Black maria (tale of two thieves)

Somebody should call the register for me [hr] Link to Available Episodes •Episode 1 •Episode 1b •Episode 2&3 •Episode 4 •Episode 5 •Episode 6 •Episode 7 •Episode 8 •Episode 9 •Episode 10 •Episode 11 •Episode 12 •Episode 13

nice starting

seated

awaiting the episode, like Christian awaiting the next coming of the lord

Please take your seat let's role it . @tenniebenson @khola46 @wiseman @ibrams @pizzaro @swtharyomi @wyse-one @eddy @delight @pweety @mray @jummybabe @babe4biola @sofia @ritagold @kuks @originalannchilexdel @fridex @frank @frankkay @simzy @pheranmmie041 @temmyjoy @chriswayne @evanz @itzshaxee @mecuze @skookum @kingson1 @donmikie @kingsbest @t-dak @charlywizzy @charliebryn @hardeywummy @japhola @konphido @emmyrexx @adura @tholartee @nextangel @blessedgirl @ebube @jenifa @jclash @taiwo @chomyline @lawman @tinagabe @christiana @itmrabzeez @johnoscar @precy @timmy @dabcy @ikeholuwa1 @besty @starlet @okklad @angeleniola @ewomazeal @mizleemah @blessfelicity222 @anitcham @stephanie @lollybabe1 @dahcutebae @rhennyjay @geeadore @tiffany1 @tonia @hameyeenat @inemlove @promzy @mohjisolah @jencute @jenny @doublewealth @john451 @kniphemi @vibratingwind @emmanesth @horpheyehmy @valking1 @pweety @kpumpy @justify @maurice @jummy @thankmic @christopher @anita @phinebraim @kedike @kemkit @gracy @saintkenz @december12 @promise @sylvia @bsam @portable @steph @aarti @olaking3 @harddy @blakstudd @prince @invincible @mhzzrblayse @azeeco @temmymofrosh @sandra @sandy @kaysmart22 @cherryserah @sexynikky1994 @youngestprince @davick @semilore @oyindamola @dhemilade1 @mature @pearl @roes @franklin @kolababs @hollar @smilie @borwerleh @iksqueency @loveth @funmilayo1 @okklad @nizzy @flames @vict-vames @peace @sirp081 @kristen @kingsengine @aaron @tony @ruth @romancelord @itzshaxee @olamy4fun @abrahamdking @flamerouz @crusher @stanny39 @john @softtouch @onahsunday631 @jeddy @sonshine @sirgentle @vizkid @hoelhay @pharm- vickymears @teesolid @omoyemmy @olarach @daxking @krizzy @softie @holarbordah @ele @firstladyontop @obaby @sergentmax @mhizdaofot @ariketemmy @saraya @eminem @laurasteve299 @gambola @monadisu @dazzlingangel @donyas @c-roderick @cookey @isabella1 @chisomsophia @mrfabulous @henry @mhizzthessy @millz @bishops10 @kreepyink @olaniyiadeshina @gracedkyenny @hardeyhorlar9 @holaryinkhar @inemeka @abevica @individual @olami @beryl @youngfellow @humblelion @natasha9976 @hartuny @emergencia @paula4eva @giftgodiva @divatimmy @finestberyl @sapiens @ahmad @ele1 @ferdinard @festoza006 @sharpzender @uncleba426 @paje @jenny123 @pemamezi @detector @pweetyfizzy @willingyung @napster @greg-billz @valentinelv @hayanfeoluwa @teju1 @dgreat @prestigiousfirstlady @petersandra121 @jenny1 @bryten50 @fallancy @rosey @jimmyjab @oluwanifemi @arosunshine @heartbrokekid @thosiano @peterox @iamsmv @adegunle3gmail-com @sparkling-2 @hoyenikky @maurice @lizzytee @zephyr @mhizterdimex @ladywen @holarmidey @scriptures @lollycobra @hardey1292 @adeblow23 @slimolayinkastar @damzybabe @adeshewa @softel @nifemi @abradek @beauty74 @cizzle @omolarami @nazysophy1 @yemitefestus @omoniyiola @inifek @coolbaby @nheemot @deejaygrin @hitiswell @fynboy @sirmike @aminzy @vicoch @sunnyklin20yahoo-com @psam @oshio @shikoleen @queencoded @kimmy @ifeoma1 @nobleay @felixharuna11 @ibktemi99 @hayzedefoe @chidex14 @classy @omodemilade59 @rufus @ladygrasha @ennylincoln @kingz1 @starlord1 @noskid @kodedreal @petermikel @frankymario @olatunjitobi @pweetylizzyqueen @olutcoded @sayrah @tomtim @missdammy @latienco @bimrach @mubarak @mubavak @adeolaajala1234 @olalekana69 @dbest @skulboy @beautyqueen @naomacjoyous @onyinyessica @drumsaint @debbi2nice @jamesgentility @megatron @okiripoto02gmail-com @rahzycute1 @hangellah46 @deltavictory @kay2ty7 @praisee @josephjuliet @xtopher @richymore @temmy744 @mrmorie @abosmart @adfaustina595gmail-com @adetolaadejoke @whizjay @anthcunny @freeday @ninny @abasienyene @henryjay @horgzy @abosmart @omodemilade59 @judith @mercykris @superstar4real @sanctus4real @bolaji2308 @damzybabe @profeze1 @horlarjuwhon @illusion002 @royzeray @oluwatosin @chinenye5404 @dharmex @inifek @pattiejoe7gmail-com @opinxymenumento @bobbidi-boo @gooddysmart3 @elijezy @drumsaint @oshio @musterfi @khaleedwr @addieola @chinedueze @praise22 @mdsodeeq @sirjerro @masterbill @emileagosu @kabazi95 @daintyshewa @klaussimbo @peoray @samnolimit @babswalexyttyahoo- com @shania55 @conspirancy @chinyenorah @pharouq00 @saraya @blazeb @virtuous @amibabe @mrsolace @ennyshow @haryormidey @mzz_teddy @daddyd @cassiewells @omoshalewa @nheemot @rukibaby19 @abbeygirl25 @serikibazooka1 @samnolimit @ugochisunday @yusfaty @muffybaba @micheal1 @judiee @certifiedjx @wumyte @coolbaby @jokqees @victoriouschild

GOOD STARTED, RIDE ON

Seated

Continue the ride

@Sky Bethel Chinonso it thought dis is the property of larrysun... anyway, t'will be nice having dis story here!! @dencygirl my baby, so u didnt miss me all dis while... 0ga @sabinto ur boy d0n land o..

Episode 1 A . BLACK (1980 – 1993) CHAPTER ONE I Peter Black was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but the silver soon became plastic when his father died. A formidable adversary had made sure that the name ‘Black’ never remained in the limelight. He took over every possession of the Blacks, leaving Peter and his mother nothing but residence in a dilapidated building at the least inhabited section of the city of Port Harcourt. Hunger ravaged their skins in the day and cold tortured them every night. And it was this suffering that turned the ten-year-old boy into a pathological thief. The first thing Peter stole in his life was a loaf of bread. And he stole it because he had no other choice. He rose from bed this morning before his mother but he didn’t wake earlier than her; in short, his mother didn’t have a minute’s sleep all through the night, Peter didn’t know that. He just rose and went to the back of the collapsing building to bathe his face and limbs; he always had his normal baths in the stream half a mile away each time he was returning from school. He’d bath in the river and take some of the water home to drink. He never gave a damn about cholera. Peter Black had just been enrolled into the Government College, Port Harcourt. It was a public school and his mother didn’t have to pay tuition, not that she would have any money to pay anyway if asked. She did not even have to pay for books, the government provided stationery. But Peter never had a uniform; he always wore his rag to school, his sartorial pride was restricted to two pairs of shirts and trousers—both too old and torn to be worn presentably. His only pair of sandals was flat-soled already and fostered different holes as if mice had been at them. Peter was never bothered about his rags, but his unkempt appearance was always a constant sadness to his mother. Contrarily, what always bothered and worried Peter was the prospect of food. Some few days, he would be given some leftovers by some students and teachers but he always made sure he remained some for his mother, no matter how little the gift was. Some other days, he’d find some spoiling crumbs of fufu in some families’ trash cans and take home. He and his mother would peel off the greening parts of the food and eat the morsels voraciously absent soup or stew. Very few times, he would luckily catch some fish in the town’s river. They would cook the fish without the benefit of seasoning or pepper—they ate just to stay alive, pleasure was something they could not afford. Still, many of those days always greeted them with hunger, and the nights always lulled them to sleep with starvation. However, Saturdays were usually their most favourite of days, for Saturdays always brought them more than enough food. Black would go out on this day to different celebratory locations where parties were had and he would beg cooks to spare the leftovers of their meals. Peter Black usually came home with food to last them for three days. After the second day, the food usually turned thickly stale, but they always eat it anyway; they had eaten worse things than mere staleness of food. Their taste buds had dwindled in such ways that they didn’t even always taste the staleness in their mouths. This particular morning, however, was a Thursday, and as Peter washed himself he wondered if the day was going to bring them food or they would have to drink water all day as they had done two days prior. When he returned into the building to change into his second rag, he saw his mother shivering violently. He immediately forgot what he intended to do and rushed to his mother’s side. “Mami, what is wrong?” he asked anxiously. He knew his mother was not feeling well. He had suspected it when he woke up and found her still lying down. His mother had always been an early riser; she was usually up long before Peter woke up most times, she would bathe him up and get him dressed for school. When he rose up before her this morning he had assumed that she was only slightly tired; he hadn’t noticed earlier that she was shivering. “Mami, what’s wrong?” he asked again. “I’m all right, Peter,” his mother replied, “You’ll be late for school, go and dress up.” Her voice was weak. “You’re not all right, Mami.” His mother gave a weak smile, “See, I’m smiling. I’m all right.” “But you’re shaking.” “It’s because I’m feeling slightly cold.” Peter looked outside. Dawn had broken clear and the sun was already peeping from the sky; there was no cold now. The cold of the night had gone. His mother shouldn’t be shivering now if it was only cold; warmth had come. Then he suddenly remembered that his mother had not eaten for two days; the last time his mother had eaten anything was on Monday. The meal he had brought home on Saturday had only lasted them till Monday; he recalled that neither of them had eaten anything on Tuesday. And on Wednesday, the next day— yesterday—he’d eaten only in the evening; the food had been too little that his mother had allowed him to eat it all. Now, he was starving. Peter knew now that it was starvation that had reduced his mother to this shivering shadow of herself. She had grown very thin; her bones were threatening to break out of her shrinking skin, her eyes were very hollow now and the hairs of her head were pulling out already. The graceful woman he had grown to know has his mother had been turned into a scarecrow. He could not help the tears that ran down his cheeks. He wanted to help her but he didn’t know how. His mother was dying of starvation and he could do nothing about it. This broke his heart, it shattered his ventricles. He had always imagined himself growing up and taking good care of his mother for all the suffering she was going through. But he was still too young to achieve that promise now. His mother needed him more than anything now. “Why are you crying, Peter?” His mother asked. Her voice was getting increasingly weaker. “Mami, please don’t leave me.” The little boy was crying visibly now. “I’m not going anywhere. But promise me one thing, Peter.” Though Peter Black was too young to understand what a promise was, he still asked, “What?” "Promise me you will take back all that was taken from us. Promise me.” “I promise, Mami, I promise.” His mother began to shake violently again. He couldn’t bear to watch his mother in such pitiable state. He had to get her some food. He quickly ran out of the house to get his mother some food. As he ran the mile, he didn’t know how he was going to get the food, but he knew that he was not going to return to the house empty-handed. He was not going to school today, his mother’s life was at stake. He was already too late anyway. He ran into a crowded street, sweating profusely. He spotted a nicely dressed man and ran to him. “Please, sir. Kindly spare some money. I want to buy some food for my mother. She’s dying of hunger.” “Go away from me,” the man scowled. Peter followed him “Please, sir. My mother is dying.” “If you don’t stop following me, I will slap you.” “Please—” The man gave him a hard slap on the side of the face. His cheek burned with hotness as the impact of the attack threw him into the puddle of dirty water nearby. For a moment, the ten-year-old boy could see nothing. He heard the man say: “Go and extort from someone else.” When he opened his eyes, the man was no more on sight. He slowly got up from the puddle and continued running around, begging people to spare a coin. They all told him to go away. A few of them lied that they had no ‘change’ on them. No one believed his story; the people considered him to fall among one of the desperate beggars’ children who could yarn any falsehood to get money from passers-by. He continued begging people to save his mother, occasionally falling with tiredness and rising with determination. He was perspiring noticeably under the hot weather of that morning. After many trials without success, Peter Black found loaves of bread displayed on a table. He wished he had money with him to buy the food. He sat down crying at the side of one wall and begged people to bestow a trifle—nobody gave him a second glance. Realising that remaining crouched there was not right, he stood up quickly. As he rose, he discovered that the bread vendor had left the table and had retired to an inner shop. A thought to take a loaf and bolt crossed his mind but he remembered his mother telling him that stealing was bad; that thieves were bad people. He didn’t want to become a thief, he didn’t want to become a bad person. But his mother was dying, he had to do something, he had to do something, nobody was willing to help him. He couldn’t allow his mother to die—his mother was the only family he had. He boldly walked to the table and picked up a loaf, as if everything displayed on the table belonged to him. As he grabbed the bread, the vendor came out of the shop and saw him making away with the booty. Peter, seeing the man too, immediately took to his heels. As he ran, he heard the man shout, “Thief! Stop him! Thief!” There was a magic in the sound. The market men left their kiosks, and the women their counters, the butchers threw down their beef, the mechanics their spanners, tinkers their utensils, painters their brushes, drivers their cars. Away they all ran, helter-skelter, screaming, tearing, yelling, knocking down onlookers as they pursued the boy, exciting the dogs and astonishing the hens. Peter became afraid. He ran faster—as fast as his small pair of legs could carry him. Although he was already tired, Peter still managed to run with a speed that belied his age. He continued running without looking back, even as he heard the screams of ‘thief!’ grow louder. He knew almost everybody in the market was running after him now. He was more afraid; he quickly cut into another street and ran with all his might, the loaf of bread firmly clutched in his hand he found himself in another narrower street before he ran into a new street with more crowds; he city was a maze of streets. He was dirty and wet, and he knew that he couldn’t blend among the multitude of dry older people, so he hid himself behind a lotto kiosk. After about a quarter of an hour, he came out of his hiding and made his way home. He ran all the way and smiled when he thought about how glad his mother would be at what he held. He had decided that he would lie if she asked questions about the food. He would tell her that a kind man had given him some money with which he bought the bread. She mustn’t know that he had stolen it or she would be grossly disappointed in him; she might even refuse to eat it if she knew where it had come. He didn’t stop for a moment to rest on the way; he ran the whole long distance. He reached the house and burst in; there was no door to restrain him from speeding into the building at will. He paused at the doorway to catch his breath. He bent, resting his hands on his knees, and breathed hard. When he believed he had had enough rest, he raised his head and smiled warmly. “Mami, I’ve brought you food!” There was no reply. He looked at his mother, she was not smiling. She was not shaking either. Her fixed gaze remained at the entrance. The loaf fell from Peter’s hand and rolled on the floor twice. Mami was dead. . To be continue after comment

seated

Seated.... Continue

What a pity

EYAA

Too bad

This is very bad

Episode 1 B . Chapter One - II As the young boy slowly walked towards his mother, he wondered why she was sleeping with her eyes open; he also wondered why she didn’t wake up when he said he’d brought her some food. He knew his mother to be a light-sleeper. Normally, she’d have woken up as soon as he stepped in. Something was wrong, Peter was too young to understand what was happening. He reached beside his mother and called, “Mami.” No reply. He called again, his voice gentler, “Mami. I’ve brought some food.” No reply still. He tore out a piece from the loaf and attempted to feed his mother, but the food fell on the ground each time he tried to put it in her mouth. “You have to eat something, Mami. Please eat.” He was weeping again. Every time he attempted to feed the corpse, the piece would drop. Because he was too tired from running, Peter Black cried himself to sleep beside his deceased mother. When he came awake in the evening, he resumed his cry because his mother had not woken up yet. He spent the whole of the night calling on his mother. Something is terribly wrong with Mami, he thought as he wept in the darkness. When morning approached, he still tried to feed his mother breakfast by putting another piece of the bread between her insensitive lips; each time he tried, the piece would fall off. He cried himself to sleep the whole day. He saw his mother in his dreams when he slept. She was always smiling at her. She always looked healthy and her complexion richly golden—like she was an angel. There was no sign of any suffering about her. This was the woman he had known in the days before. She always said the same sentence each time she appeared to him: “Take them back, Peter.” Peter woke up the next day feeling very hungry. He had not eaten anything since his mother had slept. His eyes were swollen from weeping too much, and his small body was shrunken with starvation; he looked like a child torn by war. The hunger was getting unbearable now. He picked up the loaf of bread his mother had refused to eat and began to feed himself. When he had consumed half of the bread, he stopped, his mother might wake up soon. He would have to give her something to eat when she woke up. After three hours, it suddenly dawned on Peter that his mother would not be waking up. She had gone to somewhere without pains; a place of no hunger. Mami would never be waking up. He cried anew because he knew that Mami had left him for a place of rest and peace without taking him along. He was now all alone in the world. He remembered being taught in school that a child without a mother or a father was called an orphan. Peter was an orphan. He wept helplessly. He could not leave his mother lying there, he had to do something. He had watched what his mother had done when his father had slept and refused to wake up. He stood up and covered his mother with the only blanket they both shared. He went to the back of the house and found a shovel left behind by some labourers a long time earlier; he picked up the shovel and began to dig a section of the back yard. But because Peter was too young to dig a grave, it took a long time to dig a visible hole as every time he tried to dig the sand poured back in the hole in such ways that his efforts were nearly useless. The back of the building was quite a sandy place. Peter had to rest a couple of times before resuming his diggings, and by the time he finished digging a hole big enough to accommodate his dead mother, he was soaked through and through with sweat. He was also nearly breathless with exhaustion. He returned to the house and sat down to rest, he slept off there. When he woke up, he walked to where the corpse lay and pulled away the blanket. He stared at his mother’s fixed but unseeing hollow eyes and tears ran down his own cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Mami, for bringing your food too late.” He believed that his mother died because he’d spent too long to find her some food. He thought he might still be alive if he had returned earlier. But his mother had died the moment he stepped out of the doorway. He would have to carry his mother to bury her in the back yard; that was how she had done to his father. He tried to lift her but the corpse was too heavy for the ten-year-old boy. There was no way he was going to carry his mother to the back yard. He thought about going out and begging some older people to help him carry his mother but he dismissed the thought when the remembrance of how he had been ignored by the people occurred to him. Nobody would listen to him; no one would even believe him if they listened. He was alone in the world. He had to do this himself. He stood up, held his mother’s hands and began to pull. With much efforts and hard breaths, he dragged his mother towards the back yard. He winced and wept each time his mother’s head hit something hard or her legs got caught in a corner. He felt like he was hurting her, but he had no choice. He kept repeating “I’m sorry, Mami” each time her body hit something hard. When he finally dragged her to the back yard, he collapsed on the heaped sand, tired. After resting a bit, he pushed his mother into the hole. The grave was not very deep but it was enough to cover up his mother. When his mother landed in the hole, one of her legs was somehow twisted irregularly at an acute angle, so Peter had to enter the hole and adjust it right. He climbed out and looked at his mother for the final time. Her shrunken face was now bloated and her body was swollen. Rigor mortis had done its own part and left. Now the congealed fluid inside her had bubbled her up in a macabre portrayal of terrible death. But Peter didn’t understand. He wondered why his thin mother had suddenly become fat in death. He slowly said his good bye and picked up the shovel. As he shovelled the sand back on his mother, he began to sing all the lullabies his mother had always sung to him in the nights when hunger deprived him of sleep. Most times, the songs were usually magical and they would soothe him to sleep. As he sang now, he hoped the song soothe her and give her peace wherever she was. He tried without success to stop the tears that rushed to her eyes. He did not pause to rest; he made sure his mother was entirely covered. He sang all the way and prayed her gentle soul rested in peace. After successfully burying his mother and levelling the ground, he knelt on the grave and gave a short prayer. He didn’t pray for his mother; he prayed to his mother. He prayed for guidance; he asked his mother to guard his steps. He stood up five minutes later and looked down at the ground that clothed his mother—there was something missing yet. Then he remembered; he recalled that his mother had put a bouquet on his father’s grave after burying him. But Peter Black didn’t have a bunch of flowers to place on Mami’s grave, so he went into the house and returned with the half-eaten loaf of bread. Instead of flowers, Peter placed crumbs of bread on his mother’s grave. Then he cried for the last time. . To be continue. Add me on WhatsApp 08028031224

hmm his mother's death would trigger him to become a thief

a painful death

nice start kudos to u the writer

Oh this world

Life is cruel

Episode 1 B . Chapter One – II As the young boy slowly walked towards his mother, he wondered why she was sleeping with her eyes open; he also wondered why she didn’t wake up when he said he’d brought her some food. He knew his mother to be a light-sleeper. Normally, she’d have woken up as soon as he stepped in. Something was wrong, Peter was too young to understand what was happening. He reached beside his mother and called, “Mami.” No reply. He called again, his voice gentler, “Mami. I’ve brought some food.” No reply still. He tore out a piece from the loaf and attempted to feed his mother, but the food fell on the ground each time he tried to put it in her mouth. “You have to eat something, Mami. Please eat.” He was weeping again. Every time he attempted to feed the corpse, the piece would drop. Because he was too tired from running, Peter Black cried himself to sleep beside his deceased mother. When he came awake in the evening, he resumed his cry because his mother had not woken up yet. He spent the whole of the night calling on his mother. Something is terribly wrong with Mami, he thought as he wept in the darkness. When morning approached, he still tried to feed his mother breakfast by putting another piece of the bread between her insensitive lips; each time he tried, the piece would fall off. He cried himself to sleep the whole day. He saw his mother in his dreams when he slept. She was always smiling at her. She always looked healthy and her complexion richly golden—like she was an angel. There was no sign of any suffering about her. This was the woman he had known in the days before. She always said the same sentence each time she appeared to him: “Take them back, Peter.” Peter woke up the next day feeling very hungry. He had not eaten anything since his mother had slept. His eyes were swollen from weeping too much, and his small body was shrunken with starvation; he looked like a child torn by war. The hunger was getting unbearable now. He picked up the loaf of bread his mother had refused to eat and began to feed himself. When he had consumed half of the bread, he stopped, his mother might wake up soon. He would have to give her something to eat when she woke up. After three hours, it suddenly dawned on Peter that his mother would not be waking up. She had gone to somewhere without pains; a place of no hunger. Mami would never be waking up. He cried anew because he knew that Mami had left him for a place of rest and peace without taking him along. He was now all alone in the world. He remembered being taught in school that a child without a mother or a father was called an orphan. Peter was an orphan. He wept helplessly. He could not leave his mother lying there, he had to do something. He had watched what his mother had done when his father had slept and refused to wake up. He stood up and covered his mother with the only blanket they both shared. He went to the back of the house and found a shovel left behind by some labourers a long time earlier; he picked up the shovel and began to dig a section of the back yard. But because Peter was too young to dig a grave, it took a long time to dig a visible hole as every time he tried to dig the sand poured back in the hole in such ways that his efforts were nearly useless. The back of the building was quite a sandy place. Peter had to rest a couple of times before resuming his diggings, and by the time he finished digging a hole big enough to accommodate his dead mother, he was soaked through and through with sweat. He was also nearly breathless with exhaustion. He returned to the house and sat down to rest, he slept off there. When he woke up, he walked to where the corpse lay and pulled away the blanket. He stared at his mother’s fixed but unseeing hollow eyes and tears ran down his own cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Mami, for bringing your food too late.” He believed that his mother died because he’d spent too long to find her some food. He thought he might still be alive if he had returned earlier. But his mother had died the moment he stepped out of the doorway. He would have to carry his mother to bury her in the back yard; that was how she had done to his father. He tried to lift her but the corpse was too heavy for the ten-year-old boy. There was no way he was going to carry his mother to the back yard. He thought about going out and begging some older people to help him carry his mother but he dismissed the thought when the remembrance of how he had been ignored by the people occurred to him. Nobody would listen to him; no one would even believe him if they listened. He was alone in the world. He had to do this himself. He stood up, held his mother’s hands and began to pull. With much efforts and hard breaths, he dragged his mother towards the back yard. He winced and wept each time his mother’s head hit something hard or her legs got caught in a corner. He felt like he was hurting her, but he had no choice. He kept repeating “I’m sorry, Mami” each time her body hit something hard. When he finally dragged her to the back yard, he collapsed on the heaped sand, tired. After resting a bit, he pushed his mother into the hole. The grave was not very deep but it was enough to cover up his mother. When his mother landed in the hole, one of her legs was somehow twisted irregularly at an acute angle, so Peter had to enter the hole and adjust it right. He climbed out and looked at his mother for the final time. Her shrunken face was now bloated and her body was swollen. Rigor mortis had done its own part and left. Now the congealed fluid inside her had bubbled her up in a macabre portrayal of terrible death. But Peter didn’t understand. He wondered why his thin mother had suddenly become fat in death. He slowly said his good bye and picked up the shovel. As he shovelled the sand back on his mother, he began to sing all the lullabies his mother had always sung to him in the nights when hunger deprived him of sleep. Most times, the songs were usually magical and they would soothe him to sleep. As he sang now, he hoped the song soothe her and give her peace wherever she was. He tried without success to stop the tears that rushed to her eyes. He did not pause to rest; he made sure his mother was entirely covered. He sang all the way and prayed her gentle soul rested in peace. After successfully burying his mother and levelling the ground, he knelt on the grave and gave a short prayer. He didn’t pray for his mother; he prayed to his mother. He prayed for guidance; he asked his mother to guard his steps. He stood up five minutes later and looked down at the ground that clothed his mother—there was something missing yet. Then he remembered; he recalled that his mother had put a bouquet on his father’s grave after burying him. But Peter Black didn’t have a bunch of flowers to place on Mami’s grave, so he went into the house and returned with the half-eaten loaf of bread. Instead of flowers, Peter placed crumbs of bread on his mother’s grave. Then he cried for the last time. . To be continue. Add me on WhatsApp 08028031224

Hmmmmmm dats very sad.... Continue!!!

Episode 2 . Chapter One - III Rejected by the world and all alone, little Peter learnt how to rely on himself the hard way. He never cried for his mother again; he’d learned to cope with pain, as his mother had managed to cope when she lost her husband. But he spent a considerable number of times by his mother’s grave; chatting with the earth, talking, singing, even cracking jokes. He just had to do something to make him believe that his mother was still with him, even if he didn’t see her. It was morning already, and Peter was hungry again. He had no bread to eat now; and there was not even any crumb to place on his mother’s grave. The pieces he had placed there the night before had disappeared. Peter thought his mother had eaten them, but the bread crumbs had really been scooped up by birds and lizards that frequented the back compound. He knew what he had to do; he would steal another loaf of bread, a bigger one this time. Because he had gotten away with the first theft, Peter strongly believed that he would never be caught. He was a fast runner; he believed his legs could carry him faster than any other human being. Besides, he had to live, he had to feed his mother . Stealing was the only thing he knew he could do to stay alive. He had seen how callous people could become if their help was sought. No one was ready to be of assistance. Humans had offered him nothing but cruelty. He was done begging for help and getting victimized thereafter. They had made him believe that it was an abomination to ask for help. If he wanted anything, he had to take it. That was the way of life. That was going to be his way. He stood from his mother’s grave and went into the house to change his rags. As he clad up, he realised that his second pair of clothes was getting too old for him; the tears were expanding, and soon they’d begin to reveal his privates. He needed another pair of shirts and trousers—and he was going to get it; he was going to steal it. He quickly dressed himself up and went out of the house. He didn’t like leaving his mother alone there in the back yard now that she needed him most, but he needed to find some food, lest he starved to death like his mother. But as young as Peter was, he had learnt not to be scared of death. In short, he looked forward to dying and uniting with his mother, but he needed to fulfil his promise to his mother. He walked the long mile to the crowded street. Walking long distances meant nothing to Peter. He always trekked all the way to school; he could not afford even the cheapest means of transportation. As usual, the town’s street was a very busy one; there were thick traffic jams here and there. In the traffic, all the cars hooted all the time at alternating decibels, and when there was nothing to hoot at they hooted for nothing. Not to be outdone, the drivers of taxi and Volkswagen Beetles yelled curses at each other at the top of their voices. Many shops and film houses blared different kinds of music from cheap radios turned to full volumes with the fateful assistance of sound engines; colporteurs called continually and the harassed pedestrians told them to go to hell, dogs barked and circling crafts screamed overhead. From time to time, all the noise would be swamped by the roar of an aeroplane. This was what Peter wanted, all the chaos would create enough distraction—the traffics, the crowds, the barking dogs, even the aeroplane. He walked without qualms past the first stall where loaves of bread were sold; this was not the same market he had stolen a loaf from the last time, it definitely wasn’t the same stall. He walked past the second stall because it was too crowded and it seemed like everybody in the stall was the seller, and it appeared as though they were protecting the loaves with their lives—there was no way he was going to steal from them successfully. But the third stall he found was literally empty and his heart raced at the opportunity nature presented before him. There appeared to be no one watching the loaves, but Peter was cautious; he stood at the farther side of the road watching the stall, he wanted to be absolutely certain that it was safe to steal from this particular stall. The ten minutes he spent standing at the other side gave him enough info about the bread vendor. The occupier of the stall was a young lady who found her excitement in flirting with a vulcanizer whose shop was about three kiosks away. Occasionally, she would come to her stall at every three or four minutes to check and count the loaves before rushing back to continue her coquetry with the dirty old man. The young boy waited for the lady to check on her loaves again and return to her flirt before taking his action. As soon as she left, Peter went to the table bearing these loaves, grabbed two big ones and ran. He ran in a different direction from where he came; he was not going to stop until he reached home. But he stopped. Something made him stop. At the left side of the road was a shop where children’s clothes of different types and sizes were sold. Two particular pairs of shirts and trousers displayed on a hangar in front of the shop caught Peter’s attention. Peter desperately wanted these clothes; he could give anything to have them, he could swap the loaves of bread he was clutching in his hands. He could afford to spend one more night with an empty stomach. But he knew too well that the seller of these clothes would not give him the treasures for only two loaves of bread. However, no matter what, Peter was not going to leave here without the clothes. No matter what. The shop was even more closely guarded than the shops that flanked it on either side. Before this particular shop were buyers pricing the clothes and negotiating with the trader; some buyers were paying while some others people were just checking out the clothes. Peter desperately wished and prayed no one would buy his favourite clothes. He looked around, searching with his eyes for any other clothes-shop that was not as crowded as this one, there was no other shop concerned about people’s sartorial delights. As he looked around, he spotted a kiosk where apples were sold. Then a brilliant idea struck his tiny head. He was going to create a distraction. Leaving the spot where he stood, he walked to the table and picked one fresh apple. He was very stealth; and because he was a little boy, no one discovered him take the fruit. Peter didn’t need the apple, no amount of apples would curb his hunger. The apple was just a distraction. He returned to the side of the clothes-shop and waited. As usual, no one took a second glance at Peter. Then a woman screamed from the opposite road. It was the fruiterer. In those times, any person being robbed always instantly raised a hue and cry. The victims always expected immediate response from pedestrians, negotiators and retailers alike—and they always got the response from those law abiding citizens who joined in the fracas with alacrity in the eagerness to capture the bolting villain and pass instant judgements. “Help! Someone has stolen one of my apples!” The woman screamed at the top of her voice. Pedestrians stopped in their tracks, and fellow traders forgot their goods as they all stared at the alarmed fruiterer. Even the hen on a slaughter-table ceased its shrieks for a moment to understand the human's sudden outburst. The fruiterer was dramatic; she jumped up and down in agitation, she loosened her scarf and tied it round her waist like someone ready for a brawl. The scarf was tied in such a forceful manner that people watching would think the fabric was the cause of her misfortune. She screamed and wailed. She ran forth and back—she had successfully caught the attention of people around. But there was no thief to chase. Other sympathizing market women held her and attempted to restrain her from harming herself over one lost apple. Peter watched all these with concentration and a thin smile almost crossed his lips. He had created the distraction he wanted. Every buyer’s attention was now directed towards the lamenting fruiterer. The man selling the clothes was also engrossed in hearing the victim’s sorrowful tale, so he walked towards the gathering crowd, leaving his goods with Peter Black. Everybody was excited about what had just happened— a thief had purloined an apple. This was the chance Peter was waiting for. When almost everyone was looking at the performing woman, Peter quickly moved closer to the shop and unhooked the hangers bearing the pairs; he didn’t wait to hear the shopkeeper’s scream for help. Peter took the path beside the clothes- shop and bolted. He didn’t stop to look back as he ran. He was very proud of his achievement; he now had two big loaves of bread, two pairs of clothes and an apple. He ate the apple while still on the run. He felt on top of the world. This was a bigger feat than what he had performed the first time he stole a loaf. As he made his way home, he believed he was the happiest person on earth. He had successfully stolen three items in one operation. Peter was gradually becoming a don in the business of thievery. But there was more to theft than the petty larceny of paltry loaves of bread. The first thing he did when he finally reached home was his regular personal ritual. He went to the back of the house and placed a few crumbs of bread on his mother’s grave. Then he took some bites for himself. After eating to satisfaction, he sat beside the grave and chatted for a little while with his imaginary mother. He wanted to tell her about what he did today, but he didn’t. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. He knew his mother wouldn’t approve of his actions, so he held his tongue. Peter wished he could have someone visible to talk to. The solitude was becoming painful and scary. He went into the house and held his new clothes. He liked the designs on them; they were the same pairs, just different colours—pink and blue. When he checked the backs of the shirts, an inscription was boldly written on them: BLACK NATION. Peter opened his eyes wide and smiled for the first time since his mother had passed away. What a coincidence, he thought. His surname was Black and he had stolen two shirts bearing the same name on them. He decided to nickname himself Black—his surname. When Black wore the clothes, they fit him perfectly.

Painful death indeed

following

It is so pathetic

Now, no one can stop you from becoming a full fledged criminal

ohhh,,,, this is such a painful exit,,,, at such a young age,,, he has witness dis? hmmmm

Episode 3 . Chapter One - IV A month after his mother's demise, Black was evicted from the house. The deluge that came in the night had not ceased, and yet before the deluge, the night had been quiet, eerily so. But when the rain poured, it brought with it a special kind of coldness. The night had been too cold for Peter to endure with his usual equanimity. The rain that had started had been supported with series of heavy breeze. His mother's blanket had done little to shield him from the iciness of the weather. The roof was leaking, too, so Black crouched himself at one corner of the dilapidating building. He wished his mother was with him in this darkness, he would feel safer if she were here. Now, Black was terribly afraid; afraid of the world, of the bleak future that awaited him. The ten-year-old child was not unlike a homeless kitten. The morning came and the rain still hadn't stopped, and Black lay on the cold floor, shivering. The same ailment which had claimed his mother was gradually falling him, too. He could not rise up to prepare for school; he was running fever and his temperature was rising even in the cold. There was no one to take care of him. He was starving, too; hunger was ravaging him, and he had no strength to go out today and steal his food. The iron-black clouds that had masked the sky this early morning, and had threatened to punish the day with an heavier downpour, had now hid themselves behind grey veils of the morning mist. Although the cold still abided with its lamentations, the sodden trees remained standing, as still and as solemn as witnesses to a funeral cortege. However, the initial rainstorm of the night was gradually thinning into a drizzle. Black was still shivering under the hole-ridden blanket when three men came into the house. One of the men was fashionably dressed in his royally local attire, and he looked wealthier than the other men who flanked him on either sides. Black knew the rich man; he was the infamous Chief Salami; the criminal was now coronated because he was rich. The chief was responsible for scaping the butter off Black's bread. Salami was the friend and business partner of Peter's father. They had both siphoned some money but Peter's father was the unlucky partner in the crime; he had been apprehended and jailed. Peter's father refused to give up his partner, even under series of torture by the police, all was because Salami had promised to take care of his partner's family all through Black's father's time in jail until he returned to receive his rightful share of the loot. And Salami had kept this promise; he provided for Peter and his mother. Both mother and child lived in affluence. Peter attended the best school and ate whatever he wanted. He had no problem in the world, until his father died in prison. Then the paradise became a wilderness. Salami had immediately ceased taking care of them as soon as Peter's father's demise reached him. He denied ever knowing them and forced them out of the house, making sure they left with nothing. His plans had been successful; he had bribed the wardens to poison the prison. Salami was greedy, he didn't want to part with half of the loot, and when the boy's father was almost due for his release, Salami had him killed. He knew his friend had disclosed to his wife all that had happened, so Salami decided that the less he had anything to do with the dead man's family the better it would be for him. The news about the prisoner's death reached Salami's ears first. The same night he heard the news, Salami visited his friend's wife and tried to seduce her; but the beautiful woman had denied him access. Even after two years of her husband's incarceration, she still remained faithful to her marriage. Clouded with anger for refusing him, Salami had slapped the woman and informed her that the husband she was so devoted to had died in prison; then he had pushed the poor woman and her son out of the house. Peter's mother, weeping, had taken her son's hand and they had gone to her husband's house he had been developing prior his arrest. The next day, she had gone to the prison to collect her husband's corpse; she buried him in the back of the old building. Now six moths later, Peter had buried his mother beside his father. The young boy was still shivering under the blanket as he watched the three men approach. Black didn't know the other two men, but Salami was the man he hated with passion; his mother had told him the truth about Chief Salami's evil deeds. He swore to avenge his parents' deaths on the wicked chief. How he was going to do it, he didn't know, but he was going to avenge. Every breath he took now was that of vengeance. It was wrong to think that a small fish like him would be able to fight off the leviathan called Salami. Salami approached him and asked, "Young boy, what is your name? Who are you?" Peter Black was naturally a dark-skinned boy, but hunger and lack of proper bathes had made him darker and smaller than his years. Chief Salami did not recognise the boy whom he had chased from their home six months earlier. "What is your name, young man?" Salami asked again. Although circumstance had forced Peter Black to become a thief, he still didn't know how to lie. He hadn't learned how to become a liar. He replied: "My name is Peter Black." The older man recoiled back in surprise. The carefully looked at the boy this time. He roughly pulled the blanket off of the little boy to get a complete view of the son of the friend he had had killed. He could recognise the boy now. The little thin thing had become thinner; the child was visibly suffering from nutritional deficiencies. Salami was amazed at what starvation could do to the human body. He bent over the boy and asked, "Are you the same Peter Black, the son of Ade Black?" The little boy spoke with effort, "Yes, I am, sir." Politesse was a virtue already stamped on him since cradle. "You sent us away, sir." Salami was amused at the little boy's reply. He knew the boy was dying; he would definitely die soon if he had no proper care. Salami liked the boy when they were still living healthy. Peter was a sharp, intelligent, jovial and polite boy. This boy's reply gave him a reminiscence of that brilliant and healthy boy he knew. He wished things had gone in a different direction. He wished he did not have to choose between money and his friend. But he was willing to do it again if the situation repeated itself; he could never trade fortune for friendship. "Do you know why I sent you and your mother away?" The boy did not reply at first; he was finding it very hard to find his voice, and he was becoming gradually dizzy. Chief Salami asked the question again, and Blac forced himself to reply, "Yes, sir." "Where is your mother?" Salami asked. He wanted to see Black's mother. He wanted to see what had become of her. The stupid woman would have become thin and ugly, he thought. He smiled at himself when he thought about how surprised ashamed the little boy's mother would be on seeing him. He would mock her. He would laugh at her. He would make her life another hell. He noticed that the boy was saying something, but he could not hear his words. "Speak up, boy, where is your mother?" "She is dead, sir." The answer shocked Salami. He never thought that his friend's wife would die, too, the same year she lost her husband. He smiled to himself. His secrets were now totally safe, almost safe, save for the little brat here. This one was not a problem to him; he knew what to do about this unimportant variable. Salami gleefully rubbed his hands together like politician who had just won an election. The men who accompanied him stood at one corner of the room watching the man and the child. They apparently worked for the chief. Salami was still smiling when the boy said, "I buried her in the backyard." He didn't at first understand the boy's words, "Buried who?" "I buried her in the backyard, beside my father." "What!" Salami screamed incredibly. "You mean your parents are buried in the backyard?" "Yes, sir." Black replied weakly. "One my own land?" Salami screamed. Peter didn't understand. What did the man mean by 'his own land'? The land didn't belong to him. The land belonged to his father. His mother had told him that the piece of land and the house was theirs. It was the property left behind by his father. Now this evil man was calling it his own land. That wasn't fair, it was cheating, wickedness. But Peter could do nothing about this; he was too small and young to claim his right. He wanted to speak but his voice would allow him no more word. "You this bastard! How dare you bury your mother on my land?" Salami was very angry now. The men approached the chief and one of them said, "The rain has stopped, we should go to the second site since we can't find any thug here." The men were Chief Salami's muscles; protecting the chief and attacking his opposers were their jobs. Today, they were on the hunt to deal with any hoodlum that might be occupying any of the chief's properties. "Before we leave, you have something to do for me," he pointed at the shivering boy and said, "This one is also a trespasser." "What should we do about him, sir?" The other muscle asked, "Should we through him out?" "No, don't throw him out." Chief Salami replied. "Take him away. Kill him and dump his corpse into the river. Use my car." Without further ado, one of the men grabbed Black like a piece of sack and carried him out of the house. They put him in the back seat of the Volvo outside and drove away. Salami stayed at the entrance of the house and watched as the muscles transport the sick boy to where they would kill him. Peter himself was too weak to protest against the men. He had stopped shivering, but still very weak. A quite intense sun had come out to watch over the world. And the birds had vacated their nests to sing among trees and on top of electric poles. Those who had initially used their umbrellas against the rain were now using it against the heat; an irony of nature, a boomerang of nature. When they had driven to a secluded location beside the rushing stream that always flowed into the large river in the city square, the men stopped the car and carried out the weakling. He was so light that the man carrying him almost didn't feel his weight. The boy just remained withered in his hands. But his eyes were open, sharply open, watching the men with pleading eyes. Black knew what they were going to do to him but he could not beg them to show him mercy; he was too weak to speak, he could only plead with his eyes. He was placed by the bank of the stream. "How do we do it?" One man asked the other. "Let's strangle him." "It would be faster if we broke his neck." "We can stab him or slit his throat." "His blood would stain the stream." "Who cares? His body would be discovered anyway, even if we give him euthanasia. I don't have my knife. Do you have yours?" "Yes, I have my knife with me." "Then do it." The man who had carried him out of the car brought out his knife and approached the boy. Black watched him as he came. He resigned himself to what was about to be. His eyes didn't register any fear. The man bent Black's head backward and put the blade of the knife against the neck. The knife drew blood immediately. *******************************************************

Black will not die

Nawa! D hrt of man is desperately wicked

What! eyaaa

Pity you

Oh my Goodness I can't believe he did that to a small boy Oga o

God I'll surely punish this man for the wicked act

hmmmmmm,,,, this is wickedness of d highest order

Episode 4 . "Are you really going to do it?" The man's partner asked. He still held the blade at the child neck when he replied, "I don't want to, but I have to do it." "If you don't want to do it, then you don't have to do it." The partner replied as he brought out a cigarette box, took out a stick and lit it. He inhaled the smoke deeply as he sucked. "What about Chief?" "To hell with Chief," the smoker replied, "This is a child for crying out loud. We have our own children, remember? And besides, the killing of helpless children is not our kind of job." The man with Black nodded his head in agreement as he looked at the boy. The blood from the boy's neck had flowed on the knife. He took the knife away immediately. The he asked his partner: "What are we going to tell the chief?" "We'll tell him we've done the job, of course. I can see that you have cut the child, we'll show the bloodstain on the knife to Chief. Simple. He'll believe it." The man with the knife faced the little boy and said, "You are a very lucky boy, you're not going to die today. If you want to continue staying alive, just make sure you never return to that house where we found you. Do you understand me?" Black nodded weakly. "Good," The man said and extracted a currency from his pocket, "Take this money, buy yourself some food and stay of trouble." The men left him there at the bank of the stream, got into their car and drove off. Black lay there, with the money given to him firmly clutched in his fist. Even as weak as he was, he would not release the money without a fight; the money was his ticket to life. Ten minutes after the men had departed, Peter dragged himself towards the stream and drank from it. Then with effort, he stood on his feet. He felt very dizzy and leaned against a tree. He waited for the dizziness to clear a little before taking some slow steps. Slowly but surely, Black walked to the open where food items were sold. He staggered to a kiosk and bought some hot buns. The snacks were delicious but Black didn't feel the taste; he just knew that he was eating something edible. The vendor gave him a return change for what he bought and Black walked slowly to a quiet place to eat his food. He ate five balls of the buns and drank from the stream that would have received his blood had the men not show him kindness. He was feeling less hungry now but the fever still about him had not alleviated. He still felt weak and his temperature was high. He lay under the tree by the stream and thought about what had happened to him this morning. He thought about the evil Chief Salami. He thought about his parents. He thought about the men who had been ordered to kill him but had refused to do it. He thought about himself; he was thinking about what tomorrow would bring him when he drifted off to sleep under the tree. By the time he woke up in the late afternoon, his voice was returning, and so was migraine. It was as if someone was testing a hammer on his skull. The headache was getting worse. He staggered to his feet and held his head in both hands, crying out loud. He cried with pain, cried helplessly, calling on his mother who would never come. He staggered back to the busy street; his body dirty and full of soot. The clothes he had stolen were torn and slowly becoming rags too. The other pair had been left in the house. He had forgone that, since he had been seriously warned never to return to the house. As he wobbled down the street, people avoided him like a plague. No one showed him kindness; some considered him a little vagrant, others called him a mad child. Peter hated them all; they were wicked people, he decided. His parents had been kind to people in their lifetimes. They had even shown benevolence to total strangers, so why couldn't these people show him kindness in return? So, Peter concluded that his parents were the only nice people in the world. Maybe it was wrong to be nice after all. He ate the remaining balls of buns with him. The food was only able to curb his hunger, not his headache. Raising his eyes up he saw a chemist's shop and went into it. The woman behind the desk looked down on him as if he were a maggot that had managed to crawl out of a latrine pit. "Please ma'am. I have headache." Black told her. The woman stared at him incredulously, as if he had just told her to find an ocean to jump into. "Excuse me?" The lady said. "My head is killing me, ma'am." Black groaned. "And the oracle told you I'm the cause of the headache, right? Watch that wall, don't taint it with your filthy body." "I'm sorry, ma'am." Black stepped away from the white wall and said, "Please ma'am. I need medicine for my headache." The woman regarded Black for a moment and said, "Do you think we run a charity organisation here? You think this is the headquarters of WHO?" "What's a WHO, ma'am?" "World Health Organisation, silly." "I don't understand what you mean ma'am. Please give me something to kill this headache, ma'am, before it kills me." "All the drugs here are for sale, boy. Get your vile self out of here before the customers begin to complain. Black was about to exit the shop when he remembered the money given him by one of the thugs. He quickly dipped his hand into his pocket and extracted the money. The lady collected some of the money and gave him a satchet of Paracetamol. "Take two tablets now and another two in the night before you sleep." "Thank you, ma'am. I'm very grateful." Black left thhe drug store. He returned to the stream and gulped down the drugs with some water. Then he leaned against a tree, his eyes shut. Soon, the placebo effect began to manifest and the headache was slowly relieving him. He wanted to return to his house, he wanted to stay close to his mother. He was worried about her, but he knew he could not visit her, he dare not. Suddenly, the weather transformed; the sky was changing her garments, lizards were beginning to crawl into hole, roosters about to jump on branches, birds attempting to fly into thejr nests. Night was gradually approaching. It was during this process of atmospheric transformation that the thought about where to lay his head occurred to Black. He was definitely not going to pass the night under the tree beside the stream; the cold that would ravage his convalescing body, not to talk of the millions of mostquitoes that would feed on him before dawn. ****************************************************

Dis is so sad n pathetic, hmmmmmm!!!

cruel world

Peter, u have really suffered o

God will see you through

Hmmmm,,,, such a pitiful life he is living,,,, pple are so wicked

black you have really suffered oh...

this suffering would make Black have hatred for humans

hmm Oga u killed the father and u still ordered they should kill the child don't worry nemesis would catch up with u....

next update. ...

Episode 5 . He stood up and returned to the busy street; the street appeared somewhat busier because labourers and professionals were beginning to return home from work. Even the market men and women were already locking up their shops and kiosks, except for the few traders whose goods were sold better only at nights. The little boy walked among the pedestrians; he didn't fit among these respectable and well-dressed people. Unlike Black, these people had their destinations; there were fathers, mothers, children and relatives waiting for them to come home. They had roofs over their heads and warm beds for them to rest the heads. They were nothing like this homeless boy walking among them; the boy who knew not what tomorrow would bring, the boy whose future seemed particularly bleak. It was now totally dark, but Black didn't stop walking. He walked far, far away from the market square. He had initially thought about sleeping in one of these vacated shops but he couldn't find one not under lock and key, except for the few palm oil kiosks that had been so greased that anyone who lingered therein would be soaked with the oil. He needed a place where he would not have to add more dirt to the filthiness of self. The moon shone brightly in the sky and the stars were blinking like a man with seeds of pepper in his eyes. Cold, once again, was descending; Black began to feel chilly again. He wished he had taken his mother's blanket when he was being evicted from the house. Even though the roof of the house was always a sieve whenever the sky wept, and the walls were cracked with enough openings to accommodate a boxer's knuckle, the house still felt like home to Black. And the ejection from this house was the extremest depravity that could be subjected on his person; an act of wickedness only matched by the demise of his mother. Then far ahead, Black caught the silhouette of something shaped like a bridge, but he was not entirely sure. It was too dark to be certain of what one saw from that distance until one was close enough to it. As Black walked faster towards what he thought he saw, he prayed it was really a bridge. He had never reached this part of the city in his entire life but he could recall that his father had once driven him and his mother on a bridge. He was still too young then, he could not even recall what had warranted the trip or where they were headed. But he could vividly remember seeing vagrants and beggars sleeping on the sidewalks of the bridge. Black was sure that many of these wretched people had chosen the sides of the express as their homes. Those times when the younger Peter was looking at those impoverished through the glass of his father's car, he never considered the thought that he would one day fall among the class of these poor, pitiful human beings, but here he was today. He could now see it more clearly; it was truly a bridge. Black sighed inwardly, he was going to pass the night here. But unlike those vagrants he had beheld, he was not going to sleep on the bridge, he would spend the night under the bridge. He walked into the dark abyss of the bridge's underside. This place was less cold. The covering of the strong concrete that made up the bridge provided a considerable protection against the unfavourable weather of the night. It was now so late that everywhere was gradually getting deserted. Soon, the motorists drove their vehicles to their homes, the night hawkers closed for the day, the traders packed their goods and left for their houses; silence finally ruled in the city. The bright moon above cast its light on the massive bridge, the bridge in turn cast its gloom on the ground beneath; the shadow it created was so enormous that Black wondered if King Kong stationed itself on the edge of the bridge, waiting to devour the homeless boy. Black found a comfortable part of the bridge and lay himself there. He was so tired from walking such a great distance that he slept off as soon as he closed his eyes. He was even oblivious of the swarm of mosquitoes that celebrated his arrival. He had barely enjoyed a half-hour shut-eye when he woke up again. It wasn't the mosquito bites that woke him, it wasn't a sudden insomnia, and it definitely wasn't the cold. He was woken up by the repeated taps from another man's hand. Black's eyes had adjusted to the darkness of his environment, he woke up and saw three grown-ups staring at him. Two of the three men were muscular, and they were wearing T-shirts. Black noticed that the third man's dressing was somehow silly. The man was without any visible muscles and, in addition, as slim as any human could possibly be, yet, he was wearing a muscle shirt. Didn't you have to possess some muscles to wear a muscle shirt? As Black stared at these three grinning men before him, he knew that they didn't come bearing good tidings. If given a choice, he would rather be at the mercy of Chief Salami's thugs than at these devils smiling at him. Black noticed that these men had something in common; they were all smoking something that didn't smell like cigarette. "What is your name, boy?" The toughest-looking one among the thugs asked. "My name is Black, sir." The man looked puzzled at hearing the name. The other men were lighting another stick of whatever they were smoking. "Black? As in colour Black?" The man asked again. "Yes, sir." "Is that your real name or nickname?" "It's my surname, sir." "Then what is your first name, young lad?" The man's voice was getting thicker. Black could sense the note of irritation in the man's voice. "My first name is Peter, sir." "Why didn't you tell me that before?" "I'm sorry, sir." "Were you trying to play smart with me?" "No, sir." "Were you trying to make me angry?" "No, sir." "But you've made me angry. I'm really angry now." "But you're smiling, sir." "Good observation. I smile when I'm angered. Do you know why I'm angry, Peter?" "Because I didn't tell you my name, sir?" The thug shook his head. "No, it's not that. Well, not only that, actually." "Why are you angry, sir?" The man stared at the boy for a moment and said, "Boy, if you fall into a lion's pit, do you know what will happen to you?" "The lion will eat me, sir." "Do you know why the lion will eat you?" "Because it's hungry?" The man shook his head again, "No, not that." "Because it's bloodthirsty?" "No, not that either. The lion will eat you up because you have invaded its territory." "But in the Bible, the lion didn't eat Daniel." "Exactly! The lion didn't eat Daniel because his name was Daniel. They would have eaten him up and used his bones to pick their teeth if his name was Peter." This analogy was too complex for the young boy to comprehend. Black looked at the other men, they were smoking copiously and staring hard at him. The eyes of the slim man scared him most. Those eyes were granite hard and totally emotionless; they were like the eyes of an angry corpse. Black was momentarily more afraid of the slim man than of his muscular compatriots. The man speaking with Black continued, "Young boy, I have a very bad news for you." "Bad news, sir?" He wondered what news could possibly be worse than all the misfortunes he had experienced in the last couple of months. "The bad news is that you are in a lion's pit and we are the lions." This statement befuddled Black; he was finding it hard to picture the three thugs going down on their fours and transforming into a pack of carnivores with manes. "You have invaded our privacy." The dead eyes spoke. Black looked at the three lions and asked, "Are you going to eat me?" The third thug grimaced, "Aw! Of course not. That's disgusting. Do we look like cannibals to you?" "I'm sorry for invading your territory, sirs. I'm going to leave now." Black wondered where he would go in this silent night if he vacated this place for the thugs. He wished he also had muscles, he would beat the three men to a pulp if he were powerful. He had seen a movie where a single cowboy beat up five other cowboys. Black wished he was a cowboy and had a horse of his own, and a whip. He made to rise but was firmly held down by the first man. The man's hand was big and strong, it hurt Black's shoulder. "Not that fast," The man said, "You have to atone for your sin." He turned to his friends and asked, "Guys, what punishment should we mete out to the sinner?" The second thug stared at Black with those deathly eyes again and a wicked smile came to his lips. He removed the stick from between his teeth and said, "Let's stone him." ********************************************************

Oh God, the lord is ur strength

Already?

dat man is very wicked

God! Why are pple heartless?

Why is your life in mess

stone him???? why dis kind of judgment???? eeeeiiii wickedness of d highest order

God we see u through

Black u have suffered more than a thief that has being caught stealing

hmm make una stone am nah

shah Black ur suffering is for a certain time u would enjoy later

next update. .....

Stone him??? Just for invading ur territory? I hope Dis guys r joking n not gonna do DAT dastard act sha!!!

Episode 6 The other men cheered to this suggestion. The young boy sighed. He was tired; tired of life, tired of being afraid, tired of the sufferings, tired of everything. If these men were going to stone him to death, so be it. He had tried his best to stay alive but life didn't work well for him. He was not going to plead for his life; he was not going to embarass himself and beg these hooligans to spare his life when he knew that they would not; they were angry lions that had gone out of control because their 'territory' was invaded. He wished he had died under the blade of one of Chief Salami's thugs. He knew it was better, quicker and less-painful to die by the razor than by the numerous stones hurled at your vulnerable body. Well, let them do it and get it over with. They would be doing him a favour; he longed to see his Mami again. But to Black's utter surprise, instead of stones, the thugs were bringing out new sticks of what they were smoking from a bag the second man slung over his shoulder. He was curious to know what they were smoking; he had never before seen or smelt those kinds of cigarettes. He asked: "What are those?" The slim one smiled at him and answered, "They are called Cannabis, my dear." "Cannabis sativa," said the first thug. "Indian hemps," declared the second. "Ganja," uttered the slim thug. "Cathedral," the first thug took it up again. "Wand of Jah," Second. "Dirty Rose," Slim. It was as if the trio was having a battle of soubriquets. Black was confused; he didn't know what to believe, he was staring at the men as they continued giving strange names to the sticks. His first thought, according to the slim man's statement, was that they were going to throw the stems at him. The slim man noticed the confusion written on his face and said, "You are going to smoke what we're smoking." The man lit a stick and handed it to the boy. Black held it and looked at the men, confused. "Smoke it," the men ordered in unison. Black slowly brought the stick to his lips. He gingerly held it there with his teeth. The men watched him and laughed at his inexperience. The boy was totally at sea about what to do next. He wondered how the men were able to blow smokes out of their mouths and nostrils like dragons. "Suck on it," one of the men said. "How?" Black asked between his teeth. "Like you would suck on your mother's breasts." The slim one said and the other men laughed. Black was offended and angry at the man's statement. He wished he was also older and more powerful. He would not stand anyone disrespecting his mother's memory. And to supplicate his lack of physical strength, he rewarded the slim man with a look filled with hatred. "Suck on it," the first muscled man commanded again. Black pulled a sharp drag on the cigarette. He immediately began to cough serially. He could not stop coughing for a long time. The men laughed at him the more; it was an uproarious mirth that resonated and abused the quietness of the night. Black desperately wished that someone would come around and rescue him from these evil men. His wish was not borne of fear but of exhaustion. He was getting tired of the act these men were subjecting him. His coughs had barely subsided when the slim man asked him to suck again. "You have to do it slower this time. Watch me." The hooligan took a slow but long drag at the stick and blew the smoke in Black's face. The little boy coughed fitfully again and the men resumed their laughter. "Smoke the damn cigarette!" The second thug suddenly growled at the boy. Black sucked the weed and coughed again. The men hooted maniacally at him as he smoked, they were having a nice time. When he finished the first stick, the thugs handed him another. The little boy was made to smoke five stick until he refused to smoke anymore. They offered him a sixth stick but he refused to take it. He was getting dizzy already; his vision was getting blurry and his headache was returning. "I can't take anymore," Black broke out, "I'm not feeling well." "Smoke this last one," the first thug encouraged. "No," replied the boy, "You said the same thing with the second one." "I promise, this is the last one." "It's making me feel sick. I can't take anymore." He had barely finished the sentence when the slim thug suddenly dealt him a vicious blow on the side of the face. The attack sent the boy reeling on the slab of concrete beside him. The slab gave him a sharp pain at the pelvic region. A little boy of his age could have screamed out in pain but Black did not even give a groan. Painfully and slowly, he rose up again. The left side of his face was instantly grotesquely swollen. "Take the damn cigarette!" "No, I will not." Another blow landed squarely on his right eye. That, too, was swollen shut. This time he fell down on the hard floor without the will to rise. "Get up." The first thug ordered, but Black remained lying down there. He crouched himself painfully, almost into a ball. His eyes were shut, his side hurt him terribly and his head ached with a splitting threat. "This little brat is trying to pull stubbornness on us." Observed the piqued second thug. "We'll teach you to always obey orders." Said the slim thug. "And accord respect to your elders." The first thug. The three men, the three touts, began to administer beatings on the poor boy. They kicked him vigorously, one of them carried him high up and threw him hard on the floor. Blood spurted out of his nose and mouth. There was a deep gash on his forehead where he had it on the hard floor. He was beginning to lose consciousness. The men had ripped the shirt off his body, and his skin was grazed and bruised. He was racked with pains all over. Then one of the men, the slim one, brought out a small knife and slashed Black's back. The boy cried out! The man advanced to stab him in the neck but was held back by the first thug. "We don't need the mess. He'll soon be dead, anyway. We can't have a corpse in our territory." The man turned to Black and said, "Boy, stand up and run for your life before we change our minds." Black attempted to stand but fell back, the sharp pain that came from his legs was unbearable. His legs were useless; something must have broken. Because he could not stand, let alone walk, he resorted to crawling. The men watched him grimly as he slowly circled about before them. At first, he hit the concrete because he could not see clearly. He was bloody and weak, but he managed to crawl his way out of the men's territory. The moon shone on his Unclad body as he slowly crawled down the quiet road, the blood that gushed from his back forming a trail behind him. Even a snail would have taken offence at his slow pace, but each crawl sent a shiver of pains all over his body. There was a time he wanted to surrender to the darkness looming over his consciousness but the voice in his head urged him to heave one more crawl after another. One crawl at a time, slowly but surely, he had to move on. One, two, three, rest. One, two, three, rest. He was in the middle of a long but quiet street. It was dangerous to remain here; he had heard many stories about desperate ritualists that populated the city. They would find nothing wrong in beheading helpless young boys like him. He crawled forward, more determined than before. He decided that even if he was going to die, he wasn't going to lose any part of his body to any ritualist. He heard the crickets chirping in the distant as he heaved painfully. He even thought he spotted a parliament of owls among the few trees in the street because he could see many pairs of shinning orbs in the branches. For over an hour, Black crawled limb-by-limb away from his attackers. He remained immobile for a few minutes, exhausted and out of breath; the pain was killing him. When he thought he could not go on anymore, he spotted a church with a concrete cross proudly erected on its roof. With the last ounce of strength in him, he crawled towards the chapel. He passed out when he reached the entrance.

Wat a life self

Ha! What a life. Too much suffering for a boy of his age.

You suffered a lot

hmmm

hmm Black u have suffered

hmm hope someone would finally vindicate u

hope this ur suffering does not make u become ruthless

hmm 5 wraps of cigarette hmm this is too much for a boy of ur age

next update.....

Sorry about this Black

hmmmmm,,,, wat a wicked world we live in

Episode 7 . Gently came the soft hand that tapped the poor boy; even the kindly tap sent him a mildly painful sensation on his bruised skin. He slowly opened his eye to behold a strange environment. He was in a neat room, and the first thing that caught his eyes was the poster on the wall; it was the picture of The Last Supper. There was Jesus Christ sitting between some men. From the picture, it was evident that the men were dinning, as the big table bore different dishes and goblets. The image on the wall momentarily caused a rumble in his stomach. He suddenly felt a pang of hunger. He looked round the neat room; the walls were painted blue and the ceiling white. A checkered carpet covered the floor and he discovered that he was lying on a large bed that would have comfortably slept four people; the covering of the bed was white, the blanket, too. Beside the bed was a small table bearing syringes and drugs. He wanted to rise but he was too weak to lift himself. As he tried to fathom what had happened to him, an old man stepped into the room. The man was clad in a white cloak that draped from his neck right to his feet and the hair on his head was both greying and receding, at alarming rates. He was old enough to be the boy's grandfather; the grandfather he never knew. The man who fathered Peter's father had died long before Peter was born. The old man smiled when Peter opened his eyes. "You're finally awake!" The man beamed. Black asked, "Where am I?" "You have been unconscious for three days." "Where am I?" The boy asked again. "I found you three days ago at the entrance of the door, you were bloody and unconscious. What happened to you?" Black looked at the man suspiciously; he had grown to become wary of strangers because they always seemed to reward him with nothing but pains. A part of him was expecting the strange man to unleash on him a vicious slap; he had reflexively steeled his body for the attack but the slap did not come. His eyes caught the poster again and he said aloud: "I'm hungry." "Yes, you should be. You have been on drips since the past three days." The man went out of the room and returned with plates of steaming pounded yam and stew. The boy sat up and ate the food voraciously; he ate like an animal, he could not recall having eaten the food in all his life. He was barely swallowing a morsel before sticking another into his mouth. As Black dined pitifully, the priest watched the boy's ravaged body. The child had grown very thin from starvation, his body was bruised and swollen; there was a long line of wound on his back. The injury could have come only from a very sharp weapon. Seeing this boy, the priest recalled the holocaust of the Civil War he had experienced twelve years earlier. He recalled meeting one particular child during the time; the child, just about six years old, had been so thin with starvation that everybody wondered how he still remained alive and managed to trek to the refugee camp where cups of milk offered the malnutritioned infants. He recalled hearing the sordid story of that child. The boy, on hearing that food was being distributed in a neighbouring village many kilometres away, had left his own village and trekked Unclad through the forests and swamps for half a day. The child's will to live had moved everyone to tears as they listened to the little kid; his story had planted optimism in the minds of many of the war victims who had given up on life. While the child was walking through the forest, an unkindness of ravens, a murder of crows, an exhaltation of larks and a pack of vultures had accompanied him. After some times, the birds became bored with his journey and had flown to other parts to find more interesting activities, but the vultures remained stedfast; they were interested in picking out the thin filaments of flesh covering his bones. The little boy knew that he dared not rest or the vultures would immediately pounce on him; they could eat him up while he was still alive, so he had to continue remaining mobile and upright. As he trekked in the hot afternoon sun, some of the vultures had also chosen to follow him on foot; they were eagerly waiting for him to collapse so that they could have a new meal. But the boy didn't give them that pleasure; he trekked without respite to the food camp. The little boy was determined to live, against all odds. The tortured body of Black pulled at the priest's heartstring as much as the Biafra boy's story has done twelve years earlier. He felt as if the situation was a replay of circumstances. The compassion he had had for that child of over a decade earlier was now being directed towards this current one. After listening to the Biafra boy's story, the priest didn't know what became of the child after praying for all the children. He didn't know if the boy still remained alive thereafter or he had finally surrendered his soul to a better one in the afterlife. The priest had made a grave mistake for leaving that boy there in the camp, for he later learnt that depraved soldiers had stormed the camp and massacred the innocent famished civilians. The priest, on hearing the news of the genocide from the little transistor radio he owned, had broken and wept like a child. He should have taken the boy with him when he was leaving. He should have borne the responsibilty of protecting the child. But he didn't. He had left instead; he had rejected the boy. This was 1980; if he had taken care of the boy, the child would be eighteen years now, for the boy was only six years old when he had walked nak*d and dirty into the food camp. **************************************************** Now God had given him another chance; He had placed another child at his doorstep after twelve years. The priest knew without a doubt, without being told, that he had to protect this child. He would have to protect him from the harsh climate of this wicked world of diseases and starvation. God had given him another child. The priest had no child of his own. He had never married; he had become a sworn celibate at eighteen years old when his father collapsed and died on another woman during lovemaking; the other woman was not his father's wife. The woman had pushed his father's corpse off herself and had made a hasty retreat with only her wrapper. Later rumours had had it that the woman's husband had spelled his wife reproductive organ. This meant that any man who engaged in adulterous act with her would pay with his life. The priest's father was one of the numerous adulterers who had slumped and died on the promiscuous woman. There, while watching the reneging old hag, the priest had sworn never to engage in any form of sexuality with any woman. And there was no day he regretted his vow, even with the denial of an offspring. But the Creator had been kind to him; He had given him a first child which he rejected, He had now given him another, the priest was not going to reject this one. He knew a third would never come forth if he lost this one, too. As he watched poor Black, the tears that ran down the priest's cheeks were both of joy and sorrow. It was sad to see a boy of such minute senescence endure a suffering of such monumental proportion. The sight of the boy's wrecked body was too much on the ageing priest; his emotion got the best of him and he broke down right in front of Black. The priest knelt before him, threw his face on the floor, wailed audibly and prayed to the Almighty. Black, however, on the other hand, paused at the moment of putting a morsel into his mouth and watched the old man's strange actions. He was wondering what had gone wrong with the kind man. He watched the man's performances with admiration. As he watched, he felt a certain connexion with this strange man; there was a feeling of belonging here. He felt like he could trust this man, he could tell him anything. The man could solve his problems; if he couldn't solve them, he would share in them and make the problems bearable. Unlike the other people he had met, this old man was the first person to sympathise with him. After his prayers, the priest stood up and gave Black a weak smile, the boy could not return the smile. The priest walked towards the boy and sat beside him on the bed. "What is your name, young man?" Amidst the feeling of comfort he just welcomed, Black instantly cast a wary look at his host for the question asked. That was the same question Chief Salami had asked him before ordering for his execution. A part of him believed that the priest could be a homicidal maniac. The priest caught the fear in the boy's hesitation, he placed a reassuring hand on Black's bony shoulder and said, "You can talk to me. No one is going to hurt you again, I promise." There was a look of genuine pity on the man's countenance and this made the boy relax. When he spoke, his voice sounded better because he had eaten good food and drunk pure water; the victuals were already giving him better strength. His lost flesh would be regained if he continued everyday with this kind of meal. "My name is Peter Black." "Where are your parents?" "My parents are dead, sir." The priest sighed at the reply; his intuition had told him that the boy was an orphan. It was only mostly orphans whose situations would be rendered so pitiful. "What happened?" The priest asked. Then the boy let it out; he told the old man everything that had happened to him after his father's imprisonment. He told the priest about all the circumstances that surrounded his parents' deaths. He spoke about Chief Salami and his own juvenile decision to avenge his parents' demise. Black narrated everything, he left out nothing. The priest listened to the boy with concentration; he did not attempt to interrupt Black with any question for fear of the boy clamming up and refusing to speak further. New rivulets of tears escaped the priest's eyes as he listened to the boy. When the boy finished narrating his experience, the priest was filled with so much empathy he was forced to hug the boy very tight as he wept and prayed. "You are safe now. You are saved." He kept repeating. After some few minutes, the priest left the boy to rest; they both needed a little respite. Black slept again and dreamt about his mother. Mami was weeping. ***************************** *********************************************** And so Black continued to live with the priest whose name was Duba. Black soon became the right-hand boy of the priest whom he always accompanied to various religious gatherings and crusades. Throughout his moments with the man of God, Black had attended numerous revival meetings in various parts of the state. He had witnessed first-hand, among the various deliverance services, members of fundamentalist churches speak in tongues, and he had seen apparent cripples cast away their crutches or rise from wheelchairs tap-dance. On one occasion he had witnessed a blind man claim to have received his sight. There was a time when he had seen a woman scream and roll on the floor as one barefoot man dressed in a white gown continue to beat the unfortunate woman with a Bible and shouting 'Loose!' on her over and over like a parrot that knew only one phrase. Young and apparently naïve Black never believed any of the supposed miracles and deliverances, but his guardian, Priest Duba, didn't share in his profanity. Many times, due to his credibility gap, the priest had given him different soubriquets for an unbeliever; a doubting Thomas, the boy from Missouri, a waverer and a flibbertygibbet. But the boy could not help his dubiety in that section of religion phenomenon. He could just not bring himself to believe that a cripple with twisted limbs would suddenly rise up and walk, no matter how convincing it might be, or that someone without sight for a long time would suddenly regain his vision. To Black, everything was a clever show of legerdemain; not much unlike the sleigh of a magician's hand. Black strongly believed that all these wonders had always been orchestrated by an experienced preacher who was vast in all the buzzwords and phrases to lash his pathetic audience to a religious frenzy. And when it came to 'deliverance' they would perform the stance of a hypnotist on their chosen victims and thus bamboozle the crowd with their fraudulence. He pitied Priest Duba for being a believer of this religious hocus pocus. Just in the same vein, the priest pitied the young boy for being an unbeliever. If only the boy could read the handwriting on the walls. The Lord had been so good to him; He had brought him out of the darkness into the light. If not anything, at least his life had been saved many times. And most of all, he was no longer a pilferer; thievery had been totally wiped off his personality. Just two nights ago, Black had come across the priest's misplaced coin and had returned the money to its owner. The priest had not even discovered the coin missing until the boy placed it on his palm. It was almost hard to believe that this was the same boy who had stolen loaves of bread to stay alive. But despite Black's unbelieving nature in the branch of theology, Duba still remained optimistic about the possibility of the boy's faithfulness in Christ. There was no doubt that the boy was going to grow up to become a very great person. One of the priest's priests had prophesied fame in the boy's life; but how the boy would achieve that popularity was not revealed. And Priest Duba had sworn to protect Black and help him to accomplish that greatness. Black lived with Priest Duba for the next two years until the old man died. ***************************************************** And so Black continued to live with the priest whose name was Duba. Black soon became the right-hand boy of the priest whom he always accompanied to various religious gatherings and crusades. Throughout his moments with the man of God, Black had attended numerous revival meetings in various parts of the state. He had witnessed first-hand, among the various deliverance services, members of fundamentalist churches speak in tongues, and he had seen apparent cripples cast away their crutches or rise from wheelchairs tap-dance. On one occasion he had witnessed a blind man claim to have received his sight. There was a time when he had seen a woman scream and roll on the floor as one barefoot man dressed in a white gown continue to beat the unfortunate woman with a Bible and shouting 'Loose!' on her over and over like a parrot that knew only one phrase. Young and apparently naïve Black never believed any of the supposed miracles and deliverances, but his guardian, Priest Duba, didn't share in his profanity. Many times, due to his credibility gap, the priest had given him different soubriquets for an unbeliever; a doubting Thomas, the boy from Missouri, a waverer and a flibbertygibbet. But the boy could not help his dubiety in that section of religion phenomenon. He could just not bring himself to believe that a cripple with twisted limbs would suddenly rise up and walk, no matter how convincing it might be, or that someone without sight for a long time would suddenly regain his vision. To Black, everything was a clever show of legerdemain; not much unlike the sleigh of a magician's hand. Black strongly believed that all these wonders had always been orchestrated by an experienced preacher who was vast in all the buzzwords and phrases to lash his pathetic audience to a religious frenzy. And when it came to 'deliverance' they would perform the stance of a hypnotist on their chosen victims and thus bamboozle the crowd with their fraudulence. He pitied Priest Duba for being a believer of this religious hocus pocus. Just in the same vein, the priest pitied the young boy for being an unbeliever. If only the boy could read the handwriting on the walls. The Lord had been so good to him; He had brought him out of the darkness into the light. If not anything, at least his life had been saved many times. And most of all, he was no longer a pilferer; thievery had been totally wiped off his personality. Just two nights ago, Black had come across the priest's misplaced coin and had returned the money to its owner. The priest had not even discovered the coin missing until the boy placed it on his palm. It was almost hard to believe that this was the same boy who had stolen loaves of bread to stay alive. But despite Black's unbelieving nature in the branch of theology, Duba still remained optimistic about the possibility of the boy's faithfulness in Christ. There was no doubt that the boy was going to grow up to become a very great person. One of the priest's priests had prophesied fame in the boy's life; but how the boy would achieve that popularity was not revealed. And Priest Duba had sworn to protect Black and help him to accomplish that greatness. Black lived with Priest Duba for the next two years until the old man died. ***************************************************** h

Chii ,God where are u?

And now, he returns to his old ways

now he wil turn away 4rm christ

Hmm following

How will he now survive

What ll be come of him after d demise of his guardian

The priest's death is going to be a big blow to black,I just pray he doesn't go back to his old ways!!!

Episode 8 . Priest Duba had been battling with leukemia for over a decade. He never thought the disease would claim his life anytime soon because he had learnt to live with it. It got to a time when he believed he had been miraculously healed by God because he could no longer feel the pain of the infection. Besides, he never thought he would die now when he had an obligation to protect the child with him and help him become famous. But when he had suddenly slumped over his meal and woke up in a medical centre; the doctors had bluntly told him, at his insistence, that he had only forty-eight hours to live. But the doctors had been wrong, Priest Duba died in thirty-six hours. All through the time he was bedridden and when he gave his final breath, Black had stayed with him. For once, the young boy prayed to the God he never believed existed. He prayed that God, if He really existed, should spare the life of the priest. But Black's prayer was not answered. The few minutes before his death, Priest Duba had spoken to Black. "I pray for you everyday," The old man had whispered painfully, "I always pray that you find peace. I always pray you be successful in everything you do." Black was short of words; he knew of no reply to give the priest's confession. All he could bring himself to say was, "Thank you, Pa. Now you need to rest. You have to conserve your strength. You don't have to say anything now." Duba gave a brief but faint smile; a smile borne of pain and compassion for the poor little boy. "Soon, I'll be having all the rests I need." Two years of living with the priest and relating with other humans had rubbed well on Black. He was now mature enough to understand what the priest had just said. "Stop talking like that," Black cautioned. "Peter, I want you to listen very carefully to me. There is no denying the fact that my end is already iminent. My own life has ended but yours is just starting. You have a whole lot of opportunities ahead of you. The world out there is filled with only two kinds of people: the good and the bad. The bad ones outnumber the good by a hundred to one. What kind of person would you like to be categorised? You have to carve a life for yourself. Plan a good living for yourself; nobody is going to plan your future for you. The totem of your destiny lies on your palm. Don't waste time harbouring hatred. Don't spend your life seeking revenge; all these vices will only keep you many steps away from the good things you deserve. Give up revenge from your heart, let God be the judge of every circumstance. Let God decide the fate of the chief who destroyed your family. Spend your time doing better and more glorious things." The priest suddenly reared his head up from the bed and stared into Black's eyes as he said, "Promise me you won't seek revenge. Promise me, Peter, promise me now!" But Black was tongue-tied; he wanted to promise the man but he could not. The priest had been very kind to him; he had accepted him when the world rejected him. The old man had clothed and fed and put him in a school; he deserved to be promised, but Peter could not grant that promise. Giving up revenge was an impossible request. Chief Salami had taken everything that belonged to him, and part of his mission was to avenge his parents' deaths on him. Black had already promised his mother that he would take back all that was taken from them. He would have granted the promise to the priest if he had not promised his mother already. Chief Salami deserved to pay for all what he had done. "No, Pa, I'm sorry, I can't. Chief Salami killed my parents. I can't just let him go. I'm sorry, Pa, I can't promise you." Having said those words, Black noticed the immediate change in the man's countenance. He saw the mixture of disappointment and pity in the man's eyes. Black felt sorry for the man as much as the priest felt for him. A minute later, the priest gave his last word and gave up the ghost. "Thank you for being a part of my life." Duba said as he died. Hot salty tears rushed down Black's eyes as he watched the priest's corpse. The unseeing eyes still carried the expression of disappointment it had borne befor the mortal end. The nurses and doctors came around to resurrect the deceased. As the priest's chest was being pumped and punched, Black nursed a tiny hope that the old man would return to life, but resurrection was unfortunately not to be. Priest Duba had embarked on a journey of no return. The doctors gave up their efforts and covered the corpse with a white sheet. As he walked out of the hospital, Black returned the priest's last statement: "Thank you for being a part of my life." ******************************* The twelve-year-old boy was there when Priest Duba was being buried. He gathered a handful of the loose earth and poured it on the coffin placed in the dug grave, then he said his final farewell to his deceased saviour. A week after the burial, the priest apartment was ordered shut down by the church headquarters in Lagos. And because no one among the priest's colleagues knew about the relationship between Duba and the young boy, Black was sent packing from the quarters. And so Peter Black, the boy that was saved, the boy who was said to have a bright future, the boy who would become famous, was back on the streets. ************************************************** Roaming the streets with the backpack that contained everything he currently owned in the world; pairs of clothes, a toothbrush and toothpaste, an extra pair of sandals the priest had bought for him and the few sum of money he had been advised to save. Black decided, with a strange kind of boldness, to the house where he buried his mother. It had been two years since he had left her; he needed to pay her that visit, she needed to see that he had grown taller and looked healthier. He was no more wearing rags. He was now a normal twelve-year-old. He had changed from that little ten- year-old who lived in constant starvation. He was no more helpless; late Priest Duba had carved a better life for him. As he travelled towards the dilapidated building he had lived in, he thought about his deceased parents and Priest Duba. He could picture the three of them together in a place filled with happiness. He pictured his parents thanking the old priest for taking in their son. For the first time in a long while, a smile crossed Black's lips. Although he now had no home and there was nowhere for him to rest his head when the sky darkened, Black didn't allow any negativity to dwell in him. The priest had told him that the world was filled with an abundance of opportunities, only if you could see them and grab hold of them when they came our ways. Black was old and wise enough to take care of himself in this new world, this amazing world of opportunities. As the public bus transported him and a dozen other passengers through the roads, Black recalled having walked these same roads two years earlier when the wicked chief had evicted him from his father's house. The bus carried them past the bridge where he had been forced to smoke something nasty. He leaned his head out the window in the hope of catching one of those hoodlums that had beaten him up that late night, but of course, the thugs would not be there in the day; they only always came around in the nights to claim their territories; those deranged lions! In lieu of the hoodlums, underneath the bridge were different traders selling goods ranging from confectionery to cheap sartorial exhibitions. It had been two years since his last visit to this place. Black allowed a gratifying thought to cross his mind; maybe those thugs had eventually been apprehended by the police. Well, the hoodlums had called themselves lions. Lions didn't deserve to live among human beings, they were meant to live locked up in cages. Black hoped the thugs were really behind bars or in a federal prison, cutting down grass or breaking concretes or any other hard jobs condemned prisoners were usually subjected to doing. The world would be better off without that evil trio. They arrived at the big market and some passengers disembarked as new ones boarded the bus with their purchased vegetables and pepper. Black still remained in the bus, he had not reached destination. Of course, he had trekked past this market at ten years old, when he had no definite destination. But a lot had changed since the past twenty-five months; he now had a destination, even though he knew not what had become of the place he was heading. And he recalled that the chief's thugs had seriously warned him to stay away from the house. But Black could not stay away from his mother forever, he could not. This was his mother, he had every right to be with her. No child should be denied the comfort of his mother. The bus stopped at the station close to his destination and Black alighted. His father's house was not far away now, he was going to trek the rest of the way. Every close step he took to the house was a thump of apprehension to his heart. His naïve mind told him that Chief Salami was standing in front of the house, awaiting his arrival, his thugs standing on either side of him with their weapons drawn, and ready to make sure that they really killed him in the presence of the chief this time around. Black touched his neck, he could still feel the scar of the wound the knife had created when his throat was nearly slit. The knife had left a thin line in front of his neck. Most people that saw the mark had thought the young boy was suicidal; they believed he had attempted, albeit unsuccessfully, to hang himself with a thin rope. And the adults had wondered what could have driven the young lad to engage in self-annihilation. Priest Duba had been able to convince only a few of the ponderers otherwise. But to Black, the scar was not just any mark, it was a mark of redemption; that was the closest he had ever been to death. He fostered the scar with pride, like it was tattoo. He glorified in its significance. Black suddenly found himself standing before the house; the house in which he had lived with his mother, the house where his parents were buried. His father's house. Fear instantly gripped his heart at what he saw and he whimpered in terror. Before him was not the dilapidated house he had lived in but a magnificent one; a great architectural masterpiece of mammoth masonry. The building before him was a two-storey erection. It was painted brown and fenced round, with a big black gate serving as the only means of entrance into the compound beyond. Black was only able to confirm that he was not mistaken because of the heavy slab of concrete before the fence, he recalled that he and his mother had both played hide-and-seek around the massive slab one night before her fatal illness two months later. Evidently, his father's dilapidated house had been demolished and a new building had replaced it. But this was not what scared the boy. He had bought a loaf of bread to place on his mother's grave as he usually did, but it seemed like that was not going to be possible now. He rushed to the gate and knocked on it nervously. He needed to see. He needed to know! He beat the gate viciously many times until an angry old man opened the gate to scowl at him. Black didn't give a damn about the man's piqued expression; when the gate was opened and he saw the compound, Black broke down. Chief Salami had done him the cruellest thing imaginable. The entire floor of the compound had been cemented. Chief Salami had plastered his parents in the soil; he had trapped them in the earth. Peter Black wept. ****************************** "Young boy, why are you crying?" The perplexed gatekeeper asked. He could not understand what had warranted the little child's cry. And it was terrible to see a lad as young as this weep so pitifully. It was worse hearing the sound of his wails. Something emotionally aweful must have occurred to the little one, for the old man could not see on Black any visible bodily injury, at least no recent one. Every effort he made to pacify Black was not enough; no sweet words could mollify this boy from his hurtful fate. Black knelt there on the ground before the open gate and cried his heart out. He wept for everyone he had lost; his father, his mother, Priest Duba. The ground where he knelt was soon damp with his tears. "How may I help you, little boy?" How may I help you? The question reverberated in Black's head. The words came so strangely to him as if he was hearing them for the first time. How may I help you? What a funny question! How could anybody help him now? He wanted no one's help; it was too late for anyone to help him now, too late! Where were the helpers when he needed them? Where were they when his mother was dying? What help did anyone render when he was starving to death on the streets? No one came around to fight for him when he walked into the den of three mean lions. Now, all of a sudden, someone wanted to help him, but it was too late now; his fate had gone beyond redemption. Black shook his head in anger; he didn't want anyone's help. He would take care of himself. He would survive in this tumultous world. He now lived totally for vengeance. Not only Chief Salami but also humanity would pay dearly for all what had happened to him. The boy slowly rose up from his kneeling position and wiped the tears off his face. The time for self-pity had passed. He needed to start his journey to the road of vengeance. He saw that the gatekeeper was still staring at him with a concerned pair of eyes. "How may I help you?" The ridiculous question escaped again from the elderly man's mouth. Black stared straight into the man's eyes and firmly said, "I don't need your help, I don't need anyone's help. I can take good care of myself. To hell with help!" Then he walked out on the man. As he walked away, Black's heart was filled with hatred; hatred for the man who had dealt him this unkindness. The boy's vengeful pledge grew stronger. He was sure that if his chest was carved open now, rather than a heart, it would house a hot slab of stone emitting smoke as it burned hotness. The stone in his chest burned viciously, furiously, fiercely, it burned only to scald the cruel Chief Salami and, perhaps, all he held dear in the world. But currently, Black was nothing but a mere 'fingerline' where the chief was a wicked financial leviathan. Black knew better than to directly go at loggerheads with his foe now. He had to grow into a sharp-toothed shark himself. He also needed to grow in wealth if he was going to square off with the big chief in a moral or immoral battle; the nature of the brawl would depend on the chief himself and his actions. He walked into a crowded street with the intention of making a heist. He kept a sharp pair of eyes focused on the people using the sidewalks, the ones struggling to get into moving buses, those opting to disembark from stopping vehicles, the busy traders and proud buyers. The boy wondered who he should rob among these classes of people. The zeal to covet another person's property had returned to him with full force just barely after the priest's sudden demise, and Chief Salami's callous conduct was the catalyst that sped up this thievery reaction. However, to Black's young mind, stealing had been considered an easy sport; he saw nothing hard or bad about grabbing something you desire and using it. The world would be better off if it was like that, there would not be much people going hungry. Hell, his mother would even have remained in the land of the living. Black had carved for himself the philosophy regarding the apportionment of ownership. He had many beliefs but his latest belief, in this regard, was the idea of shared fortune. If losing the coin you have would not place damnation on your existence, then you shouldn't nurse a qualm about sharing the currency with someone whom not having it would kill. This personal theory had been established long before Priest Duba found him. Of the several reasons behind his belief in an easy getaway, mobility was perhaps the most crucial. Although he was still a kid, he considered himself an outstanding purloiner among his unknown compatriots all around the world. He wasn't like the common petty pilferers still in their immature categories, people who had become crooks without the tiniest sense of idealism or ingenuity. He still engaged in small-time thievery though, he was still gradually learning to act with neither impulse nor desperation. His tiny brain was systematically growing a repertoire of clever thoughts in the dishonourable art of stealing. Soon, he would be planning his theft more carefully; weighing the risks and benefits of any chance at the display of his talent, and he would act only as a result of wary and systematic analysis. Peter Black was a careless thief, but something was going to teach him to become a more careful one. *****************************************************

Back to the street again?

Please take your seat let’s role it . @tenniebenson @khola46 @wiseman @ibrams @pizzaro @swtharyomi @wyse-one @eddy @delight @pweety @mray @jummybabe @babe4biola @sofia @ritagold @kuks @originalannchilexdel @fridex @frank @frankkay @simzy @pheranmmie041 @temmyjoy @chriswayne @evanz @itzshaxee @mecuze @skookum @kingson1 @donmikie @kingsbest @t-dak @charlywizzy @charliebryn @hardeywummy @japhola @konphido @emmyrexx @adura @tholartee @nextangel @blessedgirl @ebube @jenifa @jclash @taiwo @chomyline @lawman @tinagabe @christiana @itmrabzeez @johnoscar @precy @timmy @dabcy @ikeholuwa1 @besty @starlet @okklad @angeleniola @ewomazeal @mizleemah @blessfelicity222 @anitcham @stephanie @lollybabe1 @dahcutebae @rhennyjay @geeadore @tiffany1 @tonia @hameyeenat @inemlove @promzy @mohjisolah @jencute @jenny @doublewealth @john451 @kniphemi @vibratingwind @emmanesth @horpheyehmy @valking1 @pweety @kpumpy @justify @maurice @jummy @thankmic @christopher @anita @phinebraim @kedike @kemkit @gracy @saintkenz @december12 @promise @sylvia @bsam @portable @steph @aarti @olaking3 @harddy @blakstudd @prince @invincible @mhzzrblayse @azeeco @temmymofrosh @sandra @sandy @kaysmart22 @cherryserah @sexynikky1994 @youngestprince @davick @semilore @oyindamola @dhemilade1 @mature @pearl @roes @franklin @kolababs @hollar @smilie @borwerleh @iksqueency @loveth @funmilayo1 @okklad @nizzy @flames @vict-vames @peace @sirp081 @kristen @kingsengine @aaron @tony @ruth @romancelord @itzshaxee @olamy4fun @abrahamdking @flamerouz @crusher @stanny39 @john @softtouch @onahsunday631 @jeddy @sonshine @sirgentle @vizkid @hoelhay @pharm- vickymears @teesolid @omoyemmy @olarach @daxking @krizzy @softie @holarbordah @ele @firstladyontop @obaby @sergentmax @mhizdaofot @ariketemmy @saraya @eminem @laurasteve299 @gambola @monadisu @dazzlingangel @donyas @c-roderick @cookey @isabella1 @chisomsophia @mrfabulous @henry @mhizzthessy @millz @bishops10 @kreepyink @olaniyiadeshina @gracedkyenny @hardeyhorlar9 @holaryinkhar @inemeka @abevica @individual @olami @beryl @youngfellow @humblelion @natasha9976 @hartuny @emergencia @paula4eva @giftgodiva @divatimmy @finestberyl @sapiens @ahmad @ele1 @ferdinard @festoza006 @sharpzender @uncleba426 @paje @jenny123 @pemamezi @detector @pweetyfizzy @willingyung @napster @greg-billz @valentinelv @hayanfeoluwa @teju1 @dgreat @prestigiousfirstlady @petersandra121 @jenny1 @bryten50 @fallancy @rosey @jimmyjab @oluwanifemi @arosunshine @heartbrokekid @thosiano @peterox @iamsmv @adegunle3gmail-com @sparkling-2 @hoyenikky @maurice @lizzytee @zephyr @mhizterdimex @ladywen @holarmidey @scriptures @lollycobra @hardey1292 @adeblow23 @slimolayinkastar @damzybabe @adeshewa @softel @nifemi @abradek @beauty74 @cizzle @omolarami @nazysophy1 @yemitefestus @omoniyiola @inifek @coolbaby @nheemot @deejaygrin @hitiswell @fynboy @sirmike @aminzy @vicoch @sunnyklin20yahoo-com @psam @oshio @shikoleen @queencoded @kimmy @ifeoma1 @nobleay @felixharuna11 @ibktemi99 @hayzedefoe @chidex14 @classy @omodemilade59 @rufus @ladygrasha @ennylincoln @kingz1 @starlord1 @noskid @kodedreal @petermikel @frankymario @olatunjitobi @pweetylizzyqueen @olutcoded @sayrah @tomtim @missdammy @latienco @bimrach @mubarak @mubavak @adeolaajala1234 @olalekana69 @dbest @skulboy @beautyqueen @naomacjoyous @onyinyessica @drumsaint @debbi2nice @jamesgentility @megatron @okiripoto02gmail-com @rahzycute1 @hangellah46 @deltavictory @kay2ty7 @praisee @josephjuliet @xtopher @richymore @temmy744 @mrmorie @abosmart @adfaustina595gmail-com @adetolaadejoke @whizjay @anthcunny @freeday @ninny @abasienyene @henryjay @horgzy @abosmart @omodemilade59 @judith @mercykris @superstar4real @sanctus4real @bolaji2308 @damzybabe @profeze1 @horlarjuwhon @illusion002 @royzeray @oluwatosin @chinenye5404 @dharmex @inifek @pattiejoe7gmail-com @opinxymenumento @bobbidi-boo @gooddysmart3 @elijezy @drumsaint @oshio @musterfi @khaleedwr @addieola @chinedueze @praise22 @mdsodeeq @sirjerro @masterbill @emileagosu @kabazi95 @daintyshewa @klaussimbo @peoray @samnolimit @babswalexyttyahoo- com @shania55 @conspirancy @chinyenorah @pharouq00 @saraya @blazeb @virtuous @amibabe @mrsolace @ennyshow @haryormidey @mzz_teddy @daddyd @cassiewells @omoshalewa @nheemot @rukibaby19 @abbeygirl25 @serikibazooka1 @samnolimit @ugochisunday @yusfaty @muffybaba @micheal1 @judiee @certifiedjx @wumyte @coolbaby @jokqees @victoriouschild

hmmmm next pls

hmmmm following oo

what a pity...

with u jor

Peter you have problem

how is he going to cope now wit d priest's death? eeeiiii

Hmmm why would u want to go back to stealing?

hmm finally the street boy wants to go back to stealing

hmm u are just so unlucky every one around u gets to die y... ... ....

hmm hope u survive this time around as u are about to steal

REVENGE just hope u don't get caught while executing your revenge plans

next update......

Episode 9 He melded among the crowd, small and agile, ready to rob someone unsuspecting. He walked among the people, searching for a perfect pick. What he needed now was money; the few coins he possessed had dwindled remarkably. He was now mildly desperate; a desperation that went beyond mere feeding money. He needed to gather enough wealth for the task ahead. He spotted a well-dressed man whose wallet was peeping out of his back pocket. An easy pick, Black reflected. A ridiculously easy pick. A dumb man; which wise man would keep his purse in his back pocket? The man had just alighted from a lorry. Black moved close to the man; he was going to pick the wallet and run, no one would be able to catch him, he was sure of that. Then just as he was about to grab the purse and make his retreat, a sudden scream broke out. The crowd became excited, screaming and barking. Black was confused. What has happened? Is there a motor accident? He looked down the road to confirm the veracity of his suspicion. Then he saw it! It was not an accident! The crowd was chasing a man, a runaway criminal, and the pursuers were screaming "Thief! Catch him! Thief!" One spectacular thing about the bolting villain was that he was a swift runner; a far better runner than Peter Black, but the pursuers were determined to catch the lawbreaker. Both street thugs and bus-conductors went after the thief, but they could not catch the sneaky pickpocket. One of the angry mob of pursuers picked up a tin of Peak Milk from the table of one trader and hurled it with all his strength at the scurrying kleptomaniac. It was a perfect shot; the tin hit the thief squarely on the back of the head and he fell onto the ground; and before he could rise up to continue his hasty retreats, the pursuers had caught up with him. A large crowd gathered round the criminal as he was being beaten. All the people in this area hated pickpockets of any kind with the passion of the people whose hard-earned possessions were picked. Black joined the crowd to have a see at what fate would befall the thief. He could see blood streaming out of the thief's head where the tin had hit him. Black had a closer look at the condemned pickpocket; the thief was about nineteen or twenty years old, as dark- skinned as Peter, but was way taller. Apart from the head injury, the thief's lips were split and one of his eyes were swollen shut. The thief kept repeating "Please, I'm sorry! Please, I'm sorry!" But none of the beaters seemed to be listening to him. They kept slapping him, punching him, kicking and flogging. The thief cried out in pain as a man kicked him in the nuts. Soon, his clothes were torn off him and he was totally Unclad, and more beatings were administered on him. A few moments later, one robust thug rolled a tyre to the scene, and following behind him was another man with a five-litre keg filled with petrol. The thief saw the items, frowned in confusion, but when the significance of the item occurred to him, he screamed out very loud. Black watched in horror as the thief was held down by strong hands and the tyre was worn on his neck like a necklace. The petrol was poured on him, the entire five litres of the liquid was emptied on the unfortunate captive. Now the thief could not free himself because his arms and legs had been tightly tied with strong strings. No one attempted to stop what the men were doing to the poor thief; it was like the people were eager to witness the inevitable lynch; they all wanted to see the thief roast and ooze out oil. It was not everyday something as exciting as this happened, therefore, no one, except Black perhaps, wanted any interference in this remarkable process of barbecue. Black was shivering violently as he watched the activities of the instant judges. This was no sight for a boy of his tender age to behold. Besides, it could have been Black himself suffering this thief's fate. Cold terror overcame him as he watched the thief wail pitifully at the brutal and mortal end looming over him. The woeful strain behind the thief's sorrowful lamentation reverbrated in the little boy's ears. The sound of the cry pulled at his heartstring; it would haunt him for a long time. Black prayed never to hear such wail of anguish again in his entire life. The crowd shrank backward as the man who poured the petrol brought out a matchbox. The real show was about to begin; all the previous activities were merely icings on the cake, this was the real thing. Everyone stayed at a safe distance and watched the man bravely light a match and torched the thief. The poor fellow caught fire immediately, even the man who set him ablaze was scalded. And, somehow, by a process of sheer bewilderment, the rope that tied the thief down got loose and the burning young man sprang up immediately and started running around, still bearing the tyre on his neck as he ran blindly. People took to their heels as he ran towards them. The fire totally engulfed him and he still managed to run a few metres more before he totally collapsed on the hard ground. He burned sootily; he cooked, toasted, barbecued and fried. The fire burned on. The odour of the burning flesh was not unlike the roasting of a goat. At first, the flesh smelled delicious, then it smelled terrible, disgustingly terrible. Some of the spectators with weak bowels retched violently at the site. Thereafter, the crowd began to disperse. The world left the corpse to burn itself to a massive charcoal. Black walked away sadly. Ironically, the event he had just witnessed did not teach to quit stealing, it only taught him to be more careful. As he walked away, he discovered that he was holding a purse. He didn't know how the purse got to his hand. Peter Black had unconsciously stolen the purse. *************************************************** After two days of witnessing the horrible live cremation, Black, cowered with fear, took a stroll back to the square of the incident. The charred remains of the thief had been shovelled away, but the dark ground still revealed the evidence of the barbarious act that occurred two days earlier. That particular section of the floor was black, there were even the metallic rings that made up the tyre after the rubber had burned off. Fire had transformed the initial colour of the metallic element into orange, some parts of the rings were coated with grey sulphuric substances. Black stared at the dar floor for a long time, remembering the horrible cry of the thief that burned. The usual activities of the square had continued, as if nothing spectacular had occurred two days ago. Black surmised that what had happened the two previous days was not the first of its kind; some other thieves, or criminals, must have been set ablaze prior the one Black witnessed. The suspicion of that fact momentarily set the boy's heart racing, and that moment he wanted to leave the location, he wanted to stay away from here as far as possible, but he could not do that now, he had just discovered another uncompleted building that provided him shelter; the house was securely roofed and the windows were fixed, what was left to finish the building was the fixing of the doors and the plastering of the walls. Even the ceilings were already fixed. The house owner might return anytime to complete the house, but Black was sure that the building would shelter him for a few days, or months, before the owner would evict him. Besides the fact that he had found a shelter, he couldn't leave the city because leaving would mean abandoning his mother. Even though his mother now had no grave, Black still consoled himself with the belief that he resided in an area where the soul of his mother roamed. Black thought his mother was with him now, watching him, following him around, But he couldn't know if she was smiling or crying. All he could conjure in his tiny head was the image of his mother's bloated corpse when he pushed her into the hole. He guessed she would be weeping, as he had once found her in one of his dreams. She would definitely be weeping at who he had become. But little Black consoled himself with the thought that all he was doing was only the bid to honour his mother's request. She had asked him to take back their things from Chief Salami, Black knew no other way of achieving that other than first becoming who he had just become, a common thief. He didn't feel guilty for being a thief, or for taking a property belonging to someone else; he had make sure to always take from only people who would not suffer much at the loss of their things. Black would never rob an old woman or a beggar; even thieves live by codes of honour. However, his presence here now was far from larcenous intents; as a matter of fact, he. Had decided not to make any robbery in this neighbourhood; the inhabitants of this area had never boasted of treating thieves with kindness. And Black had no desire of hanging on their bad sides; there were still more than enough litres of petrol in the nearest filling station, the petty traders had never for once declined to sell matches to potential customers, and more vehicles would always shed their bad tyres. Black's presence here was not to watch the part where the thief had burned alive two days earlier. He wondered where the soul of the thief would go. Would it stay in the realm of his mother's? Black was sure his mother would not like the thief if they met in wherever dead people always went. Before her demise, Black's mother had always had a strong disapproval of larceny; and she had hated Salami with passion for claiming the things that did not belong to him. She would not like to see her son joining the class of people she abhor. But Peter Black had no choice. As Peter Black cast his face up, he saw something strange. *******************************************************

hmmmmmm,,,, I know he will go back to his past life

What strange thing did he see??? I hope it's gonna be something better!!!

So you're now back to square one

next

wat a pity

wat o i wanna knw

What did u see?

Episode 10 Life in the area had continued as usual; no one paid any interest to the small twelve-year-old black boy. Buyers and sellers negotiated over wares, skinny porters transported heavy goods on wheelbarrows, fat porters moved light loads with their heads, conductors hailed travellers to board their vehicles. The noise went on and on until a conductor and a driver began to argue over the money realised, and the argument soon escalated into a brawl that required the brandishment of jagged-edged bottle to threaten each other. No one attempted to stop the pugilists from displaying their boxing prowess; a small crowd gathered around them with the expectation of catching the sight of spilled blood, or at least the dispacement of a tooth from its gum by the brutal effort behind an inflicted punch. But none of these sufficed and the spectators were gradually getting bored with the chicken fights, the fighters refused to use the weapons they held, all they were doing now was gracing each other's personalities with series of abuses and curses, not much unlike what two quarrelling ladies would do. But because there was nothing else more exciting, and with the hope that something more interesting could be displayed, the crowd still feasted their eyes and ears with the foibles of the two obviously slow-witted transporters. But it wasn't this scenario that appeared strange to Black, although strangely ridiculous in its own way. What the boy saw hereafter was something as dangerous as it was cruel. At a far corner of the square was a blind old man standing bent; he was holding a long walking stick in his left hand, a small bowl in the right and saying prayers with his mouth. It was evident that the man was begging for alms; occasionally, he would say a prayer he had already said and back it up with a familiar dirge. He wasn't prayer for himself, his prayers were meant for the kind people who would bestow a coin or something edible. Some few people would walk past and deposit some money into the bowl. Black recalled his father giving alms to beggars a number of times before his imprisonment. Then as the beggar continued to pray, Black saw a boy creep towards the old man, the boy reached the bowl and deftly picked some coins from it. Black could not believe his eyes; he nursed an open-mouthed astonishment. Why would anyone stoop so low to rob a helpless beggar? He could not even imagine engaging in something as aweful, and dangerous. He was afraid for the boy, this was not a neighbourhood where you could steal and get away with it; the boy would be killed if he was caught. And because Black could not want to witness again what he had two days earlier, he ran towards the boy to stop him. "Return it immediately!" He whispered nervously into the boy's ear as he reached him from behind. The startled thief sharply turned around with fright. He was scared that he had been caught. He wanted to take to his heels but stopped on discovering that it was only a young boy talking to him. "Who are you?" The thief asked Black. Black looked at the thief carefully; the boy was visibly older than him for he was taller and broader, Black judged that he would be about seventeen or eighteen years old, just about barely younger than the unfortunate thief of two days before. It was not only his body structure that seemed remarkable about the thief, he also had an alert, dangerous look, like a black cat that could smell a nest of newly-born mice. Something about the thief told Black that he should stay away from him. Unlike Black who was small and dark-skinned, the thief was big and light-skinned, and he possessed an equal pair of big strong hands. "I said you should return the money you picked from that bowl, or would you rather I screamed?" At the utterance of the threat, the thief poured the coins back into the blind man's bowl. And the beggar, because he had lost his sights and was unaware of the activities before him, bowed in gratitude at hearing the sounds of coins dropping into his bowl, and he rained prayers on the thief who had just robbed him moments earlier. As soon as the big boy dropped his booty, Black dragged him to a safe corner and nagged at him. "Do you want to get killed?" Black asked. He wasn't shouting but his words carried a loud weight. "No, but I am so hungry." The thief replied grimly. His eyes were darting this way and that way. He seemd to be ready to cart off with even Black if he were edible. The boy looked more haggard than Black even though he appeared stronger and bigger, but Black still looked healthier without a doubt. Black himself recalled the time he had been more than as hunger-stricken as this strange fellow before him. "How could hunger drive you to engage in something so suicidal?" The boy looked sharply at Black and asked, "What do you mean by 'suicidal'?" "Weren't you aware that a thief was burned to death here two days ago?" "Of course, I was." Black stared at him with disbelief. He guess the boy to be physically big but psychologically small. "And you still went ahead to steal from a beggar when the temperature of the cremated thief had barely dropped? That is a very rash thing to do. I'm sure you need a doctor who treats lunatics, food is only a minor variable." The boy stared at Black and replied, "I don't understand what you are talking about. I'm hungry. Can I get some food?" "I will have to take you to where I live, I have some snacks there. Where do you live?" The thief spread his hands, "I live everywhere, I live nowhere, I don't have a home." Black was not surprised to hear that, the thief must have been living in the streets, too. As he led the boy to where he lived, Black continued to ask the older thief some questions. "Where are your parents?" Black was expecting him to tell him that he had lost his parents too, but he was not prepared for the reply he got. "My parents live in the neighbouring state. I ran away from home." Black was so shocked with the reply that he paused in his track for a moment. He decided that the boy could really be insane. Which sane kid would live his parents to live a life of solitude? Black would give anything to have his parents back alive. He didn't understand that his new friend was the child of an alcoholic slattern and a dipsomaniac father who was a frequently unemployed mechanic. The boy, on growing up, had recalled in various occasions his mean-spirited inebriated father always arguing with his equally intoxicated mother. The bone of contention was always money, but the quarrels easily changed to the incredibly terrible dinner she had prepared, she throwing back accusations on his eyes for other women and his sloppy manners, the huge losses he had incurred in gambling his thin income away, and lastly the lack of food in the house. Most times, only water would be placed on fire to convince the neighbours that they always cooked. But above all, the thin walls of the decrepit house they lived in did little to muffle the voices of the parents each time they argued. The child got tired one morning and left the house without the intention of returning. But his drunken parents did not notice his absence. They cared more about their bottles of rum than about their child. ***************************************************** When they reached Black's abode, both boys dined on the sausage that Peter had kept. As they dined, they also continued chatting; each boy seemed interested in knowing about the other. They were trying to develop a mutual likeness, hoping to form a friendship bond. Both boys had lived so lonely that they yearned for someone to call a friend, someone to talk to. They were now trying to determine between each other if they could be friends. Besides, they both had one thing in common already; they were both pickpockets. They needed to know If they had something else in common. "What is your name?" Black asked. "People call me Basket." "Basket?" What a strange name. "Why do people call you that?" "They say I'm clumsy; I can't hold anything steady. The name stuck on me when we were playing football and I was the goalkeeper, we conceded twelve goals in that match. My team mates were so angry at me that they tried to find me a befitting nickname. Someone suggested they call me Watering Can but the others said it was too mouthful, another person suggested the name Basket because a basket is never known to hold water, and so Basket became my nomenclature." "And you answer to such name?" "Of course, I do. I like it; as a matter of fact, I like the sharp intonations behind the pronouncement of the two syllables. I'm a proud Basket." He ended his explanation with a smile. Then he looked at Black and asked, "What is your own name?" "My name is Peter Black, but I'd prefer you called me Black." "Where are your parents?" "My parents are dead." "That's terrible. How do you survive?" Black looked at Basket and hesitated; he was reluctant to tell the boy that he was also a thief. But Black didn't know how to lie, so he blurted out the truth, "I steal from people; just like you do, but in a more careful way." Basket smiled broadly and said, "We're partners in crime. I'll love to learn some stealing tricks from you. No wonder you were able to see me take from that blind man. It takes only a thief to catch a thief. Anyways, we shouldn't consider ourselves thieves, we should see ourselves as keep-to-maniacs." Black frowned and asked, "What's a keep-to-maniac?" Basket looked serious, trying to remember the meaning of this word he had recently heard from somewhere. "It means someone who enjoys keeping other people's things to himself." "Then what is 'maniac' doing in the word?" "I don't know. I don't even know what 'maniac' means." "Maniac means a madman. Does that mean that thieves are mad people?" Basket shrugged, "I don't know." "If thieves are mad people, does that mean we are mad?" "You ask too many questions. How old are you?" "I am twelve years old." "I'm fifteen years old," Basket beamed, "That means I'm older than you." "Didn't you know that already?" "How would I know that? I didn't know your age." Black wondered why his first friend would be such a mental sap. He changed the subject and asked, "Where would you sleep tonight?" He was hoping to offer Black a shelter. "I'm going to pass the night here." Black was glad. He was tired of sleeping alone since his mother's demise. Sometimes, the nights scared him, as if one wild animal could suddenly sneek up on him and eat him up. Having a companion to keep him company in the night was a good development. "What about tomorrow night?" He found himself asking Basket. "I don't know, but I will know if tomorrow comes." "Why don't you live here with me?" Hearing the request, Basket carefully looked at the room and shook his head. Black thought he was going to decline the offer but Basket replied by saying, "We will have to rent a normal room as soon as we have enough money." Black liked the idea and answered, "Yes, we will." Basket asked, "So, what is our plan for tomorrow?" "As you already said, we shall know if tomorrow comes." "I suggest we steal a dictionary tomorrow." Peter Black smiled at the one who could not hold anything steady. As Basket smiled back at him, Black knew that he had found a friend. The friendship of these two boys would cause a powerful ripple on the destiny of each one of them, and on the fates of some other people. But they didn't know that. *****************************************************

hmm Black after witnessing this jungle justice u still want to steal

hmm now two teenagers wey de pick pocket don meet

hmm Basket u have to be more smart oh let it not be the name u are bearing is taking away ur sense

next update....

Next pls

Black and basket, what a combination

You have finally gotten a partner in crime... I just pity ur innocent victims u guys will be stealing from!!!

Episode 11 Peter Black woke up before Basket; he had just discovered that his new friend was a lazy sleeper. It was almost two hours after Black had awoken that Basket yawned his way to consciousness. Both boys went to bath in the stream and later had their breakfasts. They still lived on the money Black had realised from the purse he had absent-mindedly picked three days earlier. The boys dined at a local restaurant and ate to their fills. They ordered for a food they had not eaten in a long time: pounded yam and vegetable soup, the soup adequately garnished with stock fish and various periwinkles, including antelope meat served in different dishes. The boys joked and laughed as they dined. They ate until their stomach refused to accommodate any more morsels. After the meals, they paid and left for home. At home, the uncompleted building that was, while they waited for their food to digest, they planned what they were going to steal for the day. Because they still had enough money to feed them for at least a week, they both decided to steal something that was not related to food. "I already said we should steal a dictionary." Basket reminded. "What good would a dictionary do us?" "A dictionary would build our vocabularies." "And what good would a built vocabulary do us? Have you forgotten that we are no longer school children? A dictionary is useless for us now." Basket pondered over the statement and said aloud, "We can still go back to school. It's not too late for us." "And where would we find the money to enrol ourselves?" "We can steal it." "You're crazy. We can barely find feeding money in this godforsaken area, yet you're talking about the exorbitant sum admission requires. Besides, what happened to our own dream of getting enough money to vacate this place for a better shelter?" "We can start saving. Let's begin to save anything we get, and with time, we will have enough money for both accommodation and education." "Yes, with time," Black nodded affirmatively, " Maybe after one hundred years." "Listen, Black, my friend. We cannot remain like this forever. This is Wednesday, our mates are in schools learning how to become great people and we're here debating over what to steal and what not to. You should agree with me that education is very important. It is our right—our responsibility—to be educated. Ii know I'm not going to remain a thief forever, I don't know about you. I know that no matter how skilled and experienced a thief is, he shall one day be caught." "Says the boy who stole from a beggar." "The truth is," Basket continued, "there is no ingenuity about stealing, no skill, no experience, no smartness— everything is luck. The most experienced, the most skillful, the smartest thieves have all been caught. We are here because we are still lucky. What are we going to do when our luck runs dry? Are we ready to face the consequence? Would we face the firing squads without flinching? Would we welcome the hangman's noose with open necks? Are we ready to endure the instant judgement of the crowd whose properties we have stolen? Even if we are not killed, are we eager to spend the rest of our lives in jail? You think about it, there is no bright future for thieves. Those of us who are not yet caught are only lucky for now. Where shall we be when the judgement day comes?" Black stared at his friend for a moment and said, "Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much? What I can only tell you is that you don't know anything about me. There is a good reason why I steal. I hope you, too, have a good reason." "I steal only to stay alive. I will stop if I have a better choice." "Mine goes beyond that. But I'm sure you would not understand it if I explained. Anyway, we haven't decided on what to steal today. Please, don't tell me it's dictionary. Let's choose something we need for now. We will get a dictionary when we return to school." Basket looked around the room and an idea lit up in his head, "I think what we need is something to keep us company." "What do you suggest?" "I suggested we get a pet." "A pet?" "A puppy." "You're suggesting we steal a dog? Oh, come one, Basket. That's a terrible idea. I have a better idea." "Really? Tell me." Black stood up and said, "Follow me, I will tell you on the way." ****************************** ***************************************************

So bad

The suffering is way too much for a 30 year old person not to talk of a 12 year old boy like black

Business partners

I'm beginning to be a fan of this Basket of a guy

I think Basket has a vision only if a good situation or a better opportunity comes his way.

Black Basket nice one

Nice one from you basket

i think basket have a good vision if he could had have a better option

Ok

Episode 12 ****************************** The boys walked far away from where they lived. They didn't want any occasion arising where they would be traced back to their resident. The didactic conversation they had had moments earlier had taught them to at least tread with caution. They knew where they were heading, and they knew exactly what they were going there to do. Both boys knew the danger inherent in their mission. It would be quite tragic if they were caught, but to Black, the likelihood of danger was what would make the task an interesting one. The success if the mission would solely depend on the slickness of feet. Basket, however, had agreed that Black was the better runner, so the dark-skinned boy had volunteered to become the red-herring. If they were careful, if each boy performed his task perfectly, they would pull a successful act. Any slight error, any misjudgement, would be terrible. Black himself was more at the receiving end of this likely disaster. To prevent this mishap from occurring was the reason they chose this quiet street. The less-crowded a street was, the better their chance of success. As they walked into the street, Black educated Basket about what they were going to steal. What they were going to steal was not a dog, not quite—they were going to steal a piece of electronics. The boys would steal a transistor radio. They stood at a safe distance and watched the street; there were still some few people plying the road. The boys knew quite well that the street was rarely trodden because it was a close. The adjacent street was usually better used. When the street was finally deserted, the boys came out of their hiding and walked towards the wooden kiosk at the end of the closed street. Occasionally, they would check behind them to see if anyone was approaching; luckily, there was no one else in the street at the time. Most of the people who would enter this street were those who wanted to buy goods from Mallam Yisa, the Hausa man who owned the wooden kiosk. Black and Basket were going to steal Mallam Yisa's transistor radio. As they approached the kiosk, the boy encountered a local dog suddenly appear from the narrow turning close to the kiosk. The dog bounded past them absent- mindedly, gasping with its tongue suspended to a corner of its mouth. Black and Basket shared a glance and smiled, but they didn't say anything. They knew that it could be easy for them if their mission was to steal a dog. But, on the other hand, if they really wanted to steal a dog, the dog that just jogged past them was too old for them to steal. Aside the fact that the would risk a bite if they attempted to go near this one, they weren't sure if they would be able to outrun it if it came to a chase. They forgot about the dog when they were close to the kiosk. They had to do quickly whatever they had to do now; someone else might come into the street. The appearance of a third party could foil their mission. They hid themselves behind a condemned vehicle and planned their heist. After about a minute, Black came out of the hiding and walked to the kiosk. He found Mallam Yisa having a siesta in the kiosk; his battery- powered radio rested smugly beside his head. It would have been very easy to take the radio right there, right now; but that wasn't part of the plan. Besides, the radio was broadcasting a Hausa programme, it could be dangerous to take it. The Mallam might be having only a brief shut-eye; a sudden silence might cause him to open his eyes. Black had to stick to his plan. "Mallam." No response. "Mallam!" A little bit louder. Still no response. The was was deeply asleep. Black could now detect the drool running down the corner of the sleeping man's mouth. He could even hear his snores in close tempo with the sound of the radion. Black wondered why a human being would sleep so carelessly at this time of the day, a midday for that matter. "Yaro!" He spoke out loud, although he didn't know what the word he had just spoken meant. The man jolted awake as if goosed with a pin. He looked around him nervously, trying to determine what had brought him back to life. When he saw Black, he gave a frustrated gruntle and regarded the small boy as he would a mosquito that had just honoured him with the poke of a proboscis. "Wetin you want?" The Mallam asked in Pidgin English. Black glared at the man and replied, "I want to steal from you." "Wetin you—?" And before the man could process in his head what he had just heard, Black grabbed a box of St. Louis Sugar and bolted. The Mallam instantly jumped off his bed and ran after the boy, shouting 'Barawo!' as he went after the thief. His loose dansiki flying in the wind. Even though it was apparent that he could never catch up with the boy, the man still continued the pursue and not for a moment stopping his 'Barawo!' mantra. As the victimised Mallam ran past, Basket appeared from where he had hidden himself and crept into the shop. He found the radio easily. He switch of the radio, extracted a nylon bag from his back pocket and put the treasure in it. The temptation to take something else from the shop overcame him but because that wasn't part of the plan, he walked out of the shop with only the radio. He saw the Mallam still running after Black. Basket wondered what his friend had stolen to make the man come after him without stopping. He prayed no one would come to this street now; it was particularly dangerous for Black, although there was a wide gap between the pursuer and the pursued. Still, another person might appear before Black and catch him. Without much ado, Basket took the narrow pathway from where the dog had materialised moments ago. The plan was to go home after taking the radio. He and Black would rendezvous at home. He prayed his friend escaped successfully. Now, when Peter Black was sure that Basket would have played his part, he carefully dropped the box of sugar and ran faster out of the street. As he crossed into an adjacent street, he collided with an approaching person. The Mallam, now nearly breathless, reached his box and picked it, cursing the bolting boy in his native language. He walked back towards his kiosk to resume his sleep. But he would not find his radio when he got there. Basket walked home unhappily; he was still worried about Black. He was afraid that he would also be apprehended if Black was caught. He met this boy just yesterday and he already felt felt a strong attachment to him. For the first time in his entire life, he had found someone he could really tell anything; someone with whom he could share his darkest secrets. Somehow, he felt like Black had come into his life for a reason, a reason far greater than mere petty thievery. There was a kind of mysterious aura that surrounded the boy; a strange aura that no one could find the right word to describe. Basket was just discovering some new things about his friend. Peter Black, as he had discovered, was someone who usually thought beyond the scope of the obvious; someone whose perspective could only be viewed by the very few. He admitted that Black, although three years younger, was far smarter than he was. He was the muscle, Peter was the brain. He could physically beat up the small boy, but he knew that Black was capable of crushing him psychologically. He hoped the boy would take the issue of education more seriously. The boy could become a collosal genius. A part of him feared that he might not see his friend again. He felt like crying. He reached home with a heavy heart and found Black waiting for him. "Blackie!" Basket shouted excitedly, as if he had found Jesus Christ. He ran towards his friend and hugged him tight. "You're crushing me, ape!" Black groaned. "Sorry," he released the boy, "I was carried away with happiness. I thought you had been caught. How did you get here so fast?" "I ran, of course. I even collided against a young child not long after I dropped the box I took. I could not wait to pacify the wailing child. I ran all the way here. What made you think I would be caught? Didn't I tell you that I cannot be caught?" "Maybe you are really a prince of thieves." "Cut the crap and bring out the radio." "The batteries are still good." Both boys held the radio as if it was a Christmas present. They took turns holding it. They could hardly believe that they now owned a transistor radio. "Turn it on." Basket said excitedly. Black turned on the radio and tuned it to an F.M. station. On the radio was the first time they heard the news about a notorious armed robber named Lawrence Anini. Both boys listened to the news with rapt attention. ******************************************************

u now have a fwend

hmmm

Basket, u have a good idea, I pray God should help u two to stop stealing

hmm should I say two thieves are better than one

Black think about education too oh

hmm stealing of dictionary isn't that funny

two thieves that would change the condition of their vicinity

next update let see what their next mission would be

Partners in crime

hahaha like sirouse i believe too that two thief is beter than one

see creativity.. !

Now that you guys have a trasistor radio, nothing in the outside world would go unheard...what next to steal

So for how long are u guys going to be like Dis,so pathetic!!!

Two great thieves genius

Hmmmm na wow

hmmm when are yhu guys are going to stop stealing

nxt pls

Jonzy4u wrote:

hmm should I say two thieves are better than one

You can say that

Episode 13 Hours, days, months passed and the boys still continued their nefarious lifestyles. They robbed in style. They betted on who would steal something more valuable. Stealing became a competitive vice between both lads. Hunger became a tale of the past; they were beginning to steal more than mere feeding money. They wanted to return to school and reside in a more comfortable apartment. They ate good foods and wore nice stolen clothes. Within a few months, the hunger- stricken thin Black was starting to recover lost flesh, and his dark skin shone with vitality. He was now a few inches taller and he looked more handsome than ever. This could have been how goodlooking he was before his father's incarceration and the terrible suffering that accompanied his demise. In the world of larceny, Black was gradually climbing his way to the top. Stealing was becoming an addiction—an unavoidable necessity. He was growing so much skilled that a slight bump was enough to take whatever valuables he needed from his prey. Even Basket himself marvelled at his friend's extraordinary gift. Black had grown to become such an expert that he believed he was beyond being caught. The insane confidence that usually spelled the doom of most criminals overtook him. He was no more afraid of being caught because he believed no one would ever be able to catch him. He felt like the world belonged to him and he could take anything from it as he wished. He even thought he was like the notorious Anini who had always been elluding the police; the only difference was that Anini was an older thief who robbed with guns and killed innocent civilians. Black decided he would never kill another person in his entire life. Rather than take a life, he would surrender. But he was sure that matters could never come to that. He was the elusive Black. He didn't know how wrong he was. It was around seven this particular saturday evening. He was returning from the field where he had gone to watch some older men play football. The sun had bade an adieu over an hour ago. As he walked home, he saw some people who lived in rented low-cost houses coming out to gather their clothes from the clotheslines outside. The weather seemed not only to be approaching dusk but also to welcome rainfall. Dark clouds had gathered in the sky to have a deluge meeting. Peter increased his stride as he walked home; the waters in the sky were threatening to burst loose. As he ran, he wondered if Basket would have been searching around for him. He could be—or he might be sleeping. His friend enjoyed sleeping than anything else. He could sleep in a tsunami. Black could feel light drizzle on his body; the rain was coming slowly. This was when an umbrella was mostly useful. But Black was not holding any umbrella. The sky was so dark now that the evening had turned to night. He could now barely see the lines on his palms. If he didn't want to be saturated with the iminent downpour, he would have to control his legs more. He was running like an athlete as the drizzle became a light rainfall. He ran into a new street. All these houses on both sides of the street were now locked and the blinds of the windows tightly drawn. Black himself could see silhouettes of families as they chatted and ran around within the houses. Black envied the families and he wondered if he would ever have such happy family. He strongly doubted it. Those kinds of families were not meant for people like him. He was two streets away from his home when he spotted two boys under the veranda of a locked shop. It was hard to guess how old they were in the darkness, but the sounds of their voices shouldn't place them above fifteen years olds. Hearing the boys' discussions, Black could not help stopping his journey. Luckily for him, the boys did not notice his presence. He slowly crept close and listened to what they were saying. "How much do you have with you?" One boy asked the other. "I have five naira here." The other answered. The night lightened up for a moment at the insistence of lightning. This was later followed by the rumbling of thunder. "How did you get it?" "I stole it from my mother. She keeps her money under the pillow. It's very easy for me to take any amount from there. But I have to be very careful with the money I take so that she wouldd not suspect the missin money." "You mean your mother would not suspect the missing five naira? Your mother must be very rich." "I didn't take all the I've naira at once. I started by taking one naira today, fifty kobo tomorrow. If I took all the money at once, she would definitely suspect something amiss. It's just a matter of common sense." The boy paused and asked his partner, "How much did you bring?" The other boy smiled proudly, "I brought more than you." "How much?" "Ten naira." "Wow! How did you get that large sum? Since when have you been taking it? Two months ago?" "I took it at once." Even in the darkness, Black could still see the proud smile plastered on the boy's face. "You took a whole ten naira at once? That's amazing! How did you do it?" "Have you forgotten that my father is a drunkard? He comes home everyday drinking like a fish. The wine bottle is his greatest work of art. Each time he comes home swimming in liqueur, he forgets about himself. Last night, I waited for him to sleep off, then I dipped my hand into his pocket and took out this ten naira." He fluorished the money with pride. The other boy collected the money and joined it with his. He hels the fifteen naira in his hand and asked, "What do we do with it?" Black was amused at the two boys who had just stolen their parents' money. These were terrible children; how could a child be so wicked to steal from those who gave birth to him and brought him up? That was wickedness. It was unfair. The boys should be grateful that they had parents in the first place. The boys' case was not unlike looking at a gift horse in the snout. Black decided that it wouldn't hurt to take the money from the boys. It would be a thief-take-from-thief scenario—a nemesis meeting a nemesis; Black was the nemesis of the nemesis' nemesis. He suddenly sprang out of his hiding and grabbed the fifteen naira from the joyous boy. He didn't even wait to hear what they would do with the money. Certainly, the boys were ready to squander the money on either confectioneries or toys. Losing the money would not kill them but the boys went after Black as if the money was their lives. "Thief! Thief!! Thief!!!" The two thieves sang after Peter. The chants sounded sweet to Black's hearing as he ran. He wasn't worried about being caught because he knew that those boys would never catch up with him. He jumped over gutters and stagnant waters as he ran. The rain was now coming down with full force. He was soaked within seconds; water dripped from his eyebrows, ears and the tip of his nose. He could barely see where he was going but he knew the roads like the back of his hands. He jumped over fallen branches and ran onward. He thought the boys would have stopped chasing him by now because of the deluge, but both kids were not ready to relinquish their wealth to this bolting small brat. Black felt them close behind him and ran faster. But something unexpected happened; he slipped and fell. ************************************************ The boys quickly caught up with him and pounded him blindly. The rain was still falling hard. Black tried to slip away from his attackers but they drew him back. They beat him without mercy. For a moment, Black thought he was going to be accorded a similar fate with the thief that was burnt months earlier. He was mollified at the unlikeliness of such thing occurring. He thanked his luck that rain was falling this time; the downpour would not allow any intended water to ignite. Then a scary thought occurred to him. What If the boys carried him to a place protected against the rain and set him ablaze? He prayed such wisdom would not be endowed on the cruel boys. But the beatings were getting out of hand. A punch had already sent a tooth down his throat. He coughed and spat out the bloody canine. One of the boys got a wet stick and struck Black on the head with it. His head split open and fresh blood gushed out. Another blow at the temple sent his head into the mud. Imprinting his face in the wet sand, fortunately quick thinking enough to close his eyes and his mouth before making the sharp impact. Raising his bloody face out of its concave image, snorting soluble sand out of his nostrils, blowing caked mud off his lips, and blinking the murky water from his eyes. The pains were becoming so excruciating that Black thought they were going to beat him to death. And truly, the boys were bent on beating him senseless; they intended to teach him a lesson that would be forever imprinted on his memory. Maybe after tonight, he would not attempt to steal from anyone else again. But, evidently, the boys didn't know Black—they didn't know that his thievery was pathological. Black wished Basket would come for his rescue as the boys pounded and kicked him. But he knew that Basket would not come; he might be deeply asleep by now. He was beginning to lose consciousness. The money he had taken slipped off his hand and spread on the damp ground. But it appeared as if the boys didn't need the money anymore. They had found a scape goat in Black. They would beat him up until they were tired; and the boys would not be getting tired anytime soon. Then at the time when Black believed that the beatings would not stop, he heard the sweetest voice of the moment, the voice he had been aching, hoping and praying to hear—the voice of Basket. "Blackie! Blackie!! Blackie!!!" Black initially thought he was hearing things that were not there; sounds that his head had only managed to conjure due to the extreme beatings inflicted on him. But he heard his name again in another three close successions. "Basket!" He managed to scream out. As he did so, he felt another excruciating pain in his side. But he didn't mind the pain. Basket was here! "I'm here! Two nice stranger are dancing with me in the rain." Basket followed the sound of the voice and came upon two boys beating up his friend. Filled with immediate rage, he flung away his umbrella and charged at the boys. Reaching them, he seized them one after the other by their heads and tossed them away as if they were pillows. The boys flew in the air like kites and landed on either sides of the road. They were initially dazed at what had happened as they tried to determine the supernatural element that threw them like that. The boys, acting against cowardice, scrambled to their feet and rushed to attack their attacker but stopped in their tracks. One look at Basket's massive fists and enraged eyes was enough to cool any hasty temper they might have been nursing. Basket looked at Black lying on the floor; although the rain was already washing away the blood on Peter, Basket still knew that his friend was not in a good shape. The terrible boys had done an incredible job on him. His anger for the boys intensified. How dare they lay their filthy hands on his friend? Basket grabbed one of the boys and sent him a hard punch, he could feel a bone crack under his knuckle as he administered the vicious blow. The boy cried out in pain. Before the other boy could think, Basket kicked his legs from under him. The second boy fell and hit his head on the slippery hard ground. Basket left the two boys writhing with pain and went to his friend. He bent over Black and called his name again. But to his surprise, Black groaned and smiled at him. "What took you so long?" The rain had stopped now and everywhere was strangely quiet. "You didn't tell me you were going out. I searched everywhere for you. I came out here looking for you shortly after the rain started. I was afraid something terrible had happened to you." "Of course not; as you can see, it is something pleasant that happened to me. The boys gave me a VIP treatment. Kindly thank them for me." "I've already shown my gratitude for their kind hospitality." Black groaned again. " I think the bastards broke my ribs, but I'll survive. I've experienced more terrible pains in the past." Basket smiled at his friend; he knew how strong his friend's spirit was. That was one of the numerous qualities he admired in the small boy. Black was an extraordinary boy who lived beyond his pains, either physical or psychological. Then suddenly, Basket felt a sharp pain as one of the boys hit him with a stick on the back. He gave a great roar of fury. Turning around, he grabbed the boy by the neck, and with a power beyond ordinary, his thick fingers began to squeeze, lifting the unfortunate boy off his feet. The boy clawed at the iron grip on his neck; every attempt to release himself was useless. Then Basket flung him away the second time. The boy crashed on the ground beside his friend, and this time he became limp; he might remain that way for a long time. The other boy, who was still conscious but visibly scared, looked up at the big guy who loomed over him. Basket's fist like a sledge hammer smashed down on the boy's upturned face. He, too, like his friend, embarked on an unconscious pilgrimage. Trying to rub where he was hit, the irritated Basket returned to his friend. He still found him sitting on the wet ground, his clothes caked with mud and his face with blood. Black watched his friend try to rub the back where his hands could not reach. He brought his hand to his mouth to cover any involuntary smile. He looked at Basket who was too irritated to find any humour in the situation. To Black, violence was an ill-wind that knew no good. "What's funny?" Basket scowled. "Stop sitting there like a tired sardine and let's go home." Black stood on his feet with effort. Basket cast a look at the boys he had rended unconscious and Black picked up the money that had fallen off his hand. "What happened?" Basket asked, "Why were those boys beating you up?" "The boys are thieves." Black replied. "And we're saints?" "Those boys stole from their parents and I stole from them." Black explained, "But I tripped on the slippery ground when I was running away." "The great Blackie tripped? That's unbelievable!" Basket was amused. He cast another look at the sleeping boys and said, "So, I beat up two thieves?" "It appears so. I hope you won't beat me up, too, or rather, beat yourself up. I would be gravely worried at the latter." "Wow!" Basket was proud of himself. "It's nice to beat up thieves. One day, I will become a policeman." Black stared at him curiously and asked, "Are you crazy?" Basket stared back at his friend and smiled, "I was only joking." Black would have laughed if he hadn't realised that his friend was not joking. He knew that Basket meant what he said.

Dis stealing behavior will not do u any gud oo... See how u ve been beaten to pulp cos of stealing... U wudnt be lucky next time oo,yoooo!!!

Becoming a police officer is a Nice idea

basket have a gud aim assuming he have d opportunity

modesco wrote:

basket have a gud aim assuming he have d opportunity

sure things

he just might

I like Basket

hmmmmm

and basket myt really bcom a police man oooo or a comedian and be called basket mouth

oga black na small boys u allow make dem drill u

Thanks to Basket who came to ur rescue

OK...

This beating should change u from stealing