₦airaland Forum

very resourceful

thanks guys for the comments. @purpinkx can you please explain what you mean by blur? thanks

He was standing by the American edge of the Niagara Falls ready to take a plunge. Goat Island separated him from the Horseshoe end of the fall. He saw a troupe of monkeys on a tree nearby urging him on. “It would be fun.” One of them explained. He looked down but he couldn’t quite see the bottom. Still he guessed it would be fun. He turned to the monkeys to explain that he had to pee first and proceeded to relieve himself in union with the overwhelming flow of water sweeping down the fall. The monkeys picked him up before he finished and threw him over the edge. He turned to wave at them and they smiled back jumping up and down in excitement as he flapped his hands on his descent. Applause resounded around him as eager tourists gathered dangerously close to the falls’ edge watching him tumble down in a mix of water and pee. This was fun….

[b]The slap woke him from his reverie. He had wet his pants. He was slowly piecing together the nightmare he was grudgingly waking into again. His narrowed eyes were trying hard to adjust to the bright light shining straight into his eyes and he wished for his dreams. He didn’t want to stop falling. He still had some remnants of a smile from his dream. The second slap wiped it all way and this time its sting lingered as it left a burning sensation in its wake. He was wide awake and his mouth still had the after taste of the drug they had given him. He was naked but for his boxer shorts and he was cuffed to a chair. He looked around him but all he saw were shadows.The voice came from behind the light and he shuddered as he recollected the stern orders that had broken him and brought him to his knees; made him beg and whimper like a child. “Where is Angela?” it asked. He saw the hand reach for his face again but there was nothing he could do to stop it. His hands strained on the cuffs and he clenched his teeth as another blow hit his face. Oh God, if you get me out of this I’ll serve you forever. Angela… oh Angela.[/b]

Angela was his wife and they had gotten married in the year 2001. They had met during their postgraduate studies at the University of Warwick. She was undertaking her Masters in International Commercial Law while he was in for Education Management. He was Nigerian, she was American. He wanted to live a new life, he wanted to forget his past and she had offered newness with open hands.New York was a great city to work in and he enjoyed the hustle and bustle. ‘Life is a hunt’ was the New Yorker’s creed and it became his too. He knew he was meant for this game and went for the kill; after all he was a “Lagos boy”.
Their fourteenth floor apartment on Manhattan Island gave him a perfect view of the famous Empire State building and he also enjoyed extraordinary visits to the New York City Opera Company, the Metropolitan Opera Association, the Philharmonic-Symphony Society of New York, American Ballet Theatre, and the New York City Ballet. Angela was a ballet dancer and he was always awed by the idea of her standing, jumping or spinning on her toes. The spinning was a constant delight and the wide smile that spread across her pretty white face was enchanting. Life was good.

‘Where is she?’ the voice screamed at him. He expected another slap but it didn’t come. Instead silence and the sound of the door closing shut. Was that wood or iron? He couldn’t tell. The door opened again and he heard the sounds of wheels. A big fat man came into his vision dragging a box-like contraption behind him. The man showed him a brown set of teeth before hitting him with the butt of a gun.

Angela was smiling at him. It was their first night. She had kept herself till her wedding night and he was amazed. He also felt shame because they had argued on several occasions on the possibility of a girl older than 18 remaining virgin in the 20th century without dating any guy and here he was marrying a girl who had never been with a man before. The irony kept gnawing at him so much he couldn’t do it the first night. In his shame he told her he was tired. She kept smiling at him until he passed into fitful sleep. He woke up promising himself he’d never cheat on her. She deserved it. She was completely amazing… amazingly gentle, amazingly kind, amazingly beautiful, amazingly intelligent, she was like all the things he never thought he could have. Oh Angela.

[b]The creepy contraption sitting on a trolley consisted of a giant battery with several wires connected to it. It had several tiny grips at the end of the wires and it scared him a lot. He had heard of torture but this was madness. The fat man was whistling “Two Face” Idibia’s “Implication” and really enjoying attaching the tiny grips to his nipples, ears and thumbs. He turned back to the voice and said ‘Oga make I start am?’ The voice grunted and asked him to get water first. The water was muddy and smelled of piss. It was dumped all over him and he choked on the smell. Fatman gave him a couple of slaps before the voice asked him to stop. He heard a chair scrap the bare floor and someone walk into the light. He was wearing a green khaki and the lone eagle on his shoulders meant the man was a Major with the Nigeria Army. His red beret made the prisoner’s eyes pop; Military intelligence? What was going on here? The name tag read “Okonkwo”. His swagger stick shone of money well spent and he demanded full attention. ‘Mr. Adekunle, listen carefully”, he addressed the prisoner. This machine will send high level voltage right to your brain and will knock you out; possibly paralyze you if you don’t talk. I may not have any truth serum or any of those advanced chemicals you know about but you will find out that this works quite fine. Tell me where your wife is and I will let you go.’ Adekunle looked at him with round pleading eyes ‘I don’t kno……………………………………………w!’ He had never felt this way before and even Nikki Laoye wouldn’t understand this either. This wasn’t pain or any particular hurt. It was fear personified that gripped him as jolts of electricity coursed his body and he began to involuntarily countdown to his death. It stopped. He was alive.‘I will ask you one more time. Where is your wife?’ Major Okonkwo stared into his eyes for a few seconds then nodded his head. This time he didn’t survive it.[/b]

‘I want to meet your family.’ The question he had dreaded all these years had finally come. Why? Why now? After all these years of peaceful co-existence she wanted to remind me of everything he had run away from. Nigeria again? He never thought he would have to come back to this land of inadequacies. But Angela insisted and he had to oblige. He remembered her asking what he was running from. The list was endless: family wahala, people who won’t stop poking their noses in another’s business, irresponsible Government, lack of freedom, money, good life... He just wanted a quiet life alone and now even that was being denied him by his wife. Angela had informed him that she would love to watch the FIFA Under-17 World Cup at Abuja National Stadium and they had booked online tickets. He would have preferred Lagos but she insisted with a kiss firmly planted on his forehead.Murtala Mohammed International Airport Lagos looked a lot different than he remembered; better. ‘Wait till you see MM2’ he heard people saying. Well if they couldn’t watch the matches in Lagos they could at least sigh-see before heading to Abuja. The taxi drive to Oriental Hotel, Lekki was fascinating. Lagos had changed. A certain Raji Fashola was the reason why Eko o ni baje* and the Oshodi spectacle was a particular delight. He couldn’t believe his eyes as the taxi driver explained the exorcising of the Agbero boys* from their boot camp. Angela giggled all the way.

[b]They couldn’t continue their torture at the moment because the current was low. NEPA was his saviour for once. He couldn’t resist the urge to let a smile sneak upon his face. Fatman wiped it out as quickly as it came. The flood light had been put off and dim chandeliers shone across the room. For the first time he had a look at his surroundings. The room was scanty and dirty. There were only two tables in the room and one had his clothes on it. The other had a tray with tea cups and a jug of water on it. ‘Water’ he muttered and the major turned away from the window by his right to nod at fatman who went to get him water. His throat was parched and the water felt like acid but it was bliss. The wall directly across him had several photographs and he thought he caught glimpses of Angela and himself at the airport in New York and Lagos. What the hell was going on?Major Okonkwo turned around and looked at him. ‘You know you might die in here except you tell me where your wife is?’‘No he won’t.’ a voice come from outside the room and the young pretty woman who walked in looked as out of place as her voice. She walked smartly to Major Okonknwo and Adekunle thought he heard the words “Federal” and “Investigation” as she whispered in his ears her perfume a complete contrast to the foul smell in the room. They both glanced at him and walked out of the room. Fatman followed them but not before turning off the lights. Darkness again.[/b]

He was in the Bathroom trying to wash away the lag. Angela said she’d go down to the bar to get a drink. He never was a drinker and he’d always wondered what she found interesting in alcohol. He suggested she called room service but she declined. Ok. When he got out of the bathroom she wasn’t back. He shook his head. One drink she had said… drinkers never keep their promises. He put on his boxer shorts and climbed the double sized bed; he wanted a long nap before lunch. The loud banging on the door woke him up. He smiled as he rolled off the bed. Angela had obviously had one too many as usual and he was completely expecting her Boston drawl to be in full control. He was wrong.

[b]The door scraped the ground as it opened again. The major walked in followed by the pretty lady; Of course fatman was in their tow. The young lady walked behind the prisoner and tried to un-cuff him. She didn’t have the keys. She looked up at the Major who nodded at fatman. Fatman moved behind the prisoner and uncuffed his hands. His wrists felt sore. ‘Bature get him water.’ The Major barked at fatman and he hurried to the table to pour Adekunle a glass of water. He drank it with pain. Pretty girls dragged a sit close to Adekunle. ‘Look, I’m really sorry about everything that’s happened to you. It seems there’s been some misunderstanding. Military Intelligence guys can be a bit impatient.’ She searched his face for any reaction. ‘Water’ He said again. She turned to look at fatman and he brought more water. She bit her nails as Adekunle drained the mug. He massaged his wrists as he shook his head slowly and muttered ‘Misunderstanding’ to no one in particular. She looked up at the Major; he shrugged and continued turned towards the window again.‘Look my name is Monica Sandfield and I’m with the FBI’s Lagos Desk.’ She searched his face for a reaction. ‘Mr Adekunle, nod your head if you are following me.’ He nodded his head. ‘I am really sorry for all you’ve been through. I didn’t expect it to be this way. Please believe me. You were supposed to be questioned not tortured.’ She shot a look at the Major. He shrugged.‘I want to ask you a few questions. Do you know this lady?’ Monica showed him a picture of a woman wearing a blue Hijab. He could just pick out the face; amazing eyes, amazing mouth… ‘Angela!’ ‘Yes she calls herself Angela. She is your wife, yes?’ He nodded visibly shaking. ‘We have known her for a while now as Safiya Khalid and she is what we call a copycat. She creates shadows for Terrorist organizations around the world so that they can move in and out of persons that are believed to exist but actually do not. I have been profiling her for some time now and we were led to believe you were in on it. We believe she is trying to create new access into Nigeria as terrorist activities within the country might heighten following the ‘Underpants Bomber’s chutzpah. She marries, gets admitted to schools, and takes on new jobs amongst other things just to create new identities every time. Do you want more water?’ Adekunle was sweating profusely. He didn’t move his head this time. He had fainted.[/b]

He was at the Murtala Mohammed International Airport and it looked just the way he had always known it to be. Members of his family were behind him waving him good bye. Angela was climbing into a KLM airliner. She turned back towards him and mouthed ‘are you coming?’ he looked at his family; mother and siblings, turned back towards Angela and shook his head. He dropped his luggage and ran into his family’s embrace.

Something I wrote a couple of years ago. It's a feeler for what I hope to churn out in the future.

The cold carpet refused to soak up the trickle of blood from my hands as I tried desperately to stop its flow from my stomach. My grip was weak on the colt in my hand, its warm feel a poor reassurance of my waning life. I knew I would die and I was afraid. Not of death, but of the many hounds I had sent ahead who now await my entrance into the great beyond; who couldn’t wait to get their hands on me. Let me try to explain.

My name is Yemi Jules-Rimet Atanda and I am 58 years old. I was born on the 6th day of May 1952, 4 years before the original Jules Rimet passed away. My father loved football and named me after the world cup. I am single never been in love, never known a woman and have been employed for the same reason for the past 30 years; to kill. I was born in Ondo State Nigeria and spent my childhood in Ibadan the center of western Nigeria. My early years witnessed the dying of the colonial regime and the forging of nationalization. During these years I learnt right and wrong, justice and truth and I had an unholy crush on the great leader Awolowo during whose Premiership I was born.

Sunday morning was church and my mum always took us to the cathedral. She believed in God’s son Jesus, his ultimate and immutable design and worshipped Him for it because it was good, acceptable and perfect. These three words I never forgot. Daddy was too busy joining the struggle. He believed fortune favored the brave and the church wasn't brave. He aligned with his mentor whom he fondly called Karl in attesting that religion only lent energy to the less privileged and was an escape route from responsibility. I loved my parents and ate their words. My mother fed me with the scriptures and faith while I ate my meals. My father filled my head with politics economics philosophy sociology history and class struggle as we inspected his cocoa fields. Jesus and Karl should sit at a conference I concluded, as their followers would never agree.

Primary education consisted of three phase: I would trudge along with my peers on the road to school and sit, as we learnt to write with ink and read off badly painted chalk boards, my mind constantly darting between Jesus and Karl. I never wanted to play football like my peers, as I would run all the way home to eat my mother’s food and her words. She would tell me stories and conjure up images of the great walls of Jericho falling down, the sun standing still, and Samson killing a lion with his bare hands. My favorite was ‘David and Goliath’ and my mother would make me finish my meal before telling me this story. I would jump on my stool and swing my hands like I imagined David would, aiming at the imaginary Goliath and shooting my sling.

After my afternoon rest, I would go to my father’s study and sit under his table as he held Trade Union meetings with his friends. Back and forth my young eyes would dart, from one corner to the other, as I tried hard to keep pace with the discussions. I always left with the same set of words; ‘it’s not fair’, ‘that’s not right’, ‘we need to stand together’ and finally, ‘life more abundant’ they’d chorused as they dispersed.

If I did not mention it earlier then pardon me; my father was a civil servant and he worked for the Western Region. He was also a farmer and had large cocoa fields which he inherited from ‘our fathers’. On various weekends, I would accompany him to inspect his fields and on such journeys, he would fill the car with the words of Karl and his Marxist cronies and I could almost see Karl smoking his pipe, legs crossed at the back seat of my father’s Volkswagen Passat nodding his head in agreement. Sometimes, I wished Jesus would also appear to me for the voices in my head were too many to choose from.

Secondary Education took me to Igboora for the first time. I had heard a lot about the land of twins and I knew the legends of how every house had a set of twins and sometimes more; Methodist High School was right at its center. The food there was another delight and it was while I schooled there, that I met Paul. He was a year older and had a striking resemblance to me. He was extremely smart, funny, easy going, honest and non-partisan. He helped me decide between Jesus and Karl, but I never listened to him.

Paul loved Jesus and Karl and believed they could be both friends, ‘if only Karl called Jesus Lord’. It sounded ridiculous; Jesus and Karl? Seriously? But I loved Paul and I never disagreed with him. We competed for everything, even though we had different backgrounds; we played football, studied together and wrestled now and then. Paul always claimed I had the advantage because I had more food to eat and was bigger and stronger but he always believed his feet and brain were much faster than mine.

In 1974 we both earned western region scholarships to study abroad and our paths went different ways thereafter. Paul went to study Medical Statistics and I went to study Law.

They approached me in my second term in the prestigious Cambridge University. I met Peter during one of my practice sessions at the Shooters’ Club. You see I never stopped slinging and transferred my love for shooting to guns. During my first shooting championship, I earned an amazing 18/20 bull’s eye and earned the nickname “Spikey”. Peter could shoot too but not half as good. He was from Calabar and claimed to be a member Free Nigeria Group who wanted to rid Nigeria of corruption and ensure that equality reign. He believed I had all the qualities to make membership and that his employers would be delighted to have a prestigious son of Nigeria as a member.

My Father died in 1978. He was 58 years old. He died during a rally of Civil servants at Abuja over the Federal Government’s proposal to move the Federal Ministries to Abuja. The soldiers had opened fire randomly in the heat of the protest. I returned to Nigeria for the burial and Paul was there. It was good to see him again. He had returned to Nigeria to join the Nigeria Air Force; he was married and had a beautiful daughter Tokunbo. I was very happy for him. We laughed over old rivalries and he told me he had a head start on me because he knew I would give birth to twins at my first try.

During the burial I was approached by the Nigeria Army. They had heard of my exploits in the shooting championship and had been recommended by “a friend” for a very unique and Special Training, if I agreed to join. I didn’t want to return to England so I joined the Army. I met Peter during my training and he told me we were part of “Operation Karl” a secret Socialist plan to protect and rid Nigeria from the hands of Capitalism. I laughed my heart out. Karl was still alive? It was impossible. Even my father would not have seen any reason to follow Marxism any longer. I was wrong.

At this time, I had learnt almost every trick in military espionage, shooting, unarmed combat, martial arts, deep sea diving, demolitions, heavy vehicle driving and my specialty, high Caliber Rifle training. I was a captain and I was happy. I met Brigadier Shehu for the first time. He was smart and very likeable. He took me under his wings and we spent a lot of time together, talking and sharing ideas. He loved talking about Marxism and I listened out of courtesy. He reminded me of my father and before long I was seeing images of Karl again, only this time there was no Jesus.

Brigadier Shehu wanted me to “take care of things” for the Free Nigeria Group. I was alittle confused so I went to look for Paul. I needed someone to talk to. Paul was being transferred to Makurdi. He had three kids now; two girls and a son. I met him at the Officer’s Mess of the Nigeria Air Force Base, Ikeja, with his friend Garrus. I told Paul everything; I didn’t know Jesus anymore and Karl’s theories worried me. Paul talked to me in his usual calm, “Jesus is close to you. Just talk to him and he would answer”. I left with his words still ringing in my head “only Jesus can save you from Marxism Jules”.

A job is a job they told me and I believed. It was for the good of all and I believed that too. Thirty years later and I regret all those whose lives I have taken; politicians, soldiers, activists and party leaders, all for what? So that I could fulfill someone else’s greed and desire to remain in control. I was protecting the real enemy; the cabal who was buying up every asset in Nigeria, while silently getting rid of every voice and opposition. It had to stop.

On March 27 2010, I received the package and I immediately knew it was trouble. I knew it was my last mission and I desperately needed someone to talk to. Paul had passed away on the 13th February 2009. He was 58. He was hit by a car in Abuja. I cried like a child but I couldn’t attend the burial. I was in China trailing a Minister who was negotiating with Chinese investors to build and operate Electric Train in Nigeria. I wasn’t supposed to kill him. Not yet atleast, “…only if he made too much progress”. My employers couldn’t afford letting the electric train reduce their oil income. Bastards! My Mum had followed my father almost immediately. I looked at the Package again and shook my head. The target was huge and I was given a partner for the first time in thirty years. A left-handed partner; I don’t trust south paws. I didn’t trust him too.

My employers never explained the missions and I never asked. My partner would only shrug every time I voiced my concern and I grew worried. Karl still showed up and he sometimes had a smile like he knew he had me in his
grasps. I’d close my eyes each time I saw him.

16th April 2010. We laid in ambush at the Abuja Airport waiting watching our attack had been spun like a web and the butterfly was going to walk right into it. The Prey had just returned from his trip to the USA on a courtesy visit to Barack Obama among other things. His ever present hat was an easy target. If only he knew. I was shaking, my adrenaline pumping at a frantic pace. I looked through the high powered scope. Not yet. All the while I wondered why. My partner sat beside me looking through the glass expressionless. He couldn’t see the entourage below. He had two passports and a duffel bag ready for our escape. My employers had handled the security and we were right in one of the rooms of the control tower. Something wasn’t right and I knew it. Karl was smiling at me but I wasn’t assured. Why? What is so wrong about this man succeeding his predecessor who had not been seen or heard from since that suspicious radio transmission? Business interest was the only answer I could think of. I steadied my scope again and looked. His hat was right in the middle. I checked the wind and adjusted the distance controlled my breadth and started my silent countdown. Squeeze the trigger Karl urged me. It is for the common good he cajoled. I looked closer at the hat my index finger caressing the trigger but at that moment he looked up and smiled at me shook his head and continued talking. I turned my hand violently as I scuffed my shot wide of my target. I couldn’t shoot this man. Instinctively I rolled to my side as the muffled sounds of two shots came from behind me. My partner was the clean-up man. My time was up. I kept rolling until I hit the desk and jumped to my feet. My colt was still holstered and the room was small. I was helpless. I charged at the clean-up man as he tried to angle his hand towards me and I felt pain as I hit the gun out of his hands. I grabbed his right hand with my right hand did a quick twist backed into him and smashed my elbow into his stomach. My head connected with his nose as I took a small step forward and flung him over my shoulder still holding his right hand. I broke it. He screamed in pain and I kept twisting it till he passed out. I had deflected his head shot to my stomach and it was bleeding. I searched him found two passports belonging to him. None for me. I opened the duffel bag and used one of the shirts to stop the blood. I felt dizzy as I walked out of office. The car was exactly as we had left it when we came. I never thought I would need it again.
It took them two weeks and five days to find me, but they did. I knew my luck would run out soon. They had taken all my money. I couldn’t leave Abuja, I couldn’t go to the hospitals, I couldn’t go to the police and my wound had gotten worse. I looked out of my motel window and I knew I was out numbered; six bullets against so many. I got up from the cold carpet and sat on the bed. Put on the radio. It was 11 pm and there were some reports of news around the world. A world I would soon depart from.

The Radio screeched BREAKING NEWS: PRESIDENT UMARU YAR’ADUA HAS BEEN CONFIRMED DEAD! HE DIED AT THE PRESIDENTIAL VILLA ABUJA. HE WAS 58 YEARS OLD. ACTING PRESIDENT JONATHAN GOODLUCK IS TO BE SWORN IN TOMORROW…

I let a wry smile play across my face as I pictured the man in his hat. I laid the colt on the bedside table, I was tired of running. They can take me if they want to. I felt someone at the door and I tensed my hand grabbing for the colt but I let go of it. Nothing it can do for me now. I took another dose of the cheap painkiller in the drawer but it did nothing to help. I noticed a small blue book inside the drawer and picked it up as the sounds increased in front of my door. New Testament Bible it read. Not for Sale. I opened its pages “for God so Loved the World that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” I laughed. Now? Seriously? Karl Scuffed. I thought of Paul “if only Karl calls him Lord” he’d have said. “Lord” I said quietly. Karl looked shocked. “Lord” I said louder. “Lord!” I screamed as the door burst open. I felt no pain as the bullets tore into me. I was lifted up by their numbers and landed holding onto the only thing that ever made sense to me. “Lord” I said faintly as my fingers let go of the small blue book and I heard his
voice for the first time... he said ‘I love you’.

The clock chimed 12 midnight as they carried my lifeless body outside; I was 58 years old.

I think about death sometimes
what the headlines would be like
'man gets hit by truck'
'boy dies for a million buck'
I've thought about death many times.

Will it happen while its sun'
or forgotten by the night will i be
will i fight till ends my power
will angels around me gather
crumbs, I hope there'd be some.

I think about death sometimes
family reunion I pray it is
not a lonely eternal regret
not a plea for life after judgment
a wish for Heaven's solemn chimes.

Will it be Heaven will it be Hell
will I sing or will I scream
Hugs and kisses; cane and floggings
a radiant eternity or fleshy burnings
I think about death but time will tell.

We died...

Not because our love waxed cold
Nor for the longings of memories old.

Not of the rot of time's decay
Nor the silence of naught to say.

Paul hath planted; Apollos watered not
No beauty to 'dorn our gloomy lot.

I have sighed; and heard you cough
But hearts have nay known love so tough.

As the daisies grew...
This immortal love waned too.