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@Divepen1 Obinnau.

Theblessedman is back... Let's bring life back to this literature section please...

Let's not waste time on this.

Episode 2 – The Beginning of Trouble

I woke up the next morning with a stiff neck and the smell of lavender still in my nose. Bola was already up, standing in front of a small mirror, tying her hair with calmness as if it wasn't her Chelsea that just lost to Bayern Munich the night before. Her black dress from last night was folded neatly on the chair, and now she wore a simple wrapper tied across her chest.

She caught me staring in the mirror and smiled. “Good morning, Mr Contractor.”

I rubbed my face, still heavy with sleep. “Morning, madam. You wake up early. You no dey tire?”

She laughed softly, adjusting the wrapper. “Man like you suppose know say woman no dey ever tire when she get plan.”

That word — “plan” — stuck in my head. I sat up slowly. “Plan? Bola, wetin you mean?”

She turned, her eyes playful but sharp. “Don’t worry, Darous. You’ll understand soon.”


Before I could press her further, her phone rang. She picked it up, walked to the kitchen, and lowered her voice. I couldn’t hear the full conversation, but I caught fragments — “No…not yet…don’t worry, I’ll handle him.”

She came back smiling, but I wasn’t blind. Something was off.

“Who was that?” I asked casually.

She waved it off. “Nobody important. So, are you staying for breakfast or you want to run off like a thief?”

I smiled, though my mind was already ticking. “If you cook, I go stay. But abeg, no use too much maggi.”

She rolled her eyes. " Dem never born you since when I don dey cook" and with that she headed to the kitchen. The smell of fried eggs soon filled the air, and my stomach betrayed me with a loud growl.

We ate, joked, laughed like nothing serious happened. But deep down, I knew this was not ordinary. Bola wasn’t just a woman looking for pleasure. She was playing a bigger game. Like she wasn't looking to only secure promotion into the Premier League, she was competing for the Champions League also.


Later that afternoon, I went to site. The building project was dragging as usual. Workers were arguing, cement was missing, and one labourer swore another man stole his shovel. I shouted until my throat was dry, but the truth was I wasn’t even there mentally. Bola’s words, her smile, that secret phone call — everything played in my head like that movie titled Beauty In Black that I couldn’t pause.

“Boss, abeg no vex,” one mason said, scratching his dusty head. “Na this wood wey dem deliver no strong . If we use am, e go bend and we go fall”

I sighed. “So wetin you want make I do? I look like Plank bender for your eyes?”

They laughed, and I left them to argue. My phone buzzed. It was Jude.

“Guy, where you dey?” he asked.

“Site. Wetin happen?”

“Abeg, close early. We need to talk. Big talk.”

Jude’s voice was sharp, too sharp. Something was wrong.



By evening, I was back at the parlour. The gang was complete — Jude, Kenny, Baba T. But the mood was different. No jokes, no loud greetings. Just silence and eyes darting.

I sat. “Wetin dey sup? Una face dey strong like man wey chop pepper without water.”

Jude leaned forward. He wore a red shirt that clung to his lean frame, and his restless eyes were sharper than usual. “Darous, how well do you know Bola?”

The question hit me like slap. “Which kind talk be that? Why you ask?”

Kenny shifted in his seat, his big belly pressing against the table. “Guy, no vex, but people dey talk. Bola no be ordinary woman. She get history.”

I frowned. “History wey concern me how? Abi who no get history for here?”

Baba T finally spoke, his voice low and heavy. “Because na men like you she dey target.”

The table went quiet. I felt my chest tighten. “Target? Abeg, make una talk well. Wetin una mean?”

Jude looked me dead in the eyes. “You think say you dey enjoy romance? My guy, Bola dey play game wey pass romance. She’s connected. And if you no shine eye, e go end in tears.”

I laughed nervously. “Abeg, na Bola we dey talk about o. Ordinary Bola wey dey sell cosmetics before she rent that house. Which connection again?”

Kenny shook his head. “Ordinary no dey wear gold earring for night joint. Ordinary no dey make phone call wey voice dey change.”

I froze. “Wait. How you know about the call?”

Jude smirked. “Because you no be the only man Bola don carry go that house.”

Silence. Heavy silence.

I stood, ready to defend myself, defend her, but inside me, something cracked. Could it be true?


That night, I couldn’t sleep. Bola’s laughter echoed in my ears. Her words came back: “You have no idea what you just entered into.”

I tossed, turned, cursed myself for getting involved. But when my phone vibrated around midnight, and I saw her name flashing, I still picked.

“Darous,” her voice was soft, almost sweet. “Can you come over?”

Every sensible bone in my body screamed no. But lust and curiosity joined hands and pushed me out of bed.


Her house was dark except for a dim lamp in the corner. She opened the door wearing nothing but another wrapper, loose and careless. Her smile was warm, but her eyes carried secrets.

“Darous,” she whispered, pulling me in. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Before I could say a word, her hands were on me, her lips hungry. My head said run, my mind shouting in Asari Dokubo's voice "No be Juju be that?" kind of tone but my body said stay. And like Bayern Munich beating Chelsea, my body won.

We stumbled to the couch, kissing, touching, clothes falling. Her wrapper dropped, revealing the kind of body sculptors dream about. She kissed me like she wanted to erase doubt, and for a moment, I let her.

But just when it was about to go further, I heard something. A sound. A click. Like a door shutting softly.

I pulled back, breathing hard. “Bola, we’re not alone.”

Her smile didn’t fade. She leaned in, kissed my ear, and whispered, “I told you, Darous. You have no idea what you’ve entered.”

My blood ran cold.

To be continued.

Four years ago, I stopped writing.

And over those years, my inbox kept flooding—messages from people who missed my stories, some people I don't even know or never for once saw their reactions on my posts, and also from people who really cared. At first, I didn’t understand. But then it hit me… so many of you were actually reading, enjoying, and living my story with me but don't care to show reactions or comments.

I remember one day, I typed the title of my story, Countless and The Dog Attendant, into Google. I couldn’t believe my eyes. My story was almost everywhere—on blogs, pages, being copied, shared, getting more attention than I ever got. People were using my own story to gain more fans and readers across the social media space without acknowledging me.

Back then, it crushed me. My morale hit the ground. So I stopped. And I can tell you, if I had kept writing from then till now, my fan base would be in millions by now. The proof is out there, you can verify yourself.

Now, I’m back. I’ve started writing again. I check the comments, the reactions—on my Facebook page (@Darousmart Library), on Nairaland,(@Theblessedman) on my Facebook handle (@Adigun Idowu)—and history seems to be repeating itself. Dey comments after hours of typing and posting.

Here’s the thing: when I hold back from posting updates, the flood of messages I get is more than when I actually drop something. Can you imagine that?

Put yourself in my shoes for a second. I’m a building contractor by profession. I work with my hands, I sweat, I grind. But I still carve out time to write stories for you. And every time I drop something, I make sure it’s worth reading.

Now imagine if you helped me grow my base. Imagine if writing could pay my bills. The time, the tools, the focus I’d have… I could serve you better, forever. You could even say you helped me grow, and that would be the truth.

But some of you… some of you are just cruel. You read and move on, like it doesn’t matter to show a little love—a comment, a like, a reaction.

Even if I stray from the plot, how am I supposed to know if 90% of my readers are ghosts?

It’s not fair.

Great writers don’t become great alone. They become great because they had amazing readers—readers who push them, encourage them, challenge them, and celebrate them.

Please. Let’s do better.

Because I write for you. And I want to keep writing. But I can’t do it alone.

Still I need to appreciate the loyal ones. The ones who knows thunder will fire them if they don't comment.. 😂 The true sons and daughters of Shango... I appreciate you all... Let's keep this movement going. We got more doors to unlock.


I remain your humble Writer. ADUGUN IDOWU. DAROUSMART Theblessedman.

https://www.nairaland.com/8521601/friends-frenemies-foes-darous-chronicles#136837847

Link for my new story.. you gonna love it...

Episode 1 - The Return Of Darousmart.



My name is Darous — short for Darousmart if you’re the type who likes the full package.

Thirty‑five years old, at least according to my birth certificate. Tall enough to reach the top shelf without help, dark‑skinned, with a beard that some girls claim makes me look like I’ve got my life all figured out.

Truth is, I’m still hustling like every other Nigerian man whose dreams are far bigger than his pocket. 

I’m a building contractor — one who knows the weight of cement, the patience of bricks, and the endless chase for the next project.

My services are very affordable. I'm the type of guy you call when you want your house to look like Banana Island even though your budget is telling you to build in Mushin.

I came from a poor background, and poverty taught me two things early: how to survive, and how to never forget a promise, whether good or bad. 

Now, let’s dive into the details of how my life changed from being a regular bricklayer to a man entangled in betrayals, power plays, and a conspiracy older than my parents. From one problem to the next, every step became a lesson in survival, every face a test of loyalty, and every moment proof that destiny can drag even the most ordinary soul into battles far beyond imagination. 

That night, I was sitting in our usual joint — a rough but lively parlour down the street. The smell of suya mixed with cigarette smoke, and the fan overhead was spinning like it was tired of life. My friendship circle was already there.

Jude sat first, sharp guy, thirty-two, slim with restless eyes. He was the type that wore tight shirts and behaved like the whole world was owing him money.

Beside him was Baba T, older, heavy, with a belly shaped like a drum. His Arsenal cap had faded, but he wore it with pride. He's the type of guy that can defend his point of view with his last breath.

Kenny came next, short, stocky, head shining like freshly polished floor. He always wore bright colours that made you wonder if he was trying to start a carnival.

And then there was Bola our female friend.

Bola was thirty, tall, skin like caramel sugar. Her body was full in all the right places, hips that didn’t just move but announced themselves. She wore a black fitted dress that hugged her like it didn’t want to let go.

Her gold earrings danced each time she laughed, and believe me, Bola loved to laugh. She laughs at literally anything that produces sound or motion.

If laughter has a subscription button, I'm sure Bola would have run out of laughs a long time ago.

“Contractor don land!” Jude shouted as I walked in. He slapped the table like he had just discovered crude oil in his backyard.

“Darousmart, the man that carry cement by day and women by night. How market?”

I dropped into a chair and shook my head. 
“The market isn’t smiling, Jude. When I build for people, they delay my payment. When I refuse to build, they will insult me. Tell me, is it by force to build house when you know that you don't have money?”

Kenny laughed so hard his belly shook. “Insult dey sweet for Danfo, my guy. Some people dey chop better with only insult.” he grabbed his half filled bottle and gulped it down.

Bola leaned closer, her perfume slipping into my nose like soft temptation. “Darous, you’re too gentle. If na me, nobody go owe me pass one week.”

Jude gave her a side look. “And how you go collect am? You go send your sweet smile or something stronger as a money collector?”

She smiled wide, her lips shining. “Sometimes smile works better than a slap.”

Everybody laughed, but inside the laughter, I saw Jude’s eyes — sharp, watching Bola’s hand resting close to mine.

I cleared my throat. “So, what are you all drinking? This stress in my body might kill me if I don’t ease it fast.” 

Baba T waved his hand. “Na beer dey here. If you want pepper soup join, just shout.” 

“Bring the pepper soup,” I said, settling back. “But make sure it’s not goat head that they cooked since yesterday o.” 

The drinks came. Conversation flowed. But even with the noise, I felt Bola’s eyes on me — heavy, and at the same time searching.

She shifted her chair closer, her dress brushing my jeans. “Darous, I no go lie, you dey carry yourself different. I like am.”

I smiled but kept my voice calm. “You like wetin you see, abi?”

She held my gaze, her tongue wetting her lips slowly. “Maybe. But I like to confirm with my own eyes.”

Kenny broke the moment with his loud voice. “Abeg, na who dey pay today? Because if na me, make una no order anything again.”

Everybody laughed, but I wasn’t laughing. I was still looking at Bola, and Bola was still looking at me.

Later that night, when the drinks finished and one by one my friends left, Bola didn’t rush to go.

She leaned in, whispering, “Darous, walk me home nau or you want make dem kidnap me.”

I pretend not to care "no be only kidnap... Na adultnap. You know say I don tire sha?"

She laughed softly and pleaded gently. "Please nau.. na beg I beg" she said with pity eyes.

Her house was just two streets away. The night air was cool, quiet, only the sound of distant generators humming. She walked slow, hips moving like rhythm, and I knew what was happening.

At her door, she didn’t fumble with her keys. She looked at me, eyes soft but daring. “You want to come in? Or you dey fear?”

I smiled. “Fear? Me? Bola, when no be say na prison.”

She pushed the door open. The small living room was neat, smelling of lavender. She dropped her bag, turned to me, and before I could say anything, her lips were on mine.

It was fire. Her mouth was soft but demanding. Her hands pulled me close, pressing that body against me. My head spun, but my hands had already found her waist, the curves warm and real.

She whispered against my ear, “I’ve been watching you, Darous. I know you’re not like the others.”

I chuckled, breathless. “And yet, here you are, kissing me like you’ve known me for years.”

Her laugh was low, dangerous. “Maybe I have.”

She pulled me towards the couch, her dress sliding as she moved. My eyes traced every line of her figure, and my heart pounded like I had just climbed three floors carrying cement. She kissed me again, deeper, and her hands…

I won’t describe the rest. But let’s just say Bola was not shy, and she knew exactly what she wanted.

When it was over, we lay there, catching our breath.

Bola traced circles on my chest with her finger, smiling. “Darous, you have no idea what you just entered o.”

I turned to her. “What do you mean?”

She gave me that smile again — the kind that looked sweet but carried something dangerous. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

And right there, I knew this story wasn’t just about sex. It was about something bigger. Something that could make or break me.

To be continued.

PROLOGUE.


They say a man is nothing without his friends.

But in my 35 years of surviving this planet called Earth, I’ve learned one bitter truth—
sometimes, it is your friends who sharpen the knife that enters your back.

My name is Darous.
Most people call me Darousmart.

I didn’t come from much.
Born into poverty. Raised by hardship. Baptized by the hustle.

I learned early that life doesn’t give — it collects.
By trade, I’m a building contractor.

By instinct, a survivor.
By nature, a hustler.
But the hardest part of my life wasn’t the hunger.

It wasn’t the sleepless nights.
It wasn’t even the grind.
It was watching the people I trusted turn into enemies… while still calling themselves my friends.

This story isn’t about strangers.
Strangers can’t break you — they don’t have that kind of access.

This is about the people who sat at my table.
Drank my beer.
Shared my secrets.
Laughed at my jokes.

Watched football with me and swore loyalty.
Friends who became frenemies.
Frenemies who grew into full-blown foes.

And yes — there were women.

Women who loved me.
Used me.
Betrayed me.
Some tasted like honey.
Some like pepper.
Some like poison.
I loved them all in my own foolish, hungry, desperate way.

But love in Lagos — love in Nigeria — is never simple.
It always comes with a price.

What you’re about to read isn’t just my story.
It’s my blood on these pages.

Every laugh that turned into a scar.

Every betrayal that birthed vengeance.

Every night of pleasure that ended in regret.

I won’t lie.
There were moments I went too far.

Moments I became the villain in my own story.

But such is life.
Sometimes you’re the hunter.
Sometimes the hunted.
Sometimes you hold the blade.
Sometimes you bleed.

When the dust finally settles in this war between friends, frenemies, and foes, the question won’t be who was right or wrong.

The only question will be:
Who survived?

And if you’re reading this…
know one thing—
Darousmart survived.

At least… for now.

It has been over four years since I last put pen to paper, or better still, since I last invited you into my world of stories filled with sex, betrayal, vengeance, humor, and lessons. Some of you still remember Countless (A Story of Sex, Betrayal and Vengeance), the book that carried my soul and my madness. And then there was The Dog Attendant, the sequel I began but could not finish. Life happened, devices crashed, and even the completed PDF I had locked away disappeared with my old phone and a forgotten password. For a long while, I thought perhaps the stories had ended there.

But a writer never truly stops writing. The words may sleep, the hands may grow heavy, but the mind never stops whispering. For seven years, many of you have asked, “When will you write again? When will you continue?” I have carried that weight with both pride and guilt, pride that you still remember, guilt that I had gone silent.

Today, silence breaks. I return to you as TheBlessedman, the same pen, the same spirit, but sharper, wiser, and with more scars that only time and life can give. If you thought my earlier works were daring, you are about to discover a new edge. I am older now, hungrier, and my stories have gathered dust, laughter, pain, and vengeance in the waiting.

This new series, Friends, Frenemies & Foes – The Darousmart Chronicles, is my gift to those who waited and those who are just discovering me for the first time. To my loyal readers, thank you for your patience. To the new ones, fasten your seatbelts. We are going on a journey of lust, betrayal, hustle, friendship, deceit, comedy, and raw Naija survival.

I write to entertain, to make you laugh until your ribs ache, to shock you until you curse out loud, and to keep you in suspense until you beg for the next episode. But beyond that, I write to leave lessons hidden between the madness. That has always been my promise as TheBlessedman, and that promise remains.

Four years gone. Today we start again. Welcome back.
TheBlessedman

I'm back now buddies...

YeSJacky:
How about you come and continue the story or let the imposter post?
Jk though. Nice to know that you're okay.
Happy Sunday bro

let the imposter post? 😁 Well... Let him go ahead but surely not with my monicker....

Creamcrest:
You sent me a pm,whatsapp me on the contact on my signature

disclaimer. This man is not Darousmart o. This man is not me. I don't have any other account aside this one. Please ignore any imposter. Thanks

KelvinCoaster:
Kelvin,

You can almost get anything this days via google search!

Why not ask google.

hello op. Did you later find the books? I'm also in dire need of them. Please respond.

tiffanyfan:
Darousssssssssssssssssssssssss

😳😳😳😳