This is a work of fiction. The events described are imaginary and the characters are fictitious. They do not represent true events or specific living persons.

All rights reserved o!

He was moving courageously
Until Medusa's shadow fell
Then, he realised, though lately
Hell's troubles were more than he could tell.





Kurt C. Wallace

Following already. My First Reading in Literature Section

Don't just copy. Forget all the other serenre.

Enjoy.

CHAPTER ONE

The giant sequoia tree spread with the majesty of an over-indulging, bibulous, mountainous and over-indulged Yoruba royalty; and, having subdued that extent of the earth on which it had its throne, it subtly sought to send the legation of its over-reaching awesomeness - if not outright implacable grandeur - to the firmaments, regarding the sun with imperious hauteur, moving its form - where it sat - this way, that way, gingerly, daintily, in response to, and in consonance with, the regal music flowing out of the flute, the harp, the tambourine, the bass, the drum, the conga - ah, the xylophone! - of the wind.

Two negligible, unimpressive, inconsequential shapes tapped from the magnificence of the sequoia tree, enjoying the shade it offered while passing under it. Two toys of fate; two boys who, standing on the pedestal of adolescence, were not much knocking at the door of maturity as banging on it.

These two navigated a spiral course as they charted the span of the shadow of the tree. The gait of one would have given you a cause to be suspicious of a subterfuge afoot: languid, loose-limbed, light; but, he still kept, pace with his friend. Slim and not particularly tall (5'10), he was narrow-chested but heavy-limbed. His teeth were uneven if white, his cheekbones stood tall and invited attention, and his hair was - even at that innocent stage of youth - receding. These, individually or taken as a unit, might escape being accused of lending his features undue prominence and unforgetability; but, his forehead had a singular honour of hosting a sharp depression. Thus, that face - in fact, that whole figure - was a memorable one. He had the lower part of that figure encased in faded jeans, the upper part in brown shirt with white downward stripes.

The gait of the other was the movement of a car in trouble: jerky but not stopping, and as noisome as the unduly overtaxed exhaust of the car to which it has been metaphorically related. The feet, warmly though laboriously, tucked in boots that probably last saw action in the Biafran war, were being dragged and not lifted off the ground. The feet were being dragged, but, they were propelling the body at the speed not much below that of a moving locomotive, or of a tiger on the chase or of an eagle as it made its swoop. There was nothing to add to, or take away from, his height that could not be accounted for by his friend's; the broadness of his chest, however, could be to his friend's chestal expanse what Plato was to Aristotle, and Aristotle to Alexander. The most arresting attribute of his facial appearance was the softness and the flexibility of the arrangement of his facial texture; but, running it a close second was the premature, poorly-dispersed sprouting of hair on his upper lip. It looked lost, the hair did. Not exceedingly comely was this face. No one, though, would doubt that, if properly nurtured, as Age went on her round, it was a face that could be presented by Beauty as one of her most accomplished works.

Less than one hundred and fifty feet further, the two made a bee-line (that entailed skipping across an uninspiring drainage) for a brown bungalow, an unsolicited access into which was restricted by a firm but largely unimposing black gate.The narrow-chested one gave the gate a rap. They listened for a sound from the interior of the property. He gave it a second rap; a third one; a fourth...

"Who be that?"

It was a narrow voice but it gave the broad-chested one a jump, nonetheless.

"It's me," said the narrow-chested.

It was an introduction that was in fact no introduction. It was a bilabial emission that was couched in ordinariness: simple and unremarkable.

The simple, unremarkable ordinariness of this vocal effort satisfied the simple inquisitiveness of the narrow voice. An opening in the gate was pulled in, and, revealed was a feminine vessel that was in one word 'simple'. There was nothing in her ensemble or in her offering of essential human mould that bespoke forcefulness of either intellect or physical motion.

She looked at broad-chest.

"Yes?"

Broad-chest, in some confusion and, maybe, embarrassment, looked at narrow-chest.

"I want to see the councillor," said narrow-chest.

With an impulse that spoke eloquently on her conviction that she felt this universe nauseatingly invaded - this universe inhabited by only broad-chest and she - her neck turned, and her face turned, to appreciate the direction and the sum total of the abhorrent invader. Nothing in the preceding sentence need make the reader conclude that she had fallen in love with broad-chest at first sight (lest the reader be made to appear presumptuous and naive), she had just not factored in the presence of some other being in their cosmos at that particular time. She was one-eyed, and, narrow-chest did not gain the advantage of the periphery of the missing eye.

"Na you be..." with the uplifting of an accusing left fore-finger.

“Yes, I’m Wale.” Guilty as charged.

“Wale?” She regarded... Well, let’s face it, she regarded that depression.

“Yes, from Mrs. Samson.”

“Ehn ehn. Na wetin I wan talk be that now.” Contentment settled on that simple face and even asked for coffee. “I wan ask whether na you be the boy from Mrs. Samson.”

The word that could be called into service to herein express the wave of feeling that had Wale in its grip was – no, not pleasure, there was nothing to be pleased with in the affair; not satisfaction, that would be implying that he held recognition as a monumental accomplishment; not anger, either, no: that would be a stretch – the word that could be called into service was befuddlement...


A dirt-grey Opel sedan headed down the unpaved, untarred strip of road behind them...

Befuddlement.


It was unclear to Wale, and he did apply himself in an effort to seek and find and hold clarity on the matter, just why the individual in front of them – she herself was no woman, mind you – could deign to refer to him as a boy.

What he actually found most befuddling in the matter was the fact that he now seemed to be every girl’s younger brother. Every girl, including those within his own age brackets, that he had been consigned by fate to have an encounter with thought she was older than he. An argument could be made for the fact that even those he was older than saw him in no better light. His younger sisters, for one. They treated him as their kid brother.

The boy from Mrs. Samson!

“I am.”

DahtzFestjayz:
Following already. My First Reading in Literature Section

My oga, I'll try to ensure that you become addicted.

She looked at broad-chest. Wale looked at her and then at broad-chest. Was she expecting an introduction?

His left hand found its way into the pocket of his jean trousers, his right hand scratched his right ear and his mind – that part of his mind that was struck by the urgency and importance of their business in front of that gate – implored her to go back into the house and announce them.

Almost pulled, it would appear, by an unseen hand to go against the aspiration of Wale’s mind, she took a step outside the gate, toward them, away from the house that they could see in the background.

“The councillor don go out,” she told broad-chest before turning to look at that depression. “Him say make you come back in the evening.”

Practically everybody that was partial to literacy in the country – everybody, from the president on his exalted seat in Aso Rock to his vice, from the president of the Senate to honourable members of the House of Representatives, from governors to council chairmen, from doctors to lawyers, from insurance salesmen to market women, from professors, teachers to the lowliest student, everybody – understood pidgin English, but, the efflux of signals on Wale’s face – the efflux of signals which could be piled and bound into a term better interpreted as his reaction to what the girl said – would make one think he did not.

“Him say what?”

She sighed.

“Him say make you come back in the evening.”

The patience with which she undertook the task of explaining this simple, uncomplicated instruction made broad-chest wonder whether his friend had, in the space of that moment, turned re-tarded. Even he thought the message was straight-forward enough...

“But my mum said...”

She shook her head. It was obvious to broad-chest that the girl’s supply of tolerance and accommodation was, after all, not without its limit.

“Him don go out!” Sharply, and also with telling crispness.

Slowly, very slowly, but with open mouth, Wale turned to broad-chest. Broad-chest could not look at that face. On that face was the malfeasance of fate; on it were the malignity of fortune, the malediction of the ages, the betrayal of Judas, the treachery of Brutus. Broad-chest believed he was too young to be rendered the pack-horse of the plethora of ills beseeching one and all from the craggy substance of Wale’s countenance. He was sorry: he was just too young!

Wale brought out his left hand from his pocket and brought with it the slip which he was to use to pay his acceptance fee at the university. Involuntarily, he glanced down at it. Okay, what was the point? He glanced at broad-chest who promptly averted his gaze. What was the point of the slip now? He did not have to be told: he knew. That very day was the last day for the payment of the fee. The deadline had already been shifted by a week to accommodate the deafening wails of pleas of prospective students (and sometimes their parents) who had been caught in the cactuses of non-payment.

His mind ranged wide, looking for an astute destination for the blame which it yearned to pitch.
He could not blame his mum, no. As a single parent, she had tried. In his particular case, she had tried even more, particularly to ensure that his compliance with the first deadline set by the school was not compromised. What could he say? An unceremonious freezing of commerce – added to the suddenness of the affair – dulled his lustre.

Could he blame his father? The foolish man surely must share in the blame. Were it not for his chronic impetuosity, he would still be alive. He was too rash, always in a hurry. He would rush from the living room to his bed room, if he wanted to sleep, as though he were in competition with the angels of the Devil himself. His bath never lasted more than twenty seconds in the morning. Spoonfuls of rice or beans or whatever were always in haste to get into his mouth. His father was an apt pictorial description of impatience. Wale once placed a bet (and lost, of course) on how long it would take his father to crap, to defecate. His sister said thirty seconds at most. He was inclined to be a bit more generous. He went for a minute. With a stopwatch in hand, they watched in muted astonishment as his father rushed out of the toilet after just twenty two seconds. They both agreed that there was no way their father could have done anything meaningful in the toilet in so short a time. Impatient by half, his father. He was even too impatient to die. He had to go look for death...

The councillor, yes, was very blameworthy. The man owed his mum. Wale was not where he was at that particular moment for charity. The councillor owed his mum an amount slightly in excess of his acceptance fee. His mum, who naturally was not one to share a quality with Shylock, was impelled to this course. After all, her son, who had been given an admission by the university to study Surveying and Geoinformatics, must pay his acceptance fee...And the councillor had promised...

“Sully,” Wale called. Broad-chest was shocked by the lifelessness of that voice. “I’d better call my mum.”


* * *
Mercury, the god of thieves, descended from Mount Olympus that night. Armour glinting, muscles a-flexing, sword yearning ... yearning... for blood... His escutcheon bore the caduceus, his chief symbol, boldly. There would be pillage tonight. And there would be blood...

* * *
Like a horse on a full trot brought unexpectedly, yet powerfully, to a halt, rearing, forelegs in the air, the yellow transport bus protested the termination of its advance in front of a big, black gate, and disgorged its occupants, seven of the scariest-looking beasts not in either a zoo or a game reserve.

Dressed in an assortment of very macabre get-ups, these beasts on the loose made a poignant case for Halloween. They informed the security guard of their presence, and, perhaps, determination, by ramming a sizable stone at the gate. Two members of the gang – due to excitement or acting an already prepared script – did not care to reckon on the guard’s good attitude, and bounded for the fence.

At the other side of the gate, the guard, roused without much ceremony and with fear from a slumber which was proving in itself to be disturbing and unprofitable, called on his Allah, the Allah’s messenger and his village leader. Was there to be a doubt? Upsetting this gate with intent to uproot or destroy were surely not men on social call. He asked himself whether there was still time to go to the toilet to urinate, to defecate... he danced half-way to the gate, he danced back to his station, he picked up his tesbiy, he then danced towards the gate ... Should he rather urinate on himself, in his pants, right here? Oh, he was holding a tesbiy! He danced back to his station. He picked up his knife. He dropped it. He looked around frantically... he was looking for something, but, he did not know what... Shouldn't he rather go and wake them up inside? Perhaps, perhaps... He picked up his machete... He heard a sound to his right. He turned to investigate it. The urine, without being summoned, sprung forth...
Mercury was on the march!
* * *
One of the two morbidly-dressed criminal specimens who secured ingress into the compound by scaling the fence took a moment to ponder on the insanity of the guard. Or blind courage. Or a momentary assault of stupendous irrationality.

The guard had not been so shell-shocked to forbear to respond to the intruders’ usurpation of his role as the God-ordained – and the owner-ordained – commander of the night on 37, Fesbege Street by putting the machete to work. As the first of the duo swung to make his descent, the guard took a considerable chunk of flesh from his right thigh. The assaulted marauder, who did not feel his spirit exalted by such glaring lack of hospitality, offered his displeasure to the night in earth-quaking shriek. The guard responded with promptitude. He withdrew the steel from its most recent engagement and directed it on another course. He went for the head of the second marauder who was now on his feet. The second marauder felt his life threatened, dodged the thrust and knocked out the machete from the mad guard’s hand with the butt of his pistol. His injured comrade had recovered sufficiently to put a bullet through the guard’s back from a range of about five feet.

The guard’s contribution to the event of the night was, thus, ended.

For God's sake, will I have to edit all the places where I used 'fo.ol, id.iot, and stu.pid'?

Mods, you're not contributing to literary development.

* * *

It was neither the report of the gunshot nor the banshee-like cry of the hurt intruder that woke Alhaji. Either of these was capable, on its own, of subduing the sonic pre-eminence of an old plane engine. Neither came close to the mark to jerk the hand of Alhaji back from its apt position in readiness to collect a proffered cup of tea from a member of the governor’s kitchen coterie. Neither could have, since Alhaji was about to gain the audience of the governor on a situation that had been of great, if personal, importance to him. His wife, of course, was of the present; his wife was a reality; his wife could not be denied.

“Alhaji! Alhaji!” She was tugging at his shoulder. “Alhaji...” She pinched him “Alhaji...”

“Eiysh!”

“What kind of sleep is this?” Her voice was shaking, but, she was a woman with a respectable mental stamina.

“Ooooh!”

“Wake up joor!”

He turned the full complement of two baleful eyes on her.

“What is it?”

He found it absurd that she was on his side of the bed, on her knees, making, in his hazy opinion, supplication. What did the woman want this time? Another trip to Dubai was, without doubt, out of the question.

“Gun!”

She wanted a gun? He looked at her closely. Was she doing all these in her sleep? Her face looked shiny...“What do you want with a gun, Alhaja?”

“Gunshot!” She tugged at him again. “I heard a gunshot. I think thieves are on the premises!”

“Thieves!”

He was instantly awake. With the kind of agility that no one could think possible in any of the set that could be treated to cups of tea by the governor (even in their dreams); he rolled out of the bed and onto his feet.
It was not unwise to investigate a claim of the presence of armed robbers on one’s premises even if the claim was made by a woman who was probably hearing, seeing, doing and saying things in her sleep.

* * *
Gaganta, Aspo, Stallion, John Bond and Ai-chi, the five members of the gang left outside the gate, did not wait for the gate to fully open before contesting it. Gaganta was particularly of such avid disposition that he almost wrestled Cottonmouth – one of the two members already in the compound, the uninjured one – to the ground as he wrestled the gate from him.

Stallion quickly took over the proceeding before everybody lost his head.“Wetin happen?” He asked Cottonmouth.

Cottonmouth took ill-humoured eyes from Gaganta and fixed them on their leader.

“The mai-guard,” he gesticulated in the general direction of that unfortunate fellow, “dey wait for us...”

Stallion was usually not a brusque character, at least, not with his men, but this inane, if not outrightly idiotic, remark was too much for him.

“Him look dead to me,” said the leader, calling the attention of the man to that fact if it had not yet occurred to him.

“We shoot am,” Cottonmouth explained. “Him cut BB bad.”

Stallion turned to look at his boy who had been rendered out of commission, sitting on the ground with his back on the wall, studying the deep gash on his thigh with unspeakable horror, whimpering.
Still, Stallion believed he must get his count.

“So, you shoot am?” He asked Cottonmouth.

Cottonmouth, if he were white, would have blanched. He ought to be the one who shot the foolish guard.

“Na BB shoot am.”

Stallion nodded and went by him to inspect the injury of the whimpering BB. He grunted, almost in approval. It was not a bad cut at all.

“You better find something tie this wound,” said he, “or you go bleed to death before we go fit carry you reach Simsella.”

BB did not want to die, so, he sought no assistance as he started tearing his shirt into pieces. A bandage or two or two hundred must be made to tie the wound. He must not bleed to death...

Stallion went to join the rest of the gang who were already testing the resolve of one of the windows to keep them out by attacking it with a variety of steel-cutting tools.

According to Stallion’s plan for this op, they had less than ten minutes to spend in the house.

*

Alhaji took a step toward the sitting room; his wife pulled him back.

“You this foolish man,” she whispered in much agitation, “must you die this very night?”

To feel shocked was a luxury that Alhaji could not even afford. In over twenty years of marriage, he had never been upbraided by this woman.

“I must go to them,” he breathed in explanation. “They are cutting through the window.”

Alhaja was not entirely without her senses. She did not need the gift of a second sight nor did she exactly require a favour from a clairvoyant to tell that they were axing the impediment standing between them and an access into the house.

“What will you achieve by going there to meet them?” She wondered. “They can shoot you. I suspect they’ve already shot Usman.”

Who was Usman? Alhaji asked himself, perplexed. For the sake of all that was holy, what was to be done? Here was his wife, not giving him any moment to think. Behind her was their house-help, Halimat, who had momentarily forgotten that she was a Muslim, and was now chanting ‘Jesus!’ ‘Jesus!’ with the kind of dedication that was missing in the kitchen. Christopher, his driver, was somewhere in the house, but, for the life of him, he could not tell whether he
had either burrowed into a hole like a rat or had turned to a bird and flown to the roof.

Usman? Who was Usman?

Oh, the guard...

“They shot Usman?” He asked in creditable awe.

Alhaja rolled her eyes.

“Just wait. Don’t go there.”

* * *
Stallion was the last man into the room. He did not come in through the window, no: that was beneath his station. He came in, with full honour and acceptable pomp, through the door held open for him by Gaganta whose industry on the night was of the equal of a pup going at a bitc-h’s teat.

He then proceeded to claim a magisterial position on the three-seater. The boys needed no direction at this stage; every man was instantly in a bustle.In less than a minute, Alhaji, Alhaja and Halimat were on their knees in front of His Lordship.

Alhaji tried to talk, his lips moved with notable violence, but his tongue was making no connection.

“Sir,” said Stallion, very obsequious, very obsequiously, “I appreciate this prompt response to my call...”

“No... no... prob....” Alhaji was at least glad that his tongue was finally pulling its weight.

Ai-Chi, who with John Bond was the fraction of the gang left in the main room, poked Alhaji in the rib with the barrel of his pistol.

“No interrupt!”

Both Ai-Chi and John Bond were standing behind the kneeling trio. The others were distributed across the house, pillaging.

“I appreciate it,” Stallion continued. “You know why we are here. We know why we are here.” He leant back on the sofa. “We only need to wait for a couple of minutes. You may not be needed. In fact, it’s very probable that you will not be needed,” they could clearly hear sounds of splintering wood. Stallion cocked his head in that direction; Alhaji did the same. Halimat’s eyes were firmly shut, and that they could be, in any event, prised open by a judicious application of a saw was a thought that was not at that precise moment credible. Alhaja was shaky (as who would not be in the presence of agents of villainy?) and shaken, but, all in all, she could still be put together with no great time lost. “My boys are very thorough”. Stallion smiled in self-satisfaction. “But this, sir, this, er, nocturnal interference in other people’s affairs is a thirsty business. Oh, yes, it is.” A misplaced hope did not need to perch on the ridge of Alhaji’s nose before he could recognise it. He knew he should not hope that they would not find the money, but, he did. He, as well, knew that if, even, they did not find the money, he would be obliged – through the use of various gory instruments of persuasion – to give it to them. Still, he hoped. “I wonder, sir, if there’s anything to drink.”

Alhaji nodded fervently.

“Water,” that was his mouth, “there is enough water in the house.”

John Bond guffawed.

Stallion, with rounded lips, drew out ‘oh!’“That’s all right,” he said. “Unfortunately, my thirst is not the kind that can be abated by drinking water. It is the kind that is abated by drinking,” he drew closer to the kneeling man by a few inches, “champagne, and, in the absence of that, blood. Do you understand? Blood! Blood I drink through...” he showed him his pistol, “this.”

Alhaji’s heart moved, but missed, two, three steps, dancing to the song of Aiyelonu. He was not a hard man who would prevent any other man from drinking to satisfy his thirst, but, on this occasion, the man and his gun would just have to keep going thirsty.
Alhaja was of a more practical bent.

“Please,” she begged, “please, my in-law, spare us, please. You can take whatever you want, please.”

Stallion’s look softened as he collected her in his gaze.

“But, madam,” he said softly, “I don’t need your permission to take whatever I want in this house. I work under the authority of force and I have a licence,” he showed the room his pistol, “to prove it.”

“This is a Muslim family,” Alhaji muttered and his wife hit him.

Stallion relaxed and patted his right thigh with his pistol.

“A Muslim,” he said, “is as susceptible to a bullet as a Christian, unless I miss my guess.”

Gaganta came bundling in from one of the inner rooms, hoisting a green travelling bag, chest expanding with unadulterated pride ... he was the one who found the golden egg.

“I don find am,” he put the obvious into words.

Alhaji turned to look, and, confirmed it. Confound these animals, he raged inwardly. That green bag was of a great sentimental value to him since it was a gift to him from Alhaji Saubana, his closest friend of all time, who had only recently been led through a paroxysm of cough to the gate of death. That green bag, in like manner, was of a great political value to him since it contained seven and a half million naira, a sum handed to him by the secretariat for onward redistribution to party faithful.

Stallion nodded at John Bond.

“Get the others,” he told him. “Let’s pack it in.”

Gaganta brought the bag to his leader for confirmation. Stallion needed no confirmation: Gaganta who combined thoroughness with singleness of purpose would have done that; but, to satisfy Gaganta’s implicitly base need for commendation, he did. He then beamed a congratulatory smile at the fool who was regarding him with the intensity of a goat waiting to see whether something edible like a loaf of bread, for instance, would be given it. The fool actually nodded, smirking.

Stallion rose.He swept the room up in a look, grasping... The room was a concave-shaped interpretation of an architect’s mania, with two outlets and a staircase that led to the rooms in the upper floor. A three-seater, a two-seater, three one-seaters and a divan were arranged in alignment with the shape of the room. The three-seater, backed against the western wall, had the main entrance to its right, one of the outlets to its left, a 34 – 36-inch – Stallion was not sure which – television set directly opposite it and a staircase on its north-eastern fringe. Blown-out photographs of the president of the country, the governor of the state, the daughter of the house, the man, his wife and Barack Obama adorned the walls, and in places among these were the expressions of man’s most profound vanity: the portrait paintings of the man, the man’s wife and the two together... Stallion was grasping at exhilaration, but, it was proving elusive. And it was typical. He had never felt much joy at leading a successful stealing expedition.
His men filed past him with different classes of plunder, Gaganta keeping a proprietary hold on the bag.

Stallion stepped closer to Alhaji, pointing his gun at his skull.

Alhaja gasped. Halimat did nothing, her eyes still firmly shut.

Alhaji looked inside the nozzle of the pistol and, with vividness, saw the thoroughfare to hereafter.

“Thanks,” said Stallion, “for nothing.”

He fired a shot.

Halimat shouted ‘yeh!’ and crashed to the floor in full length.

Stallion had fired a shot but not until he had redirected the point of the gun to Alhaji’s arm.

Alhaji, who thought he had been shot in the head, in the heart, or somewhere else as vital, fainted.

CHAPTER TWO

Oluwakayode Olasunkanmi Ogunbote was being supplemented, with suppressed irritability, by a plate of rice when the jarring note of his phone brought to his consciousness the existence of things in this world other than his distaste for concoction rice on a Thursday morning.

He picked the phone from where it lay beside a jug on the dining table.

“Hello,” a grain of rice flew out of his mouth.

“Councillor, good morning,” Kayode stretched the phone from his right ear to within the sphere of his gaze and saw to his intense irritation that on the line was Cupid, one of the rabid political jobbers that dogged his every step. It was the concoction rice, he concluded easily. He would, otherwise, have checked the identity of the caller before answering the call.

“Good morning,” he grunted.

“Have you heard?”

That Cupid was mis-named? That whoever gave him the name did the world, himself (or themselves) and the power of imagination a disservice when he was not named ‘Stu-pid’?

“Heard what?”

“That Alhaji has been shot.”

Kayode thought the idi-ot was just keeping to character, relishing the dissemination of terrible news.
‘
Alhaji has been shot.’

He could almost hear the idi-ot chuckle...

“Alhaji?” The councillor asked. “Alhaji Shobowale?”

“Yes, Alhaji Fire-fire. Alhaji Shobowale.”

In spite of himself, Kayode’s curiosity was piqued.

“How?” He inquired. “How was he shot?”

“I don’t really know.” He then went on to belie his claim: “I heard that he was attacked by a pack of robbers.”

“At home or where?”

“At home.”

If he was attacked at home, Kayode reasoned, it was not inconceivable to assume that their money must have been placed in mortal jeopardy.

“So, how’s he?” He asked. “He’s not dead, is he?”

“I don’t know. I heard that he was rushed to the hospital.”

“In that case, I’d better get over to his place. Thanks for telling me. How’re the kids?”

“They ate last night, for sure.”

Kayode thought that was something to be grateful for. At least, the fellow would not be hitting him up for feeding money.

“And the wife? Or should I say wives?” Playing-around was the stock-in-trade of practically all politicians, so, Kayode could not claim to be a saint; but, he could still not understand, nor could he credit, the vehemence of a libido that could not be securely arrested by a little playing-around and a marriage to one woman – to just one woman. These people married – mind the form! – wives, yet, they had no job with any security. They went about, vaunting their virility, provoking the influx of a parcel of brood to this significantly over-populated world.

“Ah, councillor!”

“You are on your third wife now, are you not?”

“Ah, councillor!”

“Is it a lie? It’s a good thing, now. These women too must marry, and, it is way better to marry them than to have unprofitable flings with them. They become respectable, and you cannot be accused of adultery.”

“But you do that all the time; you have unprofitable flings...”

“I will see you later, Cupid.”

Kpam!

Interesting. Go on. Sir Mullusco

DahtzFestjayz:
Interesting. Go on. Sir Mullusco

Sir, I really appreciate your comment.

Phew! In all my life, I've never read so brilliant a work of literature by a Nigerian as this. This is the 'rawest' talent there is.

Damn me to hell if I don't call on those who know literature to view this amazing piece!

Ishilove, Texanomaly, PrettySpicey, OMA4U, Whitemosquito, Royver, Ruffhandu, Simonhabby, Nuges11 and Princesa...please meet the great Mollusco! He's my big brother, we live together...I learn a lot from him. I'm glad he's finally decided to reveal himself here in Nairaland.

To hell with Soyinka, I aim to achieve Mollusco's literary skill. Watch out, sir, you've got a literary adversary in me . You know I've been cautiously tracing your steps since the past four years.

May the Good Lord preserve you for me; we'll stay true to our vows and dazzle the world together.

Dickens must have felt wants of men when he forced Oliver to ask for more! Bro, since you've been keeping your manuscripts well away from my reach, I'm eagerly asking for more here.

Tags: Seun, Ishilove, Semid4lyfe, Obinoscopy, not moving this work to the front page would be a mortal sin.

May God bless you as you keep away from such sin.

I am awed at this raw beauty. I have fallen in love, please don't wake me up till your pen inscribe 'The End'.

LarrySun:
Phew! In all my life, I've never read so brilliant a work of literature by a Nigerian as this. This is the 'rawest' talent there is.

Damn me to hell if I don't call on those who know literature to view this amazing piece!

Ishilove, Texanomaly, PrettySpicey, OMA4U, Whitemosquito, Royver, Ruffhandu, Simonhabby, Nuges11 and Princesa...please meet the great Mollusco! He's my big brother, we live together...I learn a lot from him. I'm glad he's finally decided to reveal himself here in Nairaland.

To hell with Soyinka, I aim to achieve Mollusco's literary skill. Watch out, sir, you've got a literary adversary in me . You know I've been cautiously tracing your steps since the past four years.

May the Good Lord preserve you for me; we'll stay true to our vows and dazzle the world together.

Dickens must have felt wants of men when he forced Oliver to ask for more! Bro, since you've been keeping your manuscripts well away from my reach, I'm eagerly asking for more here.

God almighty! You can make a man's head swell.

* * *
Kayode Ogunbote’s interest in his meal, which originally was hanging on a feeble thread, evaporated.
Alhaji Soliu Shobowale was the recognised, though not formal, head of the party in the local government. Everyone in the party with a dream in which he saw himself catapulted into the potpourri of political ascendancies, at the local council level, sought to be on his good side.

Kayode was tired of being a councillor. The House of Assembly was a much better, bigger and more rewarding place.

That dream could not, and would not, be realised without a positive backing by the Alhaji.He got up from the table and picked his keys. He wondered where his wife was. His third child, a girl whom they had named – in that unaccountable, unproductive overstimulation of the brain – Ero (Ease), was drawing a messy pattern on the rug with her food. From some other angle of the house, which he did not currently care to investigate, the voices of two of his other three children sailed effortlessly to him, making him wince.

They were at it again, singing Small Doctor. He did not have to be a wizard to tell that his first child was teaching his second some of the raucous tracks...
Mrs. Ogunbote came in from the kitchen. His last child was on her back.

“You did not finish your food,” she accused, heading for the table.

“Someone shot Alhaji,” he said, instead of defending himself. He could have told her he did not much like concoction rice in the morning, and she would still have conjured it somehow in two, three days’ time.

His declaration stopped the hand she was extending for the collection of the plate.

“Why?” She asked, her face creasing in a confused frown. That was his wife. Not who, not where, not how, but why. She was always looking for the reason for the existence of evil in the world. “Why did they kill him?”

“Kill?” Kayode wondered. “Is there any thread of this information that you have that I don’t?”

She searched his face for the attending twitch around the two edges of the lips that would tell her that he was just pulling her legs. She did not see it, and her confused frown deepened.

“You did not like the rice,” she challenged and Kayode thought ‘oh, oh! So, she knew!’ “and you’re trying to make me appear stupid.”

That was his wife. Again. Whenever she was confused, logic was sacrificed.

“What brought that about?”

“You tell me.”

“Do you think I was joking when I said Alhaji was shot?
He’d not like to know someone – much less my wife – cared so little that he was in pains.”

“But, you just denied it...”

LarrySun:
Phew! In all my life, I've never read so brilliant a work of literature by a Nigerian as this. This is the 'rawest' talent there is.

Damn me to hell if I don't call on those who know literature to view this amazing piece!

Ishilove, Texanomaly, PrettySpicey, OMA4U, Whitemosquito, Royver, Ruffhandu, Simonhabby, Nuges11 and Princesa...please meet the great Mollusco! He's my big brother, we live together...I learn a lot from him. I'm glad he's finally decided to reveal himself here in Nairaland.

To hell with Soyinka, I aim to achieve Mollusco's literary skill. Watch out, sir, you've got a literary adversary in me . You know I've been cautiously tracing your steps since the past four years.

May the Good Lord preserve you for me; we'll stay true to our vows and dazzle the world together.

Dickens must have felt wants of men when he forced Oliver to ask for more! Bro, since you've been keeping your manuscripts well away from my reach, I'm eagerly asking for more here.

Hmn, a dictionary and absolute concentration would ease a lot on this for an enlightened mind.

Awwwww, don't tell me it stopped here! Noooooo! When is the next update?


Reading this was like having takeout with my brain, men, it was delicious and the use of words by the op mmmmmh!

Larrysun he is indeed your brother


More plssss

“I did no such thing,”

He picked his cup of water and refilled it from the jug beside it.

“I said he was shot; you said he was killed. How was I responsible for the lack of symbiosis in our appreciations of the facts?”He drank.

For a second, Mrs. Ogunbote thought her husband was trying to twist free, like an eel, from the clutch of
the actuality, as usual. Then, she got the point.

“That means he may still be alive.”

Her husband dropped the cup and patted her on the left cheek with two fingers of his right.

“Attagirl!”

She fetched the evidence of his dissatisfaction with the turn of event (with the kind of meal prepared, he could have told her) and headed for the kitchen.

“So you’re going to the hospital.” It was difficult to tell

if it was a statement or a question.

“I’m going to the National Arts Theatre for the premiere of the Nigerian edition of The Slumdog Millionaire,” she turned to look at him with ‘What?! You must be from the moon!’ kind of look, shook her head, smiling. Ah, she got the joke. “And Primrose, it’s yam and stew, beans, bread and egg or just ordinary water tomorrow morning.”

He saw her frown.

He hastened out of the house.

She got the message too!

At least, for the next two days...

Royver:
Awwwww, don't tell me it stopped here! Noooooo! When is the next update?


Reading this was like having takeout with my brain, men, it was delicious and the use of words by the op mmmmmh!

Larrysun he is indeed your brother


More plssss

Christ!

So, this piece of madness rated your comment.

I'm happy, to say the least.

When one copies from a laptop to a phone, it becomes a problem.

ruffhandu:


Hmn, a dictionary and absolute concentration would ease a lot on this for an enlightened mind.

That's what literature is all about anyway: concentration. The mind and the head are expanded for the greatness of the whole body.

Thanks.

I appreciate your comment.

A little side comment if I may.

Paelen is the god of thieves and Son of Mercury.
Hermes was attributed to be the Greek god of thieves but he later redeemed himself. Hermes has been likened to the Roman god mercury but Mercury isn't known for stealing per se.


Pls carry on.

Royver:
A little side comment if I may.

Paelen is the god of thieves and Son of Mercury.
Hermes was attributed to be the Greek god of thieves but he later redeemed himself. Hermes has been likened to the Roman god mercury but Mercury isn't known for stealing per se.


Pls carry on.

Let me make the necessary correction.

I was under the impression that Hermes to the Greek was Mercury to the Romans. The god of commerce (and a bloody thief, to boot).

Shwepps?? Larry brought his brother to nairaland o. Lol.
Following. But I intend to sweeten the fun by pointing out a few things...with ya permission, Sir?