E get this wise man wey talk something, e say, “things dey work out pass for those people wey dey make the best of how things work out”. The guy sabi die. Different ways dey wey things fit sup for this life, but na how and wetin you use am do, na him go make the different between whether you succeed to live another day, or you no succeed. Na person wey no plan well dey end up inside stew.
Definitely not a Dickens kind story.
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E get this wise man wey talk something, e say, “things dey work out pass for those people wey dey make the best of how things work out”. The guy sabi die. Different ways dey wey things fit sup for this life, but na how and wetin you use am do, na him go make the different between whether you succeed to live another day, or you no succeed. Na person wey no plan well dey end up inside stew. If you play your cards right, na you go tanda in the near future with better lems, dey give people advice.
Make I clear you my story, maybe by the time wey I don finish, you go understand wetin I dey talk.
Okay, make I introduce myself. My name na Goat. Look me, yes you, look me. No dey look that fat woman wey stand there for road. No be nyash be that, that na person wey fat true true Continue reading “The Goat of Christmas Past”
Sugar mummies in Port Harcourt are a serious thing. A really serious thing. It has not been one time or twice that I have been propositioned. There is a lurid satisfaction that comes with being the object of sexual attraction of someone 15-20 years older than you. Anyway, this is one of my stories of what happened.
When I first came to Port Harcourt four years ago, I was young, bright-eyed and hungry. I had come from my little town in Benin City and I was determined to make sure I made money in Port Harcourt before I headed back. Very quickly, one of the first things I did was to start a business. I registered a company with the CAC and started searching for clients everywhere I could.
One day while talking business with a potential client who was the owner of a beauty salon in GRA Phase 2, I was called over to a lady who was getting her hair braided. She asked me what I did and then gave me her business card and told me to call her the next day. I was overjoyed. It seemed like all my dreams were about to come true. Not only had I been able to meet a potential client, I was also going to get a second one. I was so happy.
As soon as I got home, I called the lady. She quickly told me to call her later and sent me a text message to meet her the following day at a restaurant in GRA. I was so excited. I spent the whole night writing and rewriting proposals I will present to her. When power went, I ran outside and bought a few litres of petrol to run my generator so I could print out enough proposals for our meeting. Continue reading “How I nearly got killed because of a sugar mummy in Port Harcourt”
So, I held a pen last night and didn’t stop scribbling till I slept off. NB: This was after the lamp I was using had died. If this piece ends abruptly, it is because I cannot read most of what is at the end and I am afraid I cannot get back into the same zone as I was last night to complete in one breath. If this piece does not end abruptly however, then I confess, you are most loyal of all readers and probably more brilliant than I.
___________________
“How far have you fallen? How far have you fallen,” the wingless bird muttered to the wizened tortoise squatted above him. “It’s easy sitting there pretending to be sagacious when you haven’t felt any pain. Not the pain of loss or incompetence”
The tortoise stared back, her lined face expressionless in the gathering gloom of the forest dusk. Then she turned away and ambled out of the grove and through copse of trees for the rocky cliffs beyond. The bird stared, wet eyes glazing over as they strained to focus through a haze of pain. As the mist came down upon his eyes, washing on both sides in the same hue as the spreading blood around its form, he saw at the end of his tunneled vision, a hunched back figure striding to the cliff’s edge to plunge over to the rocky bottom.
It is easy to ignore what happens around us, in the spiritual. We live on this earth so surrounded by desires and commitments, so overwhelmed by cares of this world, we pay no attention to the war that happens around us, a war that would not stop until the end; until the end of all things. We were born into this war, and it is wise we pay attention, or we would not survive it.
#OST: Linkin Park – Wastelands
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WAR
The night was dark and the wind howled around the treetops, swaying them beneath the starless sky. The scent of danger lay thickly upon the air, a pungent smell easily detected by the more visceral senses, and on the ground and within the branches, creatures hid in nests and burrows, and even the serpentine and nocturnal slithered and crouched deep away from sight.
The dark shapes streaked through the clouds, crackling through the air with lightening in their wake, nebulous forms as of thundery dark and winding clouds, they twisted about each other, moving through the air heading for the forest below. Spiraling around each other, the dark clouds spun in the night, winding tighter and tighter as though to drill into the earth. Sparrows cried in the night, bats shrieked and owls hooted, a cacophony of calls and wails as the forest protesting the intrusion. The shapes tore through the forest canopy with the sound of rushing wings and slammed into a clearing at three distinct spots. Instantly all went silent as the dark shapes resolved into the forms of three women. Continue reading “War”
I initially wrote this for Jeremy Target’s blog,you can see the original post here.
Anyway, I thought about making this into a sort of series, but let us see what we think about this first. If you are a lover of Espionage and spy thrillers and of course, if you are familiar with the awesomeness that is Codename: Ali then you are welcome.
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The Recruit
November.
East-West road, Choba
5:35am
“Move you fool! Is that all you are capable of? You giant lummox of a fellow! Come on, move those feet ma fren! Would you call yourself a champion? Would you call yourself a leader of men when you can’t achieve a single goal? Run fool!”
Cars whizzed past him on both sides in the early morning light, their headlights making wavy yellow lines in the misty harmattan morning. He jogged on the median of the road, the white nylons and trainers a blurry piston to the pedestrians and motorists. At this hour, the sidewalk and the median, which had become a sudden favourite for pedestrian commuters, was mostly empty. As far as he could see in the mist, he was alone on the median, just how he liked it. Ahead of him loomed the big Setraco mile marker. The stone block was his goal, only two hundred yards from him, but still so far. Essien was alone with his thoughts, and his voice to berate him.
“How do you ever hope to be reckoned with? How will you raise your head above your peers? You fat, ugly, un-fit fuck! Run! Don’t stop now, the goal is no further than the next step idiot!” he cursed, the words puffing out his lips with each breath in small clouds of mist as the mile marker seemed to belie his words, retreating further into the mist.
“Now, I have found self-flagellation to be a suitable motivator, but never so vehemently,” came the smooth voice beside him.
I would like to apologize again for the silence on the blog. I am new here so I am still undergoing rigorous training and Janus has tried his best to be a good teacher (see what I did!) with all the perfection lessons and tutoring/mentoring and I understand because everything is for you guys. And my betterment, of course. Enjoy.
I burst out of the room, opening the screen door swiftly and widely and then releasing it abruptly. It made a loud noise, temporarily deafening me but I did not pause in my stride. My blue long-sleeved shirt was wrinkled, the top three buttons were undone, and my blue jean trouser was hanging loosely on my hips because my belt had been unbuckled. I held my shoes in my left hand while my right hand covered my mouth, my head buzzed, my heart pounded and with each racing pulse, one name resonated in my head.
Simisola.
The gate was not far. I would wear my shoes when I get outside. I felt my pocket for my mobile phone and wallet. Intact. Thank God those were the only things I brought here. I heard the netted door slam furiously again. She was coming after me.
“Olamide!” she screamed.
I increased my pace. I pushed the gate open, faced the street and started putting on my shoes. The laces were troublesome. Darn these Converse laces. I just tucked them in haphazardly, buckled my belt, buttoned my shirt, wiped my mouth vigorously with the back of my two hands and began to resume my walk. She was at the gate as I took the first step.
“Olamide, please, wait.”
She was panting. I stopped but did not look at her. She couldn’t come out and I knew it was because she was ill-dressed. I caught sight of the yellow wrapper which I had noticed was folded on the bed less than three minutes ago.
“I am sorry. No. I am not sorry. I really like you. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I can’t eat. I really tried to like someone else because I know you have Simi, but I couldn’t.”
I started to walk away but stopped again as I heard a faint sob.
“I really tried. I am sorry.”
I resumed my walk again and this time, she did not speak and I did not stop.
* * *
Mr. Olanipekun was rounding off his usual comic talk which was usually my weekly doze of silly humor but it meant nothing today. General CD was all fun and games. I couldn’t recall anything that had been said and while people had laughed all around me, I had stared at them, wondering if they could tell that something was bothering me. Since I spoke to Simi on Monday, I hadn’t heard from her. She said she would call me when she thought of what to say. I had understood. She always needs time.
Everyone was standing now. Youths obey the clarion call my arse! No matter how much we all tried to lift this nation, generation after generation, all the swallowed oil money would not be vomited and old grey-haired men dressed in expensive danshikis, suits, agbadas and velvet would still keep pummeling each other over selfish issues for the whole world to see. The anthem was finished and the rush to sign CDs cards began. I was very hungry. Allowance wasn’t due till next week and the remaining one thousand five hundred and fifty five naira with me would just have to do and I would have to cook. I would have to dust cobwebs off the pots too. I sat still waiting for the crowd to thin while all around there was chattering and screaming. I watched them and understood why people called me snob. I didn’t talk much to people who had nothing important to say. I was still sitting and thinking when she appeared before me.
“Hi, Olamide.” she said softly.
Her khaki trousers clung to her like second flesh just like her white T-shirt. She was nervous. Her widened eyes and her high-pitched voice betrayed her. Now I understood why I had been transfixed. She looked so much like my Simisola. The wide brown eyes were the same. The 32B which I had rightfully guessed during a game of ‘Guess It’ were the same. The forwardness, the same.
“If you are not going to speak to me, now or ever, you should let me know” she said slightly above a whisper, bringing me out of my thoughts.
It took me a few seconds to playback what she had said. I patted the space on the bench by my right, indicating that she should sit. Her face relaxed a little and a weak smile curved her mouth as she did. It wasn’t entirely her fault. I had agreed to go to her house to grade assignment and test scripts because she didn’t understand Yoruba and the HOD had asked that we be merciful.
“Corperx, plix, tranxlate and mark the correct wonx for them. You Lagox people and your Engliksh. There ix even no xpeks for all of them to repeat.”
I could have asked that she brought it to school. I don’t know why I didn’t. Ten minutes passed.
Fifteen. Twenty.
Three days ago
She had sat too closely beside me on the bed. I had stylishly moved and laid on my stomach, supporting myself with my elbows on the mattress as I continued marking the scripts. She had done the same directly opposite me so that if we both looked up, we were facing each other with mere inches between our faces. I had unbuttoned my shirt halfway earlier due to the searing heat. Now I understood why Ibadan people were aggressive. She passed me a Yoruba-written script, looking up and sighing deeply as she did so. At the same moment, I had also looked up to ask her why she would grow up in Lagos and not understand one word in Yoruba. My mouth had been open to speak but no words came out. It seemed as though I was staring into her soul and before I could say anything to change the atmosphere, she had placed her lips on mine. Soft. That was the first word I could think of. Very soft. Then no. My small eyes had become wider than a flat plate, looking into her closed eyes but seeing nothing. Two seconds felt like forever and I scrambled off the bed, standing with my tongue folded in my mouth. My heart was racing wildly in my chest. Shit. Shit. Shit. She stood and walked to where I was, pulling the white gown she wore over her head when she was in front of me. I couldn’t move. Her hands went to my belt and as she undid the buckle, she had looked at me with wide eyes, asking the unspoken question. She had stood on her toes and held my face in her hands and pressed her lips on mine again. Her tongue was warm, skimming my upper teeth, wanting an equal response. But I felt nothing and that was when I peeled her hands from my face and marched out of her presence.
I looked to my side at her and found her staring ahead, waiting patiently. A lock of her weave strayed to her face and I reached out and tucked it behind her ear. That was all she needed.
“Thank you.”, she said with a genuine smile as she looked at me. “See you in school tomorrow.”
And with that, she left.
* * *
The sun was angry today. I was sweating profusely despite the swirling blades of the ceiling fan and my almost naked body. The movie didn’t even seem interesting anymore. Nonso just called to cancel our game duel because it was raining heavily at Ring road. I had screamed into the phone, calling him a liar, listing all the names of the girls who I knew were crushing on him and asking him which of them was on his bed, telling him the sun would burn him to ashes like an unprotected vampire. He had laughed and told me to shut up. He would come tomorrow to finish our battle and he was bringing his friends that I had met when we went for a swim at Kokodome last week. I was on my own today. Again. My phone beeped. A text message. I leaped to my feet.
It can’t be.
I hurriedly wore my black jeans and the white unwashed T-shirt of two days ago hanging in my wardrobe. I snatched my wallet from the bed and tore out of the room like a man on fire in search of a river.
* * *
The aboki was speeding carelessly but I didn’t mind. I didn’t even ask how much he would collect. I just needed to get to the bus park. It couldn’t be.
* * *
I slammed a two hundred naira note into the aboki’s outstretched hand not even waiting to see if I had any change and I started my frantic search. Where could she be? I jogged around the park, pausing at intervals to scan the area. Amidst awkward gazes, I looked in buses, under roadside call center umbrellas, inside a couple of stalls. Where was she? I patted my pocket. Shit. In my haste, I had forgotten my phone. I walked towards an Airtel umbrella I saw in front of me. I had not checked this one. There was a fair young lady seated underneath it with her back to me. My heart skipped a beat.
I walked faster. I smelt her before I saw her face. She was the one. Vanilla flavored Body Fantasy. I touched her shoulder and she turned.
“Olamide”, she said with a smile. “I asked for a message.”
I held out my hand and she took it.
* * *
Nonso hadn’t been lying about the rain after all. Outside, everywhere was wet and the heavy rain had subsided to a drizzle. We had had Suya and Garri for dinner. That was what she had wanted. There was no light. She was sleeping on my chest, wearing only a bra and her trousers, her mouth slightly opened, her nose buried in my armpit. I remembered the first time she told me about her fetish for underarms. Clean underarms, she had stressed and we had both burst into fits of laughter. I had been surprised but as I walked to my hostel that night, I knew my armpit hygiene would climb to another level. And it had.
* * *
The bulb glowed brightly above me. I still couldn’t sleep. Despite the cool breeze, I was hot. We hadn’t talked about it yet and I still didn’t know why she came, to leave or to stay. She turned in her sleep and wrapped her arms around me. Beads of sweat were already forming on my forehead and if I stayed near her this way, she would also begin to sweat soon. I unzipped her trousers, revealing matching colored panties and covered her with my blanket before heading to the bathroom.
“Olamide.” She moaned sleepily. “Are you hot?”
I nodded.
“You want to bath?”
I nodded again.
She stood and followed me to the bathroom. After filling the tub with water, she told me to sit in it. I took off my shorts and stepped into the cold water, goose pimples covering my body immediately. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, she bathed me, washing me everywhere while singing Coldplay’s Yellow with her sleep-cracked voice. She pulled the plug to drain the soapy water and rinsed my soapy body, pouring bowl after bowl of water on my head till I was squeaky clean. Thank goodness I took out that weave. I stepped out of the tub and she dried me, she held my shorts as I stepped back into it.
As I lay down on the bed, I looked in her eyes. Wide like saucers. She kissed me and I closed my eyes. I would sleep soon, finally. She moved closer to me and slowly planted feathery kisses on my eyes, nose, mouth, neck, arms, chest, stomach, thighs, legs, and feet. I turned my back and she kissed them too.And with that, I drifted off.
* * *
The sun will be angry again today. The bright rays coming from the windows told me so. I could hear water splashing in the bathroom, by my side was the last Sunday’s bulletin of the church I attend and neatly laid out where she had lain were two blue gowns. We were going to church together. I smiled.
Disclaimer
Errr…… I haven’t learnt how to use this ‘disclaimer’.
It’s been a while since we posted anything here, and for that I apologise. I promise we have changed, (yes, Tele is among). After all, Mary appeared in Ubiaja yesterday, Endtimes have come. Meanwhile, today’s post I wrote in a well, slightly different style; played a bit with locations and timelines. But you’ll follow..
The night was moonless. Above, the sky was inky black, and sparsely spotted with stars. The town was quiet, and as people slept, darkness woke and evil lurked. But it is not always like that.
Originally, the plan had been to dump the body over the bridge and into the river, but no more. As he slowed the Jeep Cherookee, the dark SUV coasting down the Ikpoba hill slope leading to the bridge, the lights from the streetlamps revealed silhouettes of several men milling about the river banks below.
“Shit!” He cursed. It was 2:00AM. What were those bastards doing here?
Even as he wondered, he realised. He barely made out the parked vehicles; buses and trailers, the half-clad men stretched out over the vehicles, their arms going back and forth in swaying motions. It was a Carwash anyway. He gunned his car, the powerful engine responded with the slightest hint of a purr. There was no point waiting around here any longer.
He could have left the body anywhere on a dark quiet street. But it was imperative he was not found out. Not anytime soon anyway. She was his daughter after all.
******
Seven years earlier..
“Daddy?” “Yes?” “What are you?” “I’m your daddy.” “No nah..” Her face frowned indignantly. “I know. I mean, what do you do in your office?”
He laughed quietly, his eyes still on the road. He loved to tease his brilliant daughter.
“I’m a businessman, a black operations contractor.” He grinned at her briefly. “A businessman, a contractor? Daddy which one are you nah..how can you be many things? David that is in Primary One Yellow, said his father is a Doctor. Our Aunty said we should clap for him.”
He laughed then. Loudly. These teachers, already paving the way to discrimination. “Well, tell them that your mother’s a doctor too.”
“Okay!” She smiled and settled into the seat, a contented grin on her face.
Her mother…
******
Thirteen years earlier
The doctor came out of the delivery room, looking drawn, a tight smile on his face. He was a businessman, he knew the look of loss. His heart began to beat faster.
“Doctor..doctor,” his voice increasing in volume and intensity. “My wife, is she alright?”
“You have a bouncing baby girl,” the doctor announced.
He was not to be fooled!
“Doctor! My wife! How is she? What is wrong?”
“Could you please calm down Mr…” But he was already around the doctor and dashing into the delivery room.
“You can’t go in there,” came the doctor’s yell.
Too late.
Till his dying day, the sight haunted him. The two nurses, one bent over a tray of gleaming silver instruments a look of fear on her face, and the other holding a tiny brown baby against the breast of his wife. A look of guilt on her face. In their eyes pity.
His wife’s eyes were closed.
He stifled back a sob as he rushed to her side, turning over the tray of instruments. He took her hand. She didn’t grip his back. He started crying.
He flashed his headlights, speeding past the intersection at First East circular/Akpakpava junction, ignoring the RED warning of the Traffic light. There was no one about at the hour. He slowed as he entered the Ring road. Light from the extensive array of lights within the square shone brightly on his tinted windshield. On the front passenger seat, well within his reach, the barrel of the Browning pistol glinted.
******
“Get the fuck down!” “Get down you bastard! Then he shot him.
******
“Daddy?” The small voice whimpered from the back seat. “Yes dear?” “I’m scared..” “It’s alright. I’m here now. The bad guys are all gone.”
The bad guys are all gone. There were never supposed to be any bad guys.
******
Ten years earlier
“Why does the cat always get beaten by that rat?” “It’s a mouse. And it’s because he’s the bad guy. But don’t worry, Bad guys only exist in Televisionland.”
She seemed satisfied for only a bit.
“Is Aunty Kate my mummy?”
The question jolted him. He had always expected it. Prepared for it even. But it still jolted him.
Reducing the volume so the capers of the mischievous pair on the television could barely be heard, he drew her close. She was holding a rag doll.
“Aunty Kate is not your mummy. She is my cousin, which means she’s like my sister. She only stays here to take care of you and cook indomie for us.”
She giggled.
He grabbed a picture frame from the mantel beside the television. “This is your mummy. See how beautiful she is. Just like you. You even have her ugly nose.” He tapped her nose gently.
She giggled again. Then she sneezed. An involuntary action, but even at that age, so similar to her mother’s. He felt tears well up in his eyes.
“But she’s dead now,” he continued painfully. “For three years, she’s been with GOD protecting us.”
The child’s eyes went blank with incomprehension. She glanced at her doll. He didn’t know when he had taken it. He gave it back to her. “But know this, she loved you very much…”
Even though she never met you.
******
“Hey! Ouch! That was painful”
She squealed happily and smacked him on his bum again. He chased her round the compound before catching her beside the car. When he caught her, he lifted her into the air, giggling and squirming.
“Look at how small you are, beating me,” he laughed. “Who taught you that?”
“Yout friend,” came the answer.
“What?” He dropped her slowly. He had meant the question only rhetorically.
“Your friend that stays there,” she pointed at the Senator’s mansion next door. Her face puckered, as she wondered what she had done wrong.
“Oh it’s alright. He’s just playing with you,” he said thoughtfully.
Then he smacked her on her arm and darted away as she chased laughing.
If only..
******
“Sir, I would like to respectfully ask you to stay away from my daughter.”
“You would mind the tone you use. This is a senator of the Federal Rep..”
He walked away while the aide was still talking.
******
Until her came home and found her room locked. No one ever locked their rooms in his house. Kate wasn’t around that day.
“Hey! Open up, it’s Daddy..open”
It took a few minutes.
“Are you okay?” Her eyes were red.
He smelled the blood instantly. His first thought was that her period had started. She was twelve after all. A mixture of pride and revulsion flashed through his mind. Where was that damned Kate at a time like this?
“I’m bleeding Daddy..”
He almost started to smile knowingly. Then he saw the panic and fear in her face.
“I know you said it’s alright, but the Senator…”She broke off sobbing as she buried her face in his chest.
That was when he knew he’ll have to kill him. Raising a furore would be pointless, it won’t catch. It was his word against a powerful figure.
Then they still lived in Kaduna.
It had taken almost a year.
Senatorial committee inspections of dams in the Benin river basin. Illicit late night visits in a house just off Winners road in a slightly secluded part of Aduwawa, Ikpoba hill. Easy details for a man of his means to find out.
Easy to get there ahead of time, undetected. To neutralize whatever resistance present. To scare to silence the thirteen year old sex slave imprisoned there. To stare into the Senator’s shocked eyes with your daughter beside you as you take a Browning to his shoulder and shoot him through.
“Get the fuck down!” “Get the fuck down you bastard!”
Enough pain to cause him to pass out while you gagged him and smuggled him through the darkness to a waiting car.
But change of plans..
There was no point hiding the bastard’s death. Best to make it a spectacle. The bolder the statement, the less likely the investigation would be traced back to him.
“I will always protect you. You know that right?” “Yes Daddy.” “This is what happens to bad guys okay. He caused this to himself.” He handed her the Durbar knife. “Cut it off” “Yes Daddy.”
They left the body at the junction of the Airport road with Ring road. Less than 50 yards from the State House of Assembly building. A naked, blind man. Gagged and tied, but alive, blood seeping from what appeared to be a gash in his groin, and what seemed to be raw meat hanging out of his gagged mouth.
Citizens of Nigeria, it is with deep sadness and a considerable amount of ire (my new favourite word, whatever that is), that I come before you at this hour.
The show, which you have..excuse me. *sips water*. The show which you have come to know as A Twist in the Tale, or simply, The Twist, has come to an end. Wait! Wait! Don’t start hissing yet. Let me explain.
You see, the current situation in Nigeria, including the face-off between a recalcitrant governor and an over-bearing President, and the surrounding nations has put the polity in such a situation that stories such as are promulgated by this cybernetic space from which I blog, would only serve to further incite emotions and create conflagrations that threaten the precarious balance upon which this nation lies and in effect topple the country into a soup of insousciance, malfeasance and terrifying debacles.
*deep breath*
woooosh…
All above is nonsense.
Basically, conditions beyond my total control have led me to end this series a lot earlier than I planned. And for that, I apologise greatly. *insert pic saying “I am sorry” even if i dont mean it*
Ignore that…
I really am sorry..
I want to appreciate especially, all of you who read A Twist in the Tale, and also the wonderful, wonderful writers who put together those lovely stories. Thank you. Thank you very much. @weird_oo @OWEx_ @Paetir @Teleolaonifade @OluwaWanaBaba @jon_the_zaptist @Haemlet_ @Sagaysagay @naijamd
But first, before we go, one last Tale..
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Once upon a time, there were two little boys. They were both named for Bible characters, and they loved to sit on trees. Apparently, one was named Peter and one was named Paul. And yes they were black. And no they weren’t boys, they were birds. And yup! There was no twist to this. But hey, it’s the end of the sh..
As we come to the end of this series, in his typical style, Lord Haemlet…
P25
There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact – Arthur Conan Doyle
***
Relief and gratitude washed over P25 as he finally loosened the restraints that had held him captive for so long. Soon after, he began to shake in terror, so to calm his nerves, he closed his eyes and focused real hard on his immediate environment. He listened for voices, footsteps, the clinking of keys or the menacing clank of the metal doors, but none of those sounds assaulted his hearing. What P25 did hear disturbed him tremendously, so he strained his ears harder, and still heard nothing, only an ominous silence which offered him no comfort.
Secretly working for two mutually antagonistic agencies at the biddings of another agency, came with an unhealthy amount of peril. He’d known the risks involved as he’d known every one of his enemies. He’d known their capabilities, and therefore knew better than to underestimate them. He’d also known the measures and extent they would go, so he’d tried preparing for it. He’d also tried so hard to make sure that the one person, who he’d loved, was properly taken care of. But alas! It had been to no avail.
Katharina!
He’d met her on one of his assignments, in fact, she had been his assignment. He’d been told that she was a threat, and had to be eliminated without it being traced back to the agency. He’d followed and watched her for days, and by the time he was ready to kill her, he’d already known every little detail of her life. He’d known her joy, her pains and regrets. But he’d also come to realize that she was a lonely, harmless and beautiful soul, who was lost in this dangerous world.
So he’d offered her redemption and given her hope. He’d given her love and dedicated his life to her, as he’d done for the agency that birthed and betrayed him. An agency he’d for year’s garnered the trust and respect of all. An agency who’d for years, administered illicit drugs which rendered the human mind cold and void, into his system. An agency who’d for years, tortured him in the slowest possible ways, just for him to appreciate the concept of pain.
After a time, he understood that he was but a dog on a leash, while they were the master. He was theirs to command, and as every master would accord a dog, he was named P25. He was their enforcer and ‘Trojan horse’. He was their Rottweiler; one that was deceptively shrouded in the golden coat of a Retriever. For them, he’d risked his life by successfully infiltrating two hostile factions in what was termed, the ultimate coup de grâce the world had ever known. But everything changed after he’d tried to kill her.
On that day, he’d gone into the bakery she worked, killed everyone and then waited for her to arrive. He’d convinced himself that killing them all was necessary because it would hide his real motive, but he knew better. Ten minutes later, she sashayed into the bakery only to see a pistol being pointed at her head. He’d tried so hard to pull the trigger, but for some strange reason, her hypnotic eyes had held him hostage as she stood in shock.
For the first time, he realized that rebellion was the greatest feeling ever. The feeling had intoxicated and invigorated him. His deception remained a secret because he’d burnt down the bakery to make validation of her death impossible. For the first time he’d discovered the real import of life. For the first time, he realized that his work wasn’t his life. For the first time, he realized that he deserved to be happy, and soon, they were secretly wedded. And for a time, he was the happiest man alive.
‘For a time’!
He was finally at peace with himself, and he began to think of a way out. All he wanted was a clean break, a second chance at life, and a fresh start with Katharina. But as fate would have it, his deception was detected, and she was wrenched away from him forever. He’d sworn to destroy those that were responsible, but first he had to hide in the only safe place known to him. A safe haven only he and another knew existed.
But he was presented with the greatest shock when he realized that his safe haven had been compromised. He’d walked into a trap, and was devastated by the deceit that was unveiled before him. He’d stood dazed and horrified by the magnitude of the betrayal. He’d been effortlessly outwitted in a trade he was considered the best. His shame knew no bounds, and as he was finally bundled away, he howled like a wounded beast.
***
Finally he heard footsteps coming his way, and a feverish excitement coursed though his spine. Then he heard the clanking of keys and his heart stopped. After a minute, he heard a click as the door was unlocked, and when it was swung open, he let out a guttural shriek and attacked. A few minutes later, the fight was over and P25 was on the floor with a syringe sticking out of his limp arm, and five men gathered around him.
Three hours later, P25 sat strapped to a chair, with his head bloodied and eyes staring almost sightless. His once torturous face was now peaceful and forever devoid of the pain and horror it had known. His lobotomized brain, forever free from the poisonous grip of his schizophrenic psychosis. Now he was but an empty shell that was no longer a danger to others.
Standing before him were the the doctors who’d performed the lobotomy procedure on patient 25. They all stood watching him as they sadly bemoaned the route they’d been forced to take. For years, they had tried all forms of drugs and medications to no avail, and only turned to lobotomy as a last resort. After what seemed like an eternity, one of the doctors finally turned away in tears and left the ward.
It was quite understandable that Dr. Katharina could no longer bear to look at the now docile and empty shell of her husband. It was quite concievable that the experience may have forever scarred her.
_______________________________
Deep apologies for missing the post yesterday. Circumstances beyond my control and all that jazz.
By the way, Happy Democracy day! 14 years and I’m free to tweet what I want.
Stay gripped for the next instalment.
Follow on Twitter @Janus_aneni
Peace to Nigeria.
Like a mix between Hadley Chase and Archer with an excess of melanin, Malick to give you:
HIDDEN TREASURES
The previous military offensive by the Joint Task Force popularly known as JTF had succeeded in driving the dreaded Boko Haram Islamic sect away from their NorthEast strongholdsinto neighbouring Niger, Chad and Cameroun. The rest of the insurgents had scattered down south. After several months of relative peace, violence broke out once again. The dreaded sect seemed to have metamorphosed into a deadlier terror organisation. They also secured a new foothold, this time in northern Cross River.
Victor Isidor was trying to adjust to life in Calabar having fled the war torn town of Ogoja. The terror attacks had rendered the town unprofitable for business and unsafe for life and property. Frequent clashes by the military and the terror organisation made violence a daily occurence.
Residents departed Ogoja in droves and Victor, a Sales Manager for NewLine Electronics barely made the last van of China phones out of town.
Growing increasingly irritated by his inactivity, Victor was finding it hard to be entertained by the western fantasies weaved in Vampire Diaries. Such blatant lies rubbed him the wrong way. Jack Bauer and 24 didn’t impress him either. They should come to Nigeria and witness real drama, he thought with disdain.
When he felt a slight tremor, the familiar rumble of iron gates, he wondered if it was his uncle Sunny. His uncle was an accountant at Unicem. Unmarried at 42, he rarely came home during work hours.
The tolling doorbell informed Victor that it was not Sunny Isidor. His uncle usually called out or whistled whenever he came home. He had a visitor. Jehovah’s Witnesses? He quickly perished the thought, those ones operated on foot.
“Who’s there?”
“Mr. Oden” was the deep response. “Oh welcome sir, please come in!”
“How are you Victor?”
“I’m fine Sir”
With skin the colour of overripe avocado pear and the presence of a mango tree, Mr. Linus Oden CEO of NewLine Electronics stepped in and the room seemed to shrink in size. If Idi Amin had a twin brother, Mr. Linus Oden could easily be mistaken for him.
Mr. Oden told Victor about a secret safe in his office, He wanted Victor to travel to Ogoja and retrieve a couple of envelopes from the safe for him. Promising to pay Victor’s salary arears once he returned with the envelopes, Mr. Oden stared at Victor as if he was daring him to refuse. Never one to back down from a challenge, Victor agreed to make the perilous journey.
Mr. Oden presented him a leather belt with a rather large G-Unit buckle, 20 thousand naira and a slip of paper with a phone number and the safe combination written on it.
“Save the number, memorize the combination and destroy the paper…”
“Do not call me on the phone till you return…”
“If you have any problems, call that number and tell Frank. Safe journey”
Victor prided himself as the eminence grise of Newline Electronics. His uncle’s invectives against the trip failed to dissuade him. Despite being owed 3 month’s wages, Victor left for Ogoja.
Captain Frank Opigo was a tough looking character, but he must have owed Mr Oden a lot of favours. Movement into and around the town of Ogoja was tightly controlled, but the Army Captain commandeered a Tata truck and directed 4 of his men to accompany Victor to the Office/Showroom at Lavoro Street.
Only a handful of people could be seen on the formerly busy street. Debris littered the streets, some buildings were without windows in the aftermath of the armed conflict. It was clear that the few people left were in the process of evacuating.
With the quartet of soldiers stationed outside, Victor let himself into the Office/Showroom with his set of keys. He quickly located the safe in Mr Oden’s office. Behind the half-empty steel cabinet, behind the wall paper, buried cleverly into the wall, the dull metallic glint of the safe stared at Victor. The callibrated dial of the safe seemed to thump its nose defiantly at him, he ignored it.
He experienced no problems with the combination. The muted clicks as he turned the dial to its correct positions increased his excitement till the safe opened gently. Two envelopes, one contained a certificate of Occupancy for a property in Calabar South, the other contained a Reader’s Digest Magazine of July 1976. Victor retrieved 4 passport photographs from the magazine just like Mr.
Oden had instructed and stashed them in a secret recess on the G-Unit belt buckle. Angry and agitated voices from outside made him straighten up and stand still.
“ON YOUR KNEES RIGHT NOW”
“PUT YOUR HANDS UP RIGHT NOW”
Victor’s heart started racing at a frenetic pace.
“Is Victor there?”
“My name is Sylvia, I just wanted to know if Victor is around”
Sylvia? Victor could not recall any Sylvia, however there was something vaguely familiar about the female voice. He stepped outside.
Light skinned and beautiful, Sylvia had the figure of pain, her presence was disconcerting to the soldiers. Victor could recall her purchasing a Tecno N6. He’d talked her into buying the cheap Android phone like he had done to so many customers. That was several months ago, if she had come to complain about the product, she was out of luck.
“I know her” he told the soldiers
“Is she your girlfriend?” One of them joked obviously relieved at the
absence of any danger.
“Yeah, she’s my girlfriend, let’s get out of here shall we?”
They gawked as all 5’9 of her got up and grabbed onto Victor’s arm. Then they crowded into the Tata truck and reported back to Captain Frank. The Army Captain rifled through the magazine and checked the C of O meticulously, then he directed Victor to leave town via Abakaliki road. There’s been a car bomb explosion along Calabar-Ikom-Ogoja road, it was unwise to travel that route at the moment.
The Journey via Abakaliki road was a circuitous route which meant Victor was unlikely to make it back to Calabar before nightfall. Sylvia’s conversation and seductive skills were not even stretched as she somehow inveigled her way into Victor’s plans. She narrated how Al-Suni had raided their part of town a few days previously, How her father had travelled out of town and how she was mortally scared. However, it wasn’t her touching story that tested Victor’s decision making skills, it was the size and gradient of her breasts and the softness of her skin that captivated Victor all the way to Umuahia where they spent the night. A night of passion and sexual satisfaction.
The staff of Rosberg Hotel could not tell Victor the whereabouts of Sylvia in the morning. Like the prognosticators of sunlight, she had disappeared like the mist. Gone was the C of O and the Reader’s Digest. Try as he could, Victor failed to understand her interest in Mr. Oden’s documents, but he fully understood the gravity of his folly.
Alarmed, he flirted with the idea of calling Mr Oden, but what would he tell him. His business with Captain Frank had also been concluded, but he called him anyway in case she was making her way back to Ogoja. Victor Isidor was relieved to discover that the passport photographs hidden in his belt were still intact. Out of curiosity Victor decided to examine the passport photographs more closely. Although she looked familiar, he could not identify the image of the female on the photographs. However, he noticed that one of the photographs bore a red masking tape on its back. He peeled it off and saw attached to it an 8GB memory card.
The hotel manager could only provide a laptop, it was not enough, so Victor went into town and bought an MTN 3G modem.
Like Kurds distributed across Iran, Iraq and Turkey, the Kanuri are found in Niger, Chad, Cameroun and Nigeria. Their struggle was not just to establish an Islamic ‘Kanuristan’ in sub-Saharan Africa by diplomatic means, it was to terrorize and pressure the present government and people of Nigeria to capitulate. Their long drawn ‘jihad’ has attracted sympathizers worldwide and they were confident that they were close to victory.
Under a folder tagged ‘Hidden Treasures’, Victor isidor was shocked to read correspondences between the first lady of Benue State and Senator Garuba. The contents chilled him to the bones. Discussions and details about the transfer of funds, arms deals and establishment of training camps, kidnap and elimination targets and also the recruitment of mercenaries and hit-men. There was also correspondences between the first lady and an unknown Soldier, details of Army positions, movements and tactics were leaked on those correspondences. Victor wondered whether it was really the first lady or a proxy involved in the correspondences.
He had no idea that the late Abacha was Kanuri or that the first lady of Benue State was his cousin, but the information available to him at the moment explained the source of the first lady’s stupendous wealth and influence.
A video of the first lady having sexual relations with an unidentified man was too much for Victor to take. Something was not right. The hidden camera had captured every detail of the liaison, he wondered if it was staged. At 16:42, according to the timer, the face of the first lady’s sex partner came directly into focus. Despite the full beard, there was something familiar about the features of
Madam’s lover. Like a leopard raising its head to regard the distant hyenas, the lover looked briefly at the camera before taking another dig at his quarry.
There was enough evidence on the memory card to destroy the first lady of Benue State.
Victor wondered how Mr Oden had come into possession of these files. He knew that the man was not beyond blackmail but this was a highly dangerous territory. Victor made up his mind to leave Calabar immediately he had delivred the passports to Mr Oden.
After making sure he was not followed, Victor made his way to establish his rendezvous with Mr. Oden. At Channel View Hotel, two things caught Victor’s eyes immediately he walked into Mr Oden’s Hotel room. A half concealed handgun with the butt poking out from under one the pillows, the next was a Reader’s Digest Magazine similar to the one that had disappeared with Sylvia. Mr. Oden seemed to be only interested in the passport photographs. Once he had received them, he gave Victor a long stare as if to read his
mind, but said nothing.
“But this is only a month’s wages sir!”
“Yes it is and you should leave now for your own good” Mr Oden menaced.
Victor did not hang around after that. As he left, he wondered if the butt of the gun had been deliberately left in view to threaten him.
Victor Isidor arrived Port Harcourt at about 11.00pm and had barely switched on his phone when it started ringing. It was Uncle Sunny. He told Victor that he had just received information that several gun men have stormed Channel View Hotel and murdered Mr Oden and his girlfriend. The female who later identified as Sylvia Bali. Rumour has it that she was the daughter of a former Aide to one the first ladies of the Middle belt.
“…Some say she came with the gunmen but other eyewitnesses claim that she was already in the hotel premises when the assailants struck…”
“Whatever you do, don’t come back here, you can even go to Ghana till things calm down”
“Don’t worry uncle, I’ll be fine, I know exactly what to do”
Although Mr Oden was not a model of morality, Victor always felt a strong attachment to him, he felt he understood his eccentricities quite well and was deeply hurt by his demise.
If they got to Mr. Linus Oden so quickly, they were probably on his trail already. Vicor also wondered whether Captain Frank and his unit had been infiltrated or compromised by ‘bogey’ soldiers?
Victor soon uploaded the sextape on sharebeast.com. It did not seem wise then, but he was glad now that he had made a copy. Then he registered a twitter account and posted the link. Tagging all the major news houses he could google, Victor gradually twit-pic’ed the hidden treasures.
Victor had left Chinda’s flat before day break. Fugitives must learn to be nocturnal he thought as he hurried towards ABC Transport Company, he had to be on the first bus out of town. The headlights of a car blinded him briefly as he neared the bus station. His thoughts were suddenly stymied as the vehicle that pulled beside him. He never believed in ghosts until he saw Sylvia seated on the passenger seat. Behind the steering wheel of a Tata truck, a look of amusement over his rugged features, a familar voice greeted him softly.
I dunno..I just dunno, all these writers with their big words. “Prognosticator”?? What is that? One thing I’m sure of, y’all going to be noticing Tata trucks now. Hehe..
But Malick can write sha..
We continue this on Tuesday with the final trio of writers: @Haemlet_, @naijamd and @Sagaysagay
All in this life's journey... 