A story by alawe Samson episode 2 loading
Even The Rich Also Cry(A Tale of Greed, Lust and Deceit)
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EPISODE 1
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Sergeant Ehizogie Osunbor was a tired policeman. At
thirty-three years old, He was already an epitome of that
disease that troubled the Nigerian civil service; corruption
and poor work ethic. He would rather be with his friends at
the bar behind the orange tree close to Ekete primary
school. You know that place now; where they sell souring
palmwine, fried meat, groundnuts and fresh fish pepper
soup. That was where he got his peace of mind, every
evening, before going home to his nagging twenty-four
years old wife, Egbe.
Every day, for the past twelve years, he had ended his
work day with two mugs of palmwine, a plate of pepper
soup and a feel or two of Nkechi’s well rounded buttocks,
which she rolled a little too freely anytime he was around.
He made sure her father never saw them in their play; the
bar owner, Pa Okosisi, was notorious for shooting his
service pistol off at any little excuse. She had finally given
him the cookie after many tries, but he always came back
for more.
On that day though, he did not plan on going to his usual
spot; he was going to the hospital straight after work. You
see, his darling wife, Egbe, had finally given him a child; a
bouncing baby boy. The nurse had said so when he called
the hospital. His oga had congratulated him and
immediately sent him back to his duty; he was escorting a
bullion van to the bank. There was no other policeman
available to do it.
He yawned and patted his round stomach, then bent to
properly tuck in his uniform that had managed to come
out of his trouser. The shirt was no longer a fit; his bulging
stomach had taken every space. He sighed as he forced
the shirt in and picked his gun from the side of the
security post. He turned to watch the men load the van
with money; money he would never touch or spend. He
turned away; “ there was no need to hunger for what one
cannot have” he thought to himself.
The bullion van drove to the gate and he and his
colleague got into their Hilux. He was the driver for this
delivery, so he drove to the front and led the convoy out
of the office premises. As soon as he entered the main
road, he put on the siren and pressed the accelerator. His
colleague placed his hand outside, with his gun pointed
out, eyes alert. Robbers, these days, were not afraid to
dare a daylight robbery, he knew. A colleague of theirs had
died escorting a bullion van about two weeks ago. He had
no intention of becoming another statistic; he had a child
to get home to.
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The school was perched on the edge of the junction;
possibly a poor location for a primary school but when
had there been consideration for the comfort and safety
of customers when people do business in this country?
The school gate opened into a four junction; a junction
where four roads meet. It was one of the busiest parts of
town. An old traffic light that permanently blinked red and
a one-legged man that hopped about with crutches were
the only traffic control in this place. It was a death trap
and accidents were commonplace.
The school bell pealed in the early afternoon sun to end
the school day and a rush of children, wards, maids,
drivers, and harried parents poured out of the school,
causing a hold up. The self-employed traffic warden
hopped about, a slippery whistle in his lips. He blew on it,
raising his hands to stop incoming vehicles as cars drove
out of the school and joined the traffic.
Papa D held the boy’s hand tight; his rheumy eyes staring
about worriedly. He did not like the noise and the speed
of the cars. He could not understand why madam had
sent him to pick the boy; it was usually the younger drivers
that went on such errands. He wondered what his oga will
say if he finds out. His oga had been kind enough to keep
him around and still pay him his salary even though he
could barely see. He watched the traffic man trying to
control the traffic and shook his greying head. “Dis one go
soon die. All dis people no dey listen to am. I no know
where dem dey hurry dey go sef.” He thought to himself.
The boy tugged his hand, trying to get free of his tight
grip. He turned to the boy
Papa D: “wetin?” he asked
Desmond: “I want to wee-wee.” He replied, his legs were
closed together in an effort to hold the urine back.
Papa D sighed. He looked around; the school gate was full
with people and cars. He had no intention of fighting
through all that crowd and noise; his arthritis hurt enough
as it is, there was no need to make it worse. He stared at
his car parked across the road. If he had known better, he
would have parked the car closer to the gate. He sighed
again and walked away from the crushing press of the
crowd. He saw a car packed close to an open gutter filled
with green water, polybags, orange peels and other waste
products that had managed to stop the water from
flowing and caused a toxic odour to waft out into the
atmosphere. Papa D looked at the gutter, then he turned to
the boy and pointed.
Desmond frowned at the smell but he was desperate. He
looked at Papa D, waiting. Papa looked at him, then rolling
his eyes in irritation, he bent down, his bones creaking like
a broken chair and pulled the zip of Desmond’s shorts
down. The boy stepped forward and sprayed urine into the
gutter, stirring the insects that perched on the water and
raise the foul odour to new heights. When he was done,
Papa bent again and zipped his shorts up then he grabbed
his hand and they walked out from behind the car to the
front. Then they crossed the road.
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For the rest of his life, Sergeant Osunbor will swear that
the boy was not there; he would claim that he never saw
the old man and the boy as they cross the road; he would
claim that the boy ran into the road; he would say that the
old man pushed the boy into the road; He would change
his story so many times but the truth will remain that at
exactly 1:30pm, he drove his Hilux right into an old man
clutching a three years old boy and tossed them like dolls
against the windshield of another car before they fell to
the tarred road. After which fear took over and his feet
jammed on the accelerator until the Hilux ran into the bad
traffic light, destroying it finally.
He and his colleague survived the accident but he lost a
leg and his job. But that was not the biggest problem he
faced as he laid in the hospital bed, listening to a police
inspector explained the situation to him, several days after
the accident. You see the little boy, Desmond, who he
had tossed about that afternoon, was the only son of a
retired Major Festus Olayinka, presently a businessman
with influence both in the federal government and the
military. He was on his way back to Nigeria and it had
been heard that the man wanted blood. Ehizogie placed
his two trembling hands on his head. “I am dead!” he
thought to himself, as tears fell from his eyes.
The door to the ward opened and two soldiers entered,
their eyes searching the room, obviously searching for
someone. One of the soldiers’ gazes fell on Ehizogie’s bed
and he nudged the other one. Both of them walked to the
bed and stood on each side looming over him like grim
mountains. He tried to swallow the lump stuck in his
throat, then the door opened again, and he almost jumped
out of his skin when a huge, dark skinned man walked into
the room escorted by another soldier. The man took his
time and every step he made on the hospital floor felt like
the ticking of a clock that timed his death. The man got to
his bed and stared at him silently
Major Festus: “sir, where is my son?” he asked, softly.
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Question: If you were in Major Festus Olayinka’s shoes, what will you do to Sergeant Osunbor?
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A story by alawe samson