Posts Tagged ‘romance’


Posted: January 9, 2015 in Tales
Tags: ,

by David Coxson

new year resolution

1st Jan, 2015.

He remembers Kate. He gets his old diary, looks at the dates, and smiles. It had been rough, he thought to himself; quite rough. The new year will be different, he assures himself with the same sad smile upon his face.

April 15th.

He met Kate. It wasn’t the most romantic of ways. . .or perhaps it was. Kunfe had gone to Sweet Sensations to dig himself into some quick lunch, and Kate had been the girl at the counter. He’d thrown a jibes about phones hung around the breast region not ever having a good network reception afterwards. She had laughed coyly and somehow, he had got her number. It wasn’t a hard thing.

5th, May.

After a couple of dates and some breath-taking moments together with Kate, he had confided in Jane. Jane has been a very wonderful friend. She had told him to take it slow, and not to get hurt.
In her words; ”Guy meets girl. They overwhelm each other. Chat about everything and late into the night too. Gradually, chats become boring. Everything talk-able has been poured into the first few weeks. Then comes the late replies. Sometimes, there would be no replies. And the love starts, or appears to start dying. And someone gets hurt. So, Kunfe, don’t get hurt.”
He had promised he would not, and that Kate was different.

9th, July.

The first sign. Un-replied whatsapp messages. Last seen proved she kept coming online for two days. There should be no excuse for not replying him.

11th, July.

She replied. She had been very busy, and whenever she logged in; it was to check incoming messages. There was no time or chance to reply them. He had told her he understood.

20th, July.

Another un-replied message. She kept coming online but would not reply. Was he over-reacting or too sensitive? He had to calm down, he told himself. Message was replied 9hours later. A ”busy now” would have sufficed, he thought.

1st, August.

He intentionally didn’t send a happy new month message. By text, call or whatsapp. Why does she expect him to be the first to always do that? Disappointedly, she was too busy to do that too.

2nd, August.

”Happy new month, dear. Sorry it came late.” He had to do it.
She replied ‘Kk.’
It was unlike her. Until now, she had never abbreviated. He loathed it. The ‘ks’ and ‘kks.’ He sighed. It was coming.

4th, September.

For two months now, he had been the one calling her. She’d earlier beeped or sent a ”call me back”, and now, those have stopped. He was beginning to go crazy. He loved her. God knows he did.

22nd, September.

He had promised to never call or text her until she does. And he would stick to it. Good radiance to bad rubbish. Why is Kate never like Jane. Sweet Mary-jane; always understanding. Even the taunts and teases were soft on her. She could handle any joke in the world. But Kate? The slightest innocent word would be twisted to make him look like the devil. To allay his welled up anger and frustration, he whatsapped Mary-jane. As usual, they ended the chat with a laughing Kunfe.

October. . . November. . .

She’d simply whatsapped him for the important holidays, and family or friends’ events. He’d answered casually. End of chat. The love was gone. He was sure.

25th, December.

He waited till evening to wish her merry christmas. He knew she’d be waiting for him to do it first. That was always the problem. She always wanted him to do everything first. He hated it. He realised they haven’t seen or gone on a date with each other for two months now. She had been too busy.
She replied: ”Very early for you to do that. Merry Christmas anyway.”
They had a little chat. She had to do something.

1st January, 2015

Enough is enough. Never unearth what wishes to remain buried. He looks at his watch. It is 3:15pm and she still has not called or texted to wish him a happy new year. She will always claim she loves him. It is evident she doesn’t.
He tears out a sheet of paper. And begins to write:

1. Find a new love.

2. Take it slow with her.
Will not overwhelm her too soon.
Be mysterious as it fuels the love longer.

3. Would not open…

Phone rings. Hidden caller Id.
”Happy new year, Sweetheart. You mean the world to me and I’d never lose you for anything. I want you to know I really love you. I’ll be coming to see you tomorrow…”

He tears the paper before he realises it. He bit his lips tightly as he volleys the paper into the bin. He could never stop loving her, come what may.

Coxson David is an aspiring writer and a student of the Federal University of Agriculture, Abeokuta. A member of Talesmen literature, and Da’Sacred Poetry.

Talesmenwe tell you stories.












             by Chris Tilewa and Moses Olarotimi


In Komolafe’s arms his dying boss found strength to speak his last words. “Find Cynthia,” he said and tucked a piece of paper into his breast pocket, “she alone is the key!” He drew his last breath. Perplexed, Komolafe held on to the corpse as tears drizzled down his sad face until the police came and arrested him away on the charge of murder. The hands that gripped him were strong and unrelenting. They shoved and tugged at him but his mind was far from him. “Find Cynthia,” that final word, almost a command, took over his thought. But who is Cynthia, how is he to find her, especially now that he would be confined in the custody of the police? But amid the stream of thought an idea came to him like a revelation. And suddenly he halted, startling the policemen. In a swift, sharp move, he managed a firm elbow to the face of the man who was holding his arm and put a foot in the crotch of the second. The blow came so unexpectedly that they lost grip of him. Before they could regain, they saw him running away like a dog with its tail freshly cut.


As a chauffeur, Komolafe had been driving his boss for more than seven years; he sure had been closer to him, even more than any of his relatives. He had wondered if his boss ever got married or had a child of his own. No such discussion ever came up between them, and he never summoned the courage to ask even when, on several occasions, he attempted to.

A clue to finding ‘this Cynthia’ and the key to unravel the mystery before him must be in the piece of paper his boss tucked in his breast pocket before he died. He found a spot in a corner at a bar nearby, quietly sat at a table and retrieved the paper, only to meet another shock. He had expected he would find an address, a phone number, or some name that would help find Cynthia. But on the creased sheet of paper which was now held to his face with shaking, sweaty hands, none of such was written; three groups of digits, separated with hyphens, were barely scrawled.

Komolafe arched his brow as he read aloud: “01-10-013”, what could this mean? This is what a dying man leaves to help find his killer? He was tempted to think all of this was a kind of joke, one not funny. The police were after him, and he never remembered his boss, when he was alive, to ever make trivial jokes. Deep inside he was agreeing that this was serious and his only clue was a. . .a date? ‘Yes’, he said reassuringly, “this is nothing but a date”. October first, last year. He sighed and rested back on the plastic chair, trying to figure out where to begin.


Of everything the creator blessed Komolafe with was a retentive memory; he has a keen recollection of events and incidents. He ordered a bottle of beer, and as he drank from it ruminated on the events of October 1st, last year. The day had started with an exchange of Independence Day greetings with his boss, and then into the car. They both drove to the office to collect some files, then to the hospital for medical checkup with a doctor who was also friends with his boss. Komolafe was sure none of these places would pose a threat to his boss. He took a gulp to wash down the thought and picked his thinking from where he left it. From the hospital, that day, he drove the boss to see the Bishop of his church, and most of the day was spent there and Komolafe would have to stay for many hours waiting for his boss to emerge as usual from the path leading behind the cathedral; it’s usually a boring outing for him. “Purple!” He screamed, startling those around him. Not caring if anyone stared he drank what’s left of the beer in concurrent gulps, without a second’s pause to take the bottle away from his mouth.

“I must find the lady. Purple, that’s what boss called her that night at the club,” Komolafe thought aloud, and as he made for the door he spotted the two police men, who he had earlier evaded, approaching the same bar. He turned quickly, took the back door, paid the barman and fled.

Purple was a code name Akomolafe’s boss used for a woman Akomolafe, in the real sense of the word, did not ‘know’. Infact, Komolafe didn’t know any woman affiliated with his boss except that in the few times, when he drove his boss to the bishop’s place he, Komolafe noticed, usually walk stealthily, like one who do not want to wake the dogs, towards the quarters behind the cathedral, and returns after a while towards the car with a look of exhaustion and having about him the smile of a sated husband. Settling in the owner’s corner in the car, he’d call at Akomolafe: “remind me to give Purple a call.”

“Yes Sir!” Akomolafe would reply, asking no question. No driver questions his boss, they are meant to take only orders. But Akomolafe was not a fool; he had been observing, taking note. Could Purple be Cynthia? He thought within.


Club Seattle was known to accommodate wealthy personnel’s in the state, but being the driver of a prominent philanthropist, Komolafe was allowed in. When he mentioned that his boss had sent him to Purple, the name almost got the security man fidgeting as he opened wide the door allowing Komolafe in, to the welcome of jazz music and a colourful interior.

He wasted no time at all, after enquiring from one of the attendants of Purple’s whereabouts, his hurried steps soon find a stairway, and in two full strides he was on the landing, before a door. There was no sign of movement from inside, so he adjusted himself for composure. He knocked.

“Come in,” came a sweet accented female voice from behind the door; he hesitated and then went in. Komolafe quickly scanned the room; there were five men and a lady he immediately assumed was Purple. “What’s the code?” She asked as she stood up and worked towards him. At that moment, Komolafe knew he was in a deep trouble, he knew nothing of a code or password, “I’m here to see Purple,” he tried to explain, “and Oga Okorocha sent me here”. He noticed her eyes widen at the mention of his boss’ name but she quickly hid it beneath a bland smile, “blow off his brain if he cannot state the code,” she commanded.

“Wait!” Komolafe screamed, fear evident in his eyes. He thought about showing them the crumpled piece of paper in his pocket but thought better of it; if he ever tries to put his hand down into his pocket, they will think he’s reaching out for a weapon. But his good instinct got the better of him and with shot eyes, without knowing exactly what he was saying, he read out the digits he had seen on the paper in one breath. When he opened his eyes, he saw large arms lowering their guns that were once pointed at him. And Purple, with the same bleak expression, ushered him in with a wave of her hand. Purple retrieved a square shaped box that looked like a little coffer from under a stack of wine cartons and handed it to Komolafe.

“Guard it with your life,” she said, “and if the police ever know about this, you are gone. Guys see him out.”


All the puzzles and precision surprised Komolafe, did his boss know he was going to die? He sat on the bed staring at the box before him in the hotel room he rented for the night. The box was mechanized to open at the input of the correct combination of alphabets as indicated by the small, glassy screen over the lid. Komolafe tried Okorocha; his boss’s name, but the screen displayed error, he tried purple and some other words and names; the screen still displayed error. He’d even stupidly assumed that the password did not exist.

All hope to unlock the box was abortive, and it seemed the quest had finally come to an end. The thought of living like a fugitive so scared Komolafe; so much that he could no longer fight back the tears that formed in his eyes. “Find Cynthia!” came his boss’ voice again, a whisper to his ear, his eyes ignited. He did a mental count, ”oh!” he said, and quickly pulled the box closer and inputted the words as it displayed on the screen in capital letters: C-Y-N-T-H-I-A. The lid clicked open, the wide smile on Komolafe’s face was nothing short of relief, but he anticipated in his heart with a panic what awaits him in the box.

From inside the box was a pile of documents and a red envelope. On each document were two recurring signatures; Okorocha Patrick and Caleb Bankole. The documents showed a transaction of four billion naira, and of an illegal trade and transport of hard drugs. Beneath the signatures was the date: 01-10-13.

Okorocha had a dysfunction one might call date amnesia; he is forgetful of dates. So to make up for this he likes to appoint significant events like promises, meetings, and business appointments on holidays, dates observed by many. His business deal with Caleb fell on October 1st. Komolafe tried to recall all the places he drove Okorocha that day; from the office to collect some files . . . the hospital? He straightened. ‘The hospital!’

Perhaps this drug documents had something to do with the doctor; he probably has special patients he sells them to; celebrities, or even rich men like his boss. But then he remembered that Okorocha didn’t take the files with him into the hospital building, that the only place he remembered him taking them was to the cathedral. But he didn’t think anything happened in the cathedral that day to contribute to the death. Maybe they were files different from these ones.

So he searched deeper into the box to see what else he could find; Nothing.

Nothing but a red, fancy envelope that looked like one sent between lovers. “Oga had a secret lover?” he wondered, and felt like he was intruding his boss’s private life. But then what life does the dead have that is not lost already? He opened the envelope, and on a small card inside it was written “find Cynthia in the cottage behind God’s temple.” What’s this? Komolafe read again, and the puzzle began to connect in his mind, images reeling through his head; of Okorocha coming towards the car from behind the cathedral with that look of a satisfied husband. . . of the file. . . of his last word ‘find Cynthia’. . .everything pointed to the cathedral. God’s temple.

Komolafe picked up his hotel card and dashed out.

Komolafe had descended the stairs with all thought whirling around the mysterious Cynthia and the sudden misfortune she plagued his world with. He had barely stepped into the reception when he spotted the faces of the same men who had come to arrest him at his boss’ place. How could they have traced him here? He thought. Quickly, he bounded up the stairs back to his room, and shot the door behind him.

He knew he had limited time to figure out what to do, but then, he picked up his pen and wrote a long detailed letter; Explaining the death, the piece of paper, the box, the documents, the red envelope and its message. And he concluded by stating that only she can save him now, and that the police must have had him in custody by the time the letter gets in hands.

“The password for unlocking the box is your name. Please confirm the evidence in the box and bring them along to the police. My life is in your hands; please don’t let my boss die in vain.” Satisfied, he folded the letter and neatly put in the red, fancy envelope, packed the documents back inside the box and locked it. He dialed the intercom for room attendant, and one soon came knocking. Trying to conceal his haste, Komolafe handed the box and the letter to the confused hotel worker, and shoved into his hand an address slip and three notes of a thousand naira, “kindly help deliver this box to this address,” he said pointing to the slip, “please, it is important you do it now.”

The attendant smiled on seeing the money, “Oga, no worry. My shift is ending in twenty minutes; I’ll deliver it on my way home. You don’t have to worry, our job is to make you happy” Komolafe did not wait to hear his happy prattle; he left him, headed down the stairs into the waiting arms of the police in total surrender.

*         *       *

“…you seem to be the only solution to all of this. Please, lives are depending on you.” The nun read the last words in tears. Nothing had happened to Okorocha that she didn’t know of, but the news of his death came as a shock. The memory of their first meeting was still fresh, like it was only hours ago. She was taking a quiet, leisurely walk around the church when she saw him. He sat on the last pew at the back row. That cold night she saw him as a straying man who lacked affection of a family, the warmth of a home of himself. He looked rich but his soul was retched. But that night he poured his heart out to her, and from then on they would become more intimate than with the heart, but also with both their soul and body. He became her first; she was his last–his only Cynthia.

Cynthia changed from her vestments into a black dress, a show of mourning, and she sneaked out of the cathedral. The day was beginning to go to rest but she didn’t mind. All secrets were to be unraveled; she had made the resolution once and finally. She headed to the police.


The Bishop sat in meditatively on the front pew, a slim tall man in his sixties. He has a captivating mien and a kind of peace was in his eyes that could tame a beast. So was he, in quiet communion with the angels when Cynthia walked in with uniformed men. As if in a world oblivious of people around him, he said the Lord’s Prayer aloud so that the policemen got disconcerted.

“That is the man you came for,” Cynthia said bitterly, pointing at the Bishop. “He is Caleb.” As if her outburst gave them courage, one of them grabbed Caleb’s arm tentatively. Bishop Caleb rose in all honour, he looked like he was speaking from a trance, that same cold look and resolution with which he’d shot Okorocha.


He had gone discretely to Okorocha’s residence to convince him and, if he remained adamant, to make him pay for his sin; he went with a revolver in his garment pocket, and though he was sure he’ll use it, he still inclined more to persuasion. “You can’t back down on me now,” he’d said, “we have to complete building God’s temple.”

“We can find another mean,” said Okorocha. “We can do other business that is not illegal, and I think we have had enough money from drug pushing already. It’s time we stopped.”

“But not enough to reach my goal,” said Caleb, a little louder than usual. He moved closer to look into Okorocha’s eyes with an imploring face. “I have vowed to duplicate King Solomon’s success, I have promised God to single handedly build Him a house. And He saw my heart and decided to help me do it; He ordered your steps into the church that night when you needed money to pay your debt. . . to redeem your life. I saved your life, you owe me, and you can’t back down now.”

Okorocha appeared too tired to continue to argue. “This is crazy, Bishop, God dwells in holy places, not in a house built with ‘crack’ money. I am not going into this sinful business again, and that’s final.”

A heavy moment of silence passed.

“The Lord has justified his chosen,” said bishop finally, pointing a revolver at Okorocha, “they pay with their blood who come against him.”


“The Lord justifies his chosen,” said Bishop again, now with an ironic smile as he committed himself to the hands of the uniformed men. He looked at Cynthia without passion and stretched forth his hands to be cuffed. They walked him out of the church, and he never returned



MOSES OLAROTIMI is just a simple dude who loves writing stories, poetry and anything that comes to mind.

Twitter/IG: @sheyzznote

CHRIS TILEWA is a young Nigerian, a creative writer, social critic, and lover of aesthetics. He writes fictions, poetry and non-fictions. You may want to join him on Facebook: Chris Tilewa, or on Twitter @krislucid.



Posted: January 24, 2014 in Drama
Tags: , , , ,


Eclipse Prime

Eclipse Prime







KING (Adeferanmi)
SEER (Ifatoki)
WAR LORD (Ogunjimi)
Proverbial Royal Attendant (Shodimu)
Princess (Adeshewa)
Village Thug (Dikudi).

– Other characters or casts may be added in the cause of the story too.


(****Curtains reveals him****) Salutation to all; villagers of Moroyin. Dwellers beneath the hills, blessed by Eledumare; with vegetation, games and fishes. Look and see, something comes upon us, see it emerges with filt and beauty. Call Shodimu to go spread the news, and on his way back to the palace, bid Ifatoki to pay a visit. Its no time to sleep when the roof is set ablaze with a great inferno. (Leave)

(stage reveals the King seated on the throne, and Shodimu behind him blowing a gentle breeze with a big raffia fan as Ifatoki walks in)

IFATOKI: Kabiyesi o, your royal highness, the mighty lion with mane of golden fleece, may I know why I; Ifatoki, the eyes of the oracle, the great seer of Moroyin kingdom was called to your noble grace, because we all know fireflies only dazzles at night? (Bows in homage)

KING ADEFERANMI: (sigh) The crown head greets you too Ifatoki (adjusted well on his seat) I am worried, I am sad. It is the joy of a farmer to see his plantations bearing fruits, yet my one and only tree has refuses to shelter me. Adeshewa is ripe in age yet refuses to marry. (frowns) she turned all suitors down, even noble men from great kingdoms far and near. imagine, who will ever not wish for the prince of great Ilaporu for an inlaw, can’t describe how she insulted them when they came asking for her hand in marriage. (his countenance sag all of a sudden) please Ifatoki, help me. Consult the god of all knowing, and perhaps our eyes might be pointed towards a direction (rest his back on the throne seat, looking sick)

IFATOKI: Your highness, you have indeed acted wise to seek Orunmilla’s divination, (founded himself a seat and brought out his calories and his divination tray. he began consultation.) Your highness, Ifa has spoken here is the deal “Oh great King of Moroyin hear what the divinity of our ancestor says; for the treasure will be lost, subjected under a mighty hand that deprives the night of rest, but it will be found again. Let the crown temper mercy with justice, for only then will two heart be joined on the day when the sun marries the moon”, this is what your seer have seen and heard, this is what I; Ifatoki receive of the gods for your highness, nevertheless I will request that we send for Princess Adeshewa, the gods have few words for her. (Bows in homage)

KING ADEFERANMI: (puzzle by what Ifatoki just said) the gods speaks in parables and they never stops to amaze me. How, tell me Ifatoki, how can the sun marry the moon, who else in this land has the wit to subject a treasure than I; King Adeferanmi? You speaks the possibility of things so uncertain, or rather so impossible. what could you be insinuating by all this things? (look behind at Shodimu who was fanning him in slow rhythmic manner) Shodimu; the proverbial cock! what have you to say to this that Ifatoki thus speaks?

SHODIMU: Kabiyesi! Long may you live to rule this kingdom (Bows). Of what you ask, who am I to give words before your supremacy. Fine is this head on my neck, never so good for the royal blade. (Bows again) If yet I may speak however, Your Highness, the eyes that see tomorrow tell of a coming rain today. Who is yesterday to raise voice in objection? The gods direct on paths unknown, who is mortal man to refuse to follow? Orunmila thus gives us his wisdom, only our patience and trust is needed, sunlight shall soon cast upon the shadow of the night. Let’s take heed Kabiyesi, and tread with caution. Orunmila has never failed us. Ifatoki the great seer has also never lied to us. Permit me to call upon Princess Adeshewa. The gods have a word for her (bows yet again and leaves the King’s presence.)

KING ADEFERANMI: (sighs) hmmmmmmm! indeed wisdom is welled up in you, settled like a fresh palmwine in a calabash. what you speak holds truth in it, please hurry, call my belove Adeshewa (watching Shodimu take his leave) tell her the Chief Priest have few words for her from the gods. (Shodimu rush out beaming with smiles. The King faces Ifatoki) Great Seer! truly your words holds mystery, but we will be cautious in approach and watch out for signs you speak of. May the gods of Moroyin help us all. Nevertheless, I still want Adeshewa to marry as soon as possible, I don’t have eternity at my beck and call (shakes his body)

IFATOKI: Your Majesty, the supreme commander of Moroyin kingdom, the great ruler whose reign grace the land with abundant peace, I beg you honour the wisdom of your lowly servant; Shodimu, he has indeed advised you most wisely. Orunmila helps those who help themselves, and blesses those who trust and listens to him. So I plead your highness heeds to the divination and honour ifa’s proclamations. I will plead that we offer a sacrifice of clear vision and understanding, of a white ram, palm oil, wine and bitter kola to Orunmila to appease for utter favours (bows) Kabiyesi ooooo! (Princess Adeshewa walks in, the aura that accompany her is of grandeur and elegance. She is a rare beauty; charming and absolutely beautiful. But Shodimu was nowhere to be found).

PRINCESS ADESHEWA: ( Approach from the rare in her majesty, coming from inside the royal chamber. She has beads of various shapes and sizes adorning her gorgeous person from the crown of her head to the toes of her feet; beaming with smile fairer than the early morning sun rise). Greetings the great seer; the eyes that sees beyond this realm, carrier of messages, bearer of the gods tidings, I greet!. (Walk up to the king, went down on both knees, hands locked together and twisted around in a manner of bearing a gift). I greet you Kabiyesi, may your reign be long and favoured by the gods, May your time suit all; native and aliens alike. Father, Shodimu said you have a word, here I am your majesty (bows to pay a homage and then took her rightful place beside the king to the left, on a seat lower but adorned with fine fabrics).

KING ADEFERANMI: (beaming with smiles) Oh Adeshewa! No one praises better, how soft and comfort filled are the words from your petal lips, you bliss the heart with gladness. Welcome my beautiful Adeshewa (watch her took her seat beside him) Indeed Shodimu is right (look about for him, but he was nowhere to be found) and where in the gods name has he gone to? (turn to face Adeshewa) Anyway, dear daughter, Ifatoki have words to say to you from the gods, you have a message from them. (smiles)

IFATOKI: Welcome Princess Adeshewa, fairest of all damsel in Moroyin, your beauty marvels the stand of men. Welcome! The gods bid their greetings as well (smiles, and re-arrange tools), pardon my insisting you must be called upon, Ifa insist a message must grace your royal ears.

PRINCESS ADESHEWA: (chuckles) oh great seer! Speak on, it pleases me so to be favoured with a message from the gods, am honoured to have been a thought on their minds. What would they have me listen to, I can’t wait, speak great orator of the gods, speak quickly, Adeshewa can no longer wait (she brilliantly say, beaming with smiles)

(Shodimu stormed into the palace, sweating profusely as if an evil spirit is after his live. He was panting and cannot find words to express his ordeal, not before his breathe can give him the Privilege, an hefty man; bare chest and three-quarter buba (a yoruba native style) short bounce in looking scary and filled with anger. Shodimu did not wait to say anything, find refuge behind the King quickly)

KING ADEFERANMI: (angry) What disrespect is this Shodimu? You think you can just pounce in on us as it pleases you (look towards the door) and who is this arrogant son of a woman that’s after your heels?

DIKUDI: (twitched brows, darted eye carelessly across the massive room as if he was unsure of where he arrived) Kabiyesi! I greet you (look at Ifatoki) and I greet you too old man, messenger of the gods (turn to the King again) I do not come for an uproar but to lavishly bare my petitions before grabbing matters with bare hands if perhaps words fall to deaf ears. Before I begin Kabiyesi, let me mention that If my beloved mother who have joined the gods were as arrongant, she would strike the mouth that branded her beloved son “arrongant.” Now to the matters that brought me. Is it not known to His Majesty that the hills and caves of Okuta legally belonged to Ojediran from whose loins I am a progeny? How have your visionless workmen who toil all day in fruitless search of precious stone barge unwarranted into another man’s inheritance. Whether their intrution was at your behest or they acted on their own accord. I warn that they refrain for if a hen is robbed of its chicks, it is bound to fight at least with its beaks and blunt claws. (Turns toward the exit to leave and drops a comment for Ifatoki) I hope you will not get the gods drunk with jar of wine. (Lulls and says) I do not know what caused him to flee (referring to Shimodu). He beheld me coming and began a race.
SHODIMU: Ah! What insult. May flies feast on your stinking mouth. You must be an idiot to stand and express gibberish talks before the gods.
IFATOKI: (frowns) Ah! What madness has befallen you young man! Before the headcrown, you choose to raise voice, do you want to rot alive? (Hiss) and for your insult upon me (jaw drops) How dare you, Dikudi or what evil name do you bear? Do you want Iku to meet you unaware? Know where you point fingers else you’re deprived of it. I remain Ifatoki the great seer, Orunmila divine orator, I bear his messages so his favours, I could request for his wrath upon you, therefore take caution now Leave and be gone or you’ll sieze to live any longer (dips hand into leather porch).
PRINCESS ADESHEWA: Awu! Before the King and gods? This man must be dealt with, where is Ogunjimi? (Furious)
KING ADEFERANMI: I refuse to be insulted by a mere thug (stand to his feet in rage) where in the gods name is Ogunjimi? someone call me Ogunjimi now (fidgets) I won’t condone this, never (rage out of the court) this is Preposterous!
(Silence falls upon the court as they all watch the King exit in anger. Dikudi in his own pride couldn’t help laughing as he walks out too) ************CURTAIN FALLS*************

(…to be continue)

                                                                All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the written permission of the publishers.