In smartestpopqueen's voice.........

KWOTINUI

Obinna Is Bursted

Tgold1:
Obinna Is Bursted

I tell u brov

"What do you mean?" I asked, gently dropping the bottle on the ground. I sat beside her, placing a comforting arm over her shoulder, and the other on her laps. I urged her with my eyes, to tell me why the sudden weirdness.

She sighed "it's nothing" turning her head away, her hair brushing my cheeks as she did. "Nothing? Nothing, Dami. Since when?"

Her eyes were watered with hot tears. For a reason, I shared in her pain, though I refused to cry.

"The person who ra-raped me. He's your room mate." I was taken aback. What was she saying? Obinna. A rapist? He was a chronic womanizer but a rape wasn't something he had the guts to pull off. He would be surely delusional to do such.

I almost laughed it off, touching her neck to check if she was alright, pushing my hand away fiercly, she ordered "stop it! Stop! Do I seem sick?"

She didn't. But her theory was hard, almost impossible for me to believe. Not until she said "I remember. He wore a football jersey. White and Red." I ran off the bed to Obinna's bag, and like how the creature Smeagol sought the ring, I rummaged through the bag, looking for a jersey which should be the home outfit of the Enugu rangers. I knew Obinna was a fan and as she called the colors, my suspicion was roused but I held up the tiniest of hope, that maybe, it wasn't him.

However, in a twist of fate, an unfortunate mocking of me, I saw a jersey in Obinna's bag--white and red.

I needn't ask any further questions. I raged out of the room and went out in rage. I approached my lodge mate's room and picked up an almost rustful cutlass lying innocently by the door. Damilola came out, holding my hand in a plea, attemping to calm the tempest. Her pleas fell on deaf ears as I was determined that if that rapist's blood didn't grease the cutlass back to usefulness, I had lost my dignity and for the rest of my days in school, my head would forever be bent in shame.

Armed with the destructive tool, I marched spartanly to the lecture hall, where Obinna was supposed to be. On the long walk, students looked at me in the expected manner--as if I was mad. Some laughed like overfed hyenas whilst some could only spare me two seconds of their time, thinking I had taken "osogbo weed." I wasn't high. I was bloodthirsty, and it was evident in my eyes as I stormed into the lecture hall. The professor, a man of about sixty, whose bald hair revealed a shiny spot in the middle of his head, whilst beards clung sparingly on his cheek. He wore an 'Obafemi Awolowo eyeglass' which only served to amplify the look of curiosity on his animated face.

"What sort of generational scallywag is this? Cascading into such places with no sense of nobility and look--he is wielding a cutlass. Maybe he's one of the herdsmen"

The students all turned back to look at me with unsmiling faces. They looked at my hand and were threatened by the weapon. I knew they would charge at me if I stood still, moping at their bewildered faces. I quickly surveyed the class with my quite naked eyes and Obinna wasn't present. Maybe he was raping another innocent girl in the presence of the broad daylight.

I retraced my steps and went back to my lodge, then into my room--the cutlass still in hand. I figured that if Obinna were to show up now, he would take the cutlass off me, due to his superior strength.

The devil, or something, whispered into my ears and a plan was conceived. An evil plan, which I had to execute with the help of Clippo, the student whose room was four rooms away from mine. His house served as a barbing salon and a...weed shop.

I put half-a-cup full of beans on the fire and quickly made my way to Clippo's door, where he thrust the product wrapped in newspaper into my hand once I had given him a fifty naira note. He smiled stupidly and shut the door to my face. I entered back into my room and emptied the content into the small pot.
Then I waited.

Thanks for the update but please continue biko.

Baba d weed go jonze you nii....... First Timer

I waited, with the venomous rage burning inside of me. It almost quenched but I rekindled it by thinking of how it must have felt. Obinna ontop of Damilola. I spat on the ground as I thought how it was the same penis he had used to satisfy his demonic urge with my Dami, was the same he had used on other promiscous girls. I was irritated further when I thought about how to cycle extended to me.

Finally, Obinna staggered like in like a drunkard with a long-stretching smile on his face. The resent on mine couldn't be hidden, no matter how hard I tried. Acting wasn't no easy job. Obinna came to where I sat on my study, folded his arms into each other, and looked at me in a funny manner. If only he knew what was brewing in my heart. I stuck to the plan. He would easily counter any attempt I made to attack him physically.

"What?" I mumbled, irritated by his persistent stare into my eyes. It made me uneasy. Breaking into a guffaw, he held his stomach, gesticulating that whatever made him laugh was very funny to command such stupid reaction.

"I think sey you no go ask" he said "that female lecturer, Anyanwu, the one wey dey from strict strict. She blow me for her office oo"

I was puzzled. Why on earth would anyone who wasn't a lunatic be so excited about a blow? I looked on his face for marks to connot a hit but I didn't find any, except how he cringed in mocking fashion, breaking into another of his repulsable laughter. "Blow mean BJ--she suck my thing" he explained mildly, sparing me explicit details I would have done without.

The devil whispered again.

"Come chop oo" I said to him, feigning a nobled face of benovolence.

"thank you, nwanne" he said "but hungry no dey catch me."

I frowned in a disgusted manner, but turned my face away so Obinna wouldn't see. I stretched my hand and opened the pot, which made a creaky sound, as steam escaped from the confines of the pot and filled our nostrils. Obinna smiled. Me too. I knew he licked his lips in relish. Too bad nobody was present to scream at him "Obinna no!!!"

He swaggerly approached me with a plate, and gave it to me, signalling his interest. The mischievous smile I had strewn on the sides of my lips stretchered. I served him the devil's beans, carefully selecting the part of where the leaves were less visible.

Again, I peddled with the thought of abandoning this method which might prove futile but when I gave Obinna the food, my eye wandered to where his adventurous penis was, dangling inside his boxers. I was reminded by the sight of that monster, that we were no agemates.

And so, I watched, until Obinna's spoon dug into the plate. One, two, three, four, he was eating the food, looking at me at intervals with his trademark funny face. Just that this time, it was inquiring.

"Guy, you put anything for this beans?" he asked

"Idiot. Na ugwu leaf. I want make the food fresh"

"Ehen...but you no dey put am before na. Today own somehow bitter"

"Na because of Damilola I cook am"

"Damilola?" he asked, eyes wide open "She come here?"

I looked at Obinna as he struggled with his thoughts, sweat breaking out from different places on his body.

He mumbled some words, he stuttered as he said these, as I saw a tear trickle down his eye. I touched my ear to gesticulate that perhaps, he was inaudible.

"I want to tell you something, about Damilola" he said weakly.

Man I hope this does not end in bloodshed.

Following......

HmmmmmM........... Kasa kasa go burst

*IN RUNTOWN'S VOICE* Anytime wey u hear the banger! Op! More akonuche 2 u

fikfaknuel:

Thanks bro. Work has been really tight coupled with the fact that I am working on like three novels (no joke).

But, because of you, I promise i'll finish this 'short' story before the demise of tomorrow.

ur own tomorrow too no dey finish bah

"I--raped her"

"You raped her?" I asked with my eyes wide open, then burst into an hysterical laugh. "Yo-You, You raped her. The word is so easy for you to say"

Obinna looked at me weakly, the effects of the leaves were beginning to show. His eyes dimmed, he looked very weak, and there I knew, I had him at my mercy. He crawled over to where I was, and grabbed my leg with both hands. I thought he was about to fight.

"Punish me!" he screamed, with the last strength he had.

I looked down on him, and my initial resolve was lost. The anger which I felt wasn't enough to make me condemn a remorseful man. A powerless man.

He screamed the same words "Punish me!" breaking up in tears.

"No." I said calmly, as a tear escaped from my eye and landed on him, as if pardoning him for all he had done.

I went over to the bed and sat down. My eyes were still on him. He was sprawled on the floor, he was being held on the side of consciousness by only a very thin thread; his evident remorse.

"How was it?" I asked, with sarcasm seeped in my voice. I said the words as if it was directed at a teenager, who had had his first go at sex.

"I was drunk, wild."

"You pursued her? Chased her down like the cheetah chases its prey, and you devoured her. You devoured her, Obinna! You--" the anger was beginning to set back in.

He couldn't plead his case. This wasn't a hook up with girls where he could sway them with his suave talking, his Igbo accent. He was facing a trial, in this court, over which I preceded, but had already taken a final decision.

I couldn't kill him.

I fell flat on the bed, crying. The name 'Damilola' came to mind and I remembered where we met. It was under a tree, outside the lecture hall for Yoruba studies.

"Wait," I said like a mad man, springing up from the bed "It was at a party right?"

No response.

"Obinna? Obinna?"

I slapped him on anywhere and everywhere on his body, but the drug had taken him, far away. I had to revive him.

I dashed into the cupboard and brought out a green bowl, where we stored garri. It was empty. Rushing out, I approached Obiageli, an undergraduate studying Geology. I knew she had a thing for me but I was seldom interested in her. I banged on the door like an angry housemaster who had come to collect the house rent.

She opened the door, quite alarmed it was me, I was rarely dishellved as I looked now. I was the cool, calm, and smart guy, not this sweaty, panting, person who stood before her.

"What?" she asked me, exposing her set of disarranged teeth.

"Abeg give me small garri" I asked, I saw surprise on her face to hear me speak in pidgin english. But hard times call for drastic measures. She looked at me, hand hung on the door, the rest of her body motionless like a mannequin. I watched her angrily, as she smiled.

"Recite me a poem" she said "that's your payment."

I heaved a sigh.

"okay."

"Your oblong head resembles a frustrated rock
And your teeth is so fine like the word's opposite
I love you, if wisdom becomes one with you
Unfortunately, you sworn a pact to always be ma player in the game of fools"

She smiled sheepishly then went inside to bring the requested. I was disgusted by her ignorance. WonIder how such a person got admitted into such a prestigious university. Then I remembered anything is possible in this, if I may borrow the words of my father--Zoo country. As long as you had the money to grease some important palms, you'll go places.

Out she came, and gave me the garri, inside a little black nylon. She purposely bent down a little so I could get a view of her quite succulent melons. I was too impatient to say 'thanks' but she said 'Anytime' anyway,and I got the feeling it was an invitation to partake in activities only a couple should engage in. It wasn't one I was going to take, anyway.

I ran into the room and in a last try, I kicked Obinna but he didn't budge. I forced opened his mouth and poured the garri inside forcing it further down with water.

I sat on the bed and waited for him to come around. I exactly didn'tt know if garri worked but I had heard it, somewhere, and since it was the only option I had pre-requisite knowledge of, I had to try.

He did, come around, announcing his return with a cough, emitting very little balls of the garri.

"Abacha and Ojukwu married Bob Marley, and they gave birth to Oliver de Qoque. Why is the fan coming down? Ah! Ah! My enemies dun come oo, Nwannem, My enemies! Ekwensu a bata go" Obinna screamed, honestly terrified, as if he was about to run out of his own skin.

I was almost forced to laugh. The effects of weed was quite baffling. I wondered how some people still act 'normal' after smoking it many times in a day.

Splash! I poured a genorous amount of water on his face, soaking the rug as I did so. But I didn't care. I kicked Obinna again, this time, lightly, in the groin, and he twisted in pain. He shut his eyes and opened, and after blinking in quick succesion, he regained his sanity. I saw it in his eyes. He no longer blurted gibberish, or look dazed.

"It was at a party, right?" I asked him again.

He looked around, seeing the trouble I had went to get him to wake. The soaked rug, garri scattered sparingly on the floor, clothes, flung in different directions. He looked away, and stared directly in my eye.

"I'm sorry." he said again, quietly.

"Uhmm...," he scratched his head, trying to remember "Yes. It was a party"

"Who hosted it?" I asked, going straight to the point.

I saw cluelessness registered on his face. Not absolute although. But if it was ever registered on his memory, it was in a far away place.

And thus, we sat, looking at each other, for about twenty minutes. I don't know, but it was for a lengthy spell.

"Akintoye." Obinna said, somewhat unsure. "Akin--yes! Akintoye" his eyes lit.

"I am sure. It was a jersey party. And the name 'Akintoye' I saw printed on one of the jerseys. He wasn't just any regular visitor, he mingled with people, he sprayed cash anyhow, gave orders to the DJ, had girls throwing their bodies on him, and no no no"

"What? Obinna." I jumped down from the bed, holding his head, urging him to talk.

"He was the one who introduced me to Damilola, and served me a drink afterwards."

"You must have been drugged." I said.

"I don't know. But I know, that when I chased her down, I wasn't myself. It was like I was compelled to do so."

"Snap out of it, Jesus, vampires are not real" he said to himself, placing an hand on his forehead. He sweated profusely, quite understandably, the room was hot.

"Damilola should know him."

"Who?" Obinna asked

"This Akintoye of a guy." I replied, standing up, reached for a face cap, wore it, and walked out of the room.

I called Damilola. Her number was going through but she didn't pick up the call. I guess she must be angry. But, I had no reason or whatsoever to be sorry, or apologize. In my head and heart, I was out to seek vengeance for her. And now I know, that even though Obinna did it--raped her, there was a bigger play here. Someone was massively behind this and Damilola didn't know. This Akintoye could be her course mate, friend, or something, and yet, he introduced Damilola to a drunk and drugged Obinna. I am no law enforcer but, I know a suspect when I see one--or hear about one as the case might be.

Inside the bus, students engaged in the usual Biafra talks but my mind was too occupied to read meaning into it. Even though I heard some of their words, notions, stories, plights, suggestions, I refused to be drawn into it. I was a man with a mission.

Courtesy was lost on me as I entered Damilola's room without even knocking. I found her lying on the bed. Her buttocks were finely sculpted and inviting but nothing in me refused to budge. I was just too deep in this to be moved by beautiful flesh and desires now. She turned, and sat upright. She looked gloomy, slightly dark clots formed under her eye and I could tell, she'd been crying. I felt pity for her. I approached her, and held her on the arm after she refused an embrace. I looked at her. I couldn't be sorry, when I had done no wrong.

"Who is Akintoye?"

Her eyes widened in fascination, surprise, specifically.

"Akintoye?" she asked

"Yes."

She scratched her hair lightly, turning her face to and fro, behaving as if what she wanted to say was too important, too heavy, for me to receive.

"He is a coursemate, with whom I am well acquainted with"

"How acquainted?" I asked

"Enough to know that he is dead" she replied.

Hmm !

Dead down there or dead gan gan

Dead in all ways

Fikfaknuel come finish this tory make I concentrate on something else nah...

Biko
Na beg I dey beg

"What do you mean 'dead'?" I asked, shifting uncomfortably.

She looked at me briefly and sighed "Akintoye wasn't at that party. The party was held in his memory."

I was confused, astutely. I wanted to ask her who was the person that introduced her to Obinna but I concluded, that she couldn't have known him too. Maybe they were bound by the darkness of a party.

"I'm sorry--for acting rashly." I apologized,breaking my resolve.

She pulled me closer and rested my head on her breasts. "I'm sorry, too." she whispered into my ears with a tone so pleasantly soft, that it drove me wild.

I rolled on top of her and engaged her tongue in a fierce kiss, she unbuttoned by shirt, and for a moment, I got off her and flung the cloth away. She invited me closer with her eyes and I obeyed, feeling the two soft melon-like objects on her chest. They weren't watery, like Obiageli's nor where they too hard, they were perfect and my body trembled, when I felt it through her ash cloth. Like a mad man, I tore the cloth off, and she chuckled, but I was awed, the breasts were the most beautiful thing I had seen. I buried my head in them and sucked at them in turns, until she called my name lightly, and pleaded with me to attend to the burning sensation she felt in between her legs.
I went down a little, and dug my head inside, welcomed by a scent of blooming petals, well shaved and she wasn't wearing a pant underneath her skirt. It was an open doorway. I teased her clit, and she ran wild, reaching for my head, pushing it in, I wondered if she wanted to suffocate me. I looked at her, and there she was, with sweat covering her body, she ran her fingers over her breasts, moaning at intervals when I touched a soft spot, or when I slid a finger into her welcoming hole. It went in with ease, like how a soft eba welcomes a hand. This made her slap my head viciously, and she pulled her hair too, I wondered if I was doing it wrong, maybe it was painful. I removed the finger, and she growled

"Put it back, plea-please"

I obeyed.

"Two" she moaned "tickle me with two fingers."

I also obeyed, since pain was a thing for her, I romanced her insides quickly, as if I was whipping a cream, while I pressed my other three fingers against her wet walls. She was dripping. I knew it was time.

It was then I realized my trouser was still on. She gave me a nasty smile as she spread on the bed, her bosoms standing upright, side by side, yellow like ripe pawpaws, ready to be devoured. The trouser was off, my boxer too. My third leg sprang up gingerly, staring at her. She sat up and opened her mouth. I replicated the move I watched in sex videos; I thrust it in, she couldn't take the full length, she gurgled on it, then she took it out slowly, and wrapped her mouth around the head, using her tongue to lick at it as if it were her favorite ice cream. I felt a funny feeling just beneath my navel. I knew I had a limited time.

I made her stand up, kissing her as she did, with my left hand finding its way into the warm, wet hole in between her legs, and my right grabbed at her firm buttocks.

She then did something daring. She held the bed stand with both hands, and bent down, giving me an exclusive view of the meaty thing, I got closer, and touched its surface with my hard deek. She pleaded, begged, and cursed, for me to put it in. I had other plans. I rubbed it against the soft sides, as if I was going to put it, but when it got too close, I removed it. Her pleas intensified, as if she was crying, she said

"Please, i'm dripping wet. Pl-ea-se"

I felt so powerful. I took a quick look at it, and the line in between the meaty stuff seemed to be crying too. I gently inserted my deek and her walls clung to it in the warmest embrace ever. I thrusted in ferociously, making slap-like sounds. With each thrust, she moaned beautifully, like the music of a hummingbird and it strengtened the resolve of my waist, the vigor of my deek.

I heard her scream "deeper, deeper" and I did, grunting, as I dug deeper from behind. "I'm co-m" she attempted to say but I ordered her to keep quiet, making a hush like sound. "Me too." I said coldly, still humping in and out of her.

I felt it leave me--the substance, and shortly afterwards, she hit the apex level of sexual satisfaction. I was still inside of her but my man was becoming weak, like my legs, and I fell to the bed. She followed suit, hitting my face with her soft breasts.

Our bodies entangled into each other, and she looked at my eyes, breaking off a kiss.

"I love you" she said

"I love you, Damilola" I replied, wrapping my arm around her. This was bliss, I thought. A big smile was plastered on my face.

It was heaven, but I didn't know that Hell was just by the corner, waiting for me to stumble into it.

LAGOS, SOUTHWEST NIGERIA
The hall was an ugly one. It was a dis-service to the people who sat inside. Eminent personalities, they were. Diverse in statures, thin, tall, short, bulgy and stoutly men and women but they were united by a common goal; and that goal was such a powerful one, to have brought such people together, under this hall.

An elderly man ascended the podium, walking slowly with the aid of a third leg. His skin was folded with old age, and his eye sunk deep into his bowels. His lips twisted to one side, but surprisingly, when he held the microphone with his shaky hands, the words he spoke into it were loud, exuding a powerful influence over the people present, who looked at him intently, never wanting to miss a word.

"Good afternoon, sons and daughters of Oduduwa, future of Nigeria, I greet you all."

The audience collectively greeted "Good afternoon, Baba."

He looked down, the mild sun escaping into the hall from the window shone on his face, which was like rich butter. He was old, but he aged with grace. He observed a cough.

"Today, we meet for the first time, united by One Love. Our Love for the future of this great people; Yorubas."

The crowd cheered him on with thunderous claps. He took a swig from the bottled water on the ambo.

"Nigeria has failed us. She has failed!" his voice thundered, and the audience nodded their heads, on their faces; condemning looks. The old man continued "Lagos is a Yoruba state, and we prospered here. My father was a little boy when this rubbish called Federalism destroyed Sectionalism. The long throated Igbos trooped into Yoruba states, and started dominating us."

The crowd shook their heads.

"Tell me, will this be allowed to happen? Should we continue to allow Abokis plunder our rich earth with their cows?"

"No!" the crowd screamed.

The old man smiled, "then let us grieve."

As soon as he said that, a middle aged man stormed into the hall, holding a portrait high for everyone to see. He approached the podium and stood the picture against a wall, to achieve balance.

"This is my son, Akintola, brutally murdered by Igbos in the East, the University of Nsukka to be precise." his words were soaked in so much pain, and tears threatened to flow from his eyes. He quickly hid his face beneath his native shirt. A woman approached him, and put a consoling arm on him.

Baba Rasheed J.O, the old man, shook his head pitifully, saying to the bereaved "My son, take heart." he turned to face the audience but pointing at the man "strengthen your minds, for war is imminent"

"It is almost impossible to go to war, in modern Nigeria. Not against the Igbos, violently. They are galvanised, and are fighting for their own independence." a voice from the back said.

"And that is why, we must strike"

Puzzled looks were scattered across the hall but the smile on the old man's face was not lost. He waved silence, and silence it was. He was highly respected as being a former governor of the Western Region, who at his time, his name spread through all the parts of the country.

"We have people, positioned in the heart of Igboland and when it is time, we shall strike.

Madam Osundare, please report about our ongoing operations in the University of Nsukka." he directed, as a frail looking woman stood up, golden chains dangling, making disjointed sounds.

"Good afternoon, Baba" she greeted, taking a bow. The recipient nodde his head in recognition. She turned to the audience.

"As we gather under this roof, I will swear that Chike, the son of the former minister of Natural Resources, is stuck in the net of Damilola, a proud daughter of ours who had volunteered to fight for the Yoruba cause."

Faces went aglow with smiles, stretching up to the cheeks. This was the kind of news they craved but were not sure how it could be much of a thing.

The old man explained.
"The idea is not to attack physically, but infiltrate their system, and set a knife in the middle of the soft yam."

The crowd didn't grasp the proverbial words well enough, and this was manifest in the buzz-like sound that generated inside the hall.

"They will fall." he said, with a tone of finality.

Hmmmmm......... It is Happening

I slept in the arms of Damilola and did not hear my phone ring. It rang thrice--but when I woke up, it had stopped. I looked at who the caller was and it was Stanley Obijiaku, president of the Students' Union. Whatever made him call me, meant he wanted to relay something serious. It wasn't everyday he called.

"Hello?" his voice sounded from the other side of the phone

"Yes? Stanley" I replied calmly, holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder, as my hands were occupied, adjusting my trouser back to its rightful position.

"Obinna--he's about to be expelled"

"What? Why?" I asked both questions almost simultaenously.

He wanted to say something but bit his words. "It concerns a rape." he said and I growled, it was seriously dampening for me to hear. I wanted to pull my power but this wasn't a small matter.

I looked around Damilola's room yet no sign of her. I wondered if it was usual to serve someone such mind blowing sex and leave the room almost immediately.

"Are you there?" Stanley asked

"Yea" I said, as I left the room. "I'm here, nwannem."

"There's something I also want to tell you" he said

"What?"

"Obinna was shot dead on his way to the Vice Chancellor's office."

**********
I phoned my father twice but the network seemed to be jammed. I cursed at the stupid service provider, which claimed to be 'everywhere I go'. I kicked objects angrily as I walk like a maniac to nowhere, breaking into sobs. It wasn't possible. How could Obinna be dead? How could his resolve be broken by the penetration of a bullet? Such a small object crafted by the hands of small men, fueled by hate. I nursed resent inside of me. Pure, undiluted anger but still, I refused to believe that Obinna was dead.

It was whilst I walked, the sun seemed to be going cold. Evening was approaching. I saw a fresher student with whom I was well acquainted. He was a rebellous young lad who wrote politically provoking essays and poems. Always had a penchant for the thoughtful, he was never one who lets news escape his ears. However, I was in no mood for a chit chat. I also saw a gloom on his face, for the first time since I had known him. This was the first time, his countenance wasn't stubbornly optimistic.

"Wail for the death of an eagle
Cry for the loss of our son
Wail, Wail, Wail,
Our noses has been dug in a bucket of shit"

He recited when we stood side by side. In my current state of mind, a poem wasn't something I could dedicate a sizable portion of my brain power to analysing. But I heard him say the words "loss of our son."

"Obinna?" I asked

He didn't reply. Silence yelled loudly, in its mocking affirmative shriek. His head was strung down in pain and hot tears escaped from his young eyes.

"I was there." he said "when the bullet went into his head." He cried bitterly "I--was there!" he yelled, hitting me on the chest, pouring out his anger. I too, needed to. But my pain was a more refined one.

Students flocked past us, looking at the both of us in surprise-laden faces, like curious owls staring into the night. They clutched their books to their chest, some walked in groups, some escaped away from the world, bumping their heads to the music which must have been playing on their headsets. Some walked with their girlfriends, who pointed at us--My eyes reddened with sorrow, and my poet friend, crying his out like he had taken a dip in onion juice.

My mind flickered to Damilola. Where could she be? I had just lost a friend and I couldn't lose my love. I dialled her number and the computer programmed voice insisted rather stupidly, that such a number didn't exist. The nineteenth time that I called, the inconsistent voice said it was 'switched off'. Which was I to believe?

I looked at my watch and it was almost six pm. My poet friend had insisted against leaving me but I implored him to get a good sleep. His head was undoubtedly throbbing, like mine, and his heart was heavy but I gave him a pat on his weak shoulder, and told him "Justice will come." I also told him that in the early hours of tomorrow morning, i'll be at his lodge and we will visit the Students' Union president and office of the VC, and other relevant bodies. He left, crying like a baby deprived of his daily supplement.

I fell to the ground crying, much to the surprise of students who passed by, who paid me only some seconds of their precious time, shaking their heavy heads. I held the ground knowing that sometime today, my room mate, confidant, playmate, and best friend, was shot down. I knew that blood oozed out of wherever the bullet had penetrated. I knew that his blood painted the sand in an even redder color. I knew flies buzzed around him, singing a sorrowful song. I knew that vultures must have been on their way, coming to feast on his useless flesh. But what made me cry was, I didn't know how the people around him reacted. Did they run and leave him to his fate, as a meal for the flies? Did they walk past his dead body and shake their heavy heads as they were doing now? Wait--my poet friend said he was there. He must have cradled the dying or already dead body of Obinna, calling for help.

Hmmmmm....... One spanner Lost

I am happy Chike did not kill obinna. weldone bro abeg ride on

I jumped into an incoming bus when I had gotten tired of crying. The passengers, mostly students looked at me ridiculously.

"seventy naira oo" the driver said, obviously speaking to me, the latest entrant into this prison of a bus, which stuffed people into each other, like fishes in a sardine can. I wasn't in the mood to haggle and I kept mum, going through the sad news I had heard, with flashes of Obinna playing in my head.

A busy body student took it upon himself to explain to me why there was an added twenty to the regular price of fifty naira.

"It's past the stipulated time. That is why the money is added. The driver is a brother to the friend of the Registrar." the concerned poke noser said, in faint hope that it would lift off the gloom which covered my face like an haloween mask.

The driver looked into the mirror above him, with a wide grin of achievement on his face. Our eyes met. In that awkward moment, nothing else came to his mind but to put on the radio.

Gentle breeze whooshed into the radio as the coarse voice behind the radio said the words "Good day Biafra--even though it's not all good."

The passengers were restless at the words of the OAP. The driver too, increased the volume and pulled over and much to my chagrin, his passengers didn't even register the tiniest hint of a protest. They seemed to be drawn into the radio, spellbound. They tapped their ears to 'dust' off dirt and bent it towards the radio. A word wouldn't escape the tentacles of their ears.

"Earlier today, there was a clash between some Yorubas and Biafrans in Uzo-Uwani. Reports claim that twenty one Biafrans were casualties while the yorubas lost eight.

The report also claimed that one of the Yorubas, had a gun on him, with which he used to gun down seventeen Biafrans. Stay tuned to Radio Biafra."

Two passengers immediately brought out their phones and frantically punched in digits. The rest of us watched as they clung to the phones as if their lives were dependent on it. They urged the persons on the other side to pick up.

"Hello, aunty? Ke maka ahu gi?" one asked, in concern. The words he spoke were loosely translated to "how body?". We didn't hear her response but the caller-student whom we studied closely heaved a sigh of relief. All was fine.

Little luck, the other person had, as his call was jammed into network brouhaha. He said, interlocking both hands into each other, towards the ceiling. He prayed "Chukwu--protect my father for me, biko nu."

The concerned poke noser who had 'clarified' me on the bus fare issue placed an hand on his shoulder and asked "Is he in Uzo-Uwani?"

The student turned weakly and replied in a defeated tone "Yes--he sells electronics there. He is my only family. My mother died a long time ago, when I was seven."

"Ehya, ndo oo" voices rose in unison, offering sympathy in a funny way. If it was another day, I would have laughed inside, but not today. Humor was lost on me.

"He'll be alright." I say for the first time, in a gruff, cold voice.

The radio volume is once more ignited by the curious hands of the driver, and the thick voice which spoke earlier took over the air.

"Police has managed to identify some casualties through their IDs. Here are the names."

All ears.

"Justin Amaechi
Okoroafor Liberty
Eugene Obi
Theresa Igboanugo
Godknows Okafor...."

"What? No!" the student screamed.

He almost fell of his seat, if not for some able hands which held him.

"Ogini, What?" Passengers gathered round him, asking.

He began crying, like I had done earlier. "Mpam--my father, h-h-he was k-k-kil" he couldn't bring himself to complete the statement but we all knew what he meant.

Each person said 'sorry' in his or her own sympathetic tone, some rubbing his head gently, as if they were pacifying a crying baby.

Suddenly, I felt a burst of emotions. The driver shouted "No!" in a roar and the students responded in likewise fashion "No!" they screamed, scurrying out of the bus. I came down too but too grieved to act agressively. I guessed they wanted to exercise a protest. I stood behind as I watched them pick stones, sticks, rods, and thin stems, plucking out the dry leaves on them to fashion it into a whip of some sorts.

I watched, as a student raised his voice in a chant, his right hand to the sky, a stick on it. He chanted the popular 'we no go gree' protest line "Nzogbu..."

The crowd responded gingerly "enyimba enyi!"

Marching like spartan warriors, armed with their savage weapons, they made their way to no where. I didn't know where but I followed them, to see where their heavy legs would lead them to. This was to be a protest of some sorts--loud, but non violent.

Yet, something happened, to turn the situation on its head.

You waste words and its killing you story. Get real and straight.

Eze2000:
You waste words and its killing you story. Get real and straight.

Thanks for the advice. Someone must have said something like this before. I'll definitely learn from it.

However, how you see the story nah?

Orikinla

fikfaknuel:

Thanks for the advice. Someone must have said something like this before. I'll definitely learn from it.

However, how you see the story nah?

I'm author of Ruthless Betrayals and Dirty Diamonds of Boko Haram, both of which are super hits here and yet I took the time to read this.
That speaks for itself.

But all the many words of killed my interest pretty quick and I love to read much less others.
if u have a good food and put it in a bad container, no one buys. People pay 20k for a plate of rice in most five star hotels but same food is less than 1k two streets away in a buka and never go there.