regard, was the idea of shared fortune. If losing the coin you have would not place damnation on your existence, then you shouldn't nurse a qualm about sharing the currency with someone whom not having it would kill. This personal theory had been established long before Priest Duba found him. Of the several reasons behind his belief in an easy getaway, mobility was perhaps the most crucial. Although he was still a kid, he considered himself an outstanding purloiner among his unknown compatriots all around the world. He wasn't like the common petty pilferers still in their immature categories, people who had become crooks without the tiniest sense of idealism or ingenuity. He still engaged in small-time thievery though, he was still gradually learning to act with neither impulse nor desperation. His tiny brain was systematically growing a repertoire of clever thoughts in the dishonourable art of stealing. Soon, he would be planning his theft more carefully; weighing the risks and benefits of any chance at the display of his talent, and he would act only as a result of wary and systematic analysis.

Peter Black was a careless thief, but something was going to teach him to become a more careful one.


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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'm so sorry for my late updates. Some technical issues are slowing me down.

Forgive me if I've not replied your comments.

God bless you all.

LarrySun:
I'm so sorry for my late updates. Some technical issues are slowing me down.

Forgive me if I've not replied your comments.

God bless you all.

We're still following all the way.