As promised, i present to you, stories my mama told me. Fantastic tales of far away, told with the magic of a midsummer day. Of times when faires sat in the trees, drank plum wine and played their games, and horses galloped free, everyone of them wild, with the sun in their manes.

The Story of Tin Tin Abouti.

CHAPTER ONE. THE PRESENT... THE DAY OF THE DARKENED SUN

The tuareg dragged himself on. All around him was desolation. And drought. The kind that only a desert, in the time of thirst, could bring to one. Beautiful but teacherous, the Sahara was nobodys bit.ch.

The Sun, scorched the earth and held it in a fiery embrace. Its hold locked everything in place and even the air seemed like microwaves. The wicked lover burned anything that moved on its mistresses back.

And, the Sun smote the tuareg.

He was beaten. He knew it. All that was left was to lie down and die. Lie down and expire. Let death bring respite. Maybe death will quench this fire.

Vultures, crows and other strange birds circled the tuareg. Screeching in unearthly voices, they yelled at him to die. Get it over with. Give in to the darkness or the light.

He had lost everything. His status, his money and his friends. He had nothing more to lose. Maybe except his mind and his life, but both were ebbing away. And very surely too.

A crow flew down and perched itself "yanga-ishly" on a ledge of a sand dune and eyeballed the tuareg. It observed him with one eye and then the other. When it was convinced that the man still drew breath, it scratched its head vigorously, with its talons and proceeded to sharpen same claws with its beak.

The message was clear. This animal obviously, was higher up the foodchain. And it knew. The tuareg crumpled on the ground. He was flattened by the sheer force of the pure hostility of all the elements with which he was faced.

Now, at this point, the tuareg lost his mind.

And for someone so cultured, so educated as the Calabari crown prince, losing his mind was worse than death.

For if only the bird knew, that its intended feast was not a tuareg, or a nomad, but a Calabari prince, the legitimate heir, Obong Tin Tin Abouti, Gwam Attah of Karembu Kingdom, in the south side of the Savanah rainforests, a place now known as Nigeria.

The year was 1032. The place was the Sahara desert. So a Calabar prince from the Savanah lost his mind dressed as a tuareg in the Sahara.

Thirty minutes later, he was still in that same position.

The human body is a well constructed mass of limbs and connections and the tuareg’s was no exception. Without a will, the bones of his legs and spine connived with gravity and held up the tuareg as if he were alive. But the birds were not fooled. They knew a dead man when they saw one. They had seen countless. Lost nomads, dispossessed traders, and banished criminals; the birds had eaten all sorts in their lives. They knew a dead man when they saw one. And this one; the tuareg or prince or whatever he chose to call himself, was definitely a dead man.

Three of the biggest birds flew down to inspect the kill. Three big vultures. They scared the first crow away. Others stayed far away. These three, were the generals of the pack. Scientists tell us that birds do not hunt in packs, but that only applied to birds docile enough to be examined in the first place. In the wild, animals spoke a different language therefore, these birds hunted like wolves. The three generals always had the right of first contact with food. That ensured that they had the best pickings. It was survival of the fittest.

Two of them flew to perch on either side of him, while the third perched behind him. Carefully, they approached him. Yes, he was dead. They could tell he wasn’t breathing any more. They could tell, as only they knew how, that the rise and fall of a beating heart was absent here and the air, before dry, was now humid.

Carefully, they entered the space created by the tuaregs head, shoulders and arms; and started to peck at his face, tearing strips of flesh. The one behind had reached his knees and was thinking to bring down the support by feasting on the calves. Instead, he pecked at the knee joint. He enjoyed the feel of bone. And he did it again.

It was a knee jerk reaction. The sort that happens, when, a doctor hits your knees with a rubber hammer. That kind of jerk that fires up every joint in your body. With a shout, the tuareg woke up. Pain, fear, hope and anger all caused adrenaline to pump and the calabari prince, with a yell secured the necks of the two largest birds on either sides. The third winged general, a coward in the face of opposition, beat the hastiest retreat of its life.

The captured birds flapped their massive wings and tried to escape. They clawed at the prince; scratching at his arms, neck, chest and face but all to no avail. Instead, their painful efforts only served to strengthen the prince. The adrenaline carousing through the man’s veins brought him strength and clarity of mind. Right now, he was just a man. Not a tuareg and not a prince. He was just a man. Both primal and instinctive. Like a common animal.

The man needed a weapon and fast too. He knew there was only one thing he could do. And he did it. With his teeth, he bit off the first bird’s head. It didn’t take one clean bite. In fact, it took over fifty heavy bites. He literally chewed the bird’s head off. He chewed beak, brains, bones and all. And he drank the blood…

He sucked hard from the neck of the fleshy bottle. He sucked so hard at the fighting bird and he felt himself growing stronger. He had never felt this kind of fire before. Much hotter than the spicy chilli pepper soup his people were familiar with. This was raw blood. This was real metal fire. The blood tasted of iron nails but was smooth at the same time. Like stout beer brewed from copper wheat. Extra smooth metal stout beer. Name it Silky Rust.

The man drank hard from the first bottle of Silky Rust. He drank so hard that bits of the birds flesh, ligaments and tendons were sucked up into his mouth and hung from his teeth. He chewed on those and focused on the other bottle in his left arm. That one was smaller and weaker. Though not much smaller, this bird was also massive. The man's grasp on the birds neck had never waned since he caught it, so the bird had suffered considerably.

The man shook it some more, like a bottle of mist mag. Then, he chewed at the birds neck. He was in a frenzy. This time pulling on the birds flesh with his molars. He took heavy swigs of the Silky Rust beer. This one tasted so good too; so filling. He drank the bird till she was empty. He turned back to the first one, still grasped in his hand. He sucked again to make sure it was truly empty. He meted the same treatment to the second bird.

Then, he tossed both birds to the ground and let out a loud yell. Just like his grunt of a prayer, his yell was a primal representation of all he wanted to tell the gods who had listened to his heartfelt grunts. His yell said "thank you, bless you, I love you, I hate you and fucck you. Bleep you for doing this to me in the first place. Now, see? I have survived". He yelled all these and more. He yelled because he knew that the gods were alive and that they were listening to him.

After he had yelled his heart out, he fell backwards and lay sprawled on his back, on the floor. His face was raised up to the sun, though his eyes were closed. He felt the heat on his face and in contrast, he felt that his arms were cool. He raised them and without opening his eyes he understood why. Blood was dripping down both arms and cooling them as it flowed. He rubbed his palms all over his face; smearing it with soothing blood. Then he laughed hysterically, because he knew he wasn’t going to die anymore. He laughed and laughed and laughed...

The third bird general shook its head. The gods must be crazy. Humans must be mad. How could fate just snatch food from its talons and in turn give its companions over as food for this man? And now this man was laughing at them. In defiance, to the natural order of things, in the wild. It shook its head again. This time it was perched a very safe distance away; on a big stone. It didn’t want to take chances. So, what next?

No sooner had the thought registered in the birds mind, than the question was answered. He had felt the air turn humid before. That was rare in the desert. But that was expected. Every now and then, the mineral salts in the desert soil used their hydro-affinity properties to draw moisture from the atmosphere. It usually passed like a cloud after a few hours. It was what happened next that was never expected.

The man had started to laugh again. He was more hysterical than before. Now he swore at the gods. He swore at heaven and he swore at the earth. The bird listened to the man. The animal seemed to understand the man. The man cursed the gods, cursed the heavens and cursed the earth. Much like a spoilt last born. Meaningless curses, which were just emotional vents against extraterrestrial powers. The animal seemed to understand but in reality, it was focused on another voice it heard rumbling in the distance.

Something terrible was about to happen. Something, that had never happened, in its father’s lifetime. It wished the man would shut up. His curses were going to kill all of them. It felt the air become cool and then cold and it saw the breeze become slight wind and then grow stronger. Something terrible was going to happen here. The gods were going to speak. He foresaw danger. What the elders see sitting, the chicks don’t see standing. The cowardly general started flying….

When the first crow heard the first crack of lightening and its attendant thunder, it panicked. It mustered all its strength and flapped its wings to lift off. The first crow wanted to get to some cover fast. Lightening and thunder are a bird’s worst enemies. Just like the navigation system of airplanes, a bird’s senses would be put off by the artificial pressure changes caused by lightening and thunder. That’s why they were called bio metrics. Today was going to be a bad day for birds. Many of them would die today. All because of this tuareg. This tuareg who refused to die. There was more lightening and thunder. Like the cocking of a pump action gun and subsequent fire.

The trick was to fly above the clouds. There, the elements would not have such effects. And if it could get there fast; it was safe. So, the crow gunned for the sun. Powerful wings carried it swiftly. The crow was a beautiful flier. Always flew as straight as an arrow. Hence the phrase- as the crow flies. But today, the observant crow realized that it wasn’t the only one with that idea. With its bird eye view, it saw hundreds of other birds trying to beat the wrath of the gods. They were all gunning for the sun. Like fallen angels being called back to heaven urgently. He shot past the lazy, overfed third general of a vulture. That one was laboriously trying to keep up. What an irony.

Our crow had hardly cleared the biggest cloud when its worst fear came to bear.

They say it rains in the desert like only once in a hundred years; but whenever it does, it never stops. Torrential rains. That was the phrase geologists would use centuries later, to describe the desert rains. So, today our crow saw that; rain in the desert was not a myth. Big buckets of water were unleashed from the clouds. These were no rain drops. These were rain torrents, and they were accompanied by hail stones. Big chunks of ice, the size of glaciers also fell from heaven to earth, and caused havoc.

Unlucky birds were stoned back to the ground and it was painful for our crow to watch. It had never experienced fear like this before. Birds generally are fearful animals and a little noise from a dying bird is enough to send the others scampering for safety. This time, the noise was not that little. Hundred of birds, being pelted with large rocks of ice and buckets of water, screeching to their deaths and hitting the earth with unearthly thuds, gave off such a sound as no man’s ear was meant to hear.

Like shooting birds in a barrel. Only a million times worse. What a sight to behold. Birds cried everywhere. Figuratively, it was raining cats and dogs but literarily, it was raining birds. Even for miles and miles, birds rained down from the sky. In hundreds and thousands. So did water. Water and ice. Not snow. But hail. Above the clouds, our crow flew to safety, with one last look at the man.

And the rain washed our prince clean; while he slept under the darkened sun. Now that he wasn’t going to die, his life flashed before his eyes…

skillet: So, tell me folks; what do you think so far? Chapter two is on its way. please be candid.

I like it. Pls try and finish this story. It has this grand/epic touch.

btw your moniker reminds me of the rock band by the same name. the track 'collide' comes to mind

thank you anonymous for the comment. i like the phrase grand/ epic. i never saw it that way. more suprising is the fact you know about the rock band. i only just heard about them. lol. by the way, the story is already finished. just dishing it out in piecemeal. thanks bro.

The premise is a lil hard to swallow, but me thinks you've got enough style to pull it off. ''Extra smooth metal stout''. Nice!

Anyway, me likey and me gon' bookmarkey.

---

By the way, the term is ''flash of lightening''; thunder cracks and lightening flashes.

k9! my old rival. nice to hear from you. lol over the thunder thingy. i thought i could get off easy on that one. i should have known better. with you wicked critics around. lol. but like you said, its all about the style. wink.

skillet: So, tell me folks; what do you think so far? Chapter two is on its way. please be candid.

ditto.

CHAPTER TWO: THE PAST... THE DAY OF ENSLAVEMENT.
...35 years before The Day of The Darkened Sun.


Ukon loved his life. Things could be a lot worse. He loved the power he possessed. At 6ft, 5inches and built like a boxer, he had the power to intimidate. To instill fear. It didn’t end there. He also had the power to kill. He chuckled to himself. This chuckle nearly cost him a toe as he ran barefoot over the forest floor. His mind had wandered for a second there and he had failed to see the stump on the floor. He had kicked it hard with his left toe. It hurt him and made him angry. He stumbled, nearly fell and righted himself; but he knew that his master, who rode a sable steed behind him, had already seen the faux paux. Ukon knewthat he would pay for the stumble.

Before Ukon felt it, he heard it and before he heard it, Ukon had felt it. So, he had braced himself for the sting of the whip. So much for the power to kill. With a frown, Ukon put everything in perspective in his mind. He was a slave. Nothing but a slave. He ran faster. Not that the whip was very painful. Yes, it tore at his flesh but Ukon enjoyed the pain. He ran faster because that was what was expected of him. Two more quick cracks of the whip, from the man on the horse and a thin rivulet of blood began to show. Ukon felt alive.


The man on the horse, who wielded the whip, was Ukon’s master. The king’s chief guard; Obala. Obala was a beast of a man. Born by an early slave and built like a gladiator, Obala was a sadistic man whose dept of depravity was second to none. Obala was angry. Why was Ukon letting the prey get away? An old man and his two grandchildren. Not even a real man. He looked disdainfully at the old man as he ran zigzag over the forest floor. The two children with him; a boy and a girl of about seven and ten years of age, looked even more stupid in their attempts to outrun the calabar slave hunters.

Obala noticed Ukon had slowed down again. Like a lion playing with its food, while the old man and his grandson and grand daughter ran foolishly from shrub to shrub. Obala smiled to himself. He had trained Ukon well. Ukon had caught more slaves and killed more men for the Empire than anyone else. More men than Obala could count. He watched as Ukon cornered the frail old man. The man had become disoriented and had let Ukon come between him and his kids. Nine times out of ten, parents separated from their kids, in times of war, lost all power of fight. This was one of the nine. In this case, when Ukon came between the old man and his grand kids, the old man resigned himself to fate. The old man turned to face Ukon. He was out of breath. The old man knew Ukon would kill him. There was no doubt about that.


Obala had an uncanny trait. He never forgot a face. This was a blessing as well as a curse, because he could never forget the faces of every man he killed. He also never forgot the faces of all his enemies, or friends. Out of habit, Obala looked at the old man’s face and he nearly died. He knew this man. Where did he know him from? His heart beat faster as he tried to quickly place the old man’s face before Ukon killed him.

“Wait.” Obala muttered to Ukon who dutifully paused. The cornered old man, panting his lungs out, raised his head to look properly at his attackers for the first time. He looked first at Obala, who was still trying to place his face. Slowly, the old man turned to Ukon and held his breath. For an old man who was out of breath a second ago, this was no easy feat. He tried to say something but this was impossible as he had to exhale. He started to turn back to Obala who chose this very second to recognize the old man.

“Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!” Obala shouted repeatedly at Ukon. At the first command, Ukon had leapt at the old man who raised his arms as if to embrace Ukon.

“Wait. My..” The old man started to say something but once again his words stuck to his throat as Ukon knocked the breath once more, out of him. As he fell, Ukon caught his shoulder and proceeded to jerk his head back and forth in one fluid single motion. The resultant crack heard by everybody present meant that the old man had died before he had hit the ground.

In a rage, Obala flew down fron the horse carriage and charged at the little boy and girl. He was very angry. He was angry because the recollection of who the old man was, scared him. It was like he had just seen a ghost. In fact, truth be told, he had just seen a ghost.


Now he remembered the ghost of the old man quite well. It was in this same forests some twenty five years ago, Obala, then an already seasoned war general had ambushed a man and his family of two on their way to the next village settlement. The man was the husband of the beautiful young woman and the father of the baby she carried. The ambushed man had put up a good fight but Obala, had finally stabbed him with a sword and pushed him into a fast flowing stream just a few meters away. He thought he had killed the man then. So, imagine his terror when the same ghost reappeared today.

He also remembered that; that day he had quickly dispatched the mother of the baby. One nice slit accross the throat and the kneeling mother bled all over her wailing boy. Obala had made up his mind to dash the baby boy's head on a nearby rock but a very strange thing happend. The moment he took the three month old baby up in his arms, it stopped screaming and smiled at him, appearently unaware of its loss. For a man like Obala, who lived for violence and sadism, this was the ultimate trophy. A captured boy as a son. A constant reminder of how powerful he was. Giving life to whom he pleased. He had named the boy Ukon.


He yelled again at the children who had stood transfixed for the few minutes since their gandfather died. They broke down. if his plan was to scare them, he was a genus. The boy and the girl ran to the lifeless, twitching body of their grandfather. As they ran past Obala, he caught up the boy with one swoop of his powerful arm. without looking back, he knew Ukon would catch the girl and take her back to the palace. All young virgin girls caught in these raids belonged to the king. The sick bastard. Everybody heard tales of what the king did to these 'virgin' slaves; and what he let them do to him. The virgin boys belonged to Obala. He dragged the little boy deeper inside the forest, tied him to a tree and proceeded to sodomise him.

After he was done, he looked for some calabar devil beans and shoved it up the boy; and as the boy screamed in pain, Obala whipped him to death.

comments pleasssssssss. dont hold back.

skillet: comments pleasssssssss. dont hold back.

still loving the story skillet. took you a while to continue, sup?

An0nimus:
still loving the story skillet. took you a while to continue, sup?

thank you very much. i keep reviewing and reviewing before i finally post. i want to minimise errors to the barest. you, my readers, deserve more than a rush job. but i promise to make updates more regular. moreover, i am new to this section. still finding my feet and seeing how things work here. and i must say- tough crowd. lol.

skillet:

thank you very much. i keep reviewing and reviewing before i finally post. i want to minimise errors to the barest. you, my readers, deserve more than a rush job. but i promise to make updates more regular. moreover, i am new to this section. still finding my feet and seeing how things work here. and i must say- tough crowd. lol.

you can go to the chat thread on the section and ask for folks to review your work or just keep doing your thing until people come to notice it.