The Sacrament of Penance

Confession heals, confession justifies, confession grants pardon of sin, all hope consists in confession; in confession there is a chance for mercy.
--St. Isidore of Seville

Based on true life events.

WARNING: THE THINGS YOU'RE ABOUT TO READ HAPPENED IN A CITY NEAR YOU AND COULD... Xxivi Jhredl Nisioyafcx JuaaAobd.... (Red Alert: Typo... typo... typo...)

***********
"Father I have sinned," Kelvin said. He kneels in the confession box with both hands locked in a fist.
"Confess your sins son," the Priest said.
"Father I have sinned, please forgive me." Kelvin repeated and continued,
"At my best, I remain a piss of shit; a scumbag; a shitty scallywag; all the S's dines with me" Kelvin said.

"Confess your sins son, the Lord is merciful and just," said the Priest.

"At my worst, the F-word fucks me. We fornicate without reproach. She always win, for I am weak.
Father, I have sinned, please, forgive me."

"Confess son, confess."

"I did a terrible thing Father. I'm ashamed of myself." Kelvin started, his hands quaked as he spoke.
"Confess son, for we have all sinned and fallen short of grace, but the Lord is just and merciful, His nature is always to have mercy." the Priest said with angelic calm.

"I am a teacher, I run a tutorial center. Every young kid look up to me. Parents send their wards to my tutorial and they see the change in these kids lives." Kelvin explained. He gnashed his teeth as he continued,
"I am their role model Father,  they all want to be like me --Kelvin the great." he said with pure sarcasm.

"They all look up to me, and never have I let them down academically. They pass their exams with ease, emerging in flying colours; their parents and guardians even send me gifts sometimes after exams" Kelvin cleared his throat, his voice was beginning to shake. He brought out a newly bought white handkerchief and blew his nose in it.
The Priest waited patiently, without saying a word.

"In the nutshell Father,  I am a respectable and responsible young man.
But... I do terrible things to these kids and they dare not say to a soul, else they die." Kelvin said.

"He is just and merciful. Confess son, confess."

"I was mad in the head Father. I always enjoyed it, and the kids eventually do in the long run." He continued.
"But the last I had I didn't enjoy. A minor. An eight year old. I am ashamed of myself Father,  I am ashamed." Kelvin paused and blew his nose again.

The Priest was touched, he sighed inaudibly and brought out a white handkerchief that had seen good times. He dabbed his teary eyes with the hankie and thought about the broken eight year old girl for a moment before Kelvin's croaked voice ushered him back to the box.

"I am a proud man Father, but for this I am ashamed. I am a pedophile Father, and I molested and raped an eight year old boy."

The Priest adjusted himself on his chair, shocked at the twist in Kelvin's confession.
A boy?! A damn boy?! He wanted to scream, but remembered that the Lord is just and merciful. He was only a witness to the confessional.
What difference does it make? A girl or  boy? A life had already been destroyed and only the Most high can amend such brokenness. He thought.
"Confess son... confess." the Priest said with divine calm.

Kelvin confessed the atrocities he commits with young boys. He was only attracted to boys --tall, short, skinny, fat,  he had no specs; what mattered was that they were boys.

After the confession, the Priest gave his words of wisdom, and prayed for him, and ordered him to go and sin no more. Kelvin came out penance, a new man.

"Look at that fine young guy, can't you just be like that? He even goes to church during the week." a mother said to her son as Kelvin came out of the church. Her son had piercings on his nose, tongue and ears. The ink on his muscled tanned body was enough to write a semester examination; his tinted hairstyle announced to the world that he had no fucks left for suckers.

"Just look at him, looking very responsible" the boy's mother continued.
"Even if he happens to be irresponsible, he still passes for responsible." she added. From the tone of her voice it was obvious she had given up on the boy, but you never know when the Holies of holies will touch a soul.

"So because he's on low-cut and wears a shirt and trouser, and goes to church he is responsible abi?" the boy finally replied.
"What if he is irresponsible? What if he is a woman beater? A drug peddler? Assassin? You don't know these things do you?" he asked his mother. She cleared her throat, pretending to have something there. She wanted to buy herself some time to think.

"But we don't know that, do we?" she finally said after a minute or so.
"...they are just assumptions" she added.

"Yes that's what they are. So let's not judge a book by its cover; let's read the book before drawing conclusions about it being good or not so good." Said the boy.
"You know who I am. Am I not responsible?" he asked.
His mother cleared her throat again but this time she answered promptly
"Yes you are. But..." she was saying when her son cut her short.
"Iya e... leave the buts. Since you know, that's what matters. Leave others alone they can say and think whatever it is they want. It's none of our business. Let them keep judging." he said.

They watch Kelvin cross the road and flag down a bike. The boy's mother still wished her son was like the young man. She silently prayed he would be decent and sane in his dressing and appearance. Because in this part of the world, shirt and trousers with no tattoos mean being responsible, no one cares about your deeds and heart ♥.

©Angel MESSI

Dilemma (2)

Hello there,  welcome back. I'm sorry I went on a week long micturition. I live on the street, and Gov. Ambode's doing some serious restructuring in Lagos, I couldn't even find a toilet!

Now back to our story; Charles and Joy were in love, but along the line they missed it. They miscommunicated almost at all times, and it grew worse...

*********
"Babe do you care for anything?"  Joy asked her husband who sat in the sophisticated living room watching the evening news.
The news headline was as irritating as his wife's question: "Unknown Snake swallows N36 Million at JAMB office."
"To hell with you suckers!" Charles snarled, startling Joy.

"Charles please don't start this evening" she fumed and turned away in the opposite direction like a controlled military robot.
"I'm travelling to Abuja tomorrow for a business meeting," Charles said softly as she walked out. He spoke as though he didn't want her hear so they could argue over it tomorrow morning when he was ready to travel; that was the only thing he now enjoy doing with his wife --arguing. But Joy heard; women, they always hear.  She stopped in her tracks and turned back towards him.
"And how long will you be gone mister?" She asked.
"A week or so..." Charles replied, his gazed fixed on the devil's box as he watched the news of the political demons running the economy like a boy flying a kite.
Joy then turn back towards her room without uttering any other word.

Let's just continue like this, she said to herself. She locked herself in, flipped her phone to check her messages, and creased into a smile Charles would have recognized on their wedding day.

It was a WhatsApp message from one Adewale. Yoruba demons, they are everywhere.

The ambrosial smell of rain on earth plus a cloud curtained sunshine announced daybreak. For both parties, it couldn't come any quicker. Charles slipped out of his pyjamas and into his slippers as he traipsed into the bathroom. He was drained, the night was unnecessarily long. It was one of those nights one prays to fast-forward when there is a meeting with a loved one the following morning.

"I've booked a flight with Solange Airlines, and I'll be lodging at Sheraton." he said to his wife at the dinning as he prepared to leave.
"If you need anything you know how to reach me." he added.
Joy just sat still at the dinning drinking tea and playing candy crush with her phone. Giving Charles the impression she wouldn't need a thing from him.

"Will you be kind enough to drop me at the airport?" he asked. Joy then looked at him for the first time that morning.
"You didn't tell me you'll be needing me to take you the airport. I've got plans already."
"Fine. I'll just call Taxify."
"Nicey"

Some few hours later after overcoming the buzzing traffic in Lagos, Charles finally got to Magodo, his mistress's home.
Onome and Charles had been friends since university days, falling in and out of their relationship like scavenging ants in search of sugar cubes.
She was a blogger and digital marketer who know people that know people.

"So I am your business meeting abi?" Onome said to Charles as she wrapped her arms around him.
"First of,  this meeting will last for two weeks. Have that in mind" she added with a kiss.
"As your lordship pleases." Charles replied with ambitious lust.
Onome deliberately slipped out of his grasp and slowly signalled him to follow her. Charles carried his bag and obeyed, his eyes fixated on her mammoth but shapely behind.

*********
What is good for the gander is good for the goose. Joy had changed into a red lingerie as she cooked spaghetti and peppered chicken stew. She was beautiful and smelled nice; unlike when she was with her husband, wearing baggy pants and oversized shirts, hiding her features.

Adewale would soon be here any moment from now, she thought. They would have at least four to five days of uninterrupted intimacy. The longest they've ever had was a day, now five days together was mouthwatering.
As though to justify her thoughts, the bell rang. He's here!

After the meal, Adewale and Joy cuddled cozily on the sofa as they sipped rum and watch scantily clad girls dance in music videos. It was hard to see a video without these naked girls.
Just then, a breaking news headline scrolled: "BREAKING NEWS: Solange Plane Crash. 79 Feared Dead."

It was Adewale that read it, then he echoed to his mistress. Joy jumped to her  feet.
"Solange airline? What?! Charles is on that plane!"

©Angel MESSI

Dilemma

The atmosphere was serene, it cannot be mistaken, gods live here. And when a god and a goddess decides to live together in love and procreate, what do they birth?

A Saviour? A Messiah? A God?

Aha!

Yes, it's a dilemma, and that's what we'll be talking about this evening, or morning, or whatever time it is you're reading this, because this dilemma issa banger.

"BANG BANG BANG!"

Charles banged the gate with a boulder not minding the sheen. He had tried using the bell and his fist, however the bell seemed to be hanging on the wall just for decorative purposes (this was a revelation because he had never used it before), while his fist ached terribly after two knocks.

He took his phone and ringed Joy again, she still wasn't picking.
Where in the world is everyone? He thought, and gave the gate another round of knock as his blue Acura MDX roared softly.

Just then, the locker was released from the other end and his neighbour opened the gate.

"Oh Mr Charles it's you, I heard the banging from the bathroom. I had no idea it was you" his neighbour said.

"Ha... So you heard since. Na wa oh" Charles whined.

"I said I was in the bathroom. Perhaps, it's about time we considered getting a gate man. You were the one that opposed the motion at our last meeting with the landlord."

"Hmmm... That is why you refused to open the gate on time abi?... Fear God ooo... Well I never knew one could use close to twenty minutes at the gate knocking. Please we have to get a gate man asap."  Charles agreed. He opened the main gate and drove in.

The frustration on his face was evident. He would pour out everything on Joy, but on getting to his block he noticed her car wasn't there.
He collected his things from the car and pressed the  bell. He was sure the bell to his flat was working unlike the shocker he received at the gate. He checked underneath the foot mat and found the key.

"Where dis babe carry herself go again?" he said to himself as he opened the door and entered. His anger left him immediately when he discovered her phones were on the center table. How would he vent his anger on her now? He must have thought.

Some few minutes later, Joy got back from the store as she pulled two grocery bags out of the booth.
Charles opened the door, and seeing the bags he knew where she went.

"Honey I'm sorry I never knew you'd come back this early," Joy said. Charles returned back in, not even offering to help with the bags.
Joy shut the door behind her and head to the kitchen. She was barely disturbed because she hadn't bought the groceries for him in the first place. He seldom ate anything these days. Gone are the days her husband couldn't do without any of  her food, but not anymore. It's been over two months he last ate her herself. She missed him, and she was certain he missed her too. They both loved each other; that was why they got married in the first place, even against the warning of family and friends.
"Love conquers all." they had both said to anyone that doubted them when they made known their intention to settle down, after dating for close to two years. But here they are, thirteen months into the marriage and things already gone terribly sour.

How did it happen? You might wanna ask. The sad truth however is that the love dyad do not even know how it happened.
But I'm the narrator right? I know things, and I'll tell you how it happened.

It started with overlooking things.
Now, I must warn you, it is important that you heed my warning, take it in, soak it in, comprehend: Never ever overlook the things you care about.
Discuss it, spill out your grievances, never bottle it in.

Charles and Joy were in love, I think they still are. But is love enough to keep a marriage?

I'll be right back, let me take a leak.

©Angel MESSI

The Blusher (2)

"Hello Choco, welcome back honey."
Madame Agnes greeted General Bongo as she collected his briefcase, sealing her salutation with a kiss.

General Bongo's little vizsla hopped between his legs  as he held his wife, craving its own attention;  its master however solely belonged to madame on this night. The dog, undefeated and unfettered continue to hop and bark as it followed its master.

"How's my wildcat been today?" the General asked, holding onto Agnes's curvaceous waist a lil longer.
"Grand baby, grand. I prepared your favorite. Go shower let me set the table."

General Bongo then proceeded to his room, leaving Agnes to set the table for dinner. Agnes dropped the briefcase on the glass dinning table and hurried towards the kitchen. Her husband must be extremely famished, she thought.

Some minutes later, all was set and Madame Agnes beckoned on her husband. He called back from his room, permitting her to continue eating as he'd join her pretty soon; but Madame Agnes refused to eat without her husband, so she waited.

She fiddled with her phone in wait, and after a while the thought of opening the briefcase brushed through her. She drew the iron briefcase closer, fiddling with the handle and lock.
Madame Agnes examined it for a while and without opening it decided to take it upstairs to her husband.

All the while the dog sat still under the center table, it focused on the television as an animated cat and mouse kept setting traps for themselves and killing each other; only to come back alive in another episode. Occasionally it would bark when a  bulldog scene comes up.

"Yes come in..." General Bongo answered a knock on the door. Agnes stepped in with the briefcase. Her husband was still in the bathroom so she sat on the bed waiting.
Then it came to her again like a bad dream that needs interpretation -the briefcase.

She caressed the handle, and like a woman, she unlocked it.

"CLICK"

The briefcase swung open and she saw in it a neatly arranged spiral-bounded document, a pistol and two packets of bullets (real and rubber baton rounds).  There was also a clean Gerber mark II dagger with black rubber handle safely sheathed in a military sheath.

She perused the documents and realized it was the old General's will.
"Chinekeme" she muttered softly as she read the document. She discovered there and then that General Bongo had two more wives in the states, and even his late first wife had a larger percentage of his properties willed to her children.

She was doomed; and for no reason, the book, the doomsday conspiracy came to her mind. What am I doing with this aged nincompoop? She thought.
"This is insane. I've been used." she said out loud absentmindedly.

General Bongo came out from the bathroom just in time to see her talking to herself.
"Honey are you okay?" he asked.

Madame Agnes took a while to process her thoughts before she replied
"Who's your honey?" she retorted as she flashed the documents before her husband.

"Please put those stuffs back I don't want it flying around." The General said and walked towards his wardrobe. He slipped into his pyjamas and left his wife in the room which drove her nuts.

"Good grief! What in the hell is the meaning of all these nonsense?!" She exploded and jumped to her feet, and carrying the briefcase along she went after him. She slammed the door behind her, and hurried barefooted down the wooden stairs.

"Mister man! Don't you walk out on me! Don't you ever walk out on me!"

(To be continued)
©Angel MESSI

The Blusher

"I killed a man,"
"I killed my husband, and I plead not guilty."

These were the exact words of Madame Agnes Bongo, General Bongo's contraband sweet heart, when she pleaded her case before the magistrate.

"General Bongo was a scumbag. A scallywag. A rascal."  the retired model opined.

"Madame Agnes Bongo, would you tell this honourable court what metamorphosed between you and General Bongo?" Barrister Aje said, he was representing the defense counsel.

Madame Agnes sighed, flushed by bittersweet emotions.

"He was the funniest and sweetest man I'd ever seen..." Madame Bongo started, and creased into a radiant smile.
***********

Sporadic gun shots could be heard from a distance not too far away. It was a ball of ArmaLite AR-15 rifles, Ak47s among many others. General Bongo could pick the sound of each gun from years of war. He was unfazed amidst the threat and this calmed his soldiers.
Then an explosion shook the forest. Birds took flight, abandoning their nests; even bats left their coven. The sky was saturated with fowls of the air, bats and birds alike; this, in itself was ill luck.

"Guns don't kill people..."  General Bongo said and puffed thick tobacco smoke into the air as though to reference the aves. His left hand and face were scarred from years of protecting his country. General Bongo was a man of the people; thrice he had surrendered his life to protect his country,  and thrice he'd miraculously missed the icy kiss of death.

"...Mofos kill people." he said coldly. His full hair grayed, and his moustache curled to the heavens at both ends. General Bongo wasn't the strongest of generals at his time, but he was every soldier's dream soldier. They all wanted to be in his brigade. They wanted to be led by a man whose witticism and luck had saved him thrice in the enemy camp.
His ideas and speech gave even the fiercest of foes goosebumps, hence the crescentic rise in his career.

General Bongo was a hard nut with glyphs of wrinkles carved on his cold face. He never smiles. A true African man is a hard man who buries his emotion in the abyss of thingamajig. Then an African man in the military is harder; dead to emotions. This was General Bongo, dead to emotions, and he carried this demeanour to his young wife at home every night.
**********

On the night of General Bongo's death things were as normal as they usually were. Miss Agnes was in the kitchen cooking her ass off to prepare General Bongo's favourite meal, Afang soup and foofoo.
The stress of pounding the vegetables, cutting and washing the periwinkles, preparing the foofoo among others was more than enough to keep Agnes away from the kitchen. She loathed cooking, which happens to be a prime mover  in her career choice. She thrived on junks as a model until she met General Bongo at Lagos University Teaching Hospital (LUTH), some six years ago after a surgery.

The General was adorable, affable and amiable, and that was just the As. He was all she had ever wanted in an ideal man. He doled out jokes with such seriousness she almost returned for another surgery.
How can a man be this funny and not even laugh while saying it? She had thought. Her curiosity caused them to exchange numbers, and the rest they say is history.

History however would be made on the night of General Bongo's death as his black Honda Pilot pulled into the garage. He turned off the ignition and decided to take a quick smoke. He checked his pack of Benson Switch, he had four sticks left and resolved to taking two. The remainder he would enjoy before going to bed, little did he know there was no going to bed; that night, he was going to hell.

(To be continued)
©Angel MESSI

Ali had a Dream (4)

His uncle had spent most of his life abroad, so calling him a name he didn’t bear did not quite go down well with him. People who called him by his children’s name ended up being frustrated because uncle Kamal will not respond to such calls.

“Say my name! I am Kamaldeen, and not Baba Shade! What in the world is wrong with Nigerians? Aaarrrgghhh!” he once charged at his friend while at a party; his friend had brought to the party three hot dames, and anything near “Baba whatever,” was bad for business.

“Ali! So of all the shirts and polo shirts in that wardrobe it’s this one that caught your fancy right?” he said, “you too like better thing. See your head.” Ali turned around one more time so to send a message to his uncle that that would be the last of the shirt he would be seeing in his house. “Who doesn’t?” Ali grins.

Just then, Ali proceeded to the refrigerator -that was his favourite place in the house, followed by the kitchen- he brought out four cans of beer and returned to the living room.
On seeing the beer cans with him his uncle said, “Hmmm… EeekkaaA! I trust you.” And they both laughed yet again. Ali was his favourite nephew, and he loved him so much.

*****Definition of Term*****
EeekkaaA: someone or a group of persons very good in doing ‘bad’ things. (It can be used as a noun, pronoun, verb, adjective and adverb.)

Ali passed his admission letter to his uncle, “What’s this again oo?” he asked, as he read the letter, “Oh… finally…” he said, “…your dream course… congratulations boy. Your father would have been very proud.” And he raised his beer to the lad.
“Thank you sir.” Ali beamed; just then one of the ladies joined them in the living room and settled beside uncle Kamal. She was scantily-clad and had helped herself with some chocolate ice-cream.
Uncle Kamal then introduced her to Ali, who to his greatest surprise didn’t believe it. 

“This is Ali, my nephew I do talk to you about,” he said, and she faked a smile. Then he turned to Ali and said, “Ali this is Jenifer, she’s a sophomore student of Obafemi Awolowo University, your school.” Ali mouthed, “Hello,” but the actual words didn’t quite come out.

Jenifer was the lady he saw on his way to his uncle’s place who he had tried to talk to only for her to tell him his clothes are torn and he needed clothes not girls in his life. She then flagged down a bike and sped off. Jenifer however was suddenly interested in him, pretending not to remember a thing.

“Oh oh… Great Ife!” she said, as she held her spoon in a fist.

“Eeerrr… actually I just got admitted…” Ali stammered. 
“Oh that’s nice, congrats. What course were you given?” She asked coolly in the most sonorous voice Ali had ever heard, just then uncle Kamal cuts in “His dream course of course! He’s the one I told you about that rejected your school on two different occasions when he was given Medicine and Computer science have you forgotten?”

“Ahan… uncle Kamal…!” Ali said embarrassed, “you don’t have to be a whistleblower, you won’t get paid” and they all burst out laughing.

Ali peeked through the corner of his eyes as they watched TV and caught her staring. What could she be thinking now? he thought, and then he turned to her as though to say something. His opened mouth however would birth no word. She smiled and winked at him, and then proceeded into the other room.
So shapely she was even the number eight had fewer curves. The bum shorts she wore gave him enough room to take in her straight hot legs.

“WOW!” he suddenly said absentmindedly, before he realized he shouldn’t have said that.
“Hey! Young man… get your eyes off that girl.” Uncle Kamal warned and creased into a satisfying smile. Ali smirked and relaxed into the armless arms of the cushion chair, “Obafemi Awolowo University… here I come.” He said to himself.

Angel MESSI

Ali had a Dream (3)

(CONT'D) 

Mama  Ali’s  moniker  also  varies  due  to  the  flexibility  of  her  ever  changing  trade. Mama  Ali  being  the  most  popular,  to  the  less  popular  ones  like;  Iya  Gbenga  (No  one ever  called  her  Iya  Aishat,  firstborns  and  lastborn  are  the  main  children,  second-borns are  almost  invisible.),  Iya  Alata,  Mama  Melo;  while  the  kids  mostly  called  her  “Mama Boda  Ali”  (simply  put,  uncle  Ali’s  mother).  This  is  Nigeria  and  respect  is  a  thing  that flows even in the bloodstream  of  unborn babies.

Mama  Ali’s  shop  was  one  of  the  shops  that  occupied  the  ground  floor  of  the  two storied  building;  other  shops  includes:  a  barber’s  shop,  a  boutique,  a  bet  shop/game house,  and  a  shop  that  housed  an  office  desk,  two  blue  plastic  chairs,  a  bench, typewriter,  desktop  computer,  and  a  whole  lot  of  files.  A  placard  was  pasted  on  the  door with  washed  off  writing:  “ESTATE  AGENT.  To  Let,  2  &  3  Bedroom  flats  for  lease.” The  shop was perpetually empty. 

************
Baba  Ali  owned  a  mechanic  shop.  A  school  certificate  holder,  but  he  somehow managed  to  speak  Queen’s  English  (I  am  sure  you’ve  met  people  like  that).  He  served as  a  cook  to  a  British  couple  at  a  tender  age  of  twelve,  and  went  on  to  live  with  them  for twenty  four  years. 
“Tunde  boy,”  as  he  was  fondly  called  by  his  master  went  on  to  learn all  he  could  from  the  Briton  who  was  a  qualified  mechanical  engineer  that  worked  with Volkswagen at  the  time,  until  his untimely death alongside his wife  in  a  motor accident.

Baba  Ali  was  the  best  mechanic  there  was  in  the  busy  city  of  Yaba.  Ali  however wasn’t  interested  in  his  father’s  trade,  and  upon  his  father’s  death,  the  shop  was relinquished to a stranger.

Baba  Ali  was  a  generous  easy-going  man  who  worked  for  free  most  of  the  time, and that  invariably  left  him  broke  and  at  the  ire  of  his  wife.  He  didn’t  care  less notwithstanding;  as  long  as  he  could  provide  for  feeding,  and  his  children’s  education and  shelter,  he  was  satisfied.  The  issue  however  was  the  occasional  luxuries  his  wife wanted  to  enjoy. 

“We  must  be  frugal  in  spending,”  he’d  say  to  her  whenever  she  came crying  for  money.  He’ll  then  give  her  the  money,  and  ask that she  used  it  to  buy  whatever  she wanted; or  to  buy food and also  stock her  shop.  Yea,  you guessed right.

************
“Ahan?  Ali  what’s  wrong?  Why  is  your  shirt  torn?”  Uncle  Kamal  asked,  surprised as  he  opened  the  door  for  his  nephew.

“Uncle  it’s  the  bus  I  entered  o!”  Ali  lamented.  “As I  was  about  to  drop,  I  had  no  idea  that  my  shirt  was  being  held  back  by  a  knocked  out screw…”  he  paused, took a brief look at his once lovely shirt and continued,  “…all  I  heard  was  the  sound  of  the  tear  and  people  telling  me ‘sorry o’.  I was embarrassed.”  He hissed.

“Eeyah…  thank  your  stars  it  wasn’t  your  trousers,  that  would  have  been  the  peak of  your  embarrassment,  and  hope  your  boxers  are  clean?  ‘Coz  you  never  know,  the  next bus  you  hop  on  might  chew  your  pants.”  uncle  Kamal  laughed  at  his  just  concluded hilarious  joke,  but  Ali  didn’t  find  it  near  funny,  he  only  managed  a  grin. 

He had spotted  a beautiful  girl  on  his  way  to  his  uncle’s  place  and  had  hoped  to  get  her  mobile  number only  for  her  to  embarrass  him. 
“Why  must  it  be  today of  all  days  that  I  now  see  someone attractive?  My  God!”  He  said  to  himself  as  he  watched  the  girl  and  her  friend  stop  a  bike and  disappear  into  the  noisy  chatter  of  Lagos.  He  stood  for almost twenty minutes, speechless  and  defeated  at  the bus stop.  

“Check  my  wardrobe  and  see  if  you  can  get  something  that  fits,”  his  uncle  finally said  amidst  laughter  as  he  picked  the  channel  changer  and  buried  himself  in  his  couch. Ali  let  out  a  wry  sigh  of  relief  and  gratefully  dashed  to  his  uncle’s  room. 
Uncle  Kamal lived  alone  in  a  3-bedroom  flat  located  in  Ogba,  in  the  city  of  Lagos.  His  two  wives  and five  children  lived  in  Boston.  He  was  a  promiscuous  man,  so  it  was  no  surprise  when  Ali saw  the  silhouettes  and  backs  of  two  ladies  --who  he  guessed  should  be  in  their  late teens  or  early  twenties--  stroll  from  the  kitchen  to  the  other  room  in  bum  shorts  and  tank tops.

Some  minutes  later,  Ali  joined  uncle  Kamal  in  the  living  room  dressed  in  a brightly  coloured,  flowery  blue  shirt.  He  announced  his  presence  with  both  hands  wide apart  like  a  peacock showboating,  “Uncle Kamal how do  I  look?”  

(To be continued)

©Angel MESSI

Ali had a Dream

(CONT'D)

“Warri…  Warri…”  Aishat  recounted  to  her  family  later  that  night,  as  she  sounded as  if  she  spoke  through  a  throatful  of  tightly  packed  phlegm. 

“The  Landlord  was  going  to have  his  bath  jejely  o,  when  he  caught  her,”  Aishat  said,  (she  was  now  talking  normally)
“He  was  tying  a  towel  when  Mama  Bornboy  suddenly  grabbed  his  towel,  almost  letting  it loose,  and  flung  her  potty  into  the  air  as  though  she  were  spraying  money  on  an exquisite  couple  at  a  traditional  wedding.”  she  laughed,  and  so  did  every  other  person  in the  parlor

”Nyama!”  Gbenga  said.  Aishat  ignored  him  and  continued,  “he  was  shocked and  didn’t  even  know  when  he  started  pleading.  Moles  of  Mama  Bornboy’s  shit  were hanging  and  dripping  from  everywhere,  even  Baba  Landlord  got  some  piece  on  his  bald head.” 
Some  of  them  had  started  laughing  again,  but  she  continued,  “I  think  she  must have  caught  some  of  his  pubic  hair  combined  with  the  craze  of  the  splashed  shit.”  They all  laughed  out  loud  yet  again.  Since  that  fateful  day,  the  landlord  has  been  stylishly avoiding  the  madwoman  as  it  was  near  impossible  to  evict  her  from  his  house. 
Mama Bornboy  was  trouble;  with  her  protuberant  belly  and  magnificent  buttocks.  She  gave birth  to  ten  children,  -all  boys,  three  died  at  child  birth-  hence  the  moniker  “Mama  Born boy” was birthed.

“I couldn’t find the corks,” Gbenga quickly announced as he placed the bowl of bottles at Ali’s feet in order not to receive a resetting slap or thunderous knock.

“I think Suuru took it.” He lied, (Suuru was Mama Bornboy’s fourth child, Gbenga’s abettor). It was futile nonetheless, because Gbenga never saw the knock coming. Ali pretended to believe his lies in other to allow Gbenga some space to feel comfortable; but when it did strike him, it left him writhing on the floor.

“My friend bring those bottles closer!” Mama Ali ordered whilst he writhed in pain.
“A child that says his mother will not sleep, he himself will know no peace. It did not touch you very well. Nonsense.” She chastised him.

Ali and his mother filled each bottle with groundnuts --they were of different sizes. Mama Ali was a judicious petty trader; she sold different goods and rendered various services that change as the seasons.

“These big big bottles are five hundred naira,” she said to Gbenga some minutes later, who now sat coolly studying an army of ants that marched across the gutter,

“can you hear me? You have started playing again abi? You this boy! You will not kill me” Mama Ali lamented. Gbenga furrowed and grumbled which almost brought down the wrath of Ali again, “Ehn?! You said what?” Ali asked, suddenly alert to the boy’s protest.
“Nothing” Gbenga replied.

“Those bottles, the big ones,” Mama Ali repeated, pointing to the bottles, “it’s five hundred naira; last price four hundred and eighty naira, that’s if the person has good mouth,” she said, as she held her left ear tightly, which signifies that the little boy had ears and they were meant for listening to instructions.

“These small bottles are three hundred naira last last, and these kenkele ones are hundred naira.” She revealed, “Shey you heard me?” she sought his confirmation, “Yes Maami I got it.” Gbenga said. “Good, now go and call your sister for me let her hear it from me before she go and do Good Samaritan with my groundnuts” Mama Ali ordered.

****Glossary****
Jejely: calmly; softly; gently
Nyama: something nasty
Good mouth: courtesy
Kenkele:  smaller than small

“Maami let me go and rest a bit, I’m on night shift today” Ali said, and left his mother as she added her newly made goods to old stock.

***Mama Ali’s Inventory***
1 dozen of sachet Peak milk
3 tins of Three Crowns milk
5 tins of Peak milk
6 bags of sachet pure water
5 pieces of sachet Milo
2 dozens of sachet Cowbell chocolate milk
8 tins of tomato paste
1 carton of Indomie super pack
1 empty carton of Indomie ‘hungry-man size’
3 plastic cans filled with sweets, sugar and seasoning cubes
Half-full 5 litres plastic of palm oil
Empty 5 litres plastic of groundnut oil
Empty crates of soft drinks
11 bottles of groundnuts
2 Ancient mechanical and electric grinding machines
A worn-out sewing machine...

(To be continued.)

©Angel MESSI

Ali had a Dream

“Ahan?  Maami,  that’s  not  entirely  true,  a  roaring  lion  kills  no  game.”  Ali  protested, while  his  mother  fried  groundnuts;  she  sat  on  a  small  stool.  He  held  in  his  right  hand  an A4  paper,  and  printed  on  it  boldly  was  the  crest  and  name  of  a  school.  He  had  gained admission to  study  Chemical  Engineering.

“Obafemi  Awolowo  University  is  one  of  the  best  schools  in  Africa  offering  this course,”  Ali  said,  “Besides,  you  are  aware  of  my  sentiments  for  that  school  and  its  rich heritage  and  history.  You  should  be  proud  Maami,  very  proud.”  he  teased  his  mother. Ali  stood  tall  and  glowed  with  pride. 

He  was  only  nineteen  and  had  finally  been  given the  chance  to  study  his  desired  course  --his  ‘dream  course’  as  he  always  put  it--  in  the most  coveted university in Africa. He  had  an  IQ  of  149  which  oftentimes  made  him  solve  mathematics  and chemistry  in  his  dreams,  and  whenever  he  woke  up  without  completing  it,  he immediately  got  himself  a  pen  and  sheet  of  paper,  and  continues  till  he  got  the  final answer. 

He’d  written  UTME  on  three  different  occasions,  and  had  been  admitted  on  all three;  however,  he  wasn’t  given  his  dream  course  until  his  third  attempt.  The  first,  he was  admitted  to  study  Medicine  and  Surgery;  his  second,  Computer  Science;  he declined  both  admissions.

Obafemi  Awolowo University
Chemical  Engineering
Their Papa!
He  was on top of the world.  “I  best  them!” he said to himself countlessly. His mother indeed was  very  proud;  he was her pride, her morning star. 

Since  she  lost  her  husband  to  cancer  (how  Baba  Ali  got  cancer  was  still  a mystery,  because  cancer  is  believed  to  be  a  wealthy  man’s  illness),  she  had  grown  an inexplicable  fondness  and  extreme  love  for  her  children  -  the  eldest  being  Ali,  and  his two siblings,  Aishat and Gbenga-  and  the feeling was mutual.

Aishat,  now  in  senior  secondary  school  3,  was  fast  causing  stares  amongst  boys in  the  neighborhood;  but  none  dared  ask  her  out  because  of  her  brother.  He  was fiercely  protective;  a  ferocious  tiger  that  could  be  dedicated  to  a  goal  even  if  it  was  to kill. Gbenga  on  the  other  hand  was  in  junior  secondary  school  2,  and  all  he  could  do was  eat,  sleep  and  talk  to  animals,  insects  and  birds. 

At  age  six,  he  once  climbed  an electric  pole  all  in  an  attempt  to  talk  to  a  bird  that  appeared  to  have  a  few  detached feathers.  He  was  however  disappointed  because  as  soon  as  he  got  hold  of  the  electric wire,  the  disturbed  bird  jets  to  the  sky. 
People  shrieked  in  horror  when  they  finally noticed  a  little  being  up  there  on  the  pole,  and  before  one  could  say  “Goodluck Jonathan”  the  land  was  covered  with  people.  The  boy’s  saving  grace  was  the  fact  that there  hadn’t  been  power  supply  for  four  years;  so  the  pole  to  little  Gbenga  was  a  bigger drier  than  that  at  his  backyard.  Mama  Ali’s  eyes  were  bloodshot  and  tears  were beginning  to blur  her vision as she stared at her last born  in utter disbelief.

Later  that  night  when  she  recounted  the  ordeal  to  Baba  Ali,  he  almost  died  of laughter.  He  watched  his  sleeping  son  and  said,  “Definitely  we  have  a  NEPA  official  in our  family  already,”  then  he  laughed  some  more.  Of  course  Mama  Ali  didn’t  find  it anywhere  near  hilarious. 

“What  in  the  world  are  you  saying?”  she  argued  furiously  with her  husband  before  leaving  for  bed. 

That  night  Baba  Ali  served  himself  dinner,  and pleaded  all  night  long  as  he  tried  to  get  friendly  when  something  hard  hit  him.  However, there would be no forgiveness on this day  –heaven’s  gate was shut.

Gbenga  nevertheless,  would  boast  of  his  solo  feat  of  being  the  only  child  in  the neighborhood  to  have  ever  climbed  an  electric  pole  without  a  ladder,  although  never  did he try it  again.

“Congratulations  my  son,”  Mama  Ali  finally  said  to  her  son,  “I’m  sure  God  will surprise us.”
“Thank  you  Maami,  Iyanu  ma  shele,”  Ali  said. 
“Sugarcane  is  sweetest  at  its  joint. Very  soon,  we’ll  leave  this  slum.  I’ll  buy  a  mansion  for  you  on  the  island  once  I  start working  with  Chevron,”  he  paused  and  continued,  “And  when  I  become  the  petroleum minister,  Maami!  You  will  enjoy  ooo!”  His  mother  could  only  smile  as  she  put  both  her hands  forward  as  though  to  receive  a  gift  and  muttered  softly  “Amin,”  she  rubbed  her hands  on  her  face  and  placed  it  on  her  chest.  This  was  a  sign  in  acknowledgement  of her son’s wishes, whilst  she carried it to a  supreme being.  

Then  she  said,  “You  must  go  to  Ogba  and  tell  your  uncle  about  it,”  she  had finished  frying  the  groundnuts  and  began  to  pull  out  the  firewood;  Ali  instinctively  took  a bowl  of  water  and  sprinkled  it  on  the  red  hot  firewood.  The  conviviality  between  smoke and  ash  produced  a  hissing  sound  that  settled  on  everything  close. 

“You  know  I  can’t afford  to  send  you  to  the  university,  and  this  factory  work  you  are  doing  cannot  pay  for your  education  either,”  she  paused  and  studied  her  son,  he  was  growing  faster  than she’d  anticipated,  “Besides  you  will  have  to  resign  and  the  stipends  will  stop  coming  in.” Ali  nodded  in  agreement,  “Yes  I  will  see  him  on  Sunday.  I  am  off  duty  on  Sunday.”  He said.  “By  the  way  where  is  Gbenga?”  he  suddenly  asked  his  mother,  “I  told  him  to  bring the  bottles  I  washed  earlier  this  morning  at  the  backyard.  That  boy,  will  he  ever  be  able to  carry  out  petty  chores?”  he  beleaguered,  “Gbenga!”  he  shouted  and  folds  his admission  letter  into  his  brown  leather  side  bag.  He  now  sat  with  his  mother  as  they both  separated  the  skin  from  the nuts. 

“G  b e  n  g  a!”  he  cried  yet  again, 
“Yeeeeeeeesss! I  am  coming  ooo!”  Gbenga  cried  from  a  distance,  he  carried  a  big  bowl  filled  with  clean empty  bottles of  dry  gin  -chelsea, seaman,  squadron-  on his head.

“You  no  dey  hear  word  once.  Since  wey  Ali  don  dey  call  you!  Nonsense  boy.”  A short,  fat  woman  blessed  with  zebra-like  stretchmarks  and  discolouration  due  to bleaching  bursts  open  her  door  and  caught  Gbenga  just  in  time  as  he  walked  past,  she held a small  covered  bowl. It  stunk and Gbenga  instantly knew  what  was  in the bowl.  He could  only  wrinkle  his  nose  and  quicken  his  steps. 

She  has  been  caught  defecating  in her room again for the umpteenth time. Mama  Bornboy  never  listens  to  anybody,  not  even  the  landlord  could  coax  her  to use  the  toilet.  “I  cannot  go  and  carry  ‘goloreah’  (gonorrhea)  or  ‘stafilokocos’ (staphylococcus)  from  that  dirty  toilet  abeg,”  she  dared  to  say  to  anybody  that  cared  to listen.  She  was  the  only  tenant  capable  of  engaging  the  landlord  in  series  of  heated arguments and fights  -other tenants  referred to her as  the landlady.

“Can  you  imagine  ehn?  Ai  fini  peni,  ai  fiyan  peyan  lo  mu  ara  oko  san  bante  wo lu;  meaning,  it  is  the  lack  of  decency  that  makes  a  bush  girl  ro  attire  into  the  town;  what nonsense!  Ehn?!  It  is  your  husband  that  will  give  you  gonorrhea  o,  not  my  toilet. Besides  when  it’s  your  turn  to  wash  the  toilet  that  is  when  you  will  have  back  pain  or malaria,  and  your  children  are  as  useless  as  you  are,”  the  landlord  once  said  to  her when  he  first  caught  her  some  few  years  ago  with  her  mobile  toilet,  and  she  gave  him her  petty  excuse. 
The  stench  was  awful  and  the  Landlord  flexed  his  verbal  muscles  on her;  Mama  Bornboy  however  was  a  typical  Benin  woman,  she  would  not  be  dilacerated “Warri no dey carry last.”

(To be continued)

Heaven or Hell

"Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. For you are dust and to dust you will return." the lanky Revd Fr Ubi said; he stood at the other side of the irregular hole, his black Gucci shoes covered in red earth.

Nneka and Josiah stood shoulder to shoulder, and beside each one stood a family member or friend who comforted them, even though they themselves could use some good comforting.

They all sobbed uncontrollably as the life of a dear sister, friend and colleague with a bright future had been cut short.

Nneka however couldn't believe she lived with Jesus all the while, someone who would eventually die in her stead.

Nkiru was Nneka's twin, and it was she who was being buried.
She was a programmer and a believer who nursed the dream of building a telecommunications network that will provide unlimited free data for Nigerians. At her workplace she was nicknamed: 'the men'; because she had a dream men were scared to pursue.
What a man can do, Nkiru can do better, or perhaps, she did it best.

To her colleagues she was a man. It was Nkiru's world, and every other person just followed.
Nkiru was the 'go-to-the-man' kind of person; who knew almost everything about everything, and she was only 25 years old.

A great child with such huge potential --GONE.
Nigeria always loses her finest.

The hole in which her remains were being buried reminded the mourners  of the whole brouhaha surrounding Nkiru's death.

Poor Nkiru was burnt to ashes by a ferocious mob led by a badass drug lord and alleged rapist nicknamed Ìgara Lion.
The clause "ashes to ashes," brought about a great wail when Revd Fr Ubi recited the famous funeral poem.

Nkiru's body was already in ashes even before it hit six feet; hence, it was just swept into an urn and thrown into the hole.

Nneka, strangely was exceedingly grateful that Nkiru died in her stead. She vowed to turn a new leaf.

A fortnight ago, Nneka disappeared. She handed her smartphone to Nkiru before leaving, warning her against switching it on or picking her calls.

"It's on auto on and off," Nneka said to her  grim looking mannequin. Although Nkiru was more feminine than her twin, and that was because she used accessories and effects made for her sexes, unlike Nneka that was a hoyden.

"Once it comes on, please switch it off immediately. No time." she added.

"So where are you now going na?" Nkiru asked.

"I'll call you when I get a new Sim. I can't talk now. My small phone is still with me." Nneka said and flagged down a bike.
"Garage?" she said to the bike man.
"Hundred naira."
"Oya go go go go abeg..."
"See you later Nne.... I'll call you." Nneka said and disappeared into the noisy chatter of Lagos.

Two days later, after Nneka's phone had powered itself on again, Nkiru was just about to switch it off when a text message popped up and it was immediately followed by an incoming call from an unknown number.

"What type of ringtone is this one again eh? Aah!... Nneka!..." Nkiru said to herself with raised eyebrows; the tune was PENALTY by Small Doctor.

She listened to the ringtone with keen interest only for it to stop within a minute.
It rang again the second time and Nkiru swiped the green icon right.

"Hello..."
"hello?...." She looked at the screen to be sure it was still connected, it was.
"Hello?" she said again, and after a while she disconnected it and switched the phone off.

Some few minutes later, a tender knock kissed the wooden door to her one room self-contain.
"Yes, who's there?" Nkiru said softly.
"Aunty Nkiru it's me Shola," returned a little boy. He was her neighbor's son. Nkiru opened the door.
"Somebody is looking for you people," Shola said and pointed to the small gate.

"Okay thank you," Nkiru said.
"How is your mommy?" she asked as she played with the little boy's puffy cheeks just before he left.
"She's fine ma. She has gone to the shop." Shola replied.
"Alright no problem, I'll come and play with you people later, I'm not going to work today." Nkiru revealed. Shola leaped for joy and hurried towards his flat. He knew that Aunty Nkiru's visit to their flat always brought chocolates and other sweet and juicy things.

She shut her door and traipsed towards the gate.
There she met two hefty mean looking men on special marshal polos tucked in on blue denims.

"Nneka?" one of them said,
"Yes, what happen?" Nkiru replied.
"Nneka is..." she was saying when they shushed her.
"Shut up. Just move." one of the men ordered.
"Move to where? I am not Nneka o, Nneka is..." Nkiru was saying again when a thunderous slap opened the flood gates of heaven and it rained stars.

They dragged her to the other side of the street where a yellow and black stripped commercial Lagos bus was parked. As they were about to hurtle her into the bus, Nkiru played Jackie Chan; she abruptly twisted her abductor's hand backwards and struck him with her fist as hard as she could on his neck. The second man dashed towards her to recapture her, but Nkiru's left leg had a mind of its own; it groined him which left him writhing in pain. She then fled towards the highway.

"Olè! Olè! Olè!" the first man screamed after gaining consciousness and chased her; he was later joined by his partner who still held onto his groin as he ran like an injured hippopotamus.

"Thief thief!" "Olè! Olè!"

Nkiru on getting to the highway looked back and saw six men now chasing her.

She quickly crossed the first lane and looked towards the other side of the expressway; there, she saw about five devil-sent men already gathered with planks, stones and bottles. They had heard the cry and were ready for her.

"What have I gotten myself into?" she cried and lamented.
Then she summoned courage and decided to face the demons at her own end.

"I'm not a thief! I'm not a thief!" she screamed as she watched people begin to gather in twos and threes. The look on their faces was far from friendly.

Two resounding slaps from behind got her writhing on the floor --the devils from the other end had joined the demons on this side.

They dragged her to the roadside, beating and stoning her mercilessly.
The two men on special marshal polos then grabbed her and wanted to take her away, but the mob refused.

"We go kill am here!" someone screamed.
"Let her burn in hell!" another yelled.

Nkiru cried, but the tears didn't  come from her eyes; it came from other parts of her body, and they were thick thick sticky red.
She only saw scenes like these on TV and had argued more than once that it wasn't real. "Things like these do not happen in Nigeria. Come on that was back in the days! Now we are civilized. A learned people!" she once said then.
But now that had changed; deep down in her heart of hearts, she admitted that she was wrong. Nigerians are animals.

"Oooohh! I hate blood! I hate blood! Make we burn this ashawo!" One diminutive haggard-looking alcoholic said and threw two tires over Nkiru's head; one went down on her waist the other on her neck like a necklace.

"No wait... Make we never burn am! Wetin she thief?" another person said, but before they could calm themselves the diminutive drunk had brought petrol and he sprayed it all over Nkiru as though he were a prophet spraying holy water on a possessed member.

Everyone instinctively stepped back so not to be bathed in fuel.
They still argued whether or not to burn her when the fire descended from above like in the days of Elijah.

BOOM!

"EEEHHHHHH!!!!" The crowd charged.

The fellow that rained fire that day however was not Elijah; his name was Ìgara Lion.

Revd Fr Ubi was the first to sight him. He had been briefed about who led the heinous barbaric act, and they had informed the police.

The police arrested some suspects, Ìgara Lion being one of them.

But here he was at the memorial park, bringing back grave memories. He was dressed in black, a customized shirt that read: "A MINUTE SILENT IS ENOUGH FOR THE DEAD."

Revd Fr Ubi's silence however was more than a minute and it caused curious mourners to stare at him and then follow the direction of his impetuous gaze.

"Ìgara Lion is here," someone whispered.
The news spread like wildfire. A sudden silence enveloped everyone as though Ìgara Lion's shirt had jinxed them all.

Then rage crawled in.
Nneka turned towards him; after all, they were in a cemetery.
Two men will today meet their lords in heaven or hell.

~Angel Messi~

Things Fall Apart.

" Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things Fall Apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world" W. B. Yeats

**************
"MAKE WE SCATTER THIS PLACE TONIGHT. DANCE AND SWEAT LIKE SAY NA FIGHT; WE MUST TO SETTLE THIS THING TONIGHT..." a seven year old Cynthia sang and danced to Tiwa Savage's ALL OVER as it oozed sweetly from the Barber's shop opposite her house before her mother burst out from the house.

"Cynthia! If you don't do and bathe and enter this house now I'll be all over you like Aboki perfume!" she scolded from the passage.
"What thing do you know that you want to settle? Nonsense" she said and turned back in.

Cynthia immediately began to scrub her back and legs and belly, covered with lather and poured water at the same time. She knew what would become of her should her mother decide to settle the matter with her.
Nonetheless, that didn't stop the seven year old from dreaming: "One day I will be on television and sing and dance like Aunti Tiwa" she always said to her friends in school and at the market.

Cynthia was an excellent pantomime that graciously entertains everyone around her. All she needed was a smartphone playing Tiwa Savage's songs and the rest will be history. This caused people to call her Tiwa Savage; she was in love.

Puppy love don't last. This isn't a fact; it's a prophesy. Albeit it's still a kind of love and Cynthia played it with her eight year old lover Uche; the most brilliant student in Logo Community Primary School.
Uche wanted to become a doctor and he loved Cynthia, puppy love.

The night was still and quiet as the moon wearily stood watch over the agrarian community that one would have thought the scorching sun had molested her all day before retiring to bed some few hours ago.
There was unrest in most communities, hence, unlike the sun, the people of Tombo couldn't go to bed peaceably with their eyes closed.

That night Cynthia dreamed of Lagos; Lagos was heaven. The roads were made of fine gold with gigantic bridges and electronic stairs hovering across them; houses built with glass; water was crystal clear like the springs of Iskaba. God resided in Lagos and so did Tiwa Savage; they played, they laughed, they merry-go-rounded. This was the life; the good life.

"Pow! Pow! Pow!" sporadic shots were fired from close by; guns called and fire responded. Red earth houses were razed down, their leaf-made roofs torched up. Loud noises and whistles were heard from different corners. The armed nomads were at it again; they flouted the rule of law unceremoniously, regarding themselves as the law.

These herdsmen with automatic rifles, swords, bows and arrows hacked down the people of Tombo like harvested yam tubers.
Cynthia stomped out of the house bare footed. The Barber's shop was already on fire. Her father and mother were no where to be found. Villagers skittered to safety only to meet their doom in haven.

"Papa! Mama!" she screamed with tears running down her cheeks unchecked.

"Allahu Akbar!" "Allahu Akbar!"
"I am the messenger of Allah cleansing the earth!" Two trigger happy herdsmen yelled in Fulani, appearing from nowhere and shooting randomly as though it were a sport.

Cynthia hearing the shots and screams turned just in time to be kissed on the skull by a machete. She writhed in the pool of her own blood.
" Allahu Akbar!" they sang and torched up the  house behind them.

Cynthia gasped; she took heavy short breaths and was awakened to a sudden reality --the air she breathed was limited.
She had been taught in school that air was in abundance; but that was not the case. On this night, everything was short and burned out fast; the air; Papa; Mama; Tiwa Savage; Uche --her dearest Uche.
It was not going to last anyway; puppy love, it never lasts.

~Angel Messi~

Mano di Dio (Hand of God)

The Crowd in the bleachers admonished their god as he walked out: "GOAT!" "My Hero!"  "Greatest Of All Time!" "Marry me!" "Let me carry your baby!" "Mano perffeta!" "Mano dị Dio!" "Hand of god!"

It was business as usual for Olusegun Madiba as he walked out of the 41,507 capacity stadium. He was Football Club Juventus number one goalkeeper and had saved two penalties in the just concluded match that leaves the "Old Lady" one point behind league leaders A.C Milan, and with a game in hand. A win in the outstanding match will make them league leaders, and eventually, champions.

Madiba was greeted by his team mates and coaches in the dressing room before stepping into the shower. A cool warm bath was what he needed as he turned up the temperature.

"Nice game mate. Great save this evening," Andrea Pirlo said and patted him in the back as he joined him in the shower.
"mille grazie Papi... You did well with the assist too." Madiba replied.

He got to the parking lot and wasn't surprised to see red and white rose petals sprayed all over his Lamborghini. Red hearts were also drawn on white cardboard and placed on the windscreen with a writing that read: "All heil Mano di Dio!"
Madiba grinned as he took the piece of paper, entered his car and zoomed off to the cheers of some teenage school boys who were watching from afar.
"Mano di Dio!" "the Hand of god!" they yelled excitedly.

Sailboats, yachts, and cabin cruisers all bob up and down in the warm blue water. Two yachts docked ashore bore the name "MADIBA's Pride".
Madiba woke to the sweet smell of jasmine and cherry and water. He saw the silhouette of the shapely body of his drop dead gorgeous girlfriend, Francesca. She had prepared his favorite and brought it to him in bed.

"Rise and shine bluebird. Spread your wings and fly." she said and kissed him.
"Hmmm... Sweet lemonade, is that pasta alla carbonara and cherry juice?" Madiba said, sniffing the aroma.
"Yes honey your favorite." replied Francesca.

Tabloids and papers had pictures of him smiling triumphantly and he was also trending on sports websites with different headlines as he checked his phone: "The HAND of God has no WEAKNESS" "Emperor MADIBA" "All Hail de King of Gloves"

"These people, they won't kill me with these headlines." Madiba said boastfully with a victorious grin spread across his face.
"You are their hero let them adore you" Francesca said, and buried herself under the expensive designer sheets and comforter covers made from Irish Ostrich feathers and German sheep.

Then something caught his attention, it was a headline from an English reporter Emma Churchill. She had always suspected foul play and never ceased to be inquisitive whenever she had the chance to meet him and ask questions at press conferences. Her article was titled: "Pure Blood? Madiba's Mysterious Secret."

Madiba's heart beats furiously as he scans through the article. What d'hell does she want from me? He asked himself again and again as he read to his bewilderment the atrocious things she said about him.

"How can she even be allowed to publish this... this junk?!" he said out loud absent-mindedly to Francesca's surprise.
"Baby are you okay?" Francesca asked, startled.
"Yea sweets... I'm... I'm... Fine. Just one crazy reporter." Madiba replied. He tried to control his anger but failed.
"That Bitch's gone too far and I'm gonna deal with her." he blasted.
"calmati Madiba, non ne vale la pena (calm down Madiba, she's not worth it)" Francesca pleaded, but Madiba was boiling with rage he didn't hear her speak. He really wanted to show the damned reporter what it meant to be the Hand of god. He slid into combat shorts, black hoodie and a golf cap to match, and left Madiba's Pride in his fury.

He dallied ashore as he wrestled with the option of going in his Lamborghini or the Cardiac Escalade; he later opted for his pick up truck instead; he loved to blend in with commoners whenever he drove to his poultry.

People need to know where they belong, and if they do not, we'd gladly show them. He said to himself.

Olusegun Madiba was Nigerian but played for the Italian national team. "Nigeria is full of shit" he said to the scout that first came to invite him to the Super Eagles when he was sixteen.
"You'll regret it if you choose to play for another country but Nigeria." his former agent had told him, but here he was in Turin growing stronger at 31.

"You welcome boss," a security greeted him as he pulled up into the farmland.
"Morning Steve," Madiba acknowledged. "Have you seen Sebastien this morning?"
"No boss..."

Madiba shook his head in disappointment and drove past him into the heart of the farm. He reached for his pocket knife in his backpack at the rear seat and stomped into the poultry.
The fowls flew and skittered all around raising the dust. It was a battle of fastest feathers and feet because they knew what was about to happen. Madiba's weekly visit to the poultry brought about one thing --death.

He caught a cockerel and began to pull its hackle feathers off its neck. He took his pocket knife, slit its throat open and quaffed the cockerel's blood to the last pint.
"Aaarrrggghhhhh!..." he screamed with renewed vigor.

Just then his phone rang, it was Sebastien.
"Hello boss, I'm sorry I couldn't..." Sebastien was saying before Madiba cut him short.
"Shut d'fuck up you faggot. Where d'hell are you?"
"I'm... I'm at the Caa...cas... Casablanca" he stammered.
"Great. Stay right there I'm coming over." Madiba said and hung up.
"Pure blood huh? I'll show you pure blood." he said to himself as he squeezed the dead fowl in his hand.

He heard a beep and looked at the attic and saw a recording device. It blinked green. He stared at it in shock as the light turned red and went out.
"Emma Churchill..." he glared.

~Angel Messi~