thief

Creative Essays, Writers

The First Rule Of Theft by Chisom Arueze.

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You sip on your juice like you do not want it to finish. Normally while you drank this juice you would have been reminiscing on your secondary school days, when it rained mangoes, but right now your mind is as chaotic as a market place. The reason for this chaos is a 5 year old boy sitting beside you on the dinning table. You look at him and agree that God did a very good job in replicating you. He looks pale, remorseful even. He’s dressed in those banal dull school uniforms that makes you wonder if the school owner was having a migraine while choosing this color. He makes cute slurps while drinking his chocolate drink. You put your hands into your pockets, in one is 50 thousand Naira and in the other is an envelope. A letter of invitation from the headmistress of your son’s school. It’s a weekday; Monday, but you are not going to the office neither is your wife. “Am ready!” your wife shouts from the sitting room. “ Junior let’s go” you say to your son. He drops his little cup at the sink and walks outside. You make long strides behind him and head to the car, as you wife locks up the house. In the car, you eye your wife to put on her seat belt while putting on the air conditioner. The silent humming of the AC is the only sound you notice as you drive your way to school in pent up emotions. On reaching the school, your 5 year old son starts to pack his stuff and before you can say jack, he has jumped out of the car, leaving you and your wife to find your way in this maze of a school to the head mistress office. You get down, so does your wife. As you stand, it feels like your legs have suddenly turned to jellies and you have liquids racing down your palms. Your wife’s face resembles that of one who has been under the sun and her skin is so pale. As you reach the gate, you try to smile at the gateman but he gives you just a Curt nod unlike him. Then it feels like even him is in on the reason why you are here. It looks like he’s avoiding an eye contact. You stammer a little amidst saying unintelligent words, but manage to ask him the way to the headmistress’s office. He tells you. You and your wife walk like people who are trying not to hurt the ground towards the office. Amidst saying a few excuses and a little shove to children who seem to be glued at a spot or moving in Random motions like gaseous molecules. When you reach, you take a deep breath and give a quick knock on the door. You are ushered in by a low voice from within. You and your wife are asked to seat. The headmistress greets you and your wife. You reciprocate. She moves a file aside and drops her hands on her now empty table signaling how free she is. “ Mr Brown, did you find it?”. She asks with a little frown marring her features. You nod. Deeping your hands into your left pocket, you bring out the fifty thousand Naira. Your wife’s eyes are now the size of a watermelon, silently asking where you found it. You ignore her and present the money to the headmistress. The headmistress grabs it from you like you might run with it too. “We will tell the teacher we have found her money” the headmistress says. You render your apologies again but it is met with silence from the headmistress. She doesn’t say it but you see it in her eyes. She’s pissed at you and your wife for raising a little kleptomaniac. Your mind remembers the last time, you were here. Your son was tearful and he denied it vehemently. You defended him. Only for you to be shamefaced today. Not that you didn’t expect it, because you were once looking for the five thousand Naira you left on the table. You had asked your wife and she stared at you like you were a dullard. When the teacher finally arrives, she is ecstatic for her money while giving you and your wife the sting eye. She goes on to tell the headmistress of how your son’s classmates have complained badly of their missing pencils. Then everything starts to add up. It explains the rainbow of pencils, erasers, and books, you found in your son’s bag with the fifty thousand Naira, tucked neatly inside one of the books. As you start the car heading home, your wife keeps pressing you on how you found the money, because she not only thrashed her son to find out but also ransacked his room. You turn the ignition and a memory comes to mind. A memory of you in your mother’s room, emptying her purse of naira notes. “I just found it” you tell your wife scowling, with a tone that says end of discussion. But then she doesn’t know the first rule of theft because she’s not one. The first rule of theft says: 1. Keep all stolen items in plain sight.   Arueze Chisom Precious, a passionate writer can be reached through sommytilly1402@gmail.com

Creative Essays, Writers

Hustlers by Johnson Onyedikachi.

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In this part of the story, you are a young man; a go-getter who takes every opportunity to make money — scrupulous or not — and where there is no opportunity, you create one. Born and bred in a Mushin slum, you have learned that in life, you either make it or you make it. Failure is in no way an option, and this knowledge has always influenced your decisions. It is why you have a reputation of taking the crudest of rackets the street has to offer; rackets the best of Mushin’s conmen wouldn’t dare take. Your fat tendency to make an enterprise out of the least of things is why you don’t have any principled friends, but a bunch of folks who claim to be “hustlers”. One of such friends of yours is Dom, the CEO of Dom Motors. Despite being a promising car dealer, Dom loves getting involved in rackets, and that’s why he is your bosom buddy. Together, the both of you have pulled some sleek swindles and gotten away with them. And so, it is Friday, and there is no better way to start such a blessed day than calling at Dom’s dealership. You breeze through the glass doors and leaning on the counter is your man, stocky and fat as ever, his beady black eyes lighting up at the sight of you. “So, because of 15K, you have refused to show your face here for weeks,” Dom says as you walked up to him and extend a thin arm for a handshake. “Keep your filthy hands to yourself!” Dom blisters and grabs you by the collar. “Where is my money?” “I got this shirt for 28 kilos,” you inform him. “If you ruin it, you will be the one owing me.” Biting his lip hard, Dom lets go of you. “Oga, stop overreacting.” Staring back at the car dealer, you adjust your shirt. “What if I told you I have a way to help you recover your money and even make more?” “That is what you do all the time. When you owe me, you will go and bring some stupid job,” Dom blurts. “Tell me if there is one time I have brought any job that you don’t eventually cash out,” you want to know, “I will take that as a positive answer. Now, I have this job.” Seeing the look of interest gleaming in the car dealer’s eyes, you begin to give him the details of the racket and just how much you could make out of it. You go on and tell him that you have a friend who has a client looking for cars to buy, and that from the information you have obtained, the client is a simple expatriate who only recently moved to Lagos, the perfect example of what you call ‘Johnny just come’ in local parlance. You explain to Dom that all there is to do is take advantage of the client’s naivety. “So, when trouble comes for me, won’t it be easy for this client of yours to find me here?” Dom asks. Looking around the lounge, you return, “You may have to close down here for a few weeks.” Dom flushes a mad red. “You are sick in the head, you hear me? Sick! For how much should I close down my business? I am not interested!” “You don’t wait to get the full gist, that’s your problem. If we get this job done, we are made. You can even quit this cash-strapped business.” “I will never stop dealing cars,” Dom protests. “We are talking about 25–30 million!” You announce. “All the cars you have here, are they even up to 15 million?” Dom lifts an accusing fat finger at you. “Don’t dare insult me!” “I am telling you that this job will fix us up.” “How will you get the three Mercedes that this client wants?” Dom wants to know. “I know more successful car dealers,” you tell Dom who starts to bluster again. “You don’t relax, and that’s why you don’t ever get the point. Just play along with me, and we will make money. The car dealer I have contacted will give me the three Benz, four Range and any other five SUV’s he can lend us to give this place some serious look. Our client shows up for test drive, pays us, and then we deliver three bad Mercedes to him, and run out of town. You can start your business again when the heat goes off.” Dom has been listening with keen attention. He clearly still has doubts. “When does this client show?” You glance at your watch. “In an hour and half. I booked him for 11:00hrs.” At 11:00hrs, a Lexus finds parking in Dom’s automobile dealership. You have arranged for the cars to give Dom’s dealership a new look. Five young men spill from the Lexus and come into the lobby. You can tell that these are conmen, “Yahoo boys” as they are fondly called, from the look of them — their dreadlocks, jeans ridden with patches on purpose, bright yellow socks and flip-flops said a lot. They seemed to have worn a uniform. “I was expecting a foreigner. An Indian to be precise,” you tell the five young men. “That would be me,” one of the young men informs, but from the look of him, he is as Nigerian as you are. “Now, you know I am no Indian. You can’t scam me.” “Well, you didn’t have to go all that way to make sure I don’t scam you,” you tell the men, and lead them to the lot where they check out the three Mercedes C-Class cars which you have borrowed. After several minutes of bargain, it is agreed that they will take the three cars for 28 million naira. They take Dom’s bank details, and inform you that you will get the money by bank transfer, and that once you get it, you can deliver the cars. The young men

Creative Essays, Writers

Cut From The Same Cloth by Peace Habila.

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  Just before you continue this charade of apportioning blames ; you need to remember your role in the whole saga. Oh yes! You didn’t get here by accident. Infact, you engineered every move, calculated your gains, and smiled home thinking karma or, maybe, posterity was asleep. Does karma even sleep? You  know better by now. The day the famous politician showed up in an oversized agbada, large enough to draw the attention of passive passers-by, you pretended you were on top of the game. When he brought bags of rice, salt, and noodles, you diverted more than half of it to your household. The people’s mistake was a minor one; they appointed you their spokesman. The night the goods were shipped to your house, you veiled your conscience behind the shadow of darkness to deceive folks around. As though that wasn’t enough, you refused to pay the young men, who offloaded the goods, their due. Their sweat dripped on the floor of your garage. It is still there. You may wish to check or try swabbing it dry. That is if posterity will permit it. When the government decided to fix the dilapidated furniture in the community school. It was you who connived with the contractor to ensure substandard materials were used. The ‘gains’, you shared. Your soup became red with runny palm oil, your pride grew wings, and your voice became loud. Your haughtiness became egregious and obnoxious. Lips that confronted you got steaming slaps that sent them behind bars. The lucky few got naira notes shoved down their throats; they became your tale bearers in no time. The wailings of your poor neighbours over your sudden wealth and  the growling of their hungry stomachs fell on deaf ears. Sharing the loot with your neighbours would have been a smart move to salvage your shameless and ego infested face. Don’t you think so?  But no, you were the master of your own games. Well, fair enough… you had enough till you were crammed to stupor. When things got bad for the community; the potholes became  deep enough to swallow the sorrows of the entire community. Insecurity also  hauled and hung around the community like a watch night bat on evil mission, the type that can only be sponsored by the evil witches of the gangland. You mobilised the community, you hauled insults at the government that period. Your veins became conspicuous while your sweat endeared you to the poor masses who fixed their gazes at you, their enlightened brother. It was easy for you to win them over with those snow-like blistering tears.  They believed you. Oh yes! Each of them did. Their gullible hearts couldn’t discern your being. You led them in a protest. You made it look real. They thought you did it for them, but it was all for your gain. At the end of the day, you were summoned at the white house, some naira notes found their way into your conscience and so you began to spit chilled  water of peace in the burning furnace of anguish. You became the silencer of silent wailers. You did it so well, with a perfection befitting a peace maker. The day that foreign NGO showed up to collate the names of poor widows, orphans, and the indigent in the community. You were contacted and selected based on ostensible trust. You heard their concerns; you understood their vision, you also knew the plight of the indigent in the community. In between the vision of the NGO and the plight of the poor, you saw an opportunity to obtain a silver spoon for your sons  unborn. You announced to the hearing of the community that the NGO demanded registration fee. You collected ‘registration fee’ for your ill and demented soul bent on going to hell. The poor of the poorest paid, the poor of the poor also paid you. You made the broth, you made the porridge, and in all fairness, you enjoyed it while it lasted. You cajoled the susceptible at heart, you emotionally blackmailed them to vote your paymasters and handlers. It was a win-win for you as it saw you dining on crested tables and feasting on human flesh and blood with the devils. Four years rolled by and the table flipped. The once forgotten hunger pangs familiar to many touched you and your wailing became deafening.  You have granted interviews to all media outfits calling government uncouth. The big old potholes now stir and irritate your intestines. All of a sudden, you know the next move of the government; you know how they think and how they  manhandle public funds. You know so much of their shady deals than an ordinary eye could see in broad day light. All of a sudden, you have become  a preacher of war and liquid acid. Just to alert you, your wails now exacerbate the pains of the sore souls of the ignored in the society. Did your knowledge of how the corrupt corrupts the incorruptible come up as a surprise?  No. Never!  No way!   It takes a thief to know one, right? You are all a bunch of devils in agbada. Your agbada was cut from the same cloth. So, cut us some slack and stop the wailing. It is irritating!   Peace Habila, a resident of Jos, Plateau state is passionate about creative writing. She wrote in via peacehaila2017@gmail.com    

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