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An0nimus: still loving the story skillet. took you a while to continue, sup?

thank you very much. i keep reviewing and reviewing before i finally post. i want to minimise errors to the barest. you, my readers, deserve more than a rush job. but i promise to make updates more regular. moreover, i am new to this section. still finding my feet and seeing how things work here. and i must say- tough crowd. lol.

nice topic. am sorry i cant say my real name here but i have written and produced and co produced countless shows and movies on television channels in nigeria including mnets african magic. before that i worked extensively on the nollywood scene with people like amaka igwe, RMD, ifeanyi azodo etc. am not trying to show off. just giving credence to what am about.

comments pleasssssssss. dont hold back.

In a rage, Obala flew down fron the horse carriage and charged at the little boy and girl. He was very angry. He was angry because the recollection of who the old man was, scared him. It was like he had just seen a ghost. In fact, truth be told, he had just seen a ghost.


Now he remembered the ghost of the old man quite well. It was in this same forests some twenty five years ago, Obala, then an already seasoned war general had ambushed a man and his family of two on their way to the next village settlement. The man was the husband of the beautiful young woman and the father of the baby she carried. The ambushed man had put up a good fight but Obala, had finally stabbed him with a sword and pushed him into a fast flowing stream just a few meters away. He thought he had killed the man then. So, imagine his terror when the same ghost reappeared today.

He also remembered that; that day he had quickly dispatched the mother of the baby. One nice slit accross the throat and the kneeling mother bled all over her wailing boy. Obala had made up his mind to dash the baby boy's head on a nearby rock but a very strange thing happend. The moment he took the three month old baby up in his arms, it stopped screaming and smiled at him, appearently unaware of its loss. For a man like Obala, who lived for violence and sadism, this was the ultimate trophy. A captured boy as a son. A constant reminder of how powerful he was. Giving life to whom he pleased. He had named the boy Ukon.


He yelled again at the children who had stood transfixed for the few minutes since their gandfather died. They broke down. if his plan was to scare them, he was a genus. The boy and the girl ran to the lifeless, twitching body of their grandfather. As they ran past Obala, he caught up the boy with one swoop of his powerful arm. without looking back, he knew Ukon would catch the girl and take her back to the palace. All young virgin girls caught in these raids belonged to the king. The sick bastard. Everybody heard tales of what the king did to these 'virgin' slaves; and what he let them do to him. The virgin boys belonged to Obala. He dragged the little boy deeper inside the forest, tied him to a tree and proceeded to sodomise him.

After he was done, he looked for some calabar devil beans and shoved it up the boy; and as the boy screamed in pain, Obala whipped him to death.

Obala noticed Ukon had slowed down again. Like a lion playing with its food, while the old man and his grandson and grand daughter ran foolishly from shrub to shrub. Obala smiled to himself. He had trained Ukon well. Ukon had caught more slaves and killed more men for the Empire than anyone else. More men than Obala could count. He watched as Ukon cornered the frail old man. The man had become disoriented and had let Ukon come between him and his kids. Nine times out of ten, parents separated from their kids, in times of war, lost all power of fight. This was one of the nine. In this case, when Ukon came between the old man and his grand kids, the old man resigned himself to fate. The old man turned to face Ukon. He was out of breath. The old man knew Ukon would kill him. There was no doubt about that.


Obala had an uncanny trait. He never forgot a face. This was a blessing as well as a curse, because he could never forget the faces of every man he killed. He also never forgot the faces of all his enemies, or friends. Out of habit, Obala looked at the old man’s face and he nearly died. He knew this man. Where did he know him from? His heart beat faster as he tried to quickly place the old man’s face before Ukon killed him.

“Wait.” Obala muttered to Ukon who dutifully paused. The cornered old man, panting his lungs out, raised his head to look properly at his attackers for the first time. He looked first at Obala, who was still trying to place his face. Slowly, the old man turned to Ukon and held his breath. For an old man who was out of breath a second ago, this was no easy feat. He tried to say something but this was impossible as he had to exhale. He started to turn back to Obala who chose this very second to recognize the old man.

“Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!” Obala shouted repeatedly at Ukon. At the first command, Ukon had leapt at the old man who raised his arms as if to embrace Ukon.

“Wait. My..” The old man started to say something but once again his words stuck to his throat as Ukon knocked the breath once more, out of him. As he fell, Ukon caught his shoulder and proceeded to jerk his head back and forth in one fluid single motion. The resultant crack heard by everybody present meant that the old man had died before he had hit the ground.

CHAPTER TWO: THE PAST... THE DAY OF ENSLAVEMENT.
...35 years before The Day of The Darkened Sun.


Ukon loved his life. Things could be a lot worse. He loved the power he possessed. At 6ft, 5inches and built like a boxer, he had the power to intimidate. To instill fear. It didn’t end there. He also had the power to kill. He chuckled to himself. This chuckle nearly cost him a toe as he ran barefoot over the forest floor. His mind had wandered for a second there and he had failed to see the stump on the floor. He had kicked it hard with his left toe. It hurt him and made him angry. He stumbled, nearly fell and righted himself; but he knew that his master, who rode a sable steed behind him, had already seen the faux paux. Ukon knewthat he would pay for the stumble.

Before Ukon felt it, he heard it and before he heard it, Ukon had felt it. So, he had braced himself for the sting of the whip. So much for the power to kill. With a frown, Ukon put everything in perspective in his mind. He was a slave. Nothing but a slave. He ran faster. Not that the whip was very painful. Yes, it tore at his flesh but Ukon enjoyed the pain. He ran faster because that was what was expected of him. Two more quick cracks of the whip, from the man on the horse and a thin rivulet of blood began to show. Ukon felt alive.


The man on the horse, who wielded the whip, was Ukon’s master. The king’s chief guard; Obala. Obala was a beast of a man. Born by an early slave and built like a gladiator, Obala was a sadistic man whose dept of depravity was second to none. Obala was angry. Why was Ukon letting the prey get away? An old man and his two grandchildren. Not even a real man. He looked disdainfully at the old man as he ran zigzag over the forest floor. The two children with him; a boy and a girl of about seven and ten years of age, looked even more stupid in their attempts to outrun the calabar slave hunters.