NewStats: 3,265,358 , 8,186,503 topics. Date: Saturday, 14 June 2025 at 04:03 PM 4s1041

2

He escorted the mogul into a dark, high-cedinged chamber burdened with extravagant mouldings and ornate furniture. An ancient hunting tapestry covered a far wall, and a massive rug emblazoned with the blue riverine and black at Christmas trees of rivers state spanned the floor from behind a long oak desk the commissioner for information Hodder Nyone, emerged. A florid, athletic bachelor in his mid-fourties with a luxuriant goatee and a hearty manner, he has only recently ascended to the post, and he seemed self-conscious among the trappings of his office. He bounded across the room to greet his guest “my dear Habot” he exclaimed, squeezing his visitor’s fat fingers energetically. “I am most delighted to see you again”. Once in the presence of the commissioner, Habot’s demeanour underwent a subtle transformation. Despite Nyone’s cordiality, the sheer intimidating power of his office cast a spell of servility over the mogul. “Your humble servant, Mr commissioner” he replied, his thick baritone bray hushed with deference. “Sit down, sit down,” Nyone commended good naturedly, gesturing toward a pair of leopard-skin settle across from his desk. “I have important business to discuss with you, friend” Habot settled his weight into one of the chairs with a grateful sigh. Whisky and cigars were produced, and the two men ed a few minutes exchanging pleasantries. Nyone has charm, Habot reflected, listening to the lighthearted banter he was able to muster so effortlessly at the end of that must certainly have been another crisis-ridden day. The charm, in a governing aristocracy that lacked it so utterly. He was, if anything, too persuative for his own good. Nyone was an agile political creature, a chameleon, able to change colours to march the mood of those he sought to influence or to please. The Lagosians, for example he had somehow charmed them into believing that he was liberal, a moderating balance for the nation and its citizen. Habot knew better. How else could an untitled individual, the only important official in the state without a “chief” in front of his name, ever have risen so far among the formidable ranks of the state’s noblemen who formed rivers’ ruling elite? Then Riverians believed he was capable of fulfilling their dreams. The moment “Head of south-south chiefs” ceared to believe that, Nyone would be out on his dueling sear. And his highness already has powerful cause for doubt. Last month’s Ogun state money laundering has brutally diminished the commissioner’s credibility. In his attempt to assist his Yoruba girlfriend get a piece of cake from her state’s commerce chambers, he had instead outsmarted himself. Discovery of the money laundering has so enraged the crime commission chief that his services would be picking on the oil state. And room Nyone needed a brilliant coup to save his job, Habot suspected. And that, Habot needed a brilliant coup to save his job, Habot suspected. And that, Habot also suspected, was why he had been so urgently summoned to this secret meeting in the commissioner’s home. “Time is running out o rivers state, “Nyone announced, as if he meant at that very moment” we must act bodily”. Habot cleared his throat and looked up from his whisky flute, giving the commissioner his full attention. “you the dissension we were in this same building two years ago? Nyone asked when I was special adviser? Habot nodded “of course, Excellency”.

1


The big, sleeky blue centavo-parvat wagon entered the city at sunset. It came in from southwest and crossed through the city’s heart at a furious rate of speed. Its deep throated exhaust echoing self-importantly through the wide streets. The vehicle roared past the extremely great mansions and entered the specious prospects of William Barry way. The trees of the city’s proudest avenue where still in April, bare of leaves. The long, magnificent vista of buildings, the cinema, the governor’s house, the city mall, stood ghostlike and forbidding in the chilly evening air. The Nigel Aloh popular cafeteria, at number 49B, was empty and the famous suya spot at the corner of the National sports complex, was just getting opened for the night. Hotel Defydd and shop in, near city gate’s school also showed little activity. A small cluster of taxicabs huddled at their awnings. Just before Ogha road, the centavo-parvat swung right onto the mackintosh bridge, and ed the low, marble-walled fortresses. The bronze head lamps bounced light along the cobble stones, illuminating small swirls of debris caught up by the wind, at the next filling station, the car had turned left and brake to a halt before the ten feet gate of commissioner’s quarters. Two uniformed guards stepped from the shadow, saluted shabbily as they were dressed, and pushed open the gate. The vehicle crossed the yard and stopped again by a small side entrance to the rearmost building, nearly absurd behind thick shrubbery. The chauffense jumped out and opened the rear door. A grossly fat man in his early-forties stepped down from the back seat, pressing his bowler to his head and clutching a gold-headed walking stick out at arm’s length to maintain his balance. The man, known by the ironic pseudonym Habot, was an extraordinary figure by anyone’s standards. Christened Harrison Barriliela Ortis in Portharcourt, Nigeria in 1978, Habot was a corpulent mound of conflicting ions by thrns flamboyant and secretive, assertive and withdrawn, jovial and morose, his elephantine bulk haboured contradictions unusual even by the confused standards of that tragic time. A political democratic and brilliant oil-mining militant, Habot was also a profiteer with a thriving black-market operation that traded arms, food and contraband to the south-south militants. This meticulously barbered and tailored one hundred and fourty eight kilograms offered itself a vulgate parody of capitalist greed an affront to the dignity of his country of residence which in the moments of annestly way poised on the edge of collapse. A guard opened the door for Habot and escorted him through a series of full lighted corridors to a small foyer just off the huge marble floored diplomatic room, where he was greeted by an istrative agent from an interior pocket of his local ijaw attire he produced a gilt-edged calling and pressed it into the functionary’s palm with a firm, condescending flourish “Dr Hodder Nyone is expecting me” he intoned, tapping his walking stick sharply on the floor and jutting his jaw forward to take up the slack on his collection of double chins. The istrative agent bowed stiffly. “This way, chief Ortis. The commissioner will see you at once”.

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© Meme_casper

i wonder why i was banned but let me don't derail my story.
this story u are about to read might keep u glued to your seat. You might get addicted too. Beware

A bit about myself-only a bit. I am twenty four years old, single, the breadwinner of my family. The community I live is flat and spacious, quitter than most, we stress peaceful co-existence here, sober employment, and make city-going optional. Like many of my neighbours I decline the option, but number among my friends at least three who don’t and the matter has never become an issue between us. There’s a phrase making the rounds these days. I can live it. As in: it’s a deal I can live with or: it’s a neighbourhood, a way of life I can live with. And I can, I am told cleanliness is next to godliness so I keep my car washed, my lawn cut, my hair within sight of the times. I brood about the times and always have, but a period of brooding each day, if it’s done in private and kept out of the reach of friends, can center the weight of a public man, and I’m presenting credentials here. I’m not beyond reproach, but the man who reproaches me won’t be either. Together we make allowances and handle ourselves with discreet and appreciative care. Like yours, my favorite season is late-dry, early-rainy. I fish then and play tennis: one day I will probably beg in to joy. Because of my location, around mid-west, I am limited to one language, although I get a skimming sense of things in Igbo and Tiv. Throw out the commercials and I’m not disdainful of t.v by almost any standards you’re likely to employ I’m normal. Believe me, if you do and you should, my one abnormality won’t be held against me, rather it will be like the flag I fly to distinguish me from my neighbours when the flag is up the play is on the boards. I believe in visitations. I believe that distant or dead are absent only to eyes, ears, nose, mouth and leaky hands, but hands I believe that those apart from us reappear through the faculty commonly known as the memory. But therefore I’m dismissed as some gothic-minded crank hiding behind the mask of a small town respectability let me affirm that I too believe in the memory. It recalls names and dates, the steps in a not-yet instinctive routine. It pictures place you’ve been and the faces of people you may have glimpsed only once in your life. It’s capacious and intricately tricked-out as a bureaucratic hire. I also believe that when it seems to dwell on a person especially if that person is dead; it can no longer be said to function. This is a subtle and fundamental distinction. During those moments, say when our minds are full of a person we loved; it is believe that our memories have actually suspended operations, and if they’re to be thought of as a finely-stored clutter, have actually cleared out; occupying that vacated space is that once loved person herself. I assume I am ing her, vividly, hearts toppingly. She is vivid and heart stoppinly lovely because for the time she stays around. She is all I have on my mind, my mind’s eyes, ears, nose, month and unstill hands can give her my undirected attention. I believe, then, to put it precisely, in occupations, not visitations, carries with it a universal unwelcome. I welcome her back and I want her to stay for however long it takes I am prepared to take leave from normality and to fly my flag. Like a clock with the pendulum in full swing, the mind moves as fast as time flies. But I ought to mind my thoughts, for it is turned to be my enemy, it will be too many for me and will dray me down to ruin. But some people may say that they cannot help having bad thoughts even though they sting like vipers. That may be so, but the question is, do they hate them or not? I cannot keep thieves from looking in at my window, but if I open my door to them and receive them joyfully, I am as bad as them. Therefore, there is wisdom in watching everyday, the thoughts are blessed guests and should be welcomed, well fed with the mind, and much sought after, but bad thoughts must fly out as swiftly as they move in. My name is Amir Abdulmaleek and this is my dividend of fate…