Raymond’s challenge

So I discovered I had a Youtube account last night. I mean, you have no idea what feeling this gives. I can upload videos and..and..share! I’m so happy. I love the internet. GOD is wonderful.

Anyway, I was err..reading and listening to music, when out of the corner of my eye, I…hell, whatever, this is amateur video time. please enjoy.

NB: The following video was filmed with the utmost seriousness. [I had my glasses on]


  • I actually filed this under the ‘Action’ category



A Series of Oddly Fortuitous Events

It was one of those days that bear no remarkability. The sun rose at the proper time, the day’s noises had started at 6:00am and First Bank Choba opened for business at exactly 8 O’clock. It was a typical Tuesday much like any other. Workers had settled into the rhythm of the week’s activities and students of the University of Port-harcourt were finally ready for the week’s round of lectures.

The dark-tinted Peugeot 405 slowed down as it approached the entrance of the bank. Here are several things to note. The First Bank Choba, located at the junction of the Ikwerre and East-West roads, is recessed 50m behind a high gate and a bank of ATMs. It is bordered by high fences with the FCMB on the right and a cobbler’s stall on the left. Usually, the ATMs are crowded with workers and students all vying to withdraw a few hundreds from their savings accounts.

That day, being a normal day, had the usual crowd of would-be ‘withdrawers’ and the front of the bank had the look of a cinema theatre on opening day. Such it was that, Agnes Okoroahu, shifting her weight from one foot to the other out of impatience, happened to glance at an angle into the slowly approaching 405, and saw within, a thickset man with a black bandanna across his face, slam a cartridge into an M-16. Of course, she didn’t know it was an M-16, but the sight of a rifle was shocking and recognisable, and the 34-year old mother of four girls and one two-year old son, let out a shriek that was heard within the Choba campus of Uniport.

“Armed robbers!” She screamed.

As is to be expected, hell broke loose.

The robbers, for they were truly, jumped out of the vehicle and began shooting into the air immediately. The ATM crowd dispersed quickly as the screaming people fell over each other in their haste to escape. Agnes herself, abandoning all decency to self-preservation, fled at top speed, her scarf falling off her head to reveal the badly burnt hairdo that had failed to retouch properly on her last visit to the hairdresser. A visit she had spent arguing with the hairdresser about which actress was more stately, between Eucharia Anuobi and Liz Benson, an argument which might have accounted for the badly charred nature of her hair, and refusal to pay the hairdresser. Events which propelled her to order for a length of artificial human hair, and occasioned her arrival at the ATM this morning to withdraw.

Rushing into the bank complex, the robbers climbed the stairs and through the open security doors into the bank hall. Their entrance, properly facilitated by the presence of a daredevil ‘inside man’ disguised as a customer, placed within the bank, who had physically subdued the badly trained security into opening the doors.

“Open your safe!” the robber growled, his eyes angry above the bandanna covering his face.

From all indications, the robbery was moving according to plan. The robbers had however failed to calculate for all eventualities. Which is not surprising, considering, it is impossible to calculate for all eventualities.

Forty kilometres to the left and thirty minutes ago, down the East-West road, in the direction facing Warri and Benin, Group Captain Isaac Boniface, had been going through a bit of a dilemma. The Group Captain had credentials which labelled him as an Officer of the Navy in charge of a fleet consisting three Gun-class ships and a tug-boat, none of which however existed. Captain Boniface, if anything, was a spy in the Nigerian Defence Intelligence Agency (DIA) and in his possession was a secret document which needed to be hand-delivered by secure courier to the Director, Office of Strategic Manuevers, located in a nondescript building on Evo road in GRA.

There was only one problem. For reasons unknown to Boniface, his vehicle, a late-model Toyota Tundra, had broken down just before the village of Emuoha. And with his transportation disabled, the Captain was a sitting duck. An incorrect euphemism, considering he didn’t know how to swim despite his credentials, and he was pacing.

Calling ‘Support’, he requested a replacement vehicle to be delivered to his position as soon as possible. Unknown to him, the same Support Officer who had delivered the Tundra he had just scuttled half-way into the bushes at the side of the road, who was supposed to have detailed another officer to tail the Captain at a respectable distance, to provide support, should assistance be necessary, and who was now supposed to organise a new vehicle for him, was still in bed, head throbbing from a terrible hangover occasioned by the copious amounts of alcohol and weed consumed the night before. Alcohol and weed which had of course, caused the Support Officer to make the mistake of detailing a vehicle scheduled for maintenance to the Captain the evening before. As it was, the Officer was in no state to think clearly, and so, when he received the text message of instructions, he simply dialled a contact at the Emuoha Police Station and succintly requested an escort of two Hilux trucks to ferry the Captain to his secret meeting.

When the escort arrived at the Tundra, sirens blaring, Captain Boniface thought to himself, what could be worse?

If only he knew that, at the moment, he shared like thoughts with Alex Greene, a Kalabari student of the University of Port-harcourt whose Toyota Corolla had immediately after quenching on the road, been rammed from behind by an irate bus-driver in a Mitsubishi.

The accident had occurred at a particularly bad spot on the East-West road. Suffice to say, both drivers, Alex and Emeka, who was the bus driver, instantly jumped out of their vehicles and began to trade insults at the top of their voices. Soon, a queue began to form as cars manuevered the potholes, trying to navigate their way around the two vehicles parked at the only good spot on that particular stretch of East-West road, at a place called Alakahia, not far from the University of Port-harcourt Teaching Hospital.

Soon there would be a gridlock.

But for Bayo, robber extraordinaire and protegé of Anini the Legendary, the day was moving smoothly.

Oya load the boot make we dey roll,” he yelled to his cronies, making his voice heard above the sound of sporadic gunshots.

So far, they had spent only ten minutes since entry. Soon they would be off. No way the police could get here this quickly. All his dreams were finally going to be realised. You see, Bayo was a student once. A student of Uniport even. For years, he had struggled part-time against the Academic system, from one menial job to the next, struggling to pay his school fees and fend for himself. Then one day, he had hit on a brilliant idea. There was a motor park right there at Choba and for all he knew, nobody supplied the drivers with cheap, adulterated ‘Black market’ petrol and oil, while they did their jobs in a state that supplied the country expensive and well-refined petrol and oil. So he had scrounged a few thousands and set up a stand to sell just that, Petrol and oil. Soon, the money was pouring in. Not exactly Caeser’s court, but he had become more comfortable, so that he was even able to employ a sales girl and attend more Political Science classes. Then one day, the Bank people came. After building right beside his stall in less than three months, they refused him a loan, and got the Police to not only evict his “nonsense dirty shop” from their entrance area, but also to fine him N120,000.

Oh, revenge is a sweet cold dish, he thought to himself, remembering a quote from ‘Marx’.

Make we dey move!

Jumping into the car, they zoomed out the bank to the East-West road, junction. Then they heard the sirens.


Captain Boniface sat up in his chair at the back seat of the lead Hilux. “Is that gunfire?”

The Nigerian police is divided into many departments. Some of which overlap. Of all the departments, the Traffic Police, the CID and the Mobile Police (MOPOL) are the most popular. Of these three, the MOPOL wear the crown. Armed with CAR-15s, semi-formal training and careless bravado, they insist on asserting their importance to Nigerians, their worth to the Military, and their difference from the average police. An assignment to guard a Naval Captain tested these assumptions.

“If that is gunfire, we’ll have to turn back,” warned the Captain, his thoughts on preserving his package, rather than heroics.

No Oga, we don accept mission to carry you go GRA. And we go carry you,” said the Police officer in the front passenger seat, with a grim face.

Yes sah! Na true” concured the driver, a foolish grin on his face. Already, he could hear the story he’ll tell his friends at the Officer’s mess. How the Captain was scared, but he gunned his vehicle as he faced the enemy.

Stepping hard on the accelerator, Private Osunde, the driver, gunned the powerful Hilux and switched on the siren as the truck climbed the Choba bridge. The grin on his face, the death-head grin of Kamikaze pilots as they flew to their deaths humming “Battle cry”.

Once again, hell broke loose. Well, looser than before.

Bayo ordered his boys to shoot through the windows. “Drive the police back! Dem no get levo!” As they sped down the East-West road heading towards Alakahia and Rumuokoro.

The first shot to hit the police escort, tore through the windscreen of the lead vehicle to punch a hole in Osunde’s grinning mouth and slam into the head rest where the Captain’s head would have been had he not ducked at the first sign of danger. The lead Hilux instantly swerved out of control, it’s driver dead and dripping blood like a leaky pipe. Grabbing the steering wheel in his left hand, a daring move reminiscent of a dozen action movies, his CAR-15 belching bullets out the open window in his second hand, the Police officer in the passenger seat managed to get the truck to a standstill and kill 15 innocent bystanders in the process. The Hilux behind, instantly provided professional, better aimed, cover fire, chasing the Peugeot down the road at breakneck speed.

Alex and Emeka the driver of buses, all the mediators who had stopped to settle the arguments, the TIMARIV officials, who are always quick to sense such disputes, all the owners of the different cars on the queue behind and in front of the accident, and just about everybody in that environment had all disappeared. Scampered and run off, leaving their cars, as the sounds of gunshots had drawn closer. So it was that Bayo and his crew, operating in fear now, adrenaline haven burnt out all the marijuana and Alomo and bravado from their system came up against the log-jam of vehicles across the road. There was no time to even brake.

The Peugeot 405 bounced as it hit the first pothole, living up to it’s legend of being a car built for Nigerian roads. However, it was not a car for accidents because as soon as it hit the first vehicle, the Peugeot exploded in a huge fireball that caught onto the vehicles in closest vicinity, resulting in an explosion that showered glass and metal in all directions.

The Police in the pursuing vehicle, skid to a stop at a safe distance, their guns almost empty, as they stared at the explosion in the middle of the road, their minds on one topic: the promotion which would definitely come of this, and how best to exaggerate the story to blame the robbers for damages and place the heroics squarely, humbly, on their shoulders.

Captain Boniface placed another call to ‘Support’.


  • I don’t like Fir.. I have nothing against First bank nor any of it’s branches oh!
  • This is a supreme work of fiction and bears no resemblance to any living or dead individuals, except they be subjects in an alternate universe in which this Writer is regarded as God and ruler and Ultimate Being.
  • I know I should have gotten a better title for this.
  • The East-west road really is in a state of ruin, and presents quite the harzard for fleeing robbers.
  • Any typo is regretted, and blamed on the persistent pings and phone calls from my adoring fans.

Follow on Twitter @Janus_aneni


A Twist in the Tale: Hidden Treasures

Like a mix between Hadley Chase and Archer with an excess of melanin, Malick to give you:


The previous military offensive by the Joint Task Force popularly known as JTF had succeeded in driving the dreaded Boko Haram Islamic sect away from their NorthEast strongholdsinto neighbouring Niger, Chad and Cameroun. The rest of the insurgents had scattered down south. After several months of relative peace, violence broke out once again. The dreaded sect seemed to
have metamorphosed into a deadlier terror organisation. They also secured a new foothold, this time in northern Cross River.


Victor Isidor was trying to adjust to life in Calabar having fled the war torn town of Ogoja. The terror attacks had rendered the town unprofitable for business and unsafe for life and property. Frequent clashes by the military and the terror organisation made violence a daily occurence.

Residents departed Ogoja in droves and Victor, a Sales Manager for NewLine Electronics barely made the last van of China phones out of town.

Growing increasingly irritated by his inactivity, Victor was finding it hard to be entertained by the western fantasies weaved in Vampire Diaries. Such blatant lies rubbed him the wrong way. Jack Bauer and 24 didn’t impress him either. They should come to Nigeria and witness real drama, he thought with disdain.

When he felt a slight tremor, the familiar rumble of iron gates, he wondered if it was his uncle Sunny. His uncle was an accountant at Unicem. Unmarried at 42, he rarely came home during work hours.

The tolling doorbell informed Victor that it was not Sunny Isidor. His uncle usually called out or whistled whenever he came home. He had a visitor. Jehovah’s Witnesses? He quickly perished the thought, those ones operated on foot.

“Who’s there?”
“Mr. Oden” was the deep response.
“Oh welcome sir, please come in!”
“How are you Victor?”
“I’m fine Sir”

With skin the colour of overripe avocado pear and the presence of a mango tree, Mr. Linus Oden CEO of NewLine Electronics stepped in and the room seemed to shrink in size. If Idi Amin had a twin brother, Mr. Linus Oden could easily be mistaken for him.

Mr. Oden told Victor about a secret safe in his office, He wanted Victor to travel to Ogoja and retrieve a couple of envelopes from the safe for him. Promising to pay Victor’s salary arears once he returned with the envelopes, Mr. Oden stared at Victor as if he was daring him to refuse. Never one to back down from a challenge, Victor agreed to make the perilous journey.

Mr. Oden presented him a leather belt with a rather large G-Unit buckle, 20 thousand naira and a slip of paper with a phone number and the safe combination written on it.

“Save the number, memorize the combination and destroy the paper…”
“Do not call me on the phone till you return…”
“If you have any problems, call that number and tell Frank. Safe journey”

Victor prided himself as the eminence grise of Newline Electronics. His uncle’s invectives against the trip failed to dissuade him. Despite being owed 3 month’s wages, Victor left for Ogoja.

Captain Frank Opigo was a tough looking character, but he must have owed Mr Oden a lot of favours. Movement into and around the town of Ogoja was tightly controlled, but the Army Captain commandeered a Tata truck and directed 4 of his men to accompany Victor to the Office/Showroom at Lavoro Street.

Only a handful of people could be seen on the formerly busy street. Debris littered the streets, some buildings were without windows in the aftermath of the armed conflict. It was clear that the few people left were in the process of evacuating.

With the quartet of soldiers stationed outside, Victor let himself into the Office/Showroom with his set of keys. He quickly located the safe in Mr Oden’s office. Behind the half-empty steel cabinet, behind the wall paper, buried cleverly into the wall, the dull metallic glint of the safe stared at Victor. The callibrated dial of the safe seemed to thump its nose defiantly at him, he ignored it.

He experienced no problems with the combination. The muted clicks as he turned the dial to its correct positions increased his excitement till the safe opened gently. Two envelopes, one contained a certificate of Occupancy for a property in Calabar South, the other contained a Reader’s Digest Magazine of July 1976. Victor retrieved 4 passport photographs from the magazine just like Mr.
Oden had instructed and stashed them in a secret recess on the G-Unit belt buckle. Angry and agitated voices from outside made him straighten up and stand still.


Victor’s heart started racing at a frenetic pace.

“Is Victor there?”

“My name is Sylvia, I just wanted to know if Victor is around”

Sylvia? Victor could not recall any Sylvia, however there was something vaguely familiar about the female voice. He stepped outside.
Light skinned and beautiful, Sylvia had the figure of pain, her presence was disconcerting to the soldiers. Victor could recall her purchasing a Tecno N6. He’d talked her into buying the cheap Android phone like he had done to so many customers. That was several months ago, if she had come to complain about the product, she was out of luck.

“I know her” he told the soldiers
“Is she your girlfriend?” One of them joked obviously relieved at the
absence of any danger.
“Yeah, she’s my girlfriend, let’s get out of here shall we?”

They gawked as all 5’9 of her got up and grabbed onto Victor’s arm. Then they crowded into the Tata truck and reported back to Captain Frank. The Army Captain rifled through the magazine and checked the C of O meticulously, then he directed Victor to leave town via Abakaliki road. There’s been a car bomb explosion along Calabar-Ikom-Ogoja road, it was unwise to travel that route at the moment.

The Journey via Abakaliki road was a circuitous route which meant Victor was unlikely to make it back to Calabar before nightfall. Sylvia’s conversation and seductive skills were not even stretched as she somehow inveigled her way into Victor’s plans. She narrated how Al-Suni had raided their part of town a few days previously, How her father had travelled out of town and how she was mortally scared. However, it wasn’t her touching story that tested Victor’s decision making skills, it was the size and gradient of her breasts and the softness of her skin that captivated Victor all the way to Umuahia where they spent the night. A night of passion and sexual satisfaction.

The staff of Rosberg Hotel could not tell Victor the whereabouts of Sylvia in the morning. Like the prognosticators of sunlight, she had disappeared like the mist. Gone was the C of O and the Reader’s Digest. Try as he could, Victor failed to understand her interest in Mr. Oden’s documents, but he fully understood the gravity of his folly.

Alarmed, he flirted with the idea of calling Mr Oden, but what would he tell him. His business with Captain Frank had also been concluded, but he called him anyway in case she was making her way back to Ogoja. Victor Isidor was relieved to discover that the passport photographs hidden in his belt were still intact. Out of curiosity Victor decided to examine the passport photographs more closely. Although she looked familiar, he could not identify the image of the female on the photographs. However, he noticed that one of the photographs bore a red masking tape on its back. He peeled it off and saw attached to it an 8GB memory card.

The hotel manager could only provide a laptop, it was not enough, so Victor went into town and bought an MTN 3G modem.

Like Kurds distributed across Iran, Iraq and Turkey, the Kanuri are found in Niger, Chad, Cameroun and Nigeria. Their struggle was not just to establish an Islamic ‘Kanuristan’ in sub-Saharan Africa by diplomatic means, it was to terrorize and pressure the present government and people of Nigeria to capitulate. Their long drawn ‘jihad’ has attracted sympathizers worldwide and they were confident that they were close to victory.

Under a folder tagged ‘Hidden Treasures’, Victor isidor was shocked to read correspondences between the first lady of Benue State and Senator Garuba. The contents chilled him to the bones. Discussions and details about the transfer of funds, arms deals and establishment of training camps, kidnap and elimination targets and also the recruitment of mercenaries and hit-men. There was also correspondences between the first lady and an unknown Soldier, details of Army positions, movements and tactics were leaked on those correspondences. Victor wondered whether it was really the first lady or a proxy involved in the correspondences.

He had no idea that the late Abacha was Kanuri or that the first lady of Benue State was his cousin, but the information available to him at the moment explained the source of the first lady’s stupendous wealth and influence.

A video of the first lady having sexual relations with an unidentified man was too much for Victor to take. Something was not right. The hidden camera had captured every detail of the liaison, he wondered if it was staged. At 16:42, according to the timer, the face of the first lady’s sex partner came directly into focus. Despite the full beard, there was something familiar about the features of
Madam’s lover. Like a leopard raising its head to regard the distant hyenas, the lover looked briefly at the camera before taking another dig at his quarry.

There was enough evidence on the memory card to destroy the first lady of Benue State.

Victor wondered how Mr Oden had come into possession of these files. He knew that the man was not beyond blackmail but this was a highly dangerous territory. Victor made up his mind to leave Calabar immediately he had delivred the passports to Mr Oden.

After making sure he was not followed, Victor made his way to establish his rendezvous with Mr. Oden. At Channel View Hotel, two things caught Victor’s eyes immediately he walked into Mr Oden’s Hotel room. A half concealed handgun with the butt poking out from under one the pillows, the next was a Reader’s Digest Magazine similar to the one that had disappeared with Sylvia. Mr. Oden seemed to be only interested in the passport photographs. Once he had received them, he gave Victor a long stare as if to read his
mind, but said nothing.

“But this is only a month’s wages sir!”
“Yes it is and you should leave now for your own good” Mr Oden menaced.

Victor did not hang around after that. As he left, he wondered if the butt of the gun had been deliberately left in view to threaten him.

Victor Isidor arrived Port Harcourt at about 11.00pm and had barely switched on his phone when it started ringing. It was Uncle Sunny. He told Victor that he had just received information that several gun men have stormed Channel View Hotel and murdered Mr Oden and his girlfriend. The female who later identified as Sylvia Bali. Rumour has it that she was the daughter of a former Aide to one the first ladies of the Middle belt.

“…Some say she came with the gunmen but other eyewitnesses claim that she was already in the hotel premises when the assailants struck…”

“Whatever you do, don’t come back here, you can even go to Ghana till things calm down”

“Don’t worry uncle, I’ll be fine, I know exactly what to do”

Although Mr Oden was not a model of morality, Victor always felt a strong attachment to him, he felt he understood his eccentricities quite well and was deeply hurt by his demise.

If they got to Mr. Linus Oden so quickly, they were probably on his trail already. Vicor also wondered whether Captain Frank and his unit had been infiltrated or compromised by ‘bogey’ soldiers?

Victor soon uploaded the sextape on sharebeast.com. It did not seem wise then, but he was glad now that he had made a copy. Then he registered a twitter account and posted the link. Tagging all the major news houses he could google, Victor gradually twit-pic’ed the hidden treasures.

Victor had left Chinda’s flat before day break. Fugitives must learn to be nocturnal he thought as he hurried towards ABC Transport Company, he had to be on the first bus out of town. The headlights of a car blinded him briefly as he neared the bus station. His thoughts were suddenly stymied as the vehicle that pulled beside him. He never believed in ghosts until he saw Sylvia seated on the passenger seat. Behind the steering wheel of a Tata truck, a look of amusement over his rugged features, a familar voice greeted him softly.

“Hello, Victor” Captain Frank whispered.

The End.



I dunno..I just dunno, all these writers with their big words. “Prognosticator”?? What is that? One thing I’m sure of, y’all going to be noticing Tata trucks now. Hehe..

But Malick can write sha..

We continue this on Tuesday with the final trio of writers: @Haemlet_, @naijamd and @Sagaysagay

Peace to mankind.

Codename : Ali

The Walther P99- Double Action Only

The Walther P99- Double Action Only

Ali never really liked biscuits as a kid. Unlike most of his mates, chinchin and cake had been more his thing than crunchy wafers. So it was almost inexplicable that he would suddenly be standing still, drawn to a billboard advertising the latest in Cadbury’s inventory of creme-layered, wheat-filled, chocolate cookies. But he was, and it saved his life.
The bullet winged past his head, barely missing him by the width of a thread, and thrumped into the sandy road. The sound of the shot was silent, but for the cloud of dust, it would have gone un-perceived. But Ali heard it.

The world slowed.

He took into cognisance his position; body bent in a defensive crouch, arms spread out about him, the fingers extended, weaponless and in the middle of the road. He took into cognisance his surrounding; beside him on the right, a mallam kiosk, against the low fence of a residential building. On his left, an abandoned two-storey building with a huge signpost of Cadbury biscuits in the middle of the compound.
He recognised the danger, a McDonell Helicopter about 500m above him and to his left. He could even hear the slam, as the shooter lined up a bullet for the next shot.

Ali moved.

Ali woke up.

He woke in sweat, his bedsheets all bunched up and soaked beneath him. Above, the fan spun lazily, trying it’s best to cut through the humid air.
It had been a vivid dream. Every detail had seemed so real. He had been walking down a street off the Benin-Agbor road. Just enjoying an evening stroll on a cool day. His hand had been in the pocket of his combat shorts and a comb had been jutting out his bushy hair. He then saw the billboard. He never even heard the helicopter.

And how the hell was he so good at observing his environment as the danger increased?

He had been watching too many action movies.

Ali grinned.

Getting up, he pulled on a pair of shorts over his briefs, tossed on a T-shirt and combed his bushy hair.
It was a dream. Most probably a hunger dream. His body was trying to tell him something. It was time to buy Indomie.

As he walked home, swinging a water-proof nylon containing two Indomie noodles Super-packs and an egg, he thought of the dream again.
Coincidence does not exist, his father always said. And this was not the first time he was having a dream like this.

Last week, in his dream, he had been sitting in an office. Sitting behind the door actually. A man had walked into the office carrying a folder. The instant, the man closed the door, Ali had shot him pointblank with a 9mm P22 Walther completely fitted with a sound-suppressor. Three shots to the chest. The man was dead before he began to fall. Ali had caught him, eased him into a chair and swivelled it away from the door before leaving the office. Then he had woken up.
The dreams always left him sweaty, nervous, in a high adrenaline state, and horny.
Maybe he should call Chioma.

Yesterday. Yesterday, it had been too vivid.
In the dream. There was a truck. A big truck. You know, those types with about eight wheels and a big IVECO sign in front. Ali had been driving this truck. The scene again, had been Benin city. How he knew these places, haven never stepped foot outside Port-harcourt, he had no idea. It was a white monster, eight wheels and over 300HP, and ten cylinders, all of them firing. The truck barreled down the highway as Ali clung on for dear life. Horns blaring, the tiny buses skid out of the way of the monster from truck hell. In the rearview mirror, Ali could see the two Hilux trucks in close pursuit. His pursuers were armed with top-level automatic rifles and they were gaining on him.
Swerving out the 3rd east circular road, tyres screeching, the engine howling in agony, Ali twisted the truck onto the Akpakpava road as a spray of bullets riddled the side of the truck and knocked out the right side mirror. Pumping on the clutch, Ali tossed the truck into higher gear and ground for the Ikpoba hills, the white IVECO churning at 120kmph. Ahead, at about 100yards was the Ikpoba bridge. Once past that, he had a feeling, the pursuers would leave him be. He just had to pass that bridge.
Then one Hilux swerved suddenly to the left of the truck and began to come closer, the shooter holding the AK-47, sitting in the trunk of the Hilux truck, aimed the rifle at Ali’s head. Without thinking, Ali swerved the truck to the left, hoping to drive the Hilux into the shoulder of the road and onto the path of incoming traffic. But it was a ruse. The Hilux slowed down instantly and in those seconds, the other Hilux had sped up on the right side and began to pepper the cab of the IVECO. Swerving back to the right, Ali over-compensated and missed the entrance of the bridge, hurtling the truck over the embankment and towards the brown swirling waters of the Ikpoba river.

Then he woke. As usual, sweaty, horny and nervous.

This night was calm though. An oddly cool breeze blew in from the sea and for a second seemed to calm Ali’s nerves. There was nothing to trouble for. Who knows, these were ideas for a movie that God was giving him. Enough of website designing, there were other ways to make money in PHC.

Then, with the breeze came a sound. It was like the tinny sound we here when a bell is rung far away from us. Or the tinkle of a spoon against a glass. Whatever it was, Ali had heard that sound before. It was a background sound in all his dreams.
Every nerve was instantly alert.

A man suddenly walked up to him. Arms outstretched, as though to embrace him. But Ali knew better.

The world slowed.

As the left arm came up, Ali raised his right elbow and blocked it. As the right arm swung in, he raised his left elbow, nylon of egg and Indomie still swinging, and blocked. Without giving the man space to think, he twisted his body and slammed his back into the man’s mid-section. The fellow went down.
As the man lay on the floor struggling to get up, Ali crashed his knee into the man’s head and he went out cold.

The tinny sound was still ringing.
Ali moved.

Ali didn’t wake. He kept running, splashing into a barely visible puddle. He was scared, the street looked so empty and though lights spilled onto the road from quiet compounds, all he could see were the shadows. Shadows; dark places, from where anyone could jump out wielding a sword or a knife or a gun.
Ali knew his thoughts were no longer rational, but he could barely help it. On a subconscious level he realised he was running at measured paces, his breath was not raggedy or raspy, and his eyes were darting in every direction is precise, calculated movements. Outwardly though, he looked as ungainly as a fat turkey with a broken leg.

And how he had taken that man down. So fast, so clinical. It had barely taken five seconds.

Ali reached the door of his house, his pulse coming as fast as a runner’s after a five mile sprint. Quickly unlocking the door to his one bedroom flat, he made to enter. And then, that tinkling sound came again, and with it, the sound of powerful rotors.
Instantly, a black helicopter swept over the house, it’s searchlight beam aimed directly at Ali.

Two things happened, of which Ali was never sure of any till this day.
In front of his house was a carton box in which he kept a certain amount of debris. Basically, a clutterers useful nonsense; empty bottles, broken plates, an old burner, things which had outlived their purpose, but he would not throw away. This box had stood in front of his door for ages, beckoning to be disposed, but for some reason, some inner instinct had stopped him. Now he knew why.
Kicking the carton box to jostle the contents, Ali retrieved a black Walther P99, 12-round, 9mm caliber semi-automatic handgun, complete with polymer grip from the box. In one fluid motion, he spun around, thumbing off the safety, and squeezed the trigger, aiming for the light.
The bullet hit its mark.
That was the first thing.

Diving away from the fullisade of bullets which erupted from the helicopter, Ali hit the ground on his right side. Before the shooter had time to correct his aim, the killer, who was Ali, fired three shots. Two went through the throat of the pilot while the third took the shooter in his chest.
That was the second.

Scrambling to his feet as the helicopter began a deadly spiral toward the ground, Ali ducked behind a pile of cement blocks as the helicopter crashed into the building.
The apartment complex erupted in a huge fireball as glass and metal shrapnel filled the air. Ali stood up as the air seemed to settle. He had eight bullets left, but it was enough. In the gloom of the settling smoke, other attackers came at him from different angles, rushing out of the building where they had probably been hiding. Killers. His enemies.
Ali shot them all. Shot them in their throats.
Then he ran.

The Real Real Newspaper.
Sunday, 21 April, 2013.
Portharcourt, Rivers.

Widespread panic hit the people of Diobu yesterday when, in a strange development, a previously upstanding member of the society ran mad and murdered nine people.
Ali Damascus, an Engineer and web designer with Almatech industries was said to have let leave of his senses and gone on a killing rampage.
Eyewitness reports say, Ali had left the house earlier to buy something to eat from a nearby store.
“When he bought the Indomie from me yesterday, I noticed something was wrong about him. I always tell my husband I know these things. His eye was shaking, and as he was buying the indomie, he was talking something. He was talking about dream. Me I don’t know, I just gave him the Indomie and collected my change,” says Mrs Oladipupo Bimbo
The suspect was said to have attacked a man on the road, a friend of his from work. The friend is now in the hospital. When our correspondent tried to reach him, they were informed he was in intensive care. A source however revealed, the patient to have said “I only wanted to hug him”
On getting to his house, the suspect then tried to set his neighbour’s generators on fire. When an attempt was made to stop him, he killed one man and seriously wounded another. According to the survivor, the suspect went on to burn the house and kill the survivors of the fire with a broken knife and bottle he kept in a carton box outside his apartment.
The Police have declined to give a statement, though the assurance is high that they would catch the suspect, who is still at large. However, in a strange development, the SSS, the NIA and the Defence Intelligence Agency are involved in this case. It is even rumoured that Israeli Mossad agents are being utilized to find the man. Quality manpower has been dispatched here. It is obvious that Mr President has taken a leaf from Obama’s tackling of the Boston Massacre and is determined to bring the killer to book.

Schizophrenia is a bitch innit? Or was it?

I’m not a Psychologist. I’m a Microbiologist. Which is not the same thing, except you can abide Microbes lying on your couch, so the psych profile I tried to paint may be a bit grainy. And..it’s up to you to tell if he went bonkers, or he was really being attacked by ‘mysterious government agents’.
*I know the difference between the P22 and the P99.

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